Yep, the long-delayed, and somewhat long-awaited Chapter 8 "The Shining Way," from Heroes... is finally posted on the Annex and ready to go. Pop on over; I've included a quick summary of What Has Come Before, along with links to each previous chapter, the prologue, and the not-quite-unrelated short story, "Melbourn's Storm."
Visit the Annex for Heroes... Chapter 8 - "The Shining Way."
Showing posts with label heroes.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroes.... Show all posts
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Short Story: "Melbourn's Storm"
This WIP is down. In September 2012, Lore magazine will
publish a much better version of "Melbourn's Storm." As such, any
version of the story is unavailable except through them.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
New Short Story in the Annex!
Finally having a couple of days to write has been good. In the Annex, I've posted my first-ever "Heroes..." short story, "Melbourn's Storm."
Please feel free to check it out. As always, any feedback my kindly readers have to offer would be most graciously appreciated.
This is basically a first-draft with minimal editing, so be kind.
"Melbourn's Storm"
Please feel free to check it out. As always, any feedback my kindly readers have to offer would be most graciously appreciated.
This is basically a first-draft with minimal editing, so be kind.
"Melbourn's Storm"
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The Vista Crash
I own a laptop with Microsoft Vista. It's never given me any real problem. I've heard people fuss and moan about it, but to be honest, most of the complaints came from people who have added Vista to an existing computer and found certain aspects simply didn't gel.
No, I've never had issues with it. I've also never had the slightest real interest in changing to a Mac, either. I used one while working for Planet Weekly newspaper and basically found everything about it annoying. And, no, I don't use Linux or anything else like that. For all that I am, I am also still basically a neo-Luddite; that much interest in technology makes me want to blow things up.
To use that appalling ad campaign: "I am PC." By choice, I have always been.
And do you know how Microsoft repaid me?
By taking over my laptop and tearing apart my work. Friday evening, while I was making dinner, I let my Toshiba idle. The screen had gone black (as it should), and I had a few windows open. As I sat down to shut it down for a while, the screen flashed on, and that annoying Microsoft message told me that it was restarting because of my updates. Then it began to shut itself down and restart.
Problem 1: I had restarted the thing a few hours early entirely to keep it from doing that. There's absolutely nothing I hate more than Microsoft telling me it's time for me to do when it wants to do because of the updates. There had been no updates in the few hours since I'd rebooted the computer, so there was no reason for this to be scheduled.
Problem 2: Open windows. I was working on three things at the time. The first was the rewrite of Heroes... Chapter 8 - "The Shining Way." Another was the first part of Conduit. The third was some notes and outlines for yet another project. I'd saved everything except the notes when I rebooted, but everything had had work done on it when this happened. As anyone familiar with Microsoft knows, when your computer decides to shut down, it doesn't save - it autosaves. Big difference.
I was ticked, but there was nothing to do be done. The screen darkened as it tried to reboot. I let it run for a bit. Suddenly, a new screen came up, informing me that it had shut down improperly and hadn't been able to restart. I hit the key it told me to. It again restarted. It took forever to bring up the desktop. When it did, naturally the first thing I went to do was recover my documents.
The Big Problem: None of the documents that came up were as I left them. Not only had Autosave failed to recover about 30 pages of notes that simply vanished *poof* into thin air (though it did leave me with some - just not all), it also "managed" to recover only older versions of Conduit and Heroes...
Yes, I'm saying that when I dug into the files, those two open, saved files had been replaced by the files that were existant as of Tuesday. I'd done all the Conduit work this week - a few dozen pages, finally getting some traction. It was all gone - every word. Heroes... was backsaved that the 20-odd pages of rewrites and edits that I'd sweated out were now 5 pages.
How many software problems is that? It shouldn't have rebooted itself in the first place. It shouldn't have had problems shutting down. It shouldn't have had problems starting up. It shouldn't have failed to autosave. It shouldn't have failed to recover those saves. Most importantly, it should not have reverted to older version of the open files when reopening. That saved data should be the one sacrosanct thing on one's computer.
All that time I was away, furiously, frantically writing, rewriting, editing? That work? Gone. I spent hours trying to find, search, and recover the lost data, but it's simply...gone.
I blame Microsoft; I don't blame Toshiba. I think the Satellite is a bad-ass laptop, and I'm happy with it. It's just the pissant engine running it that's got me angry now. Not that that will change a thing. Microsoft is notorious for not giving a damn what people think of them, or caring what they've done to others.
So until Bill Gates returns my four days and seventy-odd pages of very hard work, Microsoft can kiss my ass. Am I PC? Yeah, but not by choice anymore.
No, I've never had issues with it. I've also never had the slightest real interest in changing to a Mac, either. I used one while working for Planet Weekly newspaper and basically found everything about it annoying. And, no, I don't use Linux or anything else like that. For all that I am, I am also still basically a neo-Luddite; that much interest in technology makes me want to blow things up.
To use that appalling ad campaign: "I am PC." By choice, I have always been.
And do you know how Microsoft repaid me?
By taking over my laptop and tearing apart my work. Friday evening, while I was making dinner, I let my Toshiba idle. The screen had gone black (as it should), and I had a few windows open. As I sat down to shut it down for a while, the screen flashed on, and that annoying Microsoft message told me that it was restarting because of my updates. Then it began to shut itself down and restart.
Problem 1: I had restarted the thing a few hours early entirely to keep it from doing that. There's absolutely nothing I hate more than Microsoft telling me it's time for me to do when it wants to do because of the updates. There had been no updates in the few hours since I'd rebooted the computer, so there was no reason for this to be scheduled.
Problem 2: Open windows. I was working on three things at the time. The first was the rewrite of Heroes... Chapter 8 - "The Shining Way." Another was the first part of Conduit. The third was some notes and outlines for yet another project. I'd saved everything except the notes when I rebooted, but everything had had work done on it when this happened. As anyone familiar with Microsoft knows, when your computer decides to shut down, it doesn't save - it autosaves. Big difference.
I was ticked, but there was nothing to do be done. The screen darkened as it tried to reboot. I let it run for a bit. Suddenly, a new screen came up, informing me that it had shut down improperly and hadn't been able to restart. I hit the key it told me to. It again restarted. It took forever to bring up the desktop. When it did, naturally the first thing I went to do was recover my documents.
The Big Problem: None of the documents that came up were as I left them. Not only had Autosave failed to recover about 30 pages of notes that simply vanished *poof* into thin air (though it did leave me with some - just not all), it also "managed" to recover only older versions of Conduit and Heroes...
Yes, I'm saying that when I dug into the files, those two open, saved files had been replaced by the files that were existant as of Tuesday. I'd done all the Conduit work this week - a few dozen pages, finally getting some traction. It was all gone - every word. Heroes... was backsaved that the 20-odd pages of rewrites and edits that I'd sweated out were now 5 pages.
How many software problems is that? It shouldn't have rebooted itself in the first place. It shouldn't have had problems shutting down. It shouldn't have had problems starting up. It shouldn't have failed to autosave. It shouldn't have failed to recover those saves. Most importantly, it should not have reverted to older version of the open files when reopening. That saved data should be the one sacrosanct thing on one's computer.
All that time I was away, furiously, frantically writing, rewriting, editing? That work? Gone. I spent hours trying to find, search, and recover the lost data, but it's simply...gone.
I blame Microsoft; I don't blame Toshiba. I think the Satellite is a bad-ass laptop, and I'm happy with it. It's just the pissant engine running it that's got me angry now. Not that that will change a thing. Microsoft is notorious for not giving a damn what people think of them, or caring what they've done to others.
So until Bill Gates returns my four days and seventy-odd pages of very hard work, Microsoft can kiss my ass. Am I PC? Yeah, but not by choice anymore.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Heroes... Chapter Seven - Harbordown by Night
Howdy! This is Chapter Seven of "Heroes...", in which we start pulling our heroes together and introduce two more major characters. There's no point in describing them; you'll know them when you see them.
Remember, this is a rewrite of a novel I've already completed. I am actively seeking feedback from beta-readers for it. As I've stated, if it sees publication, I plan to thank anyone who has given consistent (or lots) of feedback in the dedication. No, I'm not kidding.
I thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
---------------------------
Chapter Seven
Harbordown By Night
“Good evening, Dunbar.”
“Mr. Jerrold.”
“You’ve come for the bounty, I assume.”
“I have,” Dunbar said.
“Just a moment; it’s in the back. Watch the front, will you?” Titus Jerrold, Harbordown’s exchequer, left him alone in the front office. Dunbar drifted to the only wall that interested him. A dozen hand-copied posters hung there, the gallery of felons whom the city most wished to have in custody. A dozen hard faces drawn in ink glared down as Dunbar perused their crimes. Two-Dagger Hamish’s poster was gone, along with his list of crimes. The face of a church-thief was nailed in its place. Dunbar memorized the face, name, and list of crimes. Before Mr. Jerrold returned, he was waiting at the exchequer’s desk.
“I’ll need you to sign,” Mr. Jerrold said.
“Of course.” Dunbar signed his name in florid script on the receipt offered him and pushed it back across the desk.
“Ten silver sails,” Jerrold told him, placing a fist-sized sack in his hand. “I’ve broken it into shields and pennies, as you prefer.” As usual, Dunbar weighed it in his hand and slipped it inside his shirt.
