So. I've been playing poker.

A lot of poker.

I've learned some things about myself.

I love writing, and I love playing poker. I also love lots of people, but that's not what this is about.

Maybe, just maybe, I can reconcile the things I love to do with the fact that I have to work for money in this culture to have any freedom at all.

It's a secret dream of mine that I could earn a living playing poker, and write.

What would I write about if I could make money playing poker?

I dont know what I would write about exactly, but it wouldn't be poker. Poker would be work.

With the internet and all, this wouldn't even be something I'd need to come into the office for, this would be something I could do from home.

That. At least, is worth a shot.

I'm done writing for the moment, but since you've been kind enough to wade through the avalanche of bullshit about my life, I'll post the first outline for the first chapter of a story I'm writing.

Oh. You don't care? Then fuck you.

This character's name is Whispering Leaf, Whisper to his friends. He's the best hunter in his tribe. He is called whispering leaf because of the obvious quietness relevance. Rumors in his tribe circulate about his methods, because he always hunts alone. Unlike his tribesmen, he refuses to use anything but his father's obsidian dagger.

It is large for a knife, and hasn't broken. Usually, a knife made of glass shatters at some point (though it is always usable to *finish* the kill, it must be replaced afterwards). This one, however, has not been blemished or dulled since the day Whisper's father died.

This was all teaser stuff.

Here's the first outline for the first chapter.

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Whispering Leaf peered through the leaves of a towering oak, grasping the hilt of the obsidian blade strapped to his thigh. He knew nothing of his mission, though the wise woman had told him something ominous.

"You will observe, Whisper. You will watch, and your purpose will be known to you."

"Tell me, mother," he had said, "tell me what my purpose is."

"I cannot, my dearest son. I cannot because it has not been shown. The spirits have told me that you must be there. They will say no more, and you must obey. You must be patient."

"Yes, wise woman."

"Go with the spirits as your allies," She said, "and hold no malice in your heart. Be true to your father, but strike swiftly when you must."

Once the parting words had been spoken, there was nothing to do but nod and leave. Even if you were the wise woman's son, you left when the parting words were spoken.

Whispering Leaf shook the sorrow from his head. It didn't leave, but receeded from his attention, to a dark corner of his head where the last conversation was kept on constant loop.

He looked once more at the pale men in a smooth, wooden boat.

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In the next chapter, Whispering Leaf will come into contact with the Europeans he has been watching from his hiding place. (though we know nothing about their mutual surroundings yet) More secrets about his past, and clues as to his mission concerning these white men, will be exposed.