Whenever I go into writing mode – which, sadly, seems to happen less frequently than it used to – I seem to find a new thing to read about every paragraph; be it the proper way to dig a latrine for a company of soldiers numbering in the hundreds, or why not how the westerly winds affect the mountains at the coastline and the intermediate land beyond over the course of a couple of thousands of years.
Will a certain elevation increase or decrease humidity when XX things is in effect, close to those YY things?
Can there be a stable/sustainable civilisation when the proximity to an enormous plain; populated almost entirely by raiding, star worshipping, horse people; is as uncomfortable close as your rather creepy Aunt is when she’s downed the entire production line of wine from a minor country in her belly and is feeling particularly frisky?
How would a rather spoiled, influential, person with instantaneous resources react when perceiving offence by your characters perfect imitation of a cracked wooden plank while delivering deadpan comments so dry that the wet paint on a house in the desert city of Ghyt on the far eastern continent shrieks in terror and dries faster than a swallow mating with a snapping turtle… and that metaphor went away from me. It went so far that… Oh shut up Daniel.
The slightly annoying part? Often the thing I start reading up on and spend unhealthy amount of time figuring out will, perhaps, take up, maybe, a sentence. At the most.
The even more annoying, and whining buh-hu-slap-me-I’ve-a-boo-buu, part? I should be writing! Not clicking on links to more articles about the enthralling process of collecting urine from the privy, let it turn into ammonia in pretty and dainty jars and then sprinkling the festering waste-fest on poor, unsuspecting animal hides so it can magically transform into glorious, piss stinking, leather.
I’m not even going to provide a link for that. I’m not that horrible a person.
Submerged Shorts 