“Is there still no word on Jaan Craymore or Den Tuller?” Dunbar pointed to the oldest posters.
“No,” the exchequer told him, folding the receipt neatly. “We’ve heard nothing from Tuller; he’s simply vanished. We believe Craymore took ship and left months ago. He has family in Northport, we’re told.”
“Another one gone to sea.”
“It’s the simplest way to avoid capture.”
“It’s cowardly,” Dunbar stated.
“Yes,” Mr. Jerrold said, “but not too many wish to remain here and be nabbed by the Watch or be caught up by the city’s finest bounty hunter.”
“I’m not yet the finest. Burrell the Bold still holds that honor.”
“He has retired, Dunbar.”
“Until I – or someone else – surpasses his number of retrievals, he’s the best.”
“Have it your way. Will you be attending the hanging?”
“The trial hasn’t been held yet.”
“What’s your point?”
The woman dressed as he was looked up and nodded. She pulled on her boots and stood up, flipping hair out of her eyes.
“I’m ready.” She spoke a language not often heard in Harbordown.
“Speak Talberan,” the man said. “Ye know I can’t understand ye.”
“Ready,” she said.
“Good. I’ve got our place picked out. It’ll do.” He turned and saw her blades lying on the bed, near where they had just been.
“Don’t faerget yer swaerds.”
“Knives,” she said in perfect Talberan, sliding the blades into their sheaths.
“Knives then,” Jaan Craymore said. “Let’s get moving. That lamplighter’s not going to kill himself.”
Click to Continue
Remember, this is a rewrite of a novel I've already completed. I am actively seeking feedback from beta-readers for it. As I've stated, if it sees publication, I plan to thank anyone who has given consistent (or lots) of feedback in the dedication. No, I'm not kidding.
I thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
---------------------------
Chapter Seven
Harbordown By Night
“Good evening, Dunbar.”
“Mr. Jerrold.”
“You’ve come for the bounty, I assume.”
“I have,” Dunbar said.
“Just a moment; it’s in the back. Watch the front, will you?” Titus Jerrold, Harbordown’s exchequer, left him alone in the front office. Dunbar drifted to the only wall that interested him. A dozen hand-copied posters hung there, the gallery of felons whom the city most wished to have in custody. A dozen hard faces drawn in ink glared down as Dunbar perused their crimes. Two-Dagger Hamish’s poster was gone, along with his list of crimes. The face of a church-thief was nailed in its place. Dunbar memorized the face, name, and list of crimes. Before Mr. Jerrold returned, he was waiting at the exchequer’s desk.
“I’ll need you to sign,” Mr. Jerrold said.
“Of course.” Dunbar signed his name in florid script on the receipt offered him and pushed it back across the desk.
“Ten silver sails,” Jerrold told him, placing a fist-sized sack in his hand. “I’ve broken it into shields and pennies, as you prefer.” As usual, Dunbar weighed it in his hand and slipped it inside his shirt.
“Is there still no word on Jaan Craymore or Den Tuller?” Dunbar pointed to the oldest posters.
“No,” the exchequer told him, folding the receipt neatly. “We’ve heard nothing from Tuller; he’s simply vanished. We believe Craymore took ship and left months ago. He has family in Northport, we’re told.”
“Another one gone to sea.”
“It’s the simplest way to avoid capture.”
“It’s cowardly,” Dunbar stated.
“Yes,” Mr. Jerrold said, “but not too many wish to remain here and be nabbed by the Watch or be caught up by the city’s finest bounty hunter.”
“I’m not yet the finest. Burrell the Bold still holds that honor.”
“He has retired, Dunbar.”
“Until I – or someone else – surpasses his number of retrievals, he’s the best.”
“Have it your way. Will you be attending the hanging?”
“The trial hasn’t been held yet.”
“What’s your point?”
* * *
“Are ye ready?” asked the man dressed in red and black.The woman dressed as he was looked up and nodded. She pulled on her boots and stood up, flipping hair out of her eyes.
“I’m ready.” She spoke a language not often heard in Harbordown.
“Speak Talberan,” the man said. “Ye know I can’t understand ye.”
“Ready,” she said.
“Good. I’ve got our place picked out. It’ll do.” He turned and saw her blades lying on the bed, near where they had just been.
“Don’t faerget yer swaerds.”
“Knives,” she said in perfect Talberan, sliding the blades into their sheaths.
“Knives then,” Jaan Craymore said. “Let’s get moving. That lamplighter’s not going to kill himself.”
Click to Continue
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Heroes... Chapter Six - Tzal
Greetings! This is the introductory chapter of the last of our five main characters, even though you got a glimpse of him last time. Tzal is a short chapter, barely 7 printed pages - less than 2000 words.
For those who need to know, Tzal is pronounced like the second half of "pizza" with an "L" on the end.
Remember, I am actually rewriting an already-written novel. Since I am seeking publication for this, feedback is the most important thing I need. If you can do it, please let me know what you think. It can be as short or as long, as gentle or as harsh as you'd like. To me, receiving it is the point.
You can leave your comments here, or contact me via email, Twitter, or Facebook. I thank you!
(You will see the exact message on the next page, should you choose to continue reading. Please don't worry about it; I'm still trying to figure out the best way to work this new twin-blog format. Thanks for your patience.)
---------------------------------------------
Chapter Six - "Tzal"
The bald man led Tzal to a building fronting an alley off Anchorage Street. It was old, and a decade ago it had badly needed paint. It hadn’t gotten it. Tzal tried to remember which turns he had taken while keeping up his end of a mostly one-sided conversation. The bald man, he had learned, was Ruben Verner. Ruben used to be a member of the Seaman’s Brotherhood with this other man, Gitto. Gitto’s wife, Zenna, had taken sick a few days ago and had not left the bed. Tzal glanced around the shabby neighborhood, not wondering what could have caused it, but now many different illnesses she may have picked up.
They stopped at the door of the building and Ruben beat on it. After a moment, a short man with the build of a dumpling and a face like an old foot answered the door.
“Gitto,” Ruben said.
“Wait here,” the short man said, slamming the door on them.
“Doorman?” Tzal asked.
“They pay extra for that,” Ruben answered.
A few minutes later, a different man opened the door. He was short, thin, and hunched over. A patina of grime lived in the pores of his skin and Tzal doubted that anything as simple as a bath would remove it. Gitto had an aroma of his own, not a pleasant one. When he grinned, a missing tooth high in his smile broke it. Tzal felt a pang of shame. Had this wretched little man, and not Ruben asked for help, he would likely have dismissed him as a beggar.
Click To Continue
For those who need to know, Tzal is pronounced like the second half of "pizza" with an "L" on the end.
Remember, I am actually rewriting an already-written novel. Since I am seeking publication for this, feedback is the most important thing I need. If you can do it, please let me know what you think. It can be as short or as long, as gentle or as harsh as you'd like. To me, receiving it is the point.
You can leave your comments here, or contact me via email, Twitter, or Facebook. I thank you!
(You will see the exact message on the next page, should you choose to continue reading. Please don't worry about it; I'm still trying to figure out the best way to work this new twin-blog format. Thanks for your patience.)
---------------------------------------------
Chapter Six - "Tzal"
The bald man led Tzal to a building fronting an alley off Anchorage Street. It was old, and a decade ago it had badly needed paint. It hadn’t gotten it. Tzal tried to remember which turns he had taken while keeping up his end of a mostly one-sided conversation. The bald man, he had learned, was Ruben Verner. Ruben used to be a member of the Seaman’s Brotherhood with this other man, Gitto. Gitto’s wife, Zenna, had taken sick a few days ago and had not left the bed. Tzal glanced around the shabby neighborhood, not wondering what could have caused it, but now many different illnesses she may have picked up.
They stopped at the door of the building and Ruben beat on it. After a moment, a short man with the build of a dumpling and a face like an old foot answered the door.
“Gitto,” Ruben said.
“Wait here,” the short man said, slamming the door on them.
“Doorman?” Tzal asked.
“They pay extra for that,” Ruben answered.
A few minutes later, a different man opened the door. He was short, thin, and hunched over. A patina of grime lived in the pores of his skin and Tzal doubted that anything as simple as a bath would remove it. Gitto had an aroma of his own, not a pleasant one. When he grinned, a missing tooth high in his smile broke it. Tzal felt a pang of shame. Had this wretched little man, and not Ruben asked for help, he would likely have dismissed him as a beggar.
Click To Continue
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Heroes... Chapter Five - Harbordown by Day
Oh, no! It's that time again! This is the first chapter of Heroes... that doesn't focus solely on one character and/or situation. It's a lengthy chapter - about 20 pages (4700 words), so I've had to break it in two to fit into the space limitations of WritersOwnWords.com - the site that actually hosts all my work.
Please feel free to read and enjoy - or not; that's up to you. But remember that the lowly author putting this together would be delighted to receive your feedback, as much or as little as you'd like to give. Leave a comment here, drop me an email, send me a DM via Twitter, or drop some knowledge on my Facebook wall. It's all good to me.
As far as I can tell, there's no way to link from one page of WritersOwnWords.com to another, so when you finish with Part I, come back here to link to Part II. I apologize for all the clicking, but their site can only handle about 15 pages at a time. But seeing how I've got over 100 different articles and whatnot archived over there, I'm not quite willing to move yet.
