I’ve been telling everyone that it’s taken me four months to get Chapter 2 of The False Queen written. I was wrong. Looking back, I see it’s really only been three months since I posted the first snippet of this particular piece.

It’s been a long three months, let me tell you.

I have fought and wrangled with this piece, up, down, and across the Nile. The bits and pieces slid into place, but slowly, resistant to whatever force of will I tried to ply them with to get them to work together. But finally, in a two-day sprint, I managed to get it all together so I could present it to my writing group last night.

The biggest stumbling block, as in so much fantasy fiction, was backstory. In chapter one, the POV character Robin has a fairly ignorant view of the world; I didn’t need to delve too deeply in order to convey her impressions of what was happening around her. Chapter 2 has a different POV character, though, and in order to understand the conflicts motivating him it’s necessary to have a certain amount of background information about the social history of the world. But how much? And how to fit it in without interrupting the flow of the events shown in the chapter? That was my problem. I admit I didn’t solve it perfectly: there is one moderate info dump in the middle that I would like to expunge down the line, but I think for now it will for the time being, once I have a better sense of what information will be needed when.

Another challenge was the making the character sympathetic to the readers. In early versions I think he came off snooty and/or sulky, which wasn’t what I wanted. He is angry and grieving, but he has to mask these things in order to survive. Unfortunately, the character was so good at masking that the underlying emotions weren’t coming through to the reader either (well, me). How was I going to bring that emotional level to the surface, without putting the character in danger? The answer was to force him into a direct confrontation with the source of his anger and grief, exposing them for the reader but allowing the mask to remain intact within the story. Thus the following encounter was born. Once it was written, everything else in the chapter just fell into place.

One thing I should probably note before you read on is that the character has stolen his brother’s name. I couldn’t stop him — his argument was that since his brother was dead at the start of the book, he really didn’t require such a good name. I couldn’t disagree. Known in previous versions as “Quire” he’s now “Dar An’Ceri Quaren”, where Quaren is his given name and An’Ceri, as you’ll learn below, is the family name. Dar you’ll just have to wonder about. And no, I haven’t renamed the brother yet…

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!

“Don’t you want to do it yourself?” The unanticipated question caught him off-guard. He turned, incredulous, to face the smirking Skane again. “The man’s a traitor. Any true servant of the king would welcome this chance to prove his loyalty.”

It was a challenge, one Quaren knew he could not avoid without confirming the suspicions surrounding him already. He was no soldier or executioner, bound to kill on the king’s behalf, but if he refused to take this man’s life now, his own life might be forfeit. Besides, he could not stomach the smug reproach of the kirgis should he fail. Using that meager measure of defiance as a seed, he projected a false hauteur and drove himself, step by step, across the field until he was standing at Skane’s side.

More of the kirgis had gathered nearby, eager to see the sorcerer put to the test. Most of them spoke little Elari, and Quaren didn’t feel obliged to inform them that he understood what the jibes they were making at his expense in their native tongue. He passed his torch to Skane and dropped to one knee, relieved to see that he did not actually know the man stretched out before him. It would make what he had to do a little easier. He hoped.

The Vinkyr was awake, and by Quaren’s quick assessment bore no mortal injury. Broken limbs, a bleeding wound on his head — nothing that could not be healed with time and care. Two things Quaren had no power to give. Not tonight. I’m sorry, he thought, with a touch to the man’s shoulder that he hoped conveyed the sense of his regret, even if he could not speak it aloud.

The man stared at him, exhausted and confused, probably recognizing from the similarity of their features what he was, but not who. Then his eyes lit upon the bronze clasp that held Quaren’s cloak, and the intricate family badge depicted on its surface. “An’Ceri?” he asked, his voice a hoarse shudder. Quaren nodded once, stiffly, and for an instant a bright gleam of hope flickered in the warrior.

But then the rest of the pieces fell into place. The An’Ceri were a small family, after all, notable in recent years for the actions of its two youngest sons — one honored by their people, and one reviled. Quaren could mark the moment he figured out exactly which son he was by the look of hatred that flashed across his face. Snarling, he flung Quaren’s hand from him. “You are no Vinkyr!”

The accusation barely stung, he had heard it so many times before, but Skane’s derisive laughter made him seethe. The condemnation of his own people he could bear, but not the ridicule of a vulgar kirgis.

“Do you want to borrow my knife, An’Ceri?” Skane held it out to him, moonlight licking its long curved blade. As Quaren glowered at him with every ounce of scorn he could muster, the barbarian mimed a sharp, cutting motion with it, eager to see the blood flow.

“Do it!” the Vinkyr hissed. “Prove yourself the traitor we all know you are!”

Soul wrenched by grief and fury, Quaren had no reason to delay, but he didn’t need a knife to kill. Grimly, he thrust a hand out over the man and said another word. He did it quickly, so quickly that there was no time, even, for surprise to register in the dying man’s eyes as life fled him. It was over in an instant.

Beside him, Skane took a step back, and a rustle of unease passed through all the watching kirgis. They had mocked him without understanding the true depth of his power. What, did they think he had been abandoned by the Vinkyr for the ability to play tricks with light? Now they knew. Now they were afraid. He took small comfort in that.

He stood and reclaimed his torch. “Get back to work,” he said, his voice still chill from bearing death. Wrapping their fear around himself like a mantle he strode out into the darkness.

Only when he was sure he was far enough away did he begin to shake.

Thanks for reading!

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…

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.

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.