It's morning on the other side of the planet. The sun just set here. It's been a crappy day. I'm still sick. My blood sugar kept running high and I slept through most of the day because of it. When I've been awake, I've been minding children and working my through the proofs. They're looking pretty good. If I don't find anything glaring in the rest of my read through, they're going live Friday.
I was talking with Beloved about the scene that I am stuck with on the final portion of book seven. He said that I did a good job of writing myself into a corner. I think, however, all of my sleep today gave me an idea for how to handle it. Now, for the remainder of this post, I'm going to try writing to some music I'm listening to.
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The battle line was fifty men strong and twenty men deep. The noise of them beating on their shields was prodigious. It was enough to make the facing army nervous. Then they began their war chant. As they advanced forward, as one body they screamed the invocation of their god of war and victory. A man emerged from the shield-wall. He raised a spear decorated with cords of some kind and threw it across the battlefield with a scream.
Then the organized battle line rushed forward with wild screams of individual war cries. Among them, the man who had thrown the first spear continued to chant the names of their war god. In the chaos of combat, his voice was lost but to the gods, it continued to ring out clearly. A raven looked on the battlefield. Moving from branch to branch, it followed the chanting man as he carved his way into the ranks of their foes.
Battle-madness descended upon him. Pure butchery was his actions through the battlefield. His companions were careful to stay at his back for he cut down any man who came before him. Suddenly a spear stabbed into his stomach. The berserker pulled himself forward on the spear that impaled him so that he could reach the man holding the haft with his axe.
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