I'm back. The last two years have seen complete upheaval and deep tragedy. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to write again, after all of the changes, which included a whole lot of therapy and personal growth. My previous life sometimes feels like someone else's. If the price of this was my writing, so be it.
I've recently picked up the novel again and returned to revisions. I'm discovering my voice is clearer, the things that need fixing more apparent. I'm letting go of the "clever" turns of phrase that I was inappropriately attached to, that needed to go. The characters are stronger, the pacing is more grab you by the collar and not let go.
So, at the urging of my Dear SO, I am about to leave for 4 days of uninterrupted writing alone in a cabin. I am so excited. I will post the revised first chapter here when I return. I hope you like it. If I were an actor, about now I'd be telling myself to "Break a leg!"
Going to pack...
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Life Changes
At the end of June I found out that I won the Texas Writers' League Manuscript Contest for the Historical Fiction category. I met the agent who judged the category and selected Gwendolyn's Sword, and she's lovely. This is perhaps my best opportunity (and also my last) to see my novel published. It's been almost 2 months since the announcement of the winners, and I warned the agent that it could took me 6 - 8 months to finish revisions. She was utterly unfazed; smiled sweetly and told me to take my time. I'm finding out now that the revisions period typically takes much longer than the composition of the first draft. Learning this helps me to keep perspective.
There have been very significant life changes in the last two months. I have barely touched the manuscript or had a chance to think more than 2 seconds about the story or the characters. I miss them terribly. I think I'm close to being able to start writing again. Once I start, I don't want to stop until all three books are written. Then I'll look around to my notes and see what I'll write next.
It's like looking forward to a meal that I know I'm going to enjoy preparing as much as I'll enjoy eating. My mouth is actually watering thinking about immersing myself back into the story and the writing. Soon.
There have been very significant life changes in the last two months. I have barely touched the manuscript or had a chance to think more than 2 seconds about the story or the characters. I miss them terribly. I think I'm close to being able to start writing again. Once I start, I don't want to stop until all three books are written. Then I'll look around to my notes and see what I'll write next.
It's like looking forward to a meal that I know I'm going to enjoy preparing as much as I'll enjoy eating. My mouth is actually watering thinking about immersing myself back into the story and the writing. Soon.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Taking It to the Next Level
It's weird. I've had two things happen in the last few days that are both encouraging and illustrative of how far I still have to go for GWENDOLYN'S SWORD to see the light of day.
I submitted the first 10 pages to the Texas Writers' League's annual Manuscript Contest. I submitted in 3 categories, and I've heard back from 2 so far and I'm a finalist in both. Yeah! That's encouraging. And just today I heard back from a professional editor who does reviews of just the first couple of chapters to offer critique on how well you've set up quest-motivation-conflict and just the general flow of those crucial opening pages, and she gave me GREAT feedback.
I've been feeling like I'm polishing, polishing, polishing, but not really getting to the guts of what needs to be fixed in the manuscript. And I've been sort of thrashing around trying to get a hold on what it is. I've figured out some of it on my own, getting rid of the reams of exposition at the outset, but now I'm realizing that's just the beginning. It's not just about weeding. It's about picking up the pace, sweeping the reader off their feet in the first few pages and never setting them down again until they're ready to jump up and cheer when Gwendolyn finally triumphs at the end. I get it now. I've had it in my head that I needed to focus on the "writing": have a clear voice, write readable sentences, don't smother the dialogue. Now I'm realizing from my success with the contest and the editorial feedback that I've got the "writing" part of it pretty well in hand; it's the STORYTELLING that I need to work on. I'm writing an action adventure with a little paranormal thriller thrown in set in medieval england. This is not the time to wax prosaic about manor life and court politics. This is "Lethal Weapon" starring a woman set in 1192. I get it now.
Man, you get all involved with your characters and the setting and your own writing, and you lose your way. They have a story to tell, and it's a heart-thumping page turner, and I need to get myself out of the way of it.
Whoa. I get it now.