Thank you so much, and enjoy!
---------------------------------------------
Chapter 5 - Harbordown by Day
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sloan looked up as someone banged on the door. He stood to make certain his trousers were buttoned. Grabbing a shirt from the bedpost, he shimmied into it as he shuffled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the front hall.
“I’m coming!” he yelled, as the pounding began again. He stopped at the front door. The noise continued a moment and stopped.
“Mister Sloan, you have a message.” He knew the heavy Murnochi accent – the authoritarian voice of his landlady, Dorna Grabzhinko, whom he lovingly thought of as the Avatar of the Beast God. He unbarred, unlatched, unlocked, and opened the door. He cast a glance downward. Four and a half feet of Beast God stared up at him.
“This just came,” she said. “Very important, the boy said.”
Sloan glanced at the slip of paper she clutched. Doubtless the boy had brought it with him. Like most Downers, Mrs. Grabzhinko could neither read nor write.
“I seem to recall you told me you would have money for me last week.”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“You do have money for me, Mister Sloan?”
“Not as such; not in the sense of coin that is, no.”
“But why? You work so hard.”
“Yes, I do, but unfortunately, profits have been a bit low this quarter.”
“Mr. Sloan, I remember when you moved in. You wanted the rooms with the big kitchen and the pantry.” She looked at him through rheumy eyes. “You told me then you would pay me every month. You were never late, you said.”
“I don’t recall saying that. It’s possible that I lied.”
To Continue With Part I (first)
Then To Continue With Part II
Please feel free to read and enjoy - or not; that's up to you. But remember that the lowly author putting this together would be delighted to receive your feedback, as much or as little as you'd like to give. Leave a comment here, drop me an email, send me a DM via Twitter, or drop some knowledge on my Facebook wall. It's all good to me.
As far as I can tell, there's no way to link from one page of WritersOwnWords.com to another, so when you finish with Part I, come back here to link to Part II. I apologize for all the clicking, but their site can only handle about 15 pages at a time. But seeing how I've got over 100 different articles and whatnot archived over there, I'm not quite willing to move yet.
Thank you so much, and enjoy!
---------------------------------------------
Chapter 5 - Harbordown by Day
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sloan looked up as someone banged on the door. He stood to make certain his trousers were buttoned. Grabbing a shirt from the bedpost, he shimmied into it as he shuffled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the front hall.
“I’m coming!” he yelled, as the pounding began again. He stopped at the front door. The noise continued a moment and stopped.
“Mister Sloan, you have a message.” He knew the heavy Murnochi accent – the authoritarian voice of his landlady, Dorna Grabzhinko, whom he lovingly thought of as the Avatar of the Beast God. He unbarred, unlatched, unlocked, and opened the door. He cast a glance downward. Four and a half feet of Beast God stared up at him.
“This just came,” she said. “Very important, the boy said.”
Sloan glanced at the slip of paper she clutched. Doubtless the boy had brought it with him. Like most Downers, Mrs. Grabzhinko could neither read nor write.
“I seem to recall you told me you would have money for me last week.”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“You do have money for me, Mister Sloan?”
“Not as such; not in the sense of coin that is, no.”
“But why? You work so hard.”
“Yes, I do, but unfortunately, profits have been a bit low this quarter.”
“Mr. Sloan, I remember when you moved in. You wanted the rooms with the big kitchen and the pantry.” She looked at him through rheumy eyes. “You told me then you would pay me every month. You were never late, you said.”
“I don’t recall saying that. It’s possible that I lied.”
To Continue With Part I (first)
Then To Continue With Part II
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Some Random Writing Notes - And More Things to Read!
This time out, I'm going to keep it short and simple - with only a handful of notes about the writing that I keep posting here.
First, I really want to thank everyone who reads the pieces and gives me feedback. It truly is invaluable. In return, I've decided that, if Heroes... ever gets published, I'm going to include you beta-readers in the acknowledgements. (Yes, I know...I'm dreaming big!) I call that the least I can do. I've know everyone here who's done it, and I've got a list of people who have sent me emails and Twitter DMs with feedback. I also have a list of who has done it in the past. If you want to be included, join in.
Second, "Chapter 3 - Sloan" has been put to bed, and moved up into the corner with "Heroes... So Far." I'm not quite ready to graduate Melbourn there, but I will be in a day or three. Furthermore, I'm progressing with "Chapter 5 - Harbordown By Day."
Third, I've posted two new works in the WIP section next to this. The second chapter of The Wyrd Magnet is up, but I've left the first one up as well. I think they're better together, and might give a slightly better sense of what I'm up to with it.
I've also posted the prologue for Conduit - which is the newest working title of what I have called Spans Forever and The Bridge Across Forever. None of the titles really appeal to me. Maybe sometime down the line we'll have a contest to name the damn thing, because I've just about given up on it. The prologue is just a teaser, a little bit of the oddness to come.
I'm not even quite sure how to define Conduit. It's basically a refining of what has been a multi-year writing exercise for me. In the past, when I was blocked, or bored, and simply needed to write something, I went back to that and wrote. The product, as it has been written so far, is terrible. But I think there's good stuff to be had inside it, and that's what I'm working on bringing out. I don't know if it will be a novel, a series, a serial...I just don't know. But by putting it here, I'm pretty well committing to doing something with it.
That's it. I said I'd keep it short this time. Oh, all right. I'll make it easy. Links below:
Conduit: Prologue - Obelisks
The Wyrd Magnet: Chapter One - Sub-culture
The Wyrd Magnet: Chapter Two - Let's Go
First, I really want to thank everyone who reads the pieces and gives me feedback. It truly is invaluable. In return, I've decided that, if Heroes... ever gets published, I'm going to include you beta-readers in the acknowledgements. (Yes, I know...I'm dreaming big!) I call that the least I can do. I've know everyone here who's done it, and I've got a list of people who have sent me emails and Twitter DMs with feedback. I also have a list of who has done it in the past. If you want to be included, join in.
Second, "Chapter 3 - Sloan" has been put to bed, and moved up into the corner with "Heroes... So Far." I'm not quite ready to graduate Melbourn there, but I will be in a day or three. Furthermore, I'm progressing with "Chapter 5 - Harbordown By Day."
Third, I've posted two new works in the WIP section next to this. The second chapter of The Wyrd Magnet is up, but I've left the first one up as well. I think they're better together, and might give a slightly better sense of what I'm up to with it.
I've also posted the prologue for Conduit - which is the newest working title of what I have called Spans Forever and The Bridge Across Forever. None of the titles really appeal to me. Maybe sometime down the line we'll have a contest to name the damn thing, because I've just about given up on it. The prologue is just a teaser, a little bit of the oddness to come.
I'm not even quite sure how to define Conduit. It's basically a refining of what has been a multi-year writing exercise for me. In the past, when I was blocked, or bored, and simply needed to write something, I went back to that and wrote. The product, as it has been written so far, is terrible. But I think there's good stuff to be had inside it, and that's what I'm working on bringing out. I don't know if it will be a novel, a series, a serial...I just don't know. But by putting it here, I'm pretty well committing to doing something with it.
That's it. I said I'd keep it short this time. Oh, all right. I'll make it easy. Links below:
Conduit: Prologue - Obelisks
The Wyrd Magnet: Chapter One - Sub-culture
The Wyrd Magnet: Chapter Two - Let's Go
Monday, May 11, 2009
Heroes... Chapter Four - Melbourn
Welcome back, beta-readers. This is the fourth chapter of Heroes... and introduces our fourth of five main characters, Melbourn. Just a couple of spelling notes: I have elected to use the word "masque" instead of "mask," hewing closer to the definition of "masquerade." I've also opted to choose to use "bassist" instead of "bass player." It sounds anachronistic, and I suppose it is, but "bassist" sounds a bit more generic to me. When I hear "bass player," I immediately think of John Deacon or Geddy Lee. Just realize I'm talking about a large stand-up bass here, and not a smooth-bodied four-string Fender bass.
As always, read and enjoy, but please consider offering me your thoughts; I genuinely do appreciate (and need) the feedback. This rewriting project is the most important project on my plate, and though it's running much smoother when it was when I first posted the Prologue, I'm still trying to find the rhythm and voice to bring it all together.
Let me know what you think! And in case I haven't said it enough: Thank you!
-------------------------------------------------
Chapter Four - Melbourn
In a huge, well-appointed room in High Town, one man sat in a high-backed calf-leather-and-teak chair to enjoy the finer things life had to offer. His boots rested on a low stool in front of him, and a heavy book rested in his lap. On a small table next to him sat a nearly-empty decanter of sherry, a nearly-full glass, a tall white Willem candle in a silver candlestick, and a glass ashtray. Over the back of the chair he had casually tossed a long black cloak. As he listened to the cedar wood crackling and popping in the fireplace, he reached out and upended an ivory pipe over the ashtray. He tapped the glass, discharging burnt tobacco into the receptacle. He propped the pipe against the rim and reached for the tiny glass. He put the glass to his lips and tossed back the sherry, as if it was whiskey. He sighed and set the empty glass back on the table.
He refilled the pipe with tobacco from a pouch in his own vest, using a long match to transfer fire from the candle. He took a long draw and began reading again. Idly listening to the deeply seasoned wood in the fire, he read each page, line by line, his finger tracing his progress. After some time, he stood and stretched. Something in his back cracked. A slight groan escaped.
