So, I was driving home from work on Monday and I was supposed to be thinking about my novel, the current WIP, but instead this scene with a girl picking over the corpses left on a battlefield popped into my head. I honestly can’t recall what sparked the thought, but it quickly developed into a full-fledged scene that I thought just might make it as a short story, maybe. I got around to writing it down on Wednesday, and I gave it a first polish yesterday so I could show it to my new writing group last night. By that time, a second character had wormed his way into the picture (I should say fourth character, because there are three in the initial scene, but two of them are minor, while this fourth fellow would greatly expand the narrative) and now the story was telling me that it just might be a novel. And very possibly a Ten Queens novel.

It’s tempting, it really is, because the other thing is giving me angst right now as I try to make it do all the things I want it to do, and despair of making mush instead. The other story would be simpler, if only because I haven’t had time to attach too much to it yet. It’s fresh, exciting, as full of potential as a plain white canvas. But am I betraying my previous committment if I divert my efforts to this new tale? What happens when, a month from now, another new idea pops into my head and I want to work on it instead? I only less than 13 months before I have to make good on my self-imposed deadline; I need a whole novel, not 13 first chapters. I’m searching for a compromise, and hope I can figure it out soon.

In the meantime, here’s a snippet from the new thing, working title “The False Queen.” When I have a chance to give the entire piece a final polish I will post it along with the zero and first drafts, to demonstrate the truth of the crappy first draft solution for conquering writing fears.

The following is from a work-in-progress and liable to change. Copyright by me, so don’t go posting it anywhere without my permission, or claiming it for your own.

She sat up with a moan that was as much despair as it was pain. She’d had plenty of knocks to the head before and survived, but if she didn’t have something to bring back to Kel, she wouldn’t eat tonight. Now she had nothing, and she didn’t relish creeping around all these dead bodies in the dark, trying to replace what she had lost.
“Are you all right?”
Robin started at the voice that came out of the darkness. She’d thought everyone left on this part of the field was dead already. Far away, a dim glow of torches marked the presence of someone coming this way, but it would be a while before they got this far.
“I saw her hit you.” A woman’s voice, dry with pain. There were a lot of women among the fallen; they had flocked to the rebels’ cause, and died just as bravely as any of the men. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
“I wouldn’t waste time being sorry for me if I were you. You’re going to be dead soon.” That was a safe guess. If she didn’t die from whatever wound kept her lying here, so long after the fighting had ended, then the men with the torches would likely kill her when they found her.
“I’m already dead.”
Robin had to thing about that for a moment before deciding it was a figure of speech. She didn’t believe in ghosts, especially on a battlefield surrounded by the corpses of the slain. She couldn’t afford it.
Straining to see in the thin light of the moon, she stood and picked her way towards the voice. It was hard, navigating around the bodies that were shapeless lumps in the darkness, and once she stepped on something she thought might be a hand. She tried not to think about it. She found the injured woman by the sheen of moonlight reflected in her eyes, eyes still damp with all of life’s sorrows. She lay on her back, gazing up at the sky, pinned to the earth by the weight of an armored warrior sprawled across her. His helmet was missing and her hand rested on his head, fingers buried in his hair. An arrow protruded from the man’s neck.
The woman herself looked battered. Her face was bruised, her soldier’s surcoat dark with blood.
“I only wanted to help.” She did not look at Robin as she crouched beside her.
“Help who?”
“Everyone. My people.” She sobbed once, a dry, rasping heave. “I thought I could make things better.”
Robin sucked in her breath. Despite the constant complaints of the Old Magpie and Kel, she was not exactly stupid.
“You’re her, aren’t you? Erise. The Lost Queen.”
“Call me false queen, if queen you must name me, for I have been false to those who loved me. I have lead them to their doom.” She shut her eyes to the moon then, and cried.