Once again, I’m sitting at my desk, contemplating dragons. Their physical appearance, their diet, their habitat, how to kill them, dragon bums (I kid you not), gendered dragons. Yesterday afternoon I skimmed through Book 1 of Spenser’s The Faerie Queene. Yesterday evening I read three different versions of Sigurd the dragon slayer (Poetic Edda, Prose Edda, Saga of the Volsungs). (By now I’m a teensy bit tired of dragons.)
Every once in a while I walk downstairs and step into our backyard to spend a few precious moments basking in the sun. More often than not, I disturb Mr and Mrs Duck, who are still trying to decide whether our fish pond would make a good place where to build their nest and raise their young. And more often than not, I simply don’t have the heart to tell them that they’re not wanted in our fish pond.
Then I have to go back to the dragons. *sigh*
I miss my Regency heroes, my own stories. I miss seeing characters come alive under my fingers, miss stepping into worlds which are filled with the sounds of carriage wheels crunching over gravel. I miss watching my characters suffer, wrestling with their emotions and with their faults, before I can finally push them on towards their happy ending. I miss the satisfaction of making them solve their problems so they can finally commit wholeheartedly to their partner and their relationship. *sigh*