It’s Day 15 of The Challenge, and I’ve got 14,549 words down and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep…

And so I bring you the shortest post to date.

Two things I hate:

blank screens and blinking cursors.

The end.

Young Emma’s saga continues with the second section of Chapter Two…

The elves in the offices below the Great Room of Treek’s Top were hearing a lengthy lecture about how important the Pascere’s helper was. It sounded very much like this, dear reader, and after a bit I will stop because I don’t want to bore you as Malcrux did to them.

“We all know how important it is to be the Pascere’s assistant, who would watch the children on Sundays at Chapel and would have to announce the choir coming in and who would have to do every little thing that the Pascere needs to get done for him because his assistant is a helper, a servant, a High Leader. He would be so important that he would get paid very much and be well respected. The Pascere’s assistant must be good at preparing things at the last second, following instructions— and he must be able to change diapers. He must be able to…”

And here I will stop because I am sure that was very tedious.

At the end of Malcrux’s speech, he went into a smaller room at the side and began to interview elves one by one to see who may be qualified to become the new Pascere’s assistant. Nobody came very close to his standards, and he became highly annoyed. Every interview started to look like this:

 An elf would come in through the door and stand politely by the entrance. Malcrux would hastily motion to a chair, but before the elf could even sit down he would be attacked with questions such as, “Are you a citizen of the Woody Glades?” and “Have you lived here all your life?” and “Are you good with children of all ages, even when they make crumbs and slobber on you?” The poor elf could hardly get a word out, because after only a short pause Malcrux seemed to grow impatient and he would say, “That will be enough from you—just exit over there.”

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“The more I did, the more I wanted to do. You grow ravenous. You run fevers. You know exhilarations. You can’t sleep at night, because your beast-creature ideas want out and turn you in your bed. It is a grand way to live.” ~ Ray Bradbury in his essay on writing, “Drunk, and In Charge of a Bicycle”

In three days, I hope to be calling life grand. Not so much today.

In theory, everything is in place to start a new book. The Christmas things have been packed away, I have a notebook full of scribblings, and the virus that ate my computer has been vanquished, thanks to $175 and a team of experts who are getting to know who I am by the sound of my voice on the phone. Once the ice on the roads melts, the children will head back to school (right?), and I even have a new friend to see me through long days at the kitchen table, a faithful beagle named Oliver (more on him later).

My writing partner and I have set our goals and the date is on the calendar: January 15 will mark the beginning of a little more than a month of madness. Each day will be about writing fast and furious, churning out words and, oh, and trying to make them sing. Not meeting our self-imposed deadline is unthinkable. After all, there’s a dinner outing with our husbands at stake, a toast to our success!

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