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1300 new words, and chapter 28 is finished. (This book has too many chapters. That's down to the structure, but all the same...)
First line written today: She pressed her sleeve to her face, trying to breathe as shallowly as she might.
And I'm now into chapter 29, which is back to the ferret women. They are alarmed and the Grass King is angry.

Skirt of the day: started out in grey cord, but changed it for short grey flippy, as the weather is warmer than it looked.

Creativity

One of things that I wonder about, sometimes, is what we mean when we describe someone as 'creative'. I often doubt myself in this regard: my ideas, it seems to me, are nothing exceptional and my talents are narrow. In my head, true creativity should go beyond my on thin ability to play about with words and when I look at others, I see that wider definition reflected back. So many of my friends write and paint/draw or make jewellery or sing or play instruments or cook like angels or dance or sew or knit etc etc. (And not just from patterns or recipes: you lot out their make up your own.) Several of them do multiples -- I'm looking at you, smallphoenix and seanan_mcguire. Me, I just move words around. And that, in comparison, is very little. I can't draw or play anything; I can carry a tune but no more than that; my embroidery is workmanlike at best.
So what is this creativity thing anyway? Is it some kind of magic? How should we define it and where are the boundaries?