For these past few weeks I've been hugging the shadows, occasionally leaning out into a looming wilderness of breeding menace in which resides both the impossible and improbable. They found me! The Wordshippers are pursuing me as though I were a cross-breed of monster and man. They discovered my penchant for paragraph pounding, you see; they observed me from their linguistic niches and remained silent, brooding and vengeful... until now. Already I'm 140,000 words into the editing of 'Sirrenvaag'. I've cut, sliced and pummelled my way through the text; I've waged war upon the page, trodden upon the larynx of language and struck the syllable with precision. Consequently I've incurred the wrath of these baleful booksters.
However, and in my favour, The Wordshippers are remarkably stupid for beings whose lives have been dedicated to preserving the written word. Last Tuesday one of them tracked me down during the pre-dawn hours and began booming its accusations before drawing its quill-shaped sword. It stood ready to strike. I said: "Look, a Giraffe wearing a lumberjack shirt!" As it turned around I simply hid behind a tree until it left.
The hunt for Harker continues...