He eyed the crystal decanter. He took it and poured out the last remaining drops of sherry. Ivory pipe dangling from his lips, he crossed the room to a huge teakwood desk and slipped the book into an open leather bag sitting atop it. Several other volumes were already inside. He closed the bag, and wrapped the pipe in a dark cloth. The pipe went into a vest pocket; the bag he slung over his shoulder. Returning to the chair for his cloak, he donned it and fastened it with a burnished silver clasp.
Dressed all in black, except for a long-sleeved royal blue shirt under his leather vest, he was short and wiry. His almond-shaped eyes were blue flecked with silver. Long, copper-brown hair was tied back with black and blue ribbons, revealing a face of sharp angles. His ears were elongated, but not so pointed as Dunbar Stormglow’s.
He was mal sidhe, a lesser elf.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/291/
As always, read and enjoy, but please consider offering me your thoughts; I genuinely do appreciate (and need) the feedback. This rewriting project is the most important project on my plate, and though it's running much smoother when it was when I first posted the Prologue, I'm still trying to find the rhythm and voice to bring it all together.
Let me know what you think! And in case I haven't said it enough: Thank you!
-------------------------------------------------
Chapter Four - Melbourn
In a huge, well-appointed room in High Town, one man sat in a high-backed calf-leather-and-teak chair to enjoy the finer things life had to offer. His boots rested on a low stool in front of him, and a heavy book rested in his lap. On a small table next to him sat a nearly-empty decanter of sherry, a nearly-full glass, a tall white Willem candle in a silver candlestick, and a glass ashtray. Over the back of the chair he had casually tossed a long black cloak. As he listened to the cedar wood crackling and popping in the fireplace, he reached out and upended an ivory pipe over the ashtray. He tapped the glass, discharging burnt tobacco into the receptacle. He propped the pipe against the rim and reached for the tiny glass. He put the glass to his lips and tossed back the sherry, as if it was whiskey. He sighed and set the empty glass back on the table.
He refilled the pipe with tobacco from a pouch in his own vest, using a long match to transfer fire from the candle. He took a long draw and began reading again. Idly listening to the deeply seasoned wood in the fire, he read each page, line by line, his finger tracing his progress. After some time, he stood and stretched. Something in his back cracked. A slight groan escaped.
He eyed the crystal decanter. He took it and poured out the last remaining drops of sherry. Ivory pipe dangling from his lips, he crossed the room to a huge teakwood desk and slipped the book into an open leather bag sitting atop it. Several other volumes were already inside. He closed the bag, and wrapped the pipe in a dark cloth. The pipe went into a vest pocket; the bag he slung over his shoulder. Returning to the chair for his cloak, he donned it and fastened it with a burnished silver clasp.
Dressed all in black, except for a long-sleeved royal blue shirt under his leather vest, he was short and wiry. His almond-shaped eyes were blue flecked with silver. Long, copper-brown hair was tied back with black and blue ribbons, revealing a face of sharp angles. His ears were elongated, but not so pointed as Dunbar Stormglow’s.
He was mal sidhe, a lesser elf.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/291/
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Heroes... Chapter Three - Sloan
It's that time again! In this chapter, we'll meet the third of Our Heroes - along with several of his agents. And this time, the minor characters you'll meet will stick around!
As always, enjoy. Please remember that I'm actively seeking feedback on this, and opinions are not only welcome, but greeted warmly and embraced.
I have a little time available this weekend, so "Chapter Four" should be up by Saturday or Sunday. Hurry! Get your comments in before the musical number in C4 appears!
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Chapter 3 - "Sloan"
Fifteen feet below the streets, in a damp, malodorous tunnel, one man stood and shivered. His heart still raced, his lungs still burned, and his body still ached. Certain types of magic played havoc with his body, and even though he’d tapped into it over an hour ago, he’d yet to climb up from the depths of the ritual. He glanced down at his right hand; it trembled. He made a fist and tried to will away the shaking.
Elias Merriwether Sloan stood in front of time- and moisture-warped door and tried to collect his breath. Through a gap in the planking, he saw into the room beyond the door. Four men sat in the room, waiting for him. They sat on battered, dark chairs that had splintered and mildewed in the humid air, and had seated more men than they. The oldest sat with his feet flat on the floor, his elbows on his knees, and his chin tucked into his chest. The youngest had tilted his chair back on two legs until it touched the damp wall behind him. Of the two seated between them, one cleaned him fingernails with a short knife and the other sat and stared at the door in the wall opposite them. They would all wait for him, no matter how late he was. He didn’t want to set a bad example of tardiness or disrespect to the others, but he didn’t want them to see him in this state either. Only one of them would say anything to him, but he was the one he needed to speak to the most.
Sloan stepped toward the door, his breathing less ragged and his heart beginning to slow. The aches remained, but those wouldn’t show. I looked at his hand again. The trembling had stopped. It was time. He grabbed the handle of the wood-and-iron door and pulled it open. He’d kept the hinges oiled; despite its age, the door didn’t squeak. He stepped into the meeting-room and glanced toward the men. He nodded.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/290/
As always, enjoy. Please remember that I'm actively seeking feedback on this, and opinions are not only welcome, but greeted warmly and embraced.
I have a little time available this weekend, so "Chapter Four" should be up by Saturday or Sunday. Hurry! Get your comments in before the musical number in C4 appears!
--------------------------------------------------
Chapter 3 - "Sloan"
Fifteen feet below the streets, in a damp, malodorous tunnel, one man stood and shivered. His heart still raced, his lungs still burned, and his body still ached. Certain types of magic played havoc with his body, and even though he’d tapped into it over an hour ago, he’d yet to climb up from the depths of the ritual. He glanced down at his right hand; it trembled. He made a fist and tried to will away the shaking.
Elias Merriwether Sloan stood in front of time- and moisture-warped door and tried to collect his breath. Through a gap in the planking, he saw into the room beyond the door. Four men sat in the room, waiting for him. They sat on battered, dark chairs that had splintered and mildewed in the humid air, and had seated more men than they. The oldest sat with his feet flat on the floor, his elbows on his knees, and his chin tucked into his chest. The youngest had tilted his chair back on two legs until it touched the damp wall behind him. Of the two seated between them, one cleaned him fingernails with a short knife and the other sat and stared at the door in the wall opposite them. They would all wait for him, no matter how late he was. He didn’t want to set a bad example of tardiness or disrespect to the others, but he didn’t want them to see him in this state either. Only one of them would say anything to him, but he was the one he needed to speak to the most.
Sloan stepped toward the door, his breathing less ragged and his heart beginning to slow. The aches remained, but those wouldn’t show. I looked at his hand again. The trembling had stopped. It was time. He grabbed the handle of the wood-and-iron door and pulled it open. He’d kept the hinges oiled; despite its age, the door didn’t squeak. He stepped into the meeting-room and glanced toward the men. He nodded.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/290/
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Stick a Fork in "Dunbar" - He's Done
Because of my now-widely-discussed absence, due to laptop issues, "Chapter Two - Dunbar" was posted here longer than any other. Since it's been posted for weeks, and it's even made the round of my writer's group, I'm calling this puppy done.
Oddly enough, this remains the introductory chapter that most vexes me. In any form, it's always read better to others than it has to me. This continues to be the case. But I'm glad it pleases everyone else.
This time out, I want to give a particular "thanks" to Twotalia for her timely, necessary, and very valuable feedback. Thank you.
And if any of you who are familiar with the older (pre-blog) version of Dunbar and want to know why I've changed his speech patterns, you may thank my girlfriend, who basically campaigned for him to speak somewhat normally. I left a bit of the arrogance, and yanked the rest.
The updated version of "Chapter Two - Dunbar":
http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/267/
Oddly enough, this remains the introductory chapter that most vexes me. In any form, it's always read better to others than it has to me. This continues to be the case. But I'm glad it pleases everyone else.
This time out, I want to give a particular "thanks" to Twotalia for her timely, necessary, and very valuable feedback. Thank you.
And if any of you who are familiar with the older (pre-blog) version of Dunbar and want to know why I've changed his speech patterns, you may thank my girlfriend, who basically campaigned for him to speak somewhat normally. I left a bit of the arrogance, and yanked the rest.
The updated version of "Chapter Two - Dunbar":
http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/267/
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Why April Has Been Such a Bother
This month has proven to be a challenging one. It began with the loss of my grandmother. She'd been in a nursing home for quite some time and everyone in the family knew that she would soon "pass on." When she did, there was no surprise, but it was still heartbreaking. She was the grandparent I was closest to, and the last remaining one I had. At my age, I've been fortunate enough that I haven't lost anyone in my immediate family. I still have my parents, my brothers, my nephews, and my niece. I've never lost a girl I was particularly close to, though I have lost some good friends.*
I received the news on Wednesday morning, approximately 15 minutes after I'd been given my first freelance newspaper assignment for a small paper here. This pretty well shoved the assignment to the back burner - though it needed to be done. The hardest part of losing my grandmother was knowing that I wouldn't make her funeral. She was buried in Arkansas, where she lived, and as everyone here knows, I'm a current resident of So-So Cal. There was no way to justify the expense of spending money on plane tickets to fly home for a Saturday funeral, and return. I don't like flying anyway, and I'd not go alone. If I went, I'd take my girlfriend. But only a few months ago, she lost her grandmother and decided to remain here instead of returning home to Maine. Complicating things further was the fact that she couldn't take off work and I had work training to begin the following Monday. No, there was no way to attend the funeral - and frankly we couldn't afford it.
