Originally published at LonPrater.com. You can comment here or there.

Slept in today, or what passes for sleeping in. (Since when is 10:30 the latest I can sleep, anyway?)

Went for a walk in one of Dayton’s “metroparks”.  Nice trails, one of the surprising up-sides of an area virtually falling apart from the inside.  Some city planner, while otherwise asleep at the switch, made sure to set aside plenty of tracts of well-wooded greenspace.  They aren’t as free of car-noise and such as the place I liked to go in Connecticut, but I suppose they’ll do.

After, I found a peaceful spot near the Mad River (where else to write about Rat, Mole and Toad’s homeless Arkham analogs?) and knocked out 8 more pages to end chapter 11.  This brings the whole she-bang to 222 pages. Pretty much on track with the source material.  One last chapter is all that remains.  Whereas in The Wind in the Willows, the last chapter was “XII. The Return of Ulysses”, in this version it is a bit more obviously Lovecraftian:  ”XII. The Return of Nyarlathotep”.  Hoping to knock it out over the next few evenings.  No more writing today though, unless I get a strong second wind.  38 pages in 3 days is pushing it for me!

Some folks have been doing a First Lines memes lately.  In that spirit, here’s the opening paragraph of The Whisperer in the Willows:

I. THE RIVER BANK

Cole had been working very hard all the morning, camping in his online world collecting enchanted weapons to sell. First the swords, then the muskets; then on to daggers and staves and arrows, with his barbarian and a Glaive of Lifeloss; till he had dust in his throat and bleary eyes, an aching back and weary arms, and was very, very close to pissing all over himself. But the global depression meant no one was buying virtual toys with actual money, it penetrated every bank account and dark and lowly household with its spirit of fearful privation and languor. It was small wonder then that he suddenly shoved his ergonomic chair away from an expiring laptop, said some choice expletives and also “I’m done with this!” and bolted out of the apartment without even bothering to snatch up the past due notices that hung upon his door. The Moroccan neighbor shouted at him imperiously, and Cole made for the steep little stairs that led out of the ramshackle building and into the sun and air. At the bottom of the stairs he unblocked and unlatched and unbolted the front door, working busily and muttering to himself, “It’s over! I’m ended!” till at last, pop! He burst out into the sunlight, and he found himself blinking in the dank warmth of Arkham.