Not a nibble.

The waters are still. There is no breeze. I sit here waiting and wondering when something, anything will break the surface and end this game. I don't understand the whys and wherefores of the silence. I can't even say it's really the calm before the storm...because I don't get the sense anything is building. It's more like I'm starting from the beginning of a story and waiting to see what jolts me into laying down the words. I don't think it's writer's block going on here -- more like writer's confusion. And maybe it stems from me seeing just how much needs to be addressed in the full scope of POS.

And there is a lot. So much, I've returned to believing I'm barely halfway done...if that. Because the 10,000+ words leading Brendan from seeing Eamonn off to the march to the rising tensions in Derry to his walk to Claudy and to Altnagelvin Hospital after the Protestant assault on the peace marchers at Burntollett Bridge still barely skim the events and offer minimal depth to Brendan's growing awareness of the duplicity evident in all people. He's a 12 year old boy (about to be 13) who's already begun to think like a man, and I have to ground this in his truth and all I've done is sketch out the events in their vague order. And this is just one sequence of many yet to come.

Fucking shit. Mom's decided to sharped every fucking one of her fucking pencils in her fucking electric pencil sharpener, right now.

The hell with it -- "A Place of Safety" takes as long as it takes to get itself ready to be seen by the world. I've already stopped pushing it; now I accept it'll be a years-long process.