Words, words, words

Somewhat dazed, having just written 2,267 words of second Ben in like two days—which is just about the top of my bent.*  This never happens at the start of a project:  I'm a slow crank, a millstone writer, ponderous, perfectionist.  I hope this doesn't flare up like phosphorus and crash.  I did a fair number of these words on an iPad (try it!—it’s like cooking on a fairy light), sitting by the fountain in the Radcliffe Garden, and hooting like a loon whenever something fit together unexpectedly.  (A crucial thread of this new story sprang from a terrible pun in the first scene; but I do that--"Jack Daw's Pack" arose from one throwaway sentence:  "Diggory's fiddle playing would wake the dead.")  It came on to rain this afternoon, quite suddenly, great fat drops, and I ran home through tabbied bands of sun and shower, in through my doorway, and round and round the stairs to the roof:  where a rainbow was waiting for me.

Nine

*For count-sizers:  my best month ever was 13,672, and I've only topped 10,000 five other times in the twenty years I've had a computer.  It was slower on typewriters.