Rae Writes

It’s been awhile since I’ve updated, but at least I can say: I’m caught up on my word count! I’m currently sitting at about 32,000 words, so I’m on target to finish and hit to magic 50k by the end of the month. However, I have decided to leave behind the attempt at a double NaNo this year. It seems that the world is simply not particularly happy with me this month, and I don’t have the energy to write another 68k words before December.

One thing that I have noticed about my current NaNo novel, though, is that I’ve managed to scrape together a lot more words out of it than I originally thought. When I finally had an idea for the plot, it was small. So small, in fact, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to 50k with it, let alone double that.

But I should know my own habits by now, right? It shouldn’t have surprised me that what started out as a very, very short novel idea has now turned into a much larger idea, encompassing three different plot elements where I initially only had one. It turns out that the three ideas I am now weaving together fit rather well, and are able to play off each other and make each one even more important. Even though I am now at 32k, I can’t imagine I am more than a third of the way into this novel. There is just so much more of the story left to tell!

It also means that, because I will likely reach 50k without actually hitting “the end”, I will be continuing to write into December. I want that 50k, and I will make sure it happens – but I also want to finish the novel. I don’t want it to be another almost-novel that gets shoved to the back of the hard drive and forgotten about until next October. I want it to be complete, so I can look back at it and say that, while it may be messy and unreadable, it is a finished novel, and I wrote it. It will give me the confidence I need to write the next one.

Well, what can I say? I can say that I’m seriously behind even pulling off a normal NaNo, let alone a double like I intended. I blame the fact that we have had a lot of stress, food poisoning, chicken pox, and general craziness running through our household so far this month, and it’s only the 8th.

I will not give up, though. I still have three more weeks to get my words, and for most of those weeks I am not at work. That gives me that much more time to get some serious words in. I may even yet make my goal of 100k in a month!

I do at least now know where my plot is going. It’s an amazing thing when you start writing without the faintest idea how your story is going to go. It can lead to false starts, scenes that soon land on the scrap pile, and some characters that you want to murder on the page rather than continue writing about. I have all of the above, sitting nicely in files marked “to be deleted after November”. Because though I hate the words in those files, they are still words that I have written. I am not willing to dash them from my word count just yet.

So… this post doesn’t really have a conclusion. Normally I like to end with a good, closing paragraph, but I just don’t have one in me today.

Three days into NaNo, and I’m already behind. Day one did not go well for me, for although I got off to a good (midnight!) start, my inspiration soon fizzled out, and I was left staring at a very short, incomplete scene where I was completely bored by my characters. I intended to fix this on day two. The problem then became that my arm decided it had quite simply had enough. (Enough of what, exactly, I can’t say. But whatever it is, clearly it was overwhelming for my poor arm.) The shoulder seized up, the entire arm hurt, and my hand swelled up until it more closely resembled a hand-shaped balloon. I got no writing done yesterday. Sad times.

But I’m making up for it! This morning I broke the 3k word mark. That means I’m only 2,000 words short of where I should be by the end of today. I’m planning another sprint tonight, and hoping to get that 2k and be on track. I’m still working out some issues with the characters and the general time line of the plot, but at least I am writing.

This is one of the things I love about NaNo. Having a set goal to get to, and having a time limit, pushes me to get there. It becomes a challenge to see if I can not only get to that goal, but do better. My realistic goal for this month is to hit that magical 50k. My ideal goal for the month is to double that, and write 100k words in a single month. I’ve never done it before, and if I manage it, I will be celebrating. But even if I don’t, and I only manage the 50k, I will be celebrating. For that matter, I may celebrate even if I fail entirely and only manage the 3k I’ve written already.

The point is, I’m writing. I’m pushing myself to write as often as I can without burning out, and really enjoying it. NaNo makes me remember why I love to write. Long live NaNoWriMo!

It’s begun! I was one of those many people who stayed up and watched the clock tick down to midnight, just so I could start writing the minute November began. I didn’t have a main character, or any idea what scene I was going to write. I had only a vague idea of a plot. Thankfully, the tired, logical part of my brain took a much needed rest and allowed my inspiration to take over. I managed to get a good 500 words done in just under half an hour – not bad considering I’ve not had much sleep the last few nights!