Instead, I just grieved for her here. And I wrote the piece over the weekend. And I posted "Chapter Two - Dunbar" here on Sunday night. And I started training to work with the U.S. Census as a temp worker on Monday.
During that time, a remote control fell onto my laptop and unbalanced the cooling unit. I took my notebook to the best computer geek I knew in the area, and we checked it out, but there was nothing we could do. Without going to a Toshiba dealer to crack the case and get deep into the guts to replace the unit, I'd just have to deal with it. This became much more difficult to do as I had less and less time available.
The thing began to overheat; the fan made high-pitched clicking noises. I couldn't risk melting it, so I had to rein in my computer usage to almost zilch. I pretty much gave up on Twitter, and I was unable to update here the entire time. All these applications pull a fair amount of power and sent that cooling unit into clicking overdrive.
I trained in Quality Control for the census for 3 days, tested on Thursday, and went to work 3 hours later. I worked for a week and was offered a promotion on Friday. I say this to underscore that I've been working my tuckhus off for the past couple weeks.
Things will still be hectic for some time. I don't know how long this job will last, and if I'll be able to continue through the summer and into the fall. I don't know exactly what I'll be doing or who I'll be working for. But for the moment I'm working.
At the moment, I've bought a cooling pad for this thing. It's hot today - really hot. We have the windows open and a breeze moving through, which is our preference. But the air is hot and dry, and my notebook has only made slight clicking noise a couple of times, early on. I think it's going to be okay. This may work as a short- or long-term work-around. That means I'll be updating here again, but the updates may be shorter and more sporadic than they were.
I'm currently working on "Chapter Three - Sloan," which might get posted this week. I've also got a piece tentatively titled Wyrd Magnet or Regret, which I may start to post as well. And though I've not been able to use this notebook, I've actually been working on a longer piece at nights. I may begin to post part of it as well. For the moment, I'm calling it Spans Forever.
Hopefully by the end of April things will seem a little more normal. I appreciate all of you who have hung in there and let me know you're wondering how I'm doing, or worried, and I particularly appreciate those of you who have checked in to make sure I was still breathing. I still am; I'm just breathing a little hard.
-------------------------------------------
*I've also lost a bunch of "buddies" - guys that wouldn't be bothered at all by the fact that I'm about to say that some of them died in events that should have been Darwin Award runners-up. Remember, most of my buddies are from the South, where the most common last words are "Hey! Watch this!"
I received the news on Wednesday morning, approximately 15 minutes after I'd been given my first freelance newspaper assignment for a small paper here. This pretty well shoved the assignment to the back burner - though it needed to be done. The hardest part of losing my grandmother was knowing that I wouldn't make her funeral. She was buried in Arkansas, where she lived, and as everyone here knows, I'm a current resident of So-So Cal. There was no way to justify the expense of spending money on plane tickets to fly home for a Saturday funeral, and return. I don't like flying anyway, and I'd not go alone. If I went, I'd take my girlfriend. But only a few months ago, she lost her grandmother and decided to remain here instead of returning home to Maine. Complicating things further was the fact that she couldn't take off work and I had work training to begin the following Monday. No, there was no way to attend the funeral - and frankly we couldn't afford it.
Instead, I just grieved for her here. And I wrote the piece over the weekend. And I posted "Chapter Two - Dunbar" here on Sunday night. And I started training to work with the U.S. Census as a temp worker on Monday.
During that time, a remote control fell onto my laptop and unbalanced the cooling unit. I took my notebook to the best computer geek I knew in the area, and we checked it out, but there was nothing we could do. Without going to a Toshiba dealer to crack the case and get deep into the guts to replace the unit, I'd just have to deal with it. This became much more difficult to do as I had less and less time available.
The thing began to overheat; the fan made high-pitched clicking noises. I couldn't risk melting it, so I had to rein in my computer usage to almost zilch. I pretty much gave up on Twitter, and I was unable to update here the entire time. All these applications pull a fair amount of power and sent that cooling unit into clicking overdrive.
I trained in Quality Control for the census for 3 days, tested on Thursday, and went to work 3 hours later. I worked for a week and was offered a promotion on Friday. I say this to underscore that I've been working my tuckhus off for the past couple weeks.
Things will still be hectic for some time. I don't know how long this job will last, and if I'll be able to continue through the summer and into the fall. I don't know exactly what I'll be doing or who I'll be working for. But for the moment I'm working.
At the moment, I've bought a cooling pad for this thing. It's hot today - really hot. We have the windows open and a breeze moving through, which is our preference. But the air is hot and dry, and my notebook has only made slight clicking noise a couple of times, early on. I think it's going to be okay. This may work as a short- or long-term work-around. That means I'll be updating here again, but the updates may be shorter and more sporadic than they were.
I'm currently working on "Chapter Three - Sloan," which might get posted this week. I've also got a piece tentatively titled Wyrd Magnet or Regret, which I may start to post as well. And though I've not been able to use this notebook, I've actually been working on a longer piece at nights. I may begin to post part of it as well. For the moment, I'm calling it Spans Forever.
Hopefully by the end of April things will seem a little more normal. I appreciate all of you who have hung in there and let me know you're wondering how I'm doing, or worried, and I particularly appreciate those of you who have checked in to make sure I was still breathing. I still am; I'm just breathing a little hard.
-------------------------------------------
*I've also lost a bunch of "buddies" - guys that wouldn't be bothered at all by the fact that I'm about to say that some of them died in events that should have been Darwin Award runners-up. Remember, most of my buddies are from the South, where the most common last words are "Hey! Watch this!"
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Heroes... Chapter Two - Dunbar
Welcome back, beta-readers! This is the second chapter, entitled "Dunbar" - and focusing on the second main character of the book. You know the drill: read, enjoy, and leave some feedback. You may do so here, or by Twitter DM, or by email. My address is on the page. All opinions are welcome.
Just so you know: this time out, the blog readers are the first ones to get a crack at it. As usual, I've already done a rewrite to bring it here, but first feedback goes to y'all. Enjoy!
----------------------------------
Chapter Two - Dunbar
The peal from the bell in Nender’s Tower was still echoing midnight. A light fog had drifted in from the harbor, limning the roads and buildings with ghostly glow. Unable to see more than a few yards past the lamps that lined the streets, many Harbordowners had locked themselves in for the night, even those that lived along streets that often were a-hurry until dawn.
In Old Town, the Street of Swords zigzagged through seedy neighborhoods, careened around taverns, rowhouses, and faced onto entire blocks of buildings that used to be the weapon smithies that gave the street its name. Now sapped of most of its usual nighttime residents, it was a closed-in world with white borders – a place where sounds traveled further than images.
One figure strode up the street. He was tall, nearly seven feet, and moved with fluid grace. He was garbed in gray and green. His shirtsleeves had been cut away to allow his arms freedom of movement. A heavy broadsword hung on his left side, a long dagger on his right. He carried a short bow in his left hand and wore a quiver of arrows across his back. His hair was black and loose, hanging wildly to his shoulders.
He was bene sidhe, a great elf. Only infrequently seen outside of Geshuan or Cheldria, his kind was rare in Harbordown. Unlike most of his kin, Dunbar Stormglow found himself more attracted by the wilderness of a big city than to the glades and forests that he thought were laughingly called “the wilds.” Like most of his family, he had taken to the hunt. He had just opted to hunt a different kind of prey.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/246/
Just so you know: this time out, the blog readers are the first ones to get a crack at it. As usual, I've already done a rewrite to bring it here, but first feedback goes to y'all. Enjoy!
----------------------------------
Chapter Two - Dunbar
The peal from the bell in Nender’s Tower was still echoing midnight. A light fog had drifted in from the harbor, limning the roads and buildings with ghostly glow. Unable to see more than a few yards past the lamps that lined the streets, many Harbordowners had locked themselves in for the night, even those that lived along streets that often were a-hurry until dawn.
In Old Town, the Street of Swords zigzagged through seedy neighborhoods, careened around taverns, rowhouses, and faced onto entire blocks of buildings that used to be the weapon smithies that gave the street its name. Now sapped of most of its usual nighttime residents, it was a closed-in world with white borders – a place where sounds traveled further than images.
One figure strode up the street. He was tall, nearly seven feet, and moved with fluid grace. He was garbed in gray and green. His shirtsleeves had been cut away to allow his arms freedom of movement. A heavy broadsword hung on his left side, a long dagger on his right. He carried a short bow in his left hand and wore a quiver of arrows across his back. His hair was black and loose, hanging wildly to his shoulders.
He was bene sidhe, a great elf. Only infrequently seen outside of Geshuan or Cheldria, his kind was rare in Harbordown. Unlike most of his kin, Dunbar Stormglow found himself more attracted by the wilderness of a big city than to the glades and forests that he thought were laughingly called “the wilds.” Like most of his family, he had taken to the hunt. He had just opted to hunt a different kind of prey.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/246/
Friday, April 3, 2009
A Rewrite - With a Little Help From My Friends...
