Since the beginning of the year, I've been hit and miss on feeling particularly inspired, and Last Men put me in a bad mood. I thought, well. Fine.
..and in two weeks, I started three stories, one of which just hit six thousand words, teh second twenty thousand, the third staring at me, and I reopened Crimes to add I don't even know how much toward the ending (ending! God. It could actually end!)
I'm sorry--what the hell? I am all about whee writing but I replotted six scenes while trying to sleep and the six thousand word one I started outlining a tentative sequel that involves a lot of roadtripping and hiding from authorities (totally didn't see that coming after mainling Jason Bourne, no).
What. The. Hell?
And now I really want an AU where Marie survives and finds a way to systematically hunt down Jason's killers. Or something. Except it's depressing. Yet weirdly entrancing.
My fingers hurt.
