Mid-November 2012: Leena's B&B
Nov. 13th, 2013 10:01 amFor some reason, now that Wooley was back in her life, everything that she'd lost was coming back. Everything except one particular thing, that is, and that she was beginning to be able to let rest. She wasn't completely there yet, however things were starting to feel more settled than they had in over a century.
Today, though, as Joshua was off working on something in his lab, and everyone else was in various states of cases, she decided to lock herself in her room and write. Time Machine wasn't necessarily something she ever thought she'd revisit, however, it was still one of her favourites (technically second only to Moreau, but that was only because of Charles' lack of edits).
Writing, she found, was much easier with modern pens. She had tried ballpoint pens, but they felt funny and did not write as well. Modern fountain pens, much to her delight, were easier to write with and much easier to fill (no more damned eyedroppers of ink that got everywhere.) However, there was still something about ending up with ink on her fingers that was a refreshing memory, just like being covered in grease or solder or the faint smell of copper wiring.
The world was quite easy to find again, the characters' voices coming back easily. This time, however, she told herself, the narrator would be the woman she was meant to be, the original narrator's wife, certainly, but a woman nonetheless. Words flowed onto the papers like the tendrils of the Time Machine itself, and the longer she wrote, the happier she was.
Much to her own surprise, she finished the first draft before dinner, collecting all of the things that she'd written in previous days, and piling them together to edit tomorrow.
On the top, on a paper all its own, she wrote, clearly, strongly:
To Joshua, who showed me how to find my way home.
She looked at the pile with a huge grin on her face. There. The hard parts were done. Now for the editing.
Today, though, as Joshua was off working on something in his lab, and everyone else was in various states of cases, she decided to lock herself in her room and write. Time Machine wasn't necessarily something she ever thought she'd revisit, however, it was still one of her favourites (technically second only to Moreau, but that was only because of Charles' lack of edits).
Writing, she found, was much easier with modern pens. She had tried ballpoint pens, but they felt funny and did not write as well. Modern fountain pens, much to her delight, were easier to write with and much easier to fill (no more damned eyedroppers of ink that got everywhere.) However, there was still something about ending up with ink on her fingers that was a refreshing memory, just like being covered in grease or solder or the faint smell of copper wiring.
The world was quite easy to find again, the characters' voices coming back easily. This time, however, she told herself, the narrator would be the woman she was meant to be, the original narrator's wife, certainly, but a woman nonetheless. Words flowed onto the papers like the tendrils of the Time Machine itself, and the longer she wrote, the happier she was.
Much to her own surprise, she finished the first draft before dinner, collecting all of the things that she'd written in previous days, and piling them together to edit tomorrow.
On the top, on a paper all its own, she wrote, clearly, strongly:
To Joshua, who showed me how to find my way home.
She looked at the pile with a huge grin on her face. There. The hard parts were done. Now for the editing.
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