I submitted the first 10 pages to the Texas Writers' League's annual Manuscript Contest. I submitted in 3 categories, and I've heard back from 2 so far and I'm a finalist in both. Yeah! That's encouraging. And just today I heard back from a professional editor who does reviews of just the first couple of chapters to offer critique on how well you've set up quest-motivation-conflict and just the general flow of those crucial opening pages, and she gave me GREAT feedback.
I've been feeling like I'm polishing, polishing, polishing, but not really getting to the guts of what needs to be fixed in the manuscript. And I've been sort of thrashing around trying to get a hold on what it is. I've figured out some of it on my own, getting rid of the reams of exposition at the outset, but now I'm realizing that's just the beginning. It's not just about weeding. It's about picking up the pace, sweeping the reader off their feet in the first few pages and never setting them down again until they're ready to jump up and cheer when Gwendolyn finally triumphs at the end. I get it now. I've had it in my head that I needed to focus on the "writing": have a clear voice, write readable sentences, don't smother the dialogue. Now I'm realizing from my success with the contest and the editorial feedback that I've got the "writing" part of it pretty well in hand; it's the STORYTELLING that I need to work on. I'm writing an action adventure with a little paranormal thriller thrown in set in medieval england. This is not the time to wax prosaic about manor life and court politics. This is "Lethal Weapon" starring a woman set in 1192. I get it now.
Man, you get all involved with your characters and the setting and your own writing, and you lose your way. They have a story to tell, and it's a heart-thumping page turner, and I need to get myself out of the way of it.
Whoa. I get it now.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Currently Reading: Ash by Mary Gentle
Ass kicker. I was going to wait until I was finished with this book before I blogged about it, but it's about 1,000 pages, and I'm only at 677. I'm reading slowly, savoring. I'm already getting panicky about what I'll read next, when I'm done with this, that won't taste like table wine after a fine claret, Lone Star after Guinness.
Ass kicker.
Wanting to read stories about tough broads with swords doesn't leave many choices for the library shelf. There are cute broads with swords, romantic broads with swords, religiously devout broads with swords. But a woman mercenary set in medieval times? Delightfully yummy. And it turns out that Ms. Gentle herself is an expert swordsman with a Master's in War Studies.
Mary Gentle's writing is as brave as her heroine. She takes chances, and most of the time, she's spot on. The narrative has made a few turns to some very dark places, maybe a few that I wish I hadn't gone to, having two small babes at home. But the writing is pheonomenal. Ash won the Sidewise Award for Alternate History in 2000, and has received consistent critical praise since then. The themes are complex and the characters beautiful and terrible.
I probably need to read all of Ms. Gentle's works.
Ass kicker.
Wanting to read stories about tough broads with swords doesn't leave many choices for the library shelf. There are cute broads with swords, romantic broads with swords, religiously devout broads with swords. But a woman mercenary set in medieval times? Delightfully yummy. And it turns out that Ms. Gentle herself is an expert swordsman with a Master's in War Studies.
Mary Gentle's writing is as brave as her heroine. She takes chances, and most of the time, she's spot on. The narrative has made a few turns to some very dark places, maybe a few that I wish I hadn't gone to, having two small babes at home. But the writing is pheonomenal. Ash won the Sidewise Award for Alternate History in 2000, and has received consistent critical praise since then. The themes are complex and the characters beautiful and terrible.
I probably need to read all of Ms. Gentle's works.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Deep Breath
Taking an axe to GWENDOLYN'S SWORD. Now that Chapter 1 is fixed, I realize that Chapter 2, an extended flashback, needs to go.
Steady, girl.
I was afraid the months and months of revisions and fixes would take the luster off of the characters for me. Turns out I just love them more. Their little idiosyncracies are coming to light.
Steady, girl.
I was afraid the months and months of revisions and fixes would take the luster off of the characters for me. Turns out I just love them more. Their little idiosyncracies are coming to light.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Three Seconds To Live
She traces a lazy finger through the bead of blood standing on the table, watching the gummy smear trace a maroon river ending in her distinct fingerprint. There is no need to worry about cleaning up. Not this time.
