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!

Vera Nazarain has posted an interesting essay at Fantasy magazine about how popular, formula-driven urban/paranormal fantasy (in the mode of Anita Blake, with vampires, were-whatevers, etc.) loses the sense of wonder (and thus her interest) at the fantastic when the characters in those stories regard magical encounters as ordinary, everyday, mundane events. It’s an interesting read, and I think she nailed my own reasons for not being a fan of that sub-genre, though I’ve never explicitly defined those reasons before. What’s the point of fantasy, after all, if it ceases to be fantastic?

That is the underlying question that Nazarain’s essay doesn’t quite reach: what’s the point of fantasy? What is it about that sense of wonder that is so compelling?

In an essay that appeared recently in the Telegraph, fantasist Mark Chadbourne suggests that the appeal of the fantastic is in its irrationality, that readers crave this antidote to the increasingly rational boundaries of our everyday lives. “It’s about turning off the mobile phone and the computer and remembering who we are in the deepest, darkest parts of ourselves.” I can’t say I disagree, at least with the last half of that statement. (The article doesn’t have much more in depth to say, but it does provide a good overview of the evolution of the modern genre.)

In my opinion, though, I wouldn’t say that its computers and cell phones (and the general technologizing of our society) creating those rational boundaries. My gut feeling is that it’s the secularization of society, the decline of the importance of religion and myth as an active force in how we perceive our relationship with the universe. As the world grows smaller physically (because of technology) and philosophically/spiritually (thanks to the work of comparative religion scholars such as Joseph Campbell) I think more and more of us find it harder to use religion as a doorway to the collective unconscious — a doorway it is necessary to go through in order to evolve individually and as a tribe.

Fantasy, using the same language as myth and dream, opens the doorway for a more rational (or maybe just embittered) mind, without requiring belief. Religion and myth create awe in those who believe in them, because they provide a glimpse at the magic and wonder and awe-fulness of the universe, and so should fantasy that is functioning properly — there’s something True even if it’s all impossible.

Ergo, I would go on to conclude that this sort of urban paranormal fantasy (though it can happen in any sub-genre I suspect) that is stripped of awe and wonder and replaced magic with mundanity is no longer functioning as fantasy. It’s romance, it’s horror, it’s crime fiction, it’s whatever … it’s just using fantasy tropes to tell its story. But putting fairies in a story doesn’t make it fantasy anymore than putting cowboys in a story makes it a Western.

I’ve been expecting this for a while. Every time I seem to get a good in a good groove with regards to writing, something happens to bump me off track. Small things, usually, like kids being sick, or me being sick, or other small inconveniences that derail the new (and ergo fragile) creative habits. So with progress going as well as it has the last two weeks (slow but steady) I was expecting something, and mentally preparing myself to work through whatever glitch life had in store for me, instead of using it as an excuse to stop working, like I have so often in the past.

But I wasn’t expecting a life glitch of a purely technical nature. Oh, I should have, because the computer monitor started fitzing at me a couple weeks ago. At first, the picture would blank out, for less then a second, accompanied by a little staticky POP that I knew boded ill, right from the start. The only thing that didn’t have me pulling my hair out in total agony was that I knew it was just the monitor — the computer itself seemed unaffected by the screen’s spastic behavior.

The blackout times began to increase over time, in length and frequency, until this last week when it wasn’t just the screen going dark, but the whole power thingee (fear my technical jargon!) cycling off and on, sometimes more than once in a row, several times an hour. Annoying, yes, but not yet a crisis, because most of the time it was operating just fine. It just had its moments.

Fortunately, I had finished all the important on-screen work I needed to do yesterday when the monitor decided to call it quits for good. I had sent out two submissions via e-mail (one flash piece, one poem) and had printed out mailing labels, cover letter, and the final, edited draft of “Caribou House” to be sent by mail. I had turned my attention to editing Chapter 2 of False Queen (and, honestly, not making good progress, since I’d stayed up way to late the night before working on it). The screen went dark.

I sighed and waited for the monitor to run through its power cycle — you know the sounds a monitor makes starting up (at least the old-fashioned kind, I’m sure modern flat panel models are much quieter) — there’s a kind of a bong and a whirr and a click as the picture fades into view. So I waited. Bong, whirr, click. Fitz. Bong, whirr, click. Fitz. Bong, whirr, click. Fitz. It was on its fourth or fifth that I realized something serious had gone wrong.

To make a long story short (too late, I know!) the monitor on the PC is totally dead now. When I push the power button, I don’t even get the bong and the whirr anymore; it’s just “click fitz click fitz click fitz”. Over and over again. A pathetic bleat from a dying mechanical beast.

Not having a monitor at home is, as I’m sure you can see, not just a minor glitch that I can work around through sheer will power. It’s not an issue of being distracted or too tired or what-have-you: I can’t work because I literally don’t have the tool which I need to work. I can assure you that I felt a moment of real panic when I realized that the monitor was not going to come back on, and that a new monitor was not in the cards, at least until after tax season. This was a true crisis.

Or it could have been. While immediately flummoxed about how I was going to proceed, I knew (after that first instant of panic) that I was going to proceed: I just had to figure out how. And I have figured it out, or I am in the process of it, anyway. There is, of course, no single solution, but the first thing was to put a wanted ad out on Freecycle for a pc monitor, so with any luck this will be a short-term glitch.

