My game design group, French Toast, is just about ready to start.
I’ve lost yet another week-or-so of Writing.
But I’ve gained an unholy design document.
100 Index cards with scribbles and scrabbles of cheap ink grapheme.
This great white stack of cards is a 3x5 altar to lost time and possibilities.
A sacrificial tribute to childish machinations.
The game takes up everything.
I forget where I’m driving, or what I was doing.
I forget to eat.
I am exhausted.
I fall asleep at night, and my body shakes on the inside. Like an old engine. Shutting down. Sometimes there are blinding flashes. Or loud bangs.
I can feel the roots of my body, searching for soil. Searching for purchase. As if my subconscious was trying to root itself into the mattress.
But next week the game will be ready to playtest again.
The novel will be there too. waiting.
And I will weep in it’s arms.