This is the rewrite of Chapter One, following suggestions aplenty from persons here on this blog, from writers and readers from Twitter, and from (as usual) my good friends and compatriots in the North County Writers of Speculative Fiction group. Though it will embarrass her, this time, I'm going to call particular attention to one of those members, Irina, who helped me - not only with good feedback, but also with good advice.
For whatever reason, this chapter was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to write and/or rewrite. I can't tell you why; I simply don't know. All I know is that after a couple of weeks of fruitless rewrites, one very long conversation with her helped immensely.
I count myself genuinely fortunate to have people such as y'all - people who'll read, offer praise and criticism both, and (most unusually) come back again for more.
I'd salute you, as Malcolm does, but that might send a message that I was about to sink your ship, and that's not really what I'm trying to say.
How's this? Thank you!
--------------------------------------------
Chapter One - Malcolm
Dragonfish plowed through the green and white waves of the Sea of Men, launching salt spray into the whipping wind with every crash. She was a bit smaller than most traders, her hull smooth and round-bottomed. She was laden with trade goods from Geshuan and sat low in the water. At eight knots, she was pushing her top laden speed, a fact that could not be lost on the vessel pursuing her.
On the main deck, sailors assembled ballistae along the gunwales and marines issued heavy blades and crossbows to the men. On the poop deck above, half a dozen officers readied for what was to come next. Only one man watched the preparations below. Satisfied with the crew’s speed and demeanor, he nodded and glanced up at the ribbons dangling from the rigging. The telltales pointed toward the bow; they couldn’t ask for a better wind in which to run. He turned to face his fellow officers.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/234/
For whatever reason, this chapter was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to write and/or rewrite. I can't tell you why; I simply don't know. All I know is that after a couple of weeks of fruitless rewrites, one very long conversation with her helped immensely.
I count myself genuinely fortunate to have people such as y'all - people who'll read, offer praise and criticism both, and (most unusually) come back again for more.
I'd salute you, as Malcolm does, but that might send a message that I was about to sink your ship, and that's not really what I'm trying to say.
How's this? Thank you!
--------------------------------------------
Chapter One - Malcolm
Dragonfish plowed through the green and white waves of the Sea of Men, launching salt spray into the whipping wind with every crash. She was a bit smaller than most traders, her hull smooth and round-bottomed. She was laden with trade goods from Geshuan and sat low in the water. At eight knots, she was pushing her top laden speed, a fact that could not be lost on the vessel pursuing her.
On the main deck, sailors assembled ballistae along the gunwales and marines issued heavy blades and crossbows to the men. On the poop deck above, half a dozen officers readied for what was to come next. Only one man watched the preparations below. Satisfied with the crew’s speed and demeanor, he nodded and glanced up at the ribbons dangling from the rigging. The telltales pointed toward the bow; they couldn’t ask for a better wind in which to run. He turned to face his fellow officers.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/234/
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Heroes... Chapter One - Malcolm
It's finally that time again. This is my rewrite of Chapter One (Malcolm). To those who have seen the original, it is somewhat similar in structure and plotline, but much has also been changed.
This chapter rewrite has given me grief like no other project has that I can remember, and I don't even know why. After about 10 days of working, and about 8 completely different rewrites, I went back on Saturday evening, quit trying so hard, and rewrote it in about 3 1/2 hours.
I realize that if it comes across as really bad, then I've set myself up for all sorts of easy jokes. I can handle that.
Feel free to read and enjoy. But, I ask if you can: please give me a bit of feedback. It can be as short as a couple of lines (or for the fellow Twits - as little as 140), or as long as you want. Leave it here if you want, send me a DM (please don't use an @ message), or send me an email. My address is on the page. Those of you who have already given me feedback on the prologue are welcome to do so again. But anyone who reads this may feel free to do so. That said, don't feel that you must.
I thank all of you.
*One note: each of the first four chapters focuses on one main character. You will not see Horse (from the prologue) in the chapters. Sorry to the Horse fans.
---------------------------------------------------
Chapter One - Malcolm
Dragonfish plowed through the green and white waves of the Sea of Men, launching salt spray into the whipping wind with every crash. She was a bit smaller than most traders, her hull smooth and round-bottomed. She was laden with trade goods from Geshuan and sat low in the water. At eight knots, she was pushing her top laden speed, a fact that could not be lost on the vessel pursuing her.
On the main deck, sailors assembled ballistae along the gunwales and marines issued heavy blades and crossbows to the men. On the poop deck above, half a dozen officers readied for what was to come next. Only one man watched the preparations below. Satisfied with the crew’s speed and demeanor, he nodded and glanced up at the ribbons dangling from the rigging. The telltales pointed toward the bow; they couldn’t ask for a better wind in which to run. He turned to face his fellow officers.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/230/
This chapter rewrite has given me grief like no other project has that I can remember, and I don't even know why. After about 10 days of working, and about 8 completely different rewrites, I went back on Saturday evening, quit trying so hard, and rewrote it in about 3 1/2 hours.
I realize that if it comes across as really bad, then I've set myself up for all sorts of easy jokes. I can handle that.
Feel free to read and enjoy. But, I ask if you can: please give me a bit of feedback. It can be as short as a couple of lines (or for the fellow Twits - as little as 140), or as long as you want. Leave it here if you want, send me a DM (please don't use an @ message), or send me an email. My address is on the page. Those of you who have already given me feedback on the prologue are welcome to do so again. But anyone who reads this may feel free to do so. That said, don't feel that you must.
I thank all of you.
*One note: each of the first four chapters focuses on one main character. You will not see Horse (from the prologue) in the chapters. Sorry to the Horse fans.
---------------------------------------------------
Chapter One - Malcolm
Dragonfish plowed through the green and white waves of the Sea of Men, launching salt spray into the whipping wind with every crash. She was a bit smaller than most traders, her hull smooth and round-bottomed. She was laden with trade goods from Geshuan and sat low in the water. At eight knots, she was pushing her top laden speed, a fact that could not be lost on the vessel pursuing her.
On the main deck, sailors assembled ballistae along the gunwales and marines issued heavy blades and crossbows to the men. On the poop deck above, half a dozen officers readied for what was to come next. Only one man watched the preparations below. Satisfied with the crew’s speed and demeanor, he nodded and glanced up at the ribbons dangling from the rigging. The telltales pointed toward the bow; they couldn’t ask for a better wind in which to run. He turned to face his fellow officers.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/230/
Saturday, March 14, 2009
An Experiment in Good Fortune Goes Well
That went very well. Just a few days ago, I asked for feedback here for the a rewritten prologue of Heroes... I also took the prologue to my writer's group (North County Writers of Speculative Fiction) and asked for feedback from my followers on Twitter.
I received feedback and beta-reads from all corners. It went well; actually, it went very well. I'm not talking about my writing, either. I'm referring to how quickly and how thoroughly you readers came through. I thank all of you. I ended up receiving feedback from my group, from old friends here on this site, from several new Twitter friends, from a few perfect strangers from Twitter, and from my girl. As an experiment in and of itself, this was amazing. As practical help, it was brilliant.
I also want everyone to know that everyone who offered me feedback actually brought something to my attention. There were no exceptions. Even one particularly...thorough critique shined a light on something that neither I, nor anyone else, had ever noticed. I made the suggested edits, and was delighted with the changes.
For completions' sake, and so everyone can see how much they've helped, I'm going to post the newest version. Feel free to check it out. Add a comment if you wish. I'm already working on the next two chapters, so I'm probably not going to go back and look at the prologue again for some time. I feel confident in what is there now. I feel fortunate in the assistance I was given to get there.
--------------------------------------
Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where every oil lamp along one block had been extinguished. He cocked his head just a bit and focused on the mystery in front of him. For several hundred feet, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a long draw on the pipe in his mouth, before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was fairly quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on the side of it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
After it passed, he broke into a jog. He hurried to the end of the block, passing a beggar sitting beneath a lit lamp and a pair of young toughs posing as hard men. He ignored them, as he ignored the hound that darted into the street, barking at him. Jorski slowed to a puffing halt as he reached the end of the block and the beginning of the darkness. He caught his breath as he crossed the intersection and approached the fringe of shadows. This area was patrolled by the lamplighter known as Tall Wennel, never one to shirk his duties.
"Wennel?” Jorski did not yell. At night, voices carried.
Ahead of him, the entire block was dark; every lamp for two hundred feet had been extinguished. The storefronts of the darkened block melted into one vast wall, black on black. Jorski clenched his jaw.
“Tall Wennel?” he called again.
No answer. He stepped into the shadows and rapped his truncheon against the first unlit lamppost. The hollow clang echoed louder than he intended. He rapped again, lower. The sound was muffled; the reservoir in the pole contained oil and the lamp should be burning. He took a step forward and heard a crunch under his boot. Hundreds of tiny fragments of glass sparkled on the cobblestones. He looked back up and focused his gaze on the lamp itself. All four panes of glass had been shattered in their frame, as if something had struck it from four directions at once.
The rest of the prologue is at: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/217/
I received feedback and beta-reads from all corners. It went well; actually, it went very well. I'm not talking about my writing, either. I'm referring to how quickly and how thoroughly you readers came through. I thank all of you. I ended up receiving feedback from my group, from old friends here on this site, from several new Twitter friends, from a few perfect strangers from Twitter, and from my girl. As an experiment in and of itself, this was amazing. As practical help, it was brilliant.
I also want everyone to know that everyone who offered me feedback actually brought something to my attention. There were no exceptions. Even one particularly...thorough critique shined a light on something that neither I, nor anyone else, had ever noticed. I made the suggested edits, and was delighted with the changes.
For completions' sake, and so everyone can see how much they've helped, I'm going to post the newest version. Feel free to check it out. Add a comment if you wish. I'm already working on the next two chapters, so I'm probably not going to go back and look at the prologue again for some time. I feel confident in what is there now. I feel fortunate in the assistance I was given to get there.
--------------------------------------
Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where every oil lamp along one block had been extinguished. He cocked his head just a bit and focused on the mystery in front of him. For several hundred feet, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a long draw on the pipe in his mouth, before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was fairly quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on the side of it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
After it passed, he broke into a jog. He hurried to the end of the block, passing a beggar sitting beneath a lit lamp and a pair of young toughs posing as hard men. He ignored them, as he ignored the hound that darted into the street, barking at him. Jorski slowed to a puffing halt as he reached the end of the block and the beginning of the darkness. He caught his breath as he crossed the intersection and approached the fringe of shadows. This area was patrolled by the lamplighter known as Tall Wennel, never one to shirk his duties.
"Wennel?” Jorski did not yell. At night, voices carried.
Ahead of him, the entire block was dark; every lamp for two hundred feet had been extinguished. The storefronts of the darkened block melted into one vast wall, black on black. Jorski clenched his jaw.
“Tall Wennel?” he called again.
No answer. He stepped into the shadows and rapped his truncheon against the first unlit lamppost. The hollow clang echoed louder than he intended. He rapped again, lower. The sound was muffled; the reservoir in the pole contained oil and the lamp should be burning. He took a step forward and heard a crunch under his boot. Hundreds of tiny fragments of glass sparkled on the cobblestones. He looked back up and focused his gaze on the lamp itself. All four panes of glass had been shattered in their frame, as if something had struck it from four directions at once.
The rest of the prologue is at: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/217/
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
"The Moving Finger Writes And Having Writ, Rewrites..."
All apologies to Omar Khayyam, but I guess he never had to rewrite. As most of the regular few dozen readers know, I submitted my huge novel earlier this year to DAW Books and was rejected. Taking that to heart, I took the prologue to my writer's group (North County Writers of Speculative Fiction - check out the Meetup notice on this page) and got some feedback.
Oy, did I get feedback. I needed it. Without going too much into detail, I will say that they were right. The biggest complaint was that I was too emotionally detatched from the text and it made the characters hard to care about.
This caused me consternation, not because of the criticism, but because I had spent so much time initially writing the dang thing. Now I needed to overhaul the entire text - starting with the prologue, of course - and try to integrate my characters' emotions and motivations better. Had I not spent years doing it, it wouldn't have been a problem. But because I had done so, and I could actually simply recite entire pages of the novel from repetition, it proved very difficult.
I think I finally solved the problem. I stopped trying to integrate myself into the piece and simply started over. I found that I was able to reuse entire paragraphs and lines that I wanted and/or needed. But the entire structure of the prologue shifted and changed. I think it's become more tangible, real. It feels more like the prologue you'd find on a dark fantasy novel in a bookstore somewhere. I think I may have improved it.
That doesn't mean I like it better, though. After years of marriage with the first text, I nearly cried when it came time to excise lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I loved - lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I know will never again appear.
I found myself wondering if I'd learn to love the new step-text as opposed to my own children-text. I then shook my head and realized I was thinking about this in an entirely wrong fashion. I needed to have criticism from my writer's group. As such, it's clear that I'll need feedback about this.
Since I began this blog in January, I told those of you that had read the original version that I'd hoped to post some Heroes stuff here. I'm doing so now. I'm going to post part of the first paragraph, and then a link to continue (I don't want to fill this page with 2,100 words). If you want to read it, feel free. If you're one of our new friends, you're also welcome to read it, since likely you're a writer or a reader.
But if you do, please leave a comment. Leave what you like, for good or bad, but don't feel obligated to leave any particular amount. I'll take what you offer. I genuinely believe that criticism is a gift and I will happily accept whatever any of you are willing to give.
For those of you unfamiliar with my work, this is dark fantasy, set in a large city (that doesn't in any way, shape, or form look like London. I know - heresy!) I'm not going to give you any world-building, since other readers won't be given that option. To anyone who reads it, enjoy.
Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where an entire block’s worth of oil lamps had all been extinguished. He swiveled on the cobblestones, cocked his head just a bit, and focused on the mystery in front of him. For a couple of blocks, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a last long draw on the pipe in his mouth before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/215/
Oy, did I get feedback. I needed it. Without going too much into detail, I will say that they were right. The biggest complaint was that I was too emotionally detatched from the text and it made the characters hard to care about.
This caused me consternation, not because of the criticism, but because I had spent so much time initially writing the dang thing. Now I needed to overhaul the entire text - starting with the prologue, of course - and try to integrate my characters' emotions and motivations better. Had I not spent years doing it, it wouldn't have been a problem. But because I had done so, and I could actually simply recite entire pages of the novel from repetition, it proved very difficult.
I think I finally solved the problem. I stopped trying to integrate myself into the piece and simply started over. I found that I was able to reuse entire paragraphs and lines that I wanted and/or needed. But the entire structure of the prologue shifted and changed. I think it's become more tangible, real. It feels more like the prologue you'd find on a dark fantasy novel in a bookstore somewhere. I think I may have improved it.
That doesn't mean I like it better, though. After years of marriage with the first text, I nearly cried when it came time to excise lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I loved - lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I know will never again appear.
I found myself wondering if I'd learn to love the new step-text as opposed to my own children-text. I then shook my head and realized I was thinking about this in an entirely wrong fashion. I needed to have criticism from my writer's group. As such, it's clear that I'll need feedback about this.
Since I began this blog in January, I told those of you that had read the original version that I'd hoped to post some Heroes stuff here. I'm doing so now. I'm going to post part of the first paragraph, and then a link to continue (I don't want to fill this page with 2,100 words). If you want to read it, feel free. If you're one of our new friends, you're also welcome to read it, since likely you're a writer or a reader.
But if you do, please leave a comment. Leave what you like, for good or bad, but don't feel obligated to leave any particular amount. I'll take what you offer. I genuinely believe that criticism is a gift and I will happily accept whatever any of you are willing to give.
For those of you unfamiliar with my work, this is dark fantasy, set in a large city (that doesn't in any way, shape, or form look like London. I know - heresy!) I'm not going to give you any world-building, since other readers won't be given that option. To anyone who reads it, enjoy.
Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where an entire block’s worth of oil lamps had all been extinguished. He swiveled on the cobblestones, cocked his head just a bit, and focused on the mystery in front of him. For a couple of blocks, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a last long draw on the pipe in his mouth before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/215/
Sunday, February 15, 2009
At Last, My First Rejection...
The first thing you have to know is: this story is true. The second thing is: seriously, it's true. Last month, I submitted an unagented manuscript to DAW Books. On Saturday, I found that dreaded Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope inside. Writers, you know what was inside - the form letter. I was rejected. It was a simple statement; they didn't think it would be a commercial success. I thought about it, and oddly, I wasn't devasted.
I say oddly, because until Saturday, I've never received a rejection letter. Don't pshaw. It's true - with caveats. I've rarely written fiction; I'm usually a non-fiction 'features' writer. I've written two pieces of short fiction and two novels - or, to be correct, one novel several times.
The first piece of short fiction, Wasteland (which is in the Annex and is terrible) was submitted on a lark to New Blood magazine and accepted. It was the first thing I ever submitted and the first place to which I sent a submission. The second piece of short fiction was called Morals. I submitted that to a contest held by TSR (the AD&D people). They accepted the 20 best submissions and were critiquing them at GenCon. Mine was selected. It wasn't for publication; it was just for the contest. One of TSR's senior editors, James Lowder, ended up critiquing it for me when I was unable to attend and sent it to me.
It was like he had bled all over the paper. There was red ink everywhere. I was devastated. But I was floored when he called me later and spent over an hour discussing it with me. It became my first-ever professional criticism, and was the single most defining moment in my fledgling writing career. One thing that he drilled home to me was that I was trying to tell a novel's worth of story in a short-story form. He told me that if I ever was to finish a novel, he would be happy to read it and consider it.
Some time later, I did finish one and submitted it. I happened to do so in the same week (or month - I'm not sure) that TSR was bought out by Wizards of the Coast (WOC). As wrapped up as I was in completing the novel, I was unaware of any of this and didn't know the fallout would include a shakeup of personnel. By the time I had submitted the manuscript, James Lowder was long gone from TSR - and a string of anonymous junior editors was in place.
I found out about this a month or so after submitting, but it was too late to do anything about it. When I did the writer's follow-up call to see if it had been read, the junior editor I talked to was almost horrifyingly rude and said that 'all submissions by authors who were not WOC authors were not being considered, since they were not professional.' (This is very much paraphrased, but the thrust is the same.) In fact, when I asked to have my manuscript returned, since times were very hard at the time, he refused and said he had more important things to do.
Angered, I entirely rewrote the novel, removing all aspects of the book that could be considered TSR-related. I finished it - and this was the last thing I wrote for several years. I worked in the field of developmental disabilities, and managing group homes took up all my time.
