So. Stabbing myself in the ankle– not fun.
Less fun: finding out that while I can handle my own blood without a problem, seeing the bits of me under the blood and skin makes me go faint. Fun fun fun. I feel like such a… girl.
Besides that, I found a book at the store the other day– The Seven Basic Plots: why we tell stories. I’ve only gotten through page 40 (out of ~700), but so far it looks like an exceptional read for anyone who’s really interested in literary theory. I’ll be posting my full thoughts here when I finish / throw the book across the room.
Also, I’m kicking my crappy rough draft about. About 1000 words written today, nearly the same number written last night.