September 26, 2012

Day Eleven of Thirty Days of Writing and a tastey-taste of writing

Posted in Uncategorized at 8:37 am by z. l. sasnett

Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you realize it’s just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it. — David Sedaris

Kitten is still Rambunctious!Kitten. Dog is still Tolerant!Dog. Life continues to rock on and I got no writing done yesterday.

With nothing to really report, let’s skip on to Day Eleven!

11. Who is your favorite character to write? Least favorite?

Not going to answer the least favorite character question. They’re all my favorites, which is why I have problems deciding on one project at a time.

For favorites, though, I can write all day on my favorite. Of all the characters I have bumping around in my head, old and new, my favorite, above all, is Luke.

He’s irreverent, he’s nonsensical, he’s very patient with the new human-werewolf he’s been assigned to and he sometimes (I like to think, anyway) has a wicked sense of humor. He’s very much one half of the whole that is Jack and Luke.

He loves donuts and tea, running, more running, sleeping…that’s about it. He’s a werewolf but finds the whole ‘were’ part to be tedious and liked his life better when he didn’t have higher thoughts. Being all about instinct was his life for so long, then he ‘changed’ and started having ‘thoughts’ and ‘feelings’ , it’s all very inconvenient now.

Jack slumped on the bus stop bench and tucked his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. “When Jack was a little boy, he was like all normal little boys. He had dreams, wishes that he kept on little slips of paper in a box beneath his bed.”


“His biggest wish was to be like all the other little boys on the playground. Oh, to be sure, he could rough and tumble with the best of them.”

Luke  placed a paw on his knee. Um, Jack? Who are you talking to?

“Quiet, I’m telling a story.” Jack waved his hand at Luke. He addressed his invisible audience again and stopped, his hand dropping to rest on Luke’s neck. “Where was I? You made me lose my place.”

Wished to be like the other boys, Luke said. But I’ve heard this story already.

“I know. I’m telling you again. When the other little boys had a mother to run to when they scraped their knee, Jack had no one. He was all alone.”

That’s not what you said before. You said your grandmother raised you.

“Yesyesyes, but she’s technically not my mother. So, you see? I had no one to kiss my scraped knees.”

You don’t like it when I kiss your scraped knees.

“You’re not my mother.”

Why wouldn’t you want your grandmother to put her mouth on your dirty, bloody knees? Why just a mother? Don’t you humans revere your elderly? And I’d kiss your knees. Luke flicked his tongue out and touched his nose.

“No, I mean yes. We do revere them. Some humans, anyway, and it’s not a literal thing, Luke. I’m speaking metaphorically, so you’ll kindly keep your tongue to yourself.” Jack grabbed Luke by the scruff of the neck to push him away.

Luke ducked under Jack’s hand and shook out his ruffled fur. I have heard of the healing magic of human mothers and their kisses. Mothers become grandmothers, wouldn’t it hold to reason that grandmothers hold even more power? Why would you need doctors if everyone has grandmothers?

Jack held his hands up. “Please. My story. I have a point.”

Luke blinked his large, brown eyes rapidly for several blinks and then he chuffled in what Jack suspected was wolf-type laughter.


Nothing. Continue. Grandmother, kissing knees, etc.

He threw his hands up in defeat. “I’ve lost my stream of thought. You never appreciate my stories.”

If they really had a point, I might.

“I always have a point.”

Luke looked around Jack and down the sidewalk where the Fresh Donuts sign blinked to life. Was the point to go get doughnuts?

“No. But I suppose it could be.”

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