Story Love

Lots of people have been commenting on how they love their stories. I wish I could say the same about mine, but I don't think writing a rough (and yes, I do mean rough) draft at lightning speed is conducive to lovey-dovey, googley eyed, ooh-ah feelings. I have no desire to pet my story nor to cuddle it. More like keep it at a distance with the toe of my boot--if, of course, I were to wear such ridiculous footwear in the sweltering humidity that is Mayotte.

I don't necessarily think story hate is right either, though, and there isn't something with the story itself that bothers me. It is just that I'm a word person, a fleshy person. I know that the skeleton is part of my baby, but it isn't fun--or maybe even mentally stable--to cuddle a pile of bones. Call me shallow, but appearance counts for a lot, and at the moment, what I have bears a striking resemblance to a mess.

Still, that pile *is* shaping up to be a normal-looking skeleton, and lengths of tendons and a few tiny, tiny muscles are starting to appear, hinting that when it does come together it just might be something worthy of affection. Possibly love.

*"Do not despair," she mutters to herself, returning to her writing*