Chapter Seven: A Clunch of NaNoWriMics

Haven't figured out how to write in a group, and, if this evening's meeting at Flightpath is any indication of the mechanisms in place, writing and groups don't mesh. Talkers talk to anyone not plugged into music, and it seems like half the folks writing are scribing rather than typing. Wow, 50,000 words by hand. Sounds frightening to me, a guy who regularly scrolls to the top of a story to tear up the ending and change names and locations.

Anyway, world, meet Summer Lake, or at least the seeming of her. Here to torture then seduce RW, tearing the wrapping of Mr. Tariq from around his hairy little bod.