On a Quest

Janet was on a quest to learn the making of a story.  She was afraid to write, but also too afraid not to because she was afraid of poverty and of spending too much of what she had.  She was afraid of old things.  The house seemed a bit medieval, everything was old.  She wanted to throw everything out.  She didn't know how to write a story.  She didn't want to write dialogue or talk to anybody.  She figured if she kept writing using the guide, somehow she might figure it out.  She had no friends and didn't talk to her family.  She didn't really get along with her therapist.  She wondered how to write more complex sentences but didn't seem to have the time or ability.  Perhaps dedication and simple time taken dedicated to the task would result in something fabulous.  But what did she know of quests?  Quests were things for Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  She didn't want to bother the father-of-her child.  She couldn't call James her husband or her ex-husband.  It felt really tragic.  She could call him her ex-boyfriend.  It seemed so degrading.  Everyone seemed foreign to her.  Their lives were completely apart.  She could derive no pleasure in thinking about her old friends and how different their lives must be.  Life seemed unfair.  She only wanted to be thin but kept eating anyway. 

Molten lava poured from the fiery depths of the volcano.

Around the mote, James and Janet cast their oars peering up at the castle.

They struck a rhythm with their rowing, and Janet felt that they might continue on this way for half the day, except that there had to be some bad guys hiding somewhere, hadn't there? 

Later the horses that they were riding pricked up their ears because the bad guys were not far off in the distance. 

Her step-mother loved antiques. 

They walked through the high corn, still looking for the holy grail that was the plot and the plunder, the climax and the trailer for the sequel.

She had no daughter, only a son. 

The hammer didn't yammer, it were the fine toothed saw.