No, I'm not talking blonde bimbo Bunnies. Sorry to disappoint.
I'm talking plotbunnies here. Yeah. Them. I swear, the buggers must hide under the bed or something. (Though that's gotta be uncomfortable, as our bed at the moment is a mattress on the floor. Apparently I have plotbunny pancakes.)
First, everything was going fine and dandy with Stronger than the Night. Then Eric threw a screaming bitch fit and I got blocked to high holy hell on it. Switch to To Weather the Storm. Everything goes just great with that, till I realise the bloody thing's a trilogy. Hear the screech of mental brakes? Everything closed up shop faster than a good girl's legs. Watch out, the ice burns.
And now my bastard antagonist decides to crawl out from his imprisonment in the pretty pink dungeon, prostrate (not to be confused with prostate) himself in front of me, and tell his Mistress what he wants. WTF?
I think the vroom-vroom of my brain must scare my plotbunnies away. They hear the engine revving and get skitterish, but after awhile it's too much and they run for their safe haven under the bed. Maybe there they'll find peace. Maybe there they'll find some safety from the wicked mind attempting perversion of their inner natures. Maybe there they'll find a place where they can roam free and breed armies of DoomBunnies to assault the writerly world.
Or maybe they'll find themselves flattened into plotbunny pancakes. Anyone got syrup?
Nonny Blackthorne wrote at 3:29 AM
