Back to Khazad-dûm

Since I’ve decided to write next month’s project long-hand, I am diving in to some hardcore editing this week.

Where the fuck do I go?

I chose Khazad-dûm as my metaphor for editing because it’s really quite fitting. Three long days of drudgery in the dark, but, it’s also a mithril mine and I’m going to come up with a bag of mithril. I wander through the wastes of my manuscript, dead dwarves everywhere, a wretched funk in the air, goblin arrows, cave trolls and the inevitable Balrog of a fatal plot hole.

Balrogs suck

Your guide is a crazy old man dressed in rags who doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. You’re being followed by some gangle creature. It’s dark. It smells weird. You don’t have shoes on and Bill the Pony is out having some badass pony adventures by himself. The only reason you know which way to go is the air is less gross in one direction.

Now, on my journey through Khazad-dûm, I’m going to find some mithril, I’m going to have some crazy adventures, maybe kick a cave-troll’s ass, I’m going to lose my crazy old man dressed in rags (have I written an ode to Mr Ian Woon yet? This seems a fitting place to write about Ian Woon, but I’ll save that for a later date), but by God, I’m going to get out of the cave, and I’m going to have slain my Balrog plot hole (well we outsourced that to Gandalf) and I’ll have a pocket full of mithril.

The Frank Sinatra song Pocketful of Miracles springs to mind. My busy little brain is trying to work out the lyrics to be Pocketful of Mithril. It’s not quite working, but it pleases me greatly.

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