I also have a brand new desk to write on, which is incredibly exciting for me. For the last several years, my computer has been living on a writing bureau. Now while this bureau was lovely for writing by hand, the truth is, the only place I could rest the keyboard was on the flip-out surface. The height of it was, quite simply, bad. It was just high enough to make my wrists hurt if I spent too much time typing at it. Not very helpful when one is trying to write 1,667 words a day.

So I bought a new desk. It was not the easiest thing to put together (and massive kudos to my wonderful guy who did a great deal of the work!), but it looks lovely now, and it’s the right height for me to type at. I love it. And hopefully this means I will be able to spend more time writing at it!

Although, I have to admit, part of me just wants to sit at the desk and look at it. It’s just so pretty…

Final note: I realise that a majority of this post may not be interesting to many people – or anybody, for that matter. Oh well. Hopefully enough of my posts here are interesting enough to override the complete blah-ness of some.

It’s nearing the end of October. That means that November is just around corner. And November is my favourite month of the year. NaNoWriMo returns! (If you don’t know what NaNo is, have a look at the site here. Go on, you know you want to. It’s awesome.)

Last year’s NaNo was brilliant for me. I wrote a novel that I loved, the first of my novels that I have truly felt the desire to publish. While it’s not yet ready for that stage, I am hoping to repeat the experience. That said, I’m starting to wonder how I’m going to manage that. The idea I had at the beginning of this month was something I was really looking forward to writing. It needs a good deal of research, but since I like research, that actually appealed to me. It was something that would be familiar to some, but had a supernatural twist to it that would put it squarely in the Historical Fantasy category (which happens to be my favourite genre of fiction).

Then I had a day out at a Sea Life Centre. It was absolutely incredible. I fell in love with the underwater tunnel, and probably would have spent the whole day there if that had been an option. I was inches away from hammerhead sharks, some other sharks (must do more research), and a sea tortoise that was nearly as big as me. Suddenly my little historical fiction story fluttered away and left a symphony of “MUST WRITE SHARKS” in its place.

Now, four days before NaNo is due to begin, I’m scouring my brain for a story that will take me into an underwater world. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone this close to November without knowing exactly what I’m going to write. Actually, this is exactly how my novel from last year came about. Surely that can only be a good thing? A sign that, maybe, I’ve figured out how to get the best stories from muse to paper (screen, whatever)? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough!

It’s been far too long since I’ve done a First Line Friday. This one took me awhile, because I wasn’t sure what kind of story I wanted to write with it, and there were a lot of different ways I could have taken it. As a result, I once again neglected to give myself a time limit to write it. Today’s first line came from the generator here.

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She watched as it crumbled to dust. The last bridge, their only remaining link to safety, fell in a rain of sand into the river far below. The sluggish water sizzled and bubbled as strongly as ever, laughing at the tiny crystals of magical energy pouring uselessly into it.

And then it was gone.

Ajira stared at where the bridge had stood, her feet frozen. Her two bloodied daggers slipped from her fingers and struck the dusty ground. She made no effort to retrieve them.

Beja appeared at her side, her breath coming in short gasps. “How?” Her fingers gripped the rune-carved staff in her hands so tightly her knuckles were white. “How did they pull it down?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ajira took a deep breath to calm her racing mind. “You’ll make another one.”

Beja’s eyes widened. “I can’t.” She looked at the chasm stretching out in front of them. Neither of them could see the other side. It vanished into the mist, as if the world simply ended there. “I don’t have the strength,” Beja said. “It would kill me.”

And if she died, the crafted bridge would only die with her, plunging Ajira, Beja, and their twenty-odd charges into the deadly river. Ajira turned to look over them. Children, all of them, the oldest barely twenty five. None of them with enough grasp on their abilities to stand a chance in a fight, some of them not even sure what their abilities were. All of them tired, hungry, and struggling just to keep moving. All of them too precious to lose.

Ajira turned again, away from the sprawling void, toward their pursuers. They moved slowly over the dusty hills, marching in the orderly formations only an Army of the Sun was capable of. Their unmatched discipline and determination aided them now as they came closer to their prey, stranded at the chasm’s edge.

There was only one option left. Ajira closed her eyes, feeling at the remains of her power reserves. There was enough for one more shift, maybe. It would have to be something big, something powerful. Something that could reach the far edge of the chasm and take the young mages home. But something that big, if she lost control, could just as easily turn on them as save them.

