I don’t know why night time inspires me. I find myself much more flighty during the day, and as a result its harder to concentrate. I’ve been having trouble with “Morgan” lately, so I indulged in writing the first chapter of another story idea I’ve had. I currently have “Morgan,” and two other story ideas that are floating around in my head, however I’ve told myself I won’t veer away from Morgan until I have at least the first draft finished. I’m horrible at finishing, I have plenty of ideas, but finishing them is much harder.
John says its because I have the attention span of a ferret. Which is true in one way: I always want to get the latest, brightest idea down on paper before it goes away, and then ideas just keep coming and before I know it, I’ve put aside my original work for this new idea.
However, writing the first chapter for something else was very invigorating. It was like I’d been eating spaghetti for weeks but then I ate something different. I feel more inclined to go back to “Morgan” now and I’ve been thinking about the story all day. The annoying thing is that I wrote that first chapter last night just past midnight (I couldn’t ignore my itchy fingers any longer) and it glided out of me like melted butter. Unfortunately, when the first chapter was done, I just went straight to bed so that momentum went toward…erm, sleep. That’s one of the major frustrating things about having ideas late at night, that momentum is wasted because you still want to sleep.
Of course, here’s an excerpt of what I was doing last night. Of course, it’s completely unedited and I think there’s one or two run-on sentences in there, so don’t judge too harshly. 
“A jungle guardian needs no name,” the girl said, lifting her chin.
“A new jungle guardian will come when you are gone. A family, from a village further than the one you visit, who escaped a tyrant chieftain and seek a simple life,” the panther answered. “The cycle will continue here.”
The girl took a sharp breath at this news, her heart actually hurt from the knowledge. The cycle will continue? With or without me? How can the jungle be so cruel? She fingered her staff and for one wild moment, she thought of killing this panther. But, as if sensing her thoughts, the panther went back to all fours and gave a soft warning growl. The girl relaxed her thoughts and her shoulders sank. She slowly sat down next to her half-ground mustard seeds. She could still smell them. The staff lay in her lap, forgotten, as she thought. Finally, she gave a crazy little laugh—half wild, for she felt more grief on this day than she did when her dear mother died. That had been the natural order, but this? Was this natural?
“Loose myself for a name?” the girl said with a small giggle. “Gain myself for a name?”
The panther settled back on its haunches patiently.
“Will I die, panther?” the girl asked, meeting the panther’s golden eyes.
The panther said nothing, just stared back. In his eyes was intelligence, but there were so many emotions the girl could not sift through them all. There were emotions she had felt—grief, triumph, anger, simple happiness—but there were other emotions that the girl could not name, and then there was that predatory gleam that made her insides watery.
“Fine,” the girl finally said. “A quest for a name, a trade. Give me my name.”
“Chaya,” the panther answered. He stood on his four paws again, and his head lifted like a king, regal and sincere. The girl stared at his midnight black fur, fixated. It seemed to grow and contract like a heartbeat; it seemed to encompass her until there was only the panther’s glowing eyes and her, sitting within the blackness, waiting to be devoured.
“Chaya, shadow,” the panther said, and the girl was not sure if the voice came from the panther anymore or from all around her, or only from her mind. “Ask me the question locked in your heart.”
“My origins…” the girl whispered.
“Chaya,” the panther said. “Shadow…” Then, a great pause that tore at the girl’s heart. “…A dark night, a family roasts nuts on the fire after a hearty meal; the jungle surrounds them; they love one another. Three generations sit there, husbands and wives sit there, brothers and sisters sit there, and a mother sits there. But no child, until a babe stumbles from the brush, barely walking, its chubby legs cause its lower body to wobble. The babe has many cuts and bruises from numerous falls, but this seems to be its destination, for it stops at one woman. The woman lets go of her husband to pick the babe up—a girl, she knows already, and her breasts ache in answer. The woman feeds the child from her own breast and knows, ‘this is the next,’ she says, and the family agrees.”
“So,” the girl whispered, “I was part of the cycle then.”
“Yes,” the panther answered.
“But now?”
“A new cycle forms,” the panther said.
Chaya nodded slowly.
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