First off, I want to thank everyone who took the time to comment on last weeks snippet. I’m highly motivated by public response, so knowing people are actually reading make a big difference in my production.

Of course, knowing how much I value your comments makes my own failure to respond to everyone else’s posted snippets last week that much worse. I will blame it on my job and on wanting to actually write the novel, not comments, when I had time to write. Hopefully that will be excusable in my fellow writer eyes, though I promise to be better about commenting from here on out.

Here is the beginning of chapter two; it’s the same place as chapter one, but a new set of characters. It’s not actually the part I wanted to show you this week; I had a much more intriguing bit in mind, but it’s not polished enough to show off yet, so this more mundane glimpse will have to do!

Standard Disclaimer: From a work-in-progress and likely to change. Standard Copyright Proclamation: This is mine — don’t spread it around or try to claim it as yours!

Quire’s arm ached from carrying the torch. He’d lost count of the hours since this mad search had begun, just as he’d lost count of how many corpses they’d turned over along the way. By all rights, he shouldn’t even be here; he was no soldier or executioner, bound to kill on the king’s behalf. At very least, he should be ensconced in the meager comforts of the army encampment, a mile and a half away, with a hot meal and someplace to put his feet up, not treading through the leavings of a battle in which he had not even fought.

But as the only member of the king’s company who had ever seen Erise alive, he was obligated to come along.

“This is pointless.” Mabeon, the king’s counselor charged with leading the search party, stomped into the circle of torchlight and glowered up at him. The flickering light transformed his scowl into a theatrical mask, all dark furrows and flame-burnished ridges, that made Quire think of the priests’ plays he used to watch as a child. “Are you certain there’s nothing you can do to speed this up?”

Quire let a fraction of his own irritation drip out in a weary sigh. “If there were spells to find lost princesses, I’m sure someone would have used them long ago.”

“Or girls pretending to be lost princesses.” Mabeon’s shoulders sagged beneath his heavy coat of mail. He hadn’t fought in the battle either, so the expensive stuff was still pristine, with all its intricate design work and enameled traceries intact. “You know I never believed her.”

“I know.”

“Such a waste.” The counselor kicked at the battle refuse at his feet, his steel-tipped toe clanging hollowly against something that might have been a helmet or maybe a shield that morning. “And for what?”

Quire didn’t answer, his attention caught by an unusual noise out in the darkness. The battlefield was full of soft sounds, carrion birds and other scavengers, careful to avoid the glow of the torches but giving away their activity with a low buzz of squawking and hissing, crunching and gulping. One sound, though, stood out from the rest — a dull staccato clack, repeated at regular intervals. He listened, trying to pinpoint its source, as his gut tightened in unhappy recognition.

“I’ve got a live one here!”

Mabeon swore under his breath. He shot Quire a sour look — accusation or sympathy? — then turned to the remainder of their party, gathering around one of the fallen figures on the field. “Ours or theirs?” he shouted.

“Rebel.”

“Finish him and come on.”

Quire shuddered and looked away. At least carrying the torch kept him from the worst of this grisly duty.

Tonight, I hope to complete what I originally slated for last Friday night: prepping “Caribou House” for mailing. Of course, that means I’m going to have to type it in first, so it’s going to take a lot longer. I wonder how well the OCR software that came with the scanner works…

The problem with eating lunch in the park is that it makes me what to blog when I come back to the office.

My favorite scene in the The Lord of the Rings movies is the lighting of the beacons. You know, when Pippin executes a feat of acrobatic daring in order to light the signal fire at Minas Tirith, setting off a chain reaction captured in a magnificent series of aerial shots and stunning special effects in which, one by one, the watchfires that line the peaks of the mountains that divide the realms of Gondor and Rohan (no, I don’t know the name of the range — get a life) spring to life, triggering, ultimately, the Ride of the Rohirrim to war.

I really love that scene. Gives me shivers just thinking about it. I couldn’t really say why, though, until a little while ago, while I was enjoying the sunshine, the view of Mt. Saddleback, and the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield while taking my lunch hour. It was just “cool” or maybe “awesome.” I wasn’t able to verbalize my response any more than that.

I don’t know what about that particular combination of sunshine, view and reading material suddenly made me think about the scene in LOTR, or why I was suddenly able to say, with perfect understanding, “The reason I like that scene so much is…” I do know that I’ve been paying a little more attention to why I like or dislike things — books, movies, artwork — trying to define my response instead of just experiencing it. It’s important, I think, as a creator to know what you value in creative work, so you can try and include those values in your own creations. In fact, I have a whole post on the subject of “story values” that I started months and months ago and may finish some day soon, if I manage to get back on a regular blogging routine.

