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The Hours Seem Longer Now

This will be a combined update and snippets post, and neither component will be very long, I think.  The snippets section will be short due to the nature of my update.  On Wednesday 3rd, December, I delivered my daughter out of the alternate universe of the womb and into this world.  I am now, officially, the relatively sleepless and thoroughly ecstatic maman of
filigree marguerite freitag
Though I say it myself, she is beautiful and sweet, and with the incomparable help of an epidural, I look back on the affair with a weird sense of enjoyment.  I was expecting to have to tolerate the ordeal - I was not expecting it to be so painless, to have such a good time with my care-takers through the twenty-five hour labour, or to be able to look back on that time and think, "I could go through those hours again and not mind it."  And that is due to the wonder of modern medicine.  Now I have a beautiful baby girl of the sweetest calibre, and while I don't really feel any different being Maman, having and holding and loving my own child fills me with more than the mere names of emotions can possibly encompass.

Subsequently, my fake NaNoWriMo - really, any forward motion on writing - has effectively ceased for the time being, and there is not a large corpus of writing to cull snippets from.  I have, however, been reading Jane Eyre and feeling chills over the uncanny (and I mean uncanny) reproductions of details from Jane Eyre in Plenilune.  I have never in my life until this past month picked up Charlotte Brontë's novel, and yet not only details, but tone and approach and attitude between myself and the nineteenth century writer are so similar as to be unnerving.
There was one lone doll on the bed, propped up against the pillows. Raymond twisted and picked it up, setting it on his lap to study it. It was leaner than the others, its cheek-bones more pronounced and its visage slightly older, more mature. The skin was cast in a thin, exquisite porcelain, its golden locks were spun of the glossy cremello horsehair; its only fault was that the blue-glass eyes seemed to stare, soulless and blank.

The sense of shattered bone ricocheted up into his palm, into his arm, across his chest. Nike gripped him by the shoulders and shook him before he could slam the man’s head into the stone again, murmuring in flakes of husky gold—
He’s dead! He’s dead! You’ve killed a man! Let go!

Odd, how numb and feather-like grief could be. 

How he fought against that voice, he was never afterward sure; but he felt the scars of it on his soul well after he had blown out the light, and for a long while, lying in the breathing dark, he felt his soul bleeding on the bedsheets.

The door at the head of the stairs stood open; with an ungainly twist, Tamn got Raymond through and Raymond was blinking against a flood of light in the entrance of a long, wide loft floored in golden pine and beamed with smoke-blackened oak. The place was a single room, and spacious, sparely furnished, but clean: the scent of woodsmoke and rainy air played in Raymond’s nose.

He raised his head and felt the flint come into his face. “Where shall I begin?”
“Report,” said the old soldier.

I did not feel like being saddled with the first eligible male my father hauled out of the stud-book for me. Odd,” she broke off, frowning, “how they like to threaten you with that, because they know how much it will scare you…"

Shifting his hand out from underneath the crook of his other arm, he reached up and tugged the throat of his borrowed cloak close together around his neck. Somewhere out of the dampish, woollen scent of the fabric, his belaboured nostrils caught a flicker of perfume.

"He smiles, and you want to rip out your own heart and give it to him."