Markis landed facedown on hard wooden planks, the stench of seawater and dead fish lapping him in the face. There was always this fuzzy period after a gatewalk, but they were obviously getting worse. For a long moment, he had been lying there uncertain of who he was, let alone what he was doing.

He came to with a jolt. He had blacked out again! Even though he had meant to leap to his feet, he ended up just rolling over onto his back so he could see that it was nighttime out, and not just his eyes. With a feeling like every bone in his body was going to crack, he dragged himself up into a sitting position with his legs sprawled out clumsily in front of him. As he had guessed, he was sitting on a pier someplace. There were no boats tied up here. The pier was splintered and warped. That was good. It meant the pace was rarely visited and there was probably no one around to see.

Markis fished around in the leg pockets of his soggy cargo pants until he found the remote. Of all the thousand little things he was seeing and smelling through his swollen eyes, the glowing doorway at the end of the pier was of the least concern to him. The few lights from houses that shone along the stony line of the beach were of more interest to him than the teleport gate. They weren't close and it was late. He looked the other direction to be sure, but saw no one. He had to hurry it up.

He finally managed to get the remote turned around in his hand and pointed it at the gate. Just before he punched the glowing blue panel on the remote, the hum that emanated from the gate abruptly went silent, its white glow flickered, and it vanished.

"Well crap," he muttered. "That can't be good."

His heart skipped a beat. Markis punched the blue button, then the red. No effect. His fuzzy head was cleared up faster than a slap to the face, his shaky feet found themselves under him in an instant. He slid back an invisible panel on the remote and punched in a series of numbers. He counted down from ten as patiently as he could before taking up a long stream of swearing and stamping his boots on the pier. Then, to his horror, a single light flashed on the side of the remote and turned white.

"No!" he screamed aloud. "Not white!"

That clenched it. Whatever backwater planet this was, for the time being, Markis was stuck here.

Well, I managed to get my fanny in gear and start writing my next book. I'm up to 3 glorious chapters now. I find it's more energizing to write the end when everything is coming to a head instead of writing the start when you are setting things up and building to what you actually want to write.

Plus, this current endeavor is still kind of developing in my head. That's just an excuse. You get ideas when you are writing, not when you are waiting for inspiration.

I still battle with the self-doubt of wondering why I often don't feel like writing. I feel like it when I get into it, and I LOVE finishing books, but when it's a matter of write vs. goof off, you can guess which one wins out more often.

I find myself, once again, in something of a funk. It is a state in which I don't much feel like writing, which leads me to question whether or not I am to be serious about doing so. I think that if I were to take on a more serious attitude, I'd either feel excited about putting words to page or else I'd do it regardless of how I feel.

Funk. Not so funky.