Another example, if you will permit me: Madelyn Mulvaney is an artist whose work I’ve been pleased to feature twice, once in the spring issue of Artful Blogging, and then again in the upcoming issue of Life Images. Her photograph, in fact, will appear on the cover of the issue. Everyone in the office finds her photography immediately appealing — you might say we have a little fan club going on here — but when I showed prints of some of my favorites (which Madelyn so kindly sent to me) to my mother, she didn’t get it. It’s not that she didn’t appreciate the skill of the photography or the quirky nature of the subjects; she just didn’t have the same emotional response as I (and my colleagues) did.

So why is that? What is it about walking into the waves carrying a suitcase, or standing on step stool with an umbrella, or a stack of teacups caught in the spray of the sea that lights my fire? Here’s what I said to Madelyn about it, when I wrote to thank her for sending the prints:

… it’s not just that your work is quirky or colorful or pretty, which are all the quick ways to define your imagery. For me, it’s all about the question each of your pictures makes me ask myself. “Why take a picture of teacups on the beach?” Well, why not?

For a creative person like myself, I think “why not” is the single most important question we need to ask. It’s so easy to get trapped in the usual ways of thinking and seeing; it can become a challenge to do things differently. It’s probably some kind of survival instinct, to mistrust the urge to do things that don’t really seem to make sense. But doing things differently is the only way growth will happen in art, in the self, in the world.

Of course, you’ll have to figure out for yourself what Madelyn’s photos say to you. That’s the thing about art: it forces us to make up our own minds.

Oh, are you still waiting to learn what it is about the beacons scene in Return of the King that I like so much? It’s because it signals the start of the action. Until the fires ignite, everything is stalled, the men of Gondor hiding behind their walls, the Rohirrim waiting, waiting, waiting in Rohan. And then … the skies are set afire. It’s a stunning visual representation of what is happening structurally in the story. I just love it. I love it even more now that I understand why I love it. Shivers, I tall ya!

To close, a brief writing update: the hardcopy of “Caribou House” has been returned. The first thing I did was make a photocopy of it, so I don’t have to worry about losing the only copy again. I don’t know when I’ll get around to transcribing it, however; I’m anxious to get it out, of course, but I’m also making good progress on chapter 2 of False Queen (I did over 1000 words last night) and I’d like to keep at it and have a readable draft by Thursday’s writers’ group meeting (not that I anticipate reading myself — it’s just my self-imposed deadline). Given that I’ve only got about two functional hours (at best) in the evenings, I may just have to wait until the weekend to get “Caribou House” ready to send.

Absolute frustration. That’s what I’ve been feeling since about 7 pm Friday evening, along with a good dose of self-recrimination. Okay, not really — a glass of wine with dinner last night and a few hours playing Lego Star Wars on the Wii really helped release a lot of the bad feelings go away. It’s not good to hang on to that kind of toxic grunge, anyway.

As I said in my last post, I intended to print out a pristine copy of my story “Caribou House” Friday night, package it up, and send it off to the first publication on my list (it’s only a mental list, but it’s still a list). But as I sat down at the computer that evening … I could not find the file! Not the edited one, at any rate. Oh, there were a couple with versions from 2006, but nothing that had all the edits I’d made to the manuscript back around Christmas, all those tweaks and twitches that elevated it from a decent story to something really top-notch. Gone.

How? I can’t help wondering myself. It’s not my recollection that all those edits (not to mention proper submission formatting) were made in a single sitting, but even if they were, would I have done something so … so n00bish as to close the file without saving it? I’ve been writing on computers for over 20 years, surely clicking “save” is instinctual by now? I checked every folder. I ran an exhaustive search on this machine. I scoured Gmail and Google docs in hopes that I’d stored it online for some reason. I even drove in to work on Saturday morning to check my computer there.

Nothing.

My only saving grace at this point is that I printed out one, single copy of that final manuscript, which I gave to a colleague of mine (a fellow editor) for proofreading purposes (which is, as it happens, the reason the MS hasn’t gone out already; I’ve been waiting for her to finish it). She told me early this week that she had finished it and not found any typographical errors (she liked the story though). She did not, however, return the copy I gave her. Hopefully — HOPEFULLY — she still has that document and will be able to return it to me next week. I don’t relish having to transcribe the whole thing, but it’s a better option than having to try and redo all the edits. I won’t know till tomorrow, of course, which has made this a very long weekend.

So, keep your fingers crossed for me. As for me, I’m going to have a long talk with my sub-conscious to figure out why it wanted to sabotage me like that …

It was early October the last time I posted Friday Snippet. Sadly, it’s taken me this long to make any significant progress on the piece, The False Queen, despite the fact that it’s taken up the bulk of my creative energy for the past couple months. Which should really tell you something about the lack of creative energy I’ve suffered lately. At least, I console myself, I’ve been fairly well able to keep what little of it there has been focused on writing, which is why you haven’t seen much in the way of blogging or visual art/photography stuff going on around here. Priorities, you know?

I made it a priority this week to finish my revision of The False Queen, so that I could present it to my writer’s group last night. Originally composed as a short story, I was aware from early on that it had the seeds for a novel in it and I’ve been working to transform it ever since. I actually drafted Chapter 2 way before Christmas, but then realized that the scene depicted wouldn’t work structurally so it’s since been jettisoned (hey, wouldn’t it be cool if instead of “move to trash” or “delete” computers said “jettison”?). And then I had to go back in and start breaking up the original scene so that it would work better as a Chapter 1, with significant changes to the ending so it would lead efficiently to the rest of the story. There is still actually a chunk that needs to be redone, and I know what I need to achieve with that chunk but not quite how to do it yet, so I’m just going to let it lie dormant, trusting that I’ll figure it out eventually, and move on to what comes next.

I was very pleased with reception it got last night: everyone was drawn in by the hook and liked the characters and no one complained about the voice or pacing. I even got a few nods on descriptive passages, which are always a challenge for me. Nearly all the significant problems people had were issues with, more or less, backstory, and things I already knew and hope will be resolved when I figure out how to handle that chunk in the middle which I already mentioned. Everything else was minor things like word-choice. On the whole, they were excited and want to see more — which is a good motivator for me. The little frisson that comes when someone reads something I’ve written and asks for more is addictive — I can only imagine how it will feel when it’s an agent or publisher asking!

At any rate, here’s a snippet from the revised Chapter One of The False Queen. Standard Disclaimer: From a work-in-progress and likely to change. Standard Copyright Proclamation: This is mine — don’t spread it around or try to claim it as yours!

Robin only tripped over one body as she brought the sword to the dying woman’s side and dropped to her knees once more. She held the weapon out, hilt first, but Erise made no move to take it, and when Robin tried to put it in her hand she made a sharp noise of protest. “Throw it.”

“What?”

“Throw it,” Erise said again, this time clearly enough that Robin was certain she’d heard right. “Throw it in the river.”

Robin gaped in disbelief. “What? Why?”

The moon was gone from the Queen’s eyes now, her eyelashes lowered wearily over pale cheeks. “So he won’t get it.” She barely made any sound at all now as she spoke. “Promise me you’ll do it.”

“But…”

Erise’s eyes flew open, pinning Robin with an unexpected forcefulness. “Promise me!”

“I promise!” The words slipped out before Robin had a chance to stop them. No wonder Erise had won so many followers, if even dying she could compel someone to make such a stupid promise as to throw a valuable weapon into the river!

“Good.” The strength seemed to fade from her then as quickly as the light faded after sunset on a winter’s day. Whatever force of will had held the queen to life all these long hours since the battle’s end was gone now, her body limp, sagging into the hardened earth of the battlefield. Only her lips moved, barely forming the words her last breath pushed out. “I know I can trust you.”

Robin, hands tight around the hilt of the sword, watched as the queen’s lips kept moving long after breathing had ceased and her heart had stilled. A prayer, she thought, but to which god? Gentle Eke, who would shepherd her soul across the silver sea? Or blood-thirsty Doart, who would settle her claim for vengeance against her foes? Neither seemed right, and in the end, as Erise’s lips finally ceased to move, she fancied it was nothing more than her lover’s name she spoke, over and over and over again. Quaren, my love…

So, there you go.

In other writing news, I have also achieved, at long last, a final draft of “Caribou House”, and my project for tonight will be to print out a fresh copy of the manuscript, cover letter, and mailing labels. Tomorrow it will be shipped off to Publication #1 on the submission list. Then the waiting starts.

Right before I woke up this morning, I dreamt that — for some reason — I’d gotten an interview with author Neil Gaiman. Why, I’m not sure. For what venue, I have no idea. But it was cool nonetheless.

Because I am not just an SFF geek but also an art geek, I received an altered book from him some months prior to the interview. It was a large leather-bound album, with aged pages and engraved metal tabs, with a few of the types of tags and embellishments that bump it up from “scrapbook” to “artwork”, all very tastefully done. It was, I think, a collection of research, ephemera and general notes related to his current work-in-progress (I didn’t actually read the book — I have trouble reading in dreams, because I whatever it is I’m “reading” I’m subconsciously writing, and then my inner editor starts to get all anxious and perturbed about having it make sense, which is just something you shouldn’t worry about when dreaming). At any rate, I clearly remember being told that Mr. Gaiman was intending to read from the album during our interview, because he didn’t want to read any of the chapters from his current work-in-progress until he was finished with it.

To top it all off, the last page of the book had a photo of Johnny Depp on it! My impression was that Depp was going to star in the movie based on the book — how great would that be? Well, we can all keep our fingers crossed and if it comes true then I’m going to start paying closer attention to my dreams, in hopes of more prophetic hints!

“But if a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection, but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman.”

– Socrates, in Plato’s Phaedres, as quoted in The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield