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!

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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

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.)

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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.

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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!

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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

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

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!

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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/

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/

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/

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!

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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/

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!

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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/

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.

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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/

Questions for the Readers (and the Beta-Readers)

In the past twenty-four hours, I've had two short, separate conversations. Both gave me food for thought, and I suppose the best thing to do is to ask you - all you folks who have been stopping by, saying "hi," offering feedback, becoming followers, and just being friends.

I have two questions for you. You may feel free to answer in a comment if you want. But I've also set up Polls in the right-hand column for short, simple answers.

Question 1: Shall I go ahead and post Chapter 1 (Malcolm) here, as I posted the Prologue (Darkness)? Is this something I should keep doing? Note that I'm note going to post the entire book; there's a natural stopping point not too far along. But if y'all want me to do this, I'd be happy to put it up. I would expect feedback, of course, and my responsibility is to accept it and improve.

Question 2: Is there interest in me offering subscriptions to this blog? I've never really considered it, but it was mentioned to me as a possibility. Would y'all like me to set this up so you can subscribe to blog posts? Let me know.

And, finally, an update: The first (re)draft is in the hands of Irina - one of my writing group - and I'm waiting for feedback from her. I prefer to let one person attack it before putting it up. As long as I'm blessed with knowing the members of my group, I'm delighted to ask their help (and offer my own in return).

I'm about half done with Seven Bands You Should Know. Two words: Big Star.

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.
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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/

"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/