Third draft is easy: all it is is prettying up. Second draft sucks, because that's where you have to take the chopped raw meat of the first draft and make the damned thing make sense. And having finished Hammered....
Means I have to start Shadowhand.
But for tonight, I leave you with this thought:
Circa 3400 AD (Virtual Clock)
Interaction logged Tuesday, 4 September 2062, 0230 hours
A cold wind swirled the tall stranger's coat around his boots as he pushed open the door of the saloon and stepped inside. Just for a moment the resolution flickered, and then the illusion sealed itself around his presence, whole as it had ever been.
He paused for a moment inside the door, scanning the hodgepodge of cyborgs, Beautiful People, and aliens that populated the seediest bar in the seediest spaceport in Avatar Gamespace--each more improbably constructed than the last. A thin smile bent his lips and thoughtful eyes squinted under a thatch of wavy silver hair; the extreme body-modification crowd got even more extreme, in VR. Patrons turned to look, and just as quickly turned away. A holstered equation hung at his hip, and his pockets were heavy with binary. His eyes lit up as they fastened on the bartender, and he came up against the brass rail like a knife against a butcher's steel.
"Gunslinger?" the weathered bartender asked, sliding a shot of whisky across the scarred mahogany surface.
A translucent blue rill of light followed the vector of the glass, and the stranger pursed his lips in approval as he lifted it. "Physicist," he replied.
That's what I did today.
What did you do?