She shuddered. Her last shift had taken her dangerously close to the edge of her humanity. Beja had been forced to strike her once Ajira felt the wild spirit raging through her, trying to sweep her away. Another shift would push her past that edge. If she changed this time, there would be no coming back from it.

“Beja,” Ajira said quietly, low enough so the rescued mages would not hear, “don’t let me reach the other side.”

Beja started to argue. Ajira grabbed her arm, digging her nails in hard enough to leave marks on the exposed skin. She looked Beja in the eye, a solemn certainty falling over her. Beja opened her mouth once, then closed it again as understanding dawned on her. It was followed by despair, and then grim determination. She wrapped one arm around her best friend in a firm embrace and held tight until Ajira pulled away.

Neither of them wasted any time. Beja rounded up the younglings and gathered them close to the chasm’s edge. Ajira stood nearby and drew on her power for the shift.

With an image in her mind, Ajira changed. Her arms and legs lengthened, her knees bent back painfully, her feet grew and burst out of her canvas sandals. Enormous claws ripped from her fingers and toes, and she fell hard on all fours. Coarse red fur pushed through her skin and shredded the battle-scarred remains of her light leather armour. Her face warped until her nose stretched into a snout, her teeth sharpened to fangs, and her eyes took on a deep purple fire. Then, as a whole, her body began to grow. She borrowed from the earth and the air, drawing from the world around her to pack on extra mass, until she towered over those she had sworn to protect. The last thing to shift were her senses. Her sight, smell, and hearing all sharpened, picking out all the sensations around her in startling clarity.

Before her new form even had a chance to draw breath, she felt it coming. A shrill whistle pulsed through her head. Ajira let out a small whine of pain, but latched her thoughts onto the screaming sound and refused to let go. She could not afford to lose control, not yet.

“Ajira!”

She whipped her head around at Beja’s call. The Army had nearly reached them. Ajira moved toward the chasm’s edge, sending up clouds of dirt and dust with every massive step. Then, still gripping tightly to the whistling in her mind, she lowered herself down until her belly rested on the ground.

Beja pushed the young mages forward, many of which had frozen in fear. They had never seen a shift before; they were far too young. Ajira dropped her head onto the ground and closed her eyes, knowing it would do little to ease the pain of the change, but hoping it would anyway. Tiny growls escaped her as two dozen tiny weights scrambled onto her back. Tiny fingers grabbed handfuls of fur and pulled tight, feeling like the bites of fleas on her hide. An overwhelming urge to turn and snap at them rushed through her, and it was all she could do to keep her chin firmly on the ground. Her claws dug deep into the earth with the effort.

“Go,” came Beja’s voice in one of her massive ears.

Something struck the ground nearby. Ajira looked, and saw the Army was within firing range. Their entire front line had halted, knelt on their knees and taken aim. Their weapons, a deadly combination of wand and sling, shot tiny balls of magical energy through the air. They left tiny craters wherever they hit.

Ajira pushed up to her feet as quickly as her mass would allow and turned away from the Army. Several energy balls struck her legs, searing away her new fur and burning the tender skin beneath. She yelped as she backed up a handful of steps, but did not slow. The cries of the Army commanders rung through the air, and the enemy soldiers paused. Then, all at once, they let fly a single, powerful shot, all aimed at their single target.

Ajira howled and sprinted forward, ignoring everything but the whistling in her head. At the edge of the chasm she brought herself as low to the ground as she dared. Then she forced every scrap of energy she still possessed into her savagely muscled legs and jumped. She shot through the mist, leaping blind and fervently praying she had not misjudged the distance. She fell, gaining speed as her enormous body came down from the peak of her jump, her transformed hands scratching and clawing at the space in front of them for anything tangible.

It was an eternity before she finally saw it. The far edge of the chasm, right in front of her. She leaned forward as much as she was able. Her stomach crashed onto the edge. Her front feet scrambled for purchase on the ground, just as dusty and lifeless as the other side, while her back feet kicked at the chasm wall, trying in vain to pull herself up.

“Go, go!”

At Beja’s call, the tiny fleas on her back let go, and crawled over Ajira’s head and onto safe ground. The whistling grew fainter, fading into the background of sensations. As the last of the fleas moved over her head, she snapped at it. There was a cry of pain as she connected with something, and she felt a surge of triumph. She twisted her head slightly to get a better look. A tiny creature, a long stick in her hands, was