The other day, I sat at work, with all the notebooks open on my desk save oneo - it was buried under a pile of invoices, or it would have been open too. Today, I'm at home, and once again, most of the notebooks are open. It's what I do, and I'll lay a good bet other writers do, too. 

I've come to the realization lately that what I thought I wanted to write is decidedly not what I want to write. While I love the promise of Happy Ever After, and the build up to that pinnacle - I only love it as a reader, and even then, only in waves. 

Like right now, I'm heavily into reading... well, I'm not sure what it would be called. Young Adult Fantasy (srsly, where were these books when I was a kid?) with a tinge of horror slash steampunk slash gaslamp. 

There's th...

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