Morning Pages 10/16/19

The headlights from the car drew nearer as the ferry pulled itself across the short span of water.
The ferryman rocked back and forth with the buck of the waves on the uneven surface, just as the ferry itself did. He didn’t fight it but swayed back and forth and before long the winches and heavy chain had guided the ferry directly into the small dock on the southern side of the river.
Outside, the rain whipped about him and tugged upon his jacket hood. He stepped carefully down the corrugated steps and down to the dock.
He bypassed around the ferry gate and walked up to the car. The engine was still running.
When he came to stand at the driver’s side the window rolled down and even though it was dark, the light of the lone lamp overhead gave the ferryman a moderate view of the driver’s face.
He was young and handsome. Clean-shaven and respectable with wireframe glasses on. Beside him sat a woman who was presumably of a similar age and likely his wife, as a little girl of maybe 5 or 7 sat in the back seat.
“Hello,” said the man, in an English accent.
“Yes?” asked the ferryman.
“We’ve got reservations across the river. I apologize for the lateness.”
The ferryman shrugged. “S’okay. But,” and he bent down to take a closer look at the family.
The woman had long dark hair, tied up in a bun, and the little girl was sleeping, clutching a stuffed lion.
…”I can’t take you across,” finished the ferryman.
“What?” the man’s voice was strained now. With good reason. He had no idea what he’d gotten his family into. The ferryman would put a stop to it. “Isn’t this the ferry to Hilde Svend?”
The ferryman nodded, but it was an action that was more in agreement that the town’s name was the correct one, not that the ferry necessarily led to said town. He took a breath and looked up into the sky, letting some raindrops land on his face. He took a deep breath and shook his head and turned back to the English family.
“You’re on holiday?” he asked them.
The driver nodded. “That’s right.”
“Did we take a wrong turn?” asked the wife. “Is this the wrong ferry?”
“No, Darlene, I’m sure it’s correct,” said the Englishman.
The ferryman regarded him. Then said, “Might have been on a different night, under other stars.”
The man in the car squinted at the ferryman. Then pointed to the sky. “It’s raining.”
“Oh, don’t think they aren’t up there,” said the ferryman. “And those constellations aren’t ones you’d know. You’ll have to wait ’til morning.”

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Morning Pages 10/15/19

It is difficult to be content in stillness. Every moment I sit I fight an impulse. I think about what work I should do, what revisions I need to make on a story, script, or maybe I should start something new. I wonder if I should watch some soccer, call a friend, check in with family. I have an itch on my back and I don’t scratch it.
I want to drink my coffee, but I don’t do that either.
I wonder what I’ll have for breakfast, what work will be like today. How I wish I had a different job.
I think about playing a video game or how much my session of D&D was the night before. I wonder how I’m going to correct the myriad threads that run through my plot and my world. Maybe I should try to do NaNoWriMo this year. Maybe not.
I think maybe I need to read more often.
Make it a habit.
Read every morning or every evening. It’s difficult to make time for it.
But then now here I am sitting and doing nothing, just mulling over my choices.
I think about money.
I wish I had more.
What would I do with more money?
I get paid on Friday.
What will I do then?
I wonder if this week is the week.
I wonder if I should call OSPI and ask them about my substitute teaching clearance which has been pending for the last month.
I wonder if I should call UW Bothell again because it has been weeks since I sent an email and called and the academic advisor hasn’t emailed or called me back.
I wonder if they ever will. Should I just show up one day?
I wonder if I should even go back to school.
I know I should.
I know I’d like to be a teacher.
But does that mean giving up on writing?
I have some major revisions to do on my comic scripts.
Here we are again, back at the comic script.
With so many things to think about and do, why am I sitting here? Because it makes me slow down. It makes me prioritize.
I’m hungry.
What will I eat for breakfast? I also need to take a shower.
I told my wife I’d got to work early and try to pro-deal her a sweater if the pro-deal allows me to.
That’s another thing I need to do.
Why am I writing? Here is my list.
Lists are underrated. Maybe I should do this every day. Make a list, I mean. Make a list of things to do. Not all of them need to be productive. Some of them should be–I think.
I miss being in Copenhagen.
Here are my things to do.
First, I need to make breakfast. Nothing fancy, just a small bite. But I should also pack a lunch.
Oka, that was two things. I only wanted 1 per line.
Make breakfast.
Pack lunch.
Drop off iPad.
Go pro-deal.
Work.
Come home.
Pick up wife.
read(?)
revise comic script(?)
Work out (?)
There aren’t enough hours in the day.
We all know that. Why can’t I focus like I used to?
There was once a time I could sit and just plow through thousands of words, pages of writing. Not all of it was good. Maybe none of it was. But I was creating something.
Where did that go?
Will it ever come back?

Morning Pages 10/14/19

The city center is filled with people. Some, the guards all in plate and chain and spears and some of them swords. You also see some towns-folk, some commoners. They look like a lowly bunch, destroyed by the riot the night before.
A man on a podium stands beneath the statue of Phausten, God of Justice, and preaches to any who listen. You see that it’s mostly the guards dressed in the white mail of Phausten that pay him any head.
“–See this ruin before you are not random happenstance. It was not brought on by chance or change or even by evil.”
You notice the man has flowing white hair, a hooked nose, and the pointed ears of an elf. He wears two swords strapped across his back.
“This is nothing more than justice, brought to you by Phausten himself.”
As you listen you hear a commoner, a dwarf shout back, “How is this justice Dandil? I’ve done nothing wrong–I sell nothing but fine wears and ore in The Melt, and now I’ve lost everything–everything.”
Dandil Sharpeye looks down at the dwarf, a smirk on his face. “This is just the type of exceptionalism that led to the events of the Pale riots last night!–”
“That’s not true!” yells the toward, and many other common folk chime in. “Liar!”
“My sheep were slaughtered!”
“My house was broken into! You Call That Justice?”
“I haven’t seen my son since he went to help the City Watch! Where has he gone?”
The commoners are angry and with good reason. Their city is in ruins, their homes destroyed, their goods stolen or lost.
Dandil Sharpeye raises a hand to quell their voices, and by some power, they fall silent.
“People, people of City Orstieg. It does no good to apportion blame. These justices that were carried out last night were not upon you. Phausten cares nothing for the individual. No. He is only concerned with the whole. These injustices that were right were those of the entire region, dating back millennia.”
“You’re wrong!” shouts a human woman. “My daughter was raped last night–she says by one of your men! How then is this justice!”
You notice, off to the side, as Dandil Sharpeye continues to preach his justice-story, a young woman. The only other half-elf in City Orstieg.