I Aten’t Dead (plus a snippet of Sabbat/Archer sappiness)

So you may have noticed it’s been a wee bit quiet around here. Fact is, it’s kinda hard to post writing when you, y’know, haven’t actually been doing any.

Summer hits me like a tonne of bricks every year: I get migraines triggered by bright sunlight and overheating, I can’t sleep properly when it’s light out, and my mood tends to take a nosedive when it’s too summer-y for me to think properly. Add to that the fact that my major hobby tends to ramp up the number of events over June-July-August (people like camping in a field when it’s not freezing cold or pissing it down, who knew?), and you have a recipe for one author who’s summarily failed at doing much in the way of author-ing for a while.

However! We’re heading into the dark half of the year, which means I get my brain back. I’ve changed my hours at work, which means I get some of my time back. And I’m writing again, which means I’ve got my words back. And yes, both 100themes and Seventh Son are still ongoing – watch this space for new content on both of those.

TL;DR Been off my game for a while, back on it now, more words to come.

And, as a thankyou for reading this far, a little Archer/Sabbat snippet that I can’t quite fit into AiA, but that wouldn’t go away until I wrote it out:

‘If you had to pinpoint the moment that Archer fell in love for the second time, it would be around the point when he looked up from his newspaper, roused by a small sound he’d not even consciously noticed, and realised that the man in the armchair opposite him had fallen asleep.

That, by itself, wasn’t unexpected. But every other time he’d seen Sabbat apparently asleep anywhere other than his bunk in the room they’d shared on the Arrow, he’d had his boots on the table, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and one hand resting on either his knife or the pocket where Archer knew he kept his straight razor. Not this time. This time, his head was tipped back, his hat nowhere to be seen, and his right hand dangling over the edge of the chair in a way which was almost certainly going to give him pins and needles if he stayed in that position for any length of time. And – yes, he was snoring, albeit quietly and with his mouth partially open.

It was, for want of a better word, oddly and somewhat terrifyingly endearing.’

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