Sorry!!! (and a partial rant)

Oi, I have been such a bad, bad, bad BB. Y'all can punish me. I haven't been updating B1000 faithfully, and I have so many things I want to post about!


This is going to be a post mainly on how PB is going, but before I do so, I want to first and foremost say that if in any way I sound like I'm bragging or being pretentious about my work, I do not mean it in that way. I know what writer's block is like, and I had that same experience with PB for...meh, maybe an year and a half, and the most recent one was about 2 months long. So, again, please do not get the wrong idea that I'm trying to boast. It's just something that occurred to me last night.

So last afternoon, I found the time to write a bit of PB. I've probably said it a billion times already, but Pandora is a pain in the neck (or the bum, whichever preferable). She can be so annoying that she's so much fun to write about. I've finally figured out her personality: she's a cross between Hermione Granger and Emma Woodhouse with a quick temper and tending to be a bit of spoiled brat (which she knows, but doesn't like to admit). The most bizarre thing is, I intended to make her a lot like me, and ended up letting her write the story (so it seems *roll*). So now, Pandora is not, indeed, like me. OK, so I am like Hermione, but not in the way Pandora is. Pandora has this really annoying, bossy, know-it-all (ok, I can be a little bit of a know-it-all), but Dora is good intentioned like Emma Woodhouse...yet still ends up in a strange situation.

I wrote this scene last night which I enjoyed reading as well as writing (I mean, which Pandora wrote). I want to see what you guys think of it so far. Note that Pandora goes through a name change at this point (which is Ch3), and she is called "Lena" or "Noelena", and right now she's in Sandria (long story how, and it would be spoiling Ch2) dressed in a Regency England-style gown. Phil is a guy who becomes a friend and mentor of hers (in the last chapter, his leg got injured...that's another spoiler, so I can't explain much at this point), and the two have a brother-sister-type relationship. So here's the scene! Enjoy! (P.S. I changed it from 3rd person to 1st person narration. It's easier and makes it more fun for me. The original PB, for some reason, skipped from 3rd to 1st person, but I'm fond of 1st right now.) (P.P.S. Some of it is slightly altered from the original in my WordDoc due to the fact that it'd reveal too many spoilers.)

Then I stormed out the front door. How could Phil be so idiotic? And why did boys always act as if they had no brain in their skulls?
It was a little chilly, and when I stepped out, I saw Phil cutting up some wood, limping a little as he walked to and fro between stacks of lumber.
Walking up to him, I put my hands on my hips, and, right before I was about to open my mouth to scold him, he looked up at me. We were about a yard apart, and I could see that his dark hair was plastered with sweat onto his forehead.
“How do you do, miss? Are you traveling from the town?” he asked, and began to bow, but lost his balance from his limp. He began to fall, but I quickly caught him, and, somehow, he ended up right in my lap.
I sighed, clucking my tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous, Phil,” I said, trying to sound angry, though it was all quite amusing.
“Lena?” he looked up at me, confused, squinting his eyes. “I barely recognized you, what with your gown and cloak and your hair and all.” He got up, brushing himself off. “You look nice, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I said, but noticed how soiled my dress had already gotten from the forest dirt. Annoyed, I retorted, “And you look sweaty. What are you thinking? You just got injured yesterday—”
He laughed. “You’re quite a funny girl. I’m fine, I’ve just got a scar on my leg, [but it won't heal right away,] and especially with such a deep cut it’ll take awhile—”
“So why were you working when you could be resting your leg?” I asked, exasperated.
“This is my job, and, anyway, I can’t [and shouldn't let anyone else do it.]”
I sighed again. I couldn’t scold him for doing his chore. “Fine...We’re having breakfast soon.”
I spun on my heels, about to go, but Phil cried, “Wait! Stay here.”
“Why?” I asked, still aggravated.
“Just wait! I have to tell you something,” he said. He was picking up some of the lumber and taking it towards the side of the cabin.
“Don’t you need help?” I asked, running up to him.
“It wouldn’t be right if I had a young lady like you carry this. Anyway, you might get a splinter. I already have several,” he said carelessly.
“For goodness’ sake, this is the 21st century!”
Phil wrinkled his nose. “Not in Sandria.”
Without further ado, I snatched half of his bundle and cried like a child in a playground, “Last one to the cabin is a rotten egg!”
“Hey! I thought you cared about my injured leg!” he cried behind me.
I beat Phil instantly, but found splinters on a couple of my fingers that hurt terribly.
“Told you I could carry them,” I said.
“Told you you’d get splinters,” Phil replied back.
“Why’d you underestimate me?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, you were always a little on the spoiled brat-side. Now, let me see your hand,” he said.
With a dirty look, I muttered, “I’ll let you see my hand,” but before I could get the chance to slap him, he had grabbed my hand and had formed little puffy white clouds over my splintered fingers. The clouds turned grey, rained on my fingers, and, before I knew it, the splinters were gone.