Voices carry over from down the hall. Arguing.
Her nostrils sting with the bitter scent of gunpowder and singed hair. Comforting in its familiarity. Her hands feel light, empty without a gun in them.
Footsteps, one person approaching, pausing in the doorway.
"Get up." He sounds apologetic. His gun is tucked into the waist of his jeans. He's pretending he isn't going to kill her.
"Fuck you."
He swallows, but it doesn't help. His mouth is dry, his hands are wet with sweat. Everything is backwards.
"Please."
She turns to look at him, eyes narrowing, taking in the details. In a manual for reading body language, his posture would be labeled "SHAME." She wonders if the scratches she left on his back two nights ago have healed. She should have dug in deeper. She sucks her lip in and chews the edge of it between her teeth, a distracting gesture while she collects herself. The body seated next to her, torso and remains of head sprawled across the table, will block a bullet. The slender man standing in the doorway in front of her will not.
"I'm going to kill you." It seems only fair that she should inform him, not that she owes him anything, but because that's who she is. She knows who she is. That's why she can do this work, disappear into the vilest worlds to live and breathe in the muck and bring the worst of them out to the surface, to the light of day, to answer for what they have done.
She didn't count on her partner betraying her. She didn't count on him forgetting who he is, switching sides, choosing to stay in this world.
"I don't think -"
"Hey!" She cuts him off.
A tall, thick man walks to the doorway.
"Why is she still here?" he asks the slender man, ignoring her.
"Congratulations, the business is yours now." she says loudly, sure of herself. "So you've got to choose which of us you can trust. Which of us is going to work for you, and which of us is going to screw you. Are you sure you're picking the right one?"
The larger man is young, flush with victory and bloodlust. Easily confused.
"Fucking kill her now or I'll kill you both."
"Ask him what's in the right front pocket of his jeans."
Her partner - ex-partner - freezes, mouth hanging open, staring at her with wide eyes.
The man looks down, thrusts stubby fingers into the other man's jeans pocket and fishes out an object. It's a key to a locker.
"Now ask him what's in the locker."
She knows what's in the locker: spare equipment and supplies for the job. An emergency cell phone, two hundred dollars, an untraceable 9mm and extra bullets. What is not in the locker is the two hundred thousand that went missing two weeks ago, that made everyone nervous, that made the mutiny possible and led to the dead man beside her. That money was long gone.
But the thick man in front of her doesn't know that. All he knows is he's got two cops in his new organization, and only one of them is going to be useful. The other one is going to be dead.
"You stupid -"
In the time that it takes the thick man to pull his gun, the slender one turns and she dives behind the body beside her, waiting for the popping sounds to stop. Shouts and men running up the stairs. Two bodies slumped in the hallway. She picks up an empty chair, throws it through the window, jumps onto the ledge and teeters for a moment. There is nothing to hold onto that isn't jagged and sharp. She bends forward and propels her body out, landing on the grass one floor below. She tries to roll with the impact, tries to protect her ankles and knees and roll under the bushes. In her boot her foot turns badly as her weight crashes on top of it. The crunching is like gravel under a tire. She grits her teeth to stay quiet and rolls against the wall of the apartment building, cutting her arms on the shards of glass lying around her. She has to get up. The men's bodies block the doorway, giving her three more seconds. Three seconds to live. She puts all of her weight on the good leg, pushes with the bad one. She crosses the lawn, into the street, waves down an approaching car and gets in, grateful for unlocked doors.
"Take me to the hospital."
Voices carry over from down the hall. Arguing.
Her nostrils sting with the bitter scent of gunpowder and singed hair. Comforting in its familiarity. Her hands feel light, empty without a gun in them.
Footsteps, one person approaching, pausing in the doorway.
"Get up." He sounds apologetic. His gun is tucked into the waist of his jeans. He's pretending he isn't going to kill her.
"Fuck you."
He swallows, but it doesn't help. His mouth is dry, his hands are wet with sweat. Everything is backwards.
"Please."
