That would be me. 'Course, now the last four chapters are mocking me. I do not know why, exactly. There is some re-arranging to be done, certainly, and now all is rolling and rushing up together and I have to write with roughly forty times the factual density. Factual density. I am now making up words, gah. Possibly the mockery springs from the fact that after I finish this book, the next book is all loomy and un-outlined (This is definitely a trilogy.) and leading-into-the-epic and while this is delightful and exciting and all, it's also sort of FUCKING SCARY. Sigh.
But! Four more chapters! And at some point there will be a Riverwend manuscript-via-mail, or so I am told.
And then my brain will go POP and you will never hear from me again.
Why does Paxverse make me feel as if I'm writing from someone else's century-old coded notes dug out of a legendary floor-safe in the smoldering ruins of a secret country estate after a string of fantastic disappearances and gruesome murders?