Look guys, here's the deal. The reason updates are taking so long are as follows:
School (have a hard time eating, sleeping, doing homework, and writing.
Other things going on (other writing projects)
The last thing is really hard to say, but…I've been writing various versions of DAT since I was twelve, maybe thirteen, and I no longer like the plot anymore. I don't really like this particular story concept as much as I used to and as a result, I'm having a hard time writing. I'm not sure what to do. Should I keep writing for my (probably) non-existent readers? Should I give it up for adoption? Should I just leave it in its present state? Or should I just discontinue it?
It'll be hard to not write it because DAT is my Baby. I've never put so much time and effort into anything before, nor have I grown so attached to a single story. I'm hoping that I'll find a way to regain interest in the plot, or maybe a co-writer. If I can't…well, you have the list.
Please send me a review telling me what you think I should do! If you would like to potentially be a co-writer, let me know. I'll keep you in mind.
Also let me know if you might consider adopting it. I don't have my mind set, but if I decide in a few weeks, or months to adopt it I'll contact you.
To thank all of you, I'm going to try to slip back into Elena mode and give you something.
I've been doing well haven't I? I've been hiding it, this nagging feeling of fear. It's there, it's always present. Going back…seeing Morgana…it's hard. I've been dreaming about that wretched night. Despite the nostalgia that surrounded memories of the order meetings, it's drowned out by other, darker memories.
The terrifying rush of battle, that dangerous thrill that comes from killing an opponent and the knowledge that I'd live another few minutes and had prolonged the inevitable-they were all as clear as day. So were the screams of the students as they watched their friends and families die-screams that people like me had caused. For a while it all seemed so distant. Apparently, according the psychology books I've read, Morgana was my trigger.
Morgana can never find out-she'd never forgive herself. As usual it was time to suck it up and deal with it.
A strange bird had flown through the bedroom window (which I now leave open when ever it's sunny.
The handwriting was chicken scratch-it looked like a boy's handwriting.
It only had two words, but it said paragraphs.
They're here.
-S.B.
How could I not have realized that my attempts at running would all be for nothing? There was a deatheater in our midst-and I'd find it.