She turns to look at him, eyes narrowing, taking in the details. In a manual for reading body language, his posture would be labeled "SHAME." She wonders if the scratches she left on his back two nights ago have healed. She should have dug in deeper. She sucks her lip in and chews the edge of it between her teeth, a distracting gesture while she collects herself. The body seated next to her, torso and remains of head sprawled across the table, will block a bullet. The slender man standing in the doorway in front of her will not.
"I'm going to kill you." It seems only fair that she should inform him, not that she owes him anything, but because that's who she is. She knows who she is. That's why she can do this work, disappear into the vilest worlds to live and breathe in the muck and bring the worst of them out to the surface, to the light of day, to answer for what they have done.
She didn't count on her partner betraying her. She didn't count on him forgetting who he is, switching sides, choosing to stay in this world.
"I don't think -"
"Hey!" She cuts him off.
A tall, thick man walks to the doorway.
"Why is she still here?" he asks the slender man, ignoring her.
"Congratulations, the business is yours now." she says loudly, sure of herself. "So you've got to choose which of us you can trust. Which of us is going to work for you, and which of us is going to screw you. Are you sure you're picking the right one?"
The larger man is young, flush with victory and bloodlust. Easily confused.
"Fucking kill her now or I'll kill you both."
"Ask him what's in the right front pocket of his jeans."
Her partner - ex-partner - freezes, mouth hanging open, staring at her with wide eyes.
The man looks down, thrusts stubby fingers into the other man's jeans pocket and fishes out an object. It's a key to a locker.
"Now ask him what's in the locker."
She knows what's in the locker: spare equipment and supplies for the job. An emergency cell phone, two hundred dollars, an untraceable 9mm and extra bullets. What is not in the locker is the two hundred thousand that went missing two weeks ago, that made everyone nervous, that made the mutiny possible and led to the dead man beside her. That money was long gone.
But the thick man in front of her doesn't know that. All he knows is he's got two cops in his new organization, and only one of them is going to be useful. The other one is going to be dead.
"You stupid -"
In the time that it takes the thick man to pull his gun, the slender one turns and she dives behind the body beside her, waiting for the popping sounds to stop. Shouts and men running up the stairs. Two bodies slumped in the hallway. She picks up an empty chair, throws it through the window, jumps onto the ledge and teeters for a moment. There is nothing to hold onto that isn't jagged and sharp. She bends forward and propels her body out, landing on the grass one floor below. She tries to roll with the impact, tries to protect her ankles and knees and roll under the bushes. In her boot her foot turns badly as her weight crashes on top of it. The crunching is like gravel under a tire. She grits her teeth to stay quiet and rolls against the wall of the apartment building, cutting her arms on the shards of glass lying around her. She has to get up. The men's bodies block the doorway, giving her three more seconds. Three seconds to live. She puts all of her weight on the good leg, pushes with the bad one. She crosses the lawn, into the street, waves down an approaching car and gets in, grateful for unlocked doors.
"Take me to the hospital."
Friday, March 13, 2009
The Sound of One Heart Breaking
I heard back from Goddess Literary Agent. She passed. She gave excellent criticism and I'll dive back into the book and make the narrative stronger and more compelling. But not with her. And so, I'm sad today. I know there are plenty of other agents out there, I just sensed a bit of a kindred spirit with this one, plus she comes across as Smart. As. Hell. Love that in a woman.
I'd love to hear other people's stories about losing out with the agent that they had really hoped to work with. Rejection, in the general form letter sense, is one thing, and I'm seeing it all as just data and feedback to pay attention to and consider but not feel badly about. But this one strikes at a deeper level. I'm actually grieving the lost opportunity. Being a Goddess, her feedback was spot on. If she had a fan club, I'd join it.
I'd love to hear other people's stories about losing out with the agent that they had really hoped to work with. Rejection, in the general form letter sense, is one thing, and I'm seeing it all as just data and feedback to pay attention to and consider but not feel badly about. But this one strikes at a deeper level. I'm actually grieving the lost opportunity. Being a Goddess, her feedback was spot on. If she had a fan club, I'd join it.
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