an excerpt from my always-in-progress novella

Written on the bus; might use it for the opening of my steampunk novella.

She worked in a bookshop, surrounded by the ghosts of all the Great Whales. She struggled to "recommend me something", "I don't know what I like", because what the hell, she didn't know what she liked either. It was like chasing after the elusive " " after writing half a sentence. Nothing fits. She'd pull out books at random "try this", "what about him?" but they never did understand her choices. Littered on the floor, she screamed.

"Then what's the point of it all!"

I really want to name her Auden.

Another snippet, from the same bus ride:

But what she really wanted, was to be embalmed in paper and ink, to be felt through the edges, age of pulp flattened by the industrial machines, her soul compressed in between the lines.

I really want to finish this book!