About a year after that first conversation with that rude editor, I received a phone call from WOC/TSR. They wanted to publish my novel. I told them it was not available. I told them to return my manuscript, and after they told me I was giving up a plum chance at working with the best in the business, I told them to go to Hell.
Three things written - no rejections yet.
Eventually, I left the field of human services and fell into writing for a community-alt-weekly newspaper. I took on some freelancing jobs, as well. I submitted probably three dozens queries. All of them were accepted, and all of the articles were published. Every assignment I had at the paper was published. I still had no rejections.
Believe me, I knew this was abnormal.
Eventually, I restarted my novel. I had reread it and knew it needed work. I finished the first 10 chapters and didn't like it. I restarted it again. It took about three years to complete. This was the novel I submitted to DAW.
I now have my first rejection. And I find I'm not upset. I really don't know why, but in my heart I suppose I knew I was due for this. Every other writer I know has been rejected, so perhaps now I really belong. I also find that I don't blame DAW. Particularly in this economy, and with all the issues publishers are facing today, I can understand why they would pass on my decidedly non-commercial dark fantasy novel (five main protagonists, lots of brutal violence, some sex, much swearing, a bit of baroque language, and over 200,000 words). Yeah, I get it.
I will say that DAW was one of the publishers I most wanted to work with; they are home to many of my favorite authors - Tad Williams and C.S. Friedman are two. I do feel a wave of disappointment that I won't be in their company, but that is ameliorated by the fact that perhaps there is another outlet out there for me, somewhere.
Red Leader Speaks
When I announced that I had sent this off, I did so in tongue-in-cheek form as Red Leader: http://thewriterswashroom.blogspot.com/2009/01/its-away.html. I wasn't certain what was going to happen, but my gut instinct said that I wasn't going to be Luke Skywalker, sending that manuscript in and making it happen. I'd hoped, but it was only hope.
For every book that doesn't get accepted at DAW, or Tor, and every other publishing house on the planet, that leaves a space available for another author to get through. So in the same spirit that I originally announced this, to all the other writers out there who are seeking publication, let me say this:
"Get set up for your attack run."
-----------------------------------------------------
Edit: I have expanded and clarified James Lowder's position at TSR at the time of my submission. In the first version, I did not make it clear that he was no longer with TSR/WOC by the time I had submitted. My apologies for the confusion.
I say oddly, because until Saturday, I've never received a rejection letter. Don't pshaw. It's true - with caveats. I've rarely written fiction; I'm usually a non-fiction 'features' writer. I've written two pieces of short fiction and two novels - or, to be correct, one novel several times.
The first piece of short fiction, Wasteland (which is in the Annex and is terrible) was submitted on a lark to New Blood magazine and accepted. It was the first thing I ever submitted and the first place to which I sent a submission. The second piece of short fiction was called Morals. I submitted that to a contest held by TSR (the AD&D people). They accepted the 20 best submissions and were critiquing them at GenCon. Mine was selected. It wasn't for publication; it was just for the contest. One of TSR's senior editors, James Lowder, ended up critiquing it for me when I was unable to attend and sent it to me.
It was like he had bled all over the paper. There was red ink everywhere. I was devastated. But I was floored when he called me later and spent over an hour discussing it with me. It became my first-ever professional criticism, and was the single most defining moment in my fledgling writing career. One thing that he drilled home to me was that I was trying to tell a novel's worth of story in a short-story form. He told me that if I ever was to finish a novel, he would be happy to read it and consider it.
Some time later, I did finish one and submitted it. I happened to do so in the same week (or month - I'm not sure) that TSR was bought out by Wizards of the Coast (WOC). As wrapped up as I was in completing the novel, I was unaware of any of this and didn't know the fallout would include a shakeup of personnel. By the time I had submitted the manuscript, James Lowder was long gone from TSR - and a string of anonymous junior editors was in place.
I found out about this a month or so after submitting, but it was too late to do anything about it. When I did the writer's follow-up call to see if it had been read, the junior editor I talked to was almost horrifyingly rude and said that 'all submissions by authors who were not WOC authors were not being considered, since they were not professional.' (This is very much paraphrased, but the thrust is the same.) In fact, when I asked to have my manuscript returned, since times were very hard at the time, he refused and said he had more important things to do.
Angered, I entirely rewrote the novel, removing all aspects of the book that could be considered TSR-related. I finished it - and this was the last thing I wrote for several years. I worked in the field of developmental disabilities, and managing group homes took up all my time.
About a year after that first conversation with that rude editor, I received a phone call from WOC/TSR. They wanted to publish my novel. I told them it was not available. I told them to return my manuscript, and after they told me I was giving up a plum chance at working with the best in the business, I told them to go to Hell.
Three things written - no rejections yet.
Eventually, I left the field of human services and fell into writing for a community-alt-weekly newspaper. I took on some freelancing jobs, as well. I submitted probably three dozens queries. All of them were accepted, and all of the articles were published. Every assignment I had at the paper was published. I still had no rejections.
Believe me, I knew this was abnormal.
Eventually, I restarted my novel. I had reread it and knew it needed work. I finished the first 10 chapters and didn't like it. I restarted it again. It took about three years to complete. This was the novel I submitted to DAW.
I now have my first rejection. And I find I'm not upset. I really don't know why, but in my heart I suppose I knew I was due for this. Every other writer I know has been rejected, so perhaps now I really belong. I also find that I don't blame DAW. Particularly in this economy, and with all the issues publishers are facing today, I can understand why they would pass on my decidedly non-commercial dark fantasy novel (five main protagonists, lots of brutal violence, some sex, much swearing, a bit of baroque language, and over 200,000 words). Yeah, I get it.
I will say that DAW was one of the publishers I most wanted to work with; they are home to many of my favorite authors - Tad Williams and C.S. Friedman are two. I do feel a wave of disappointment that I won't be in their company, but that is ameliorated by the fact that perhaps there is another outlet out there for me, somewhere.
Red Leader Speaks
When I announced that I had sent this off, I did so in tongue-in-cheek form as Red Leader: http://thewriterswashroom.blogspot.com/2009/01/its-away.html. I wasn't certain what was going to happen, but my gut instinct said that I wasn't going to be Luke Skywalker, sending that manuscript in and making it happen. I'd hoped, but it was only hope.
For every book that doesn't get accepted at DAW, or Tor, and every other publishing house on the planet, that leaves a space available for another author to get through. So in the same spirit that I originally announced this, to all the other writers out there who are seeking publication, let me say this:
"Get set up for your attack run."
-----------------------------------------------------
Edit: I have expanded and clarified James Lowder's position at TSR at the time of my submission. In the first version, I did not make it clear that he was no longer with TSR/WOC by the time I had submitted. My apologies for the confusion.
Monday, January 26, 2009
This May be the Last Bit of Sanity You See...
...At least for a little while. You see, according to my calculations, which are never wrong (ha!), the earliest that a certain special manuscript could arrive at a certain special publisher's office in NYC is tonight. Which means, in reality, the earliest it could be dumped into the slush pile to be ignored by editors, to be used as a coaster for coffee, or to finally be sneered at, looked over, and/or read by some assistant would be tomorrow morning.
Realistically, it'll hit the pile and stay there for many moons until someone deigns to pick the dang thing up and look at it (it's a mighty big package - 857 pages). But with the earliest possible chance of anyone putting their publishorial hands on it being tonight or tomorrow, I am saddled with the knowledge that my last frayed edges of sanity are going to go bye-bye.
I'll be a nervous wreck for weeks, at least until I'm distracted by enough bad things, good things, or frustrating things that I'll have pushed it away and am able to think of something else. Don't get me wrong. I won't stop worrying about Heroes until I hear from them, for good or ill, but in a few weeks, I'll be able to contemplate the joy of a simple sunset, the perfection of a tasty barbecue rib (Kansas City-style, of course), or the happiness I feel at the thought of hurling a mindless functionary through a window. Ah, yes. To be sane again. I'll look forward to it.
Realistically, it'll hit the pile and stay there for many moons until someone deigns to pick the dang thing up and look at it (it's a mighty big package - 857 pages). But with the earliest possible chance of anyone putting their publishorial hands on it being tonight or tomorrow, I am saddled with the knowledge that my last frayed edges of sanity are going to go bye-bye.
I'll be a nervous wreck for weeks, at least until I'm distracted by enough bad things, good things, or frustrating things that I'll have pushed it away and am able to think of something else. Don't get me wrong. I won't stop worrying about Heroes until I hear from them, for good or ill, but in a few weeks, I'll be able to contemplate the joy of a simple sunset, the perfection of a tasty barbecue rib (Kansas City-style, of course), or the happiness I feel at the thought of hurling a mindless functionary through a window. Ah, yes. To be sane again. I'll look forward to it.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
"It's Away!"
Yes, it's official. As of this afternoon, I have launched the newest, latest (and with any luck - last) version of Heroes toward New York City - specifically DAW Books. I sent it off in a large Priority Mail box, and yes, I got delivery confirmation. The reading time is supposed to be 3 months or less, and from what I've been able to research, DAW is pretty dang spectacular about reading & considering even faster than that. I'll let you know what I hear. It may not be too long before we found out if it goes in, or like Red Leader's attack, just impacts on the surface.[/geek]
[manuscript name edited on 1/25]
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