In the meantime, I’ll just have to concentrate chunking out rough drafts of upcoming chapters in long-hand, and hope that I’ll still be able to read my handwriting when it comes time to transcribe them! The fine writing that comes during the editing process will just have to wait; while I might be able to squeeze in some writing time while at work (lunch hour, after work), I find it hard to concentrate with a lot of activity around, which is why the wee hours of the night (ahem, 9 pm to 11 pm) are my most productive.

Please note that writing long-hand is not necessarily an ideal alternative for me, not even accounting for the quality of my handwriting. Sitting at a computer is Not Comfortable, a state which encourages one to remember why one is sitting there in the first place (no, not Spider Solitaire!), so focusing on work is less of a challenge. However, with my little notebook and pen I can sit anywhere, and the temptation will be to find someplace Comfortable, inducing a state of relaxation that, especially in the late hours of the evening, encourages one to do silly things, like sleeping. I may have to go ahead and clear off the desk in my room and make myself sit there for two hours every evening, just to keep myself on task.

Maybe none of this seems like a big deal to you, but it does to me. I think I’ve wasted a lot of time waiting for the ideal circumstances in which to write. Haven’t we all done that, imagined our “perfect writing day,” what it would be like if writing was your only job and everything in your life was aligned to provide exactly the environment you think you need to create? Even though we may acknowledge that “perfect” is not realistic, there is still a tendency to hold off until everything in the life that you do have is just so and you have the freedom you think you need to be creative.

But the truth is, even that ideal state is reached, it’s never going to stay that way. Things are going to happen, and if you let those things interfere with your work, you’re never going to make any progress. I know this: I’ve got 20 or so years of getting interrupted to prove it! Well, I’m not going to be interrupted anymore. I’m shaking my fist in the face of broken computers, sick kids, and all of life’s messes and making my declaration to keep working, regardless of the circumstances. For me, that’s a big deal.

Nothing in the ‘verse can stop me!

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…

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.

“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

To think I was going to participate in NaBloPoMo — or whatever the abbreviation for “post in your blog every day in November” event squashes into. I certainly would have failed miserably if I’d attempted that particular challenge. It’s been terrifically busy at work the past month, and when I get home I’m too tired to do much more than what’s required — and blogging has never fallen into “required” category for me, sorry to say!

One of the reasons I’ve been more tired than usual is that I’ve been trying to get up at 5 in the morning, to get in a spell of writing before going to work, leaving my lunch hour free for a walk or some other exercise. Sadly, neither is working out too terrificaly well. I’ve only accomplish either one about once a week so far, but the alarm is still going off at 5 a.m., so even if I do spend the next hour hitting the snooze button instead of writing, I’m not really sleeping either.

Needless to say, progress on the novel itself is going slower than hoped for, but it is still going. I’m having a few structural issues, or I will have once I get further into the story. It’s not about the plot of the story itself, but about incorporating background stories and myths of the storyworld (necessary for both the heroine and the reader to understand) into the storyline. I don’t want to simply have the heroine be handed a book to read that explains everything, so to speak. Nin suggested I look at Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum, Hal Duncan’s Vellum and so forth, but I think those have a too much post-modern edge to work well with the rather humble voice of the novel so for. So I’m still experimenting with ideas, and hope that the right idea will pop out at me eventually.

In the meantime, I took the first half of a nearly finished short story I’ve been working on for ages to my writer’s group the week before Thanksgiving, and it was well-received. I’m hoping that I can get the second half finished to take to our next meeting; I’d really like to have it ready to start submitting before the holidays. Which doesn’t leave much time, does it?

I’m still getting used to working full days, and last week was particularly bad as I was a little under the weather and traffic seemed to get worse and worse each day. I’m gone from home from 7:45 a.m. till 6:45 p.m. most days, and by the time the kids are in bed, I’m pretty whiped. Any extra minutes added to my already horrid commute just make for additional exhaustion. My job makes it worth it, but I hope I don’t have many more weeks like the last, because I’ll neve have time or energy for any extra activities.

Like, you know, blogging.

I figured I could make up for some of my negligence here by posting some of the links that I’ve been collecting for a while, intending to share here. Only I’ve discovered that most of them really weren’t all that interesting anymore, so I’ve only got a few. Enjoy.

A Peter S. Beagle interview, where he talks about the sequel to The Last Unicorn and the possibility of an MMORPG set in his Innkeeper’s World. *Historical footnote: I once signed a petition to keep Borders out of Davis, CA, largely because Mr. Beagle had signed on the top line, and I figured it was the only way he and I would ever be mentioned on the same page. *Footnote to the historical footnote: We moved from Davis before the Borders went in, so I don’t know if all the wonderful independent bookstores survived or not.

Part of Locus Magazine’s interview with Mr. Beagle, and then one with Guy Gavriel Kay.

Some advice to writers from Kurt Vonnegut. Common sense stuff, really, but well put and easy to digest.

A couple of different posts on the popularity of fantasy versus sciene fiction. Seems to be a hot topic.

FYI, I’m not participating in NaNoWriMo this year, and upon consideration I’ve decided to abstain from Sweating with Sven (a longer, leaner challenge than NaNo). I know how much writing I have to do in the next few months, and I don’t think being part of a community is going to change my ability or inability to reach my self-set goals. The drive to write (and finish what I’m writing) is coming from a much deeper place then externally defined daily word counts and cheerleading groups. And I just don’t want the additional responsibility of having to report and cheer on everyone else, which is part of the whole social contract of such a community project. Not that I’m discouraging anyone else from doing it; it’s just not the right thing for me, right now. Anyone who is participating has my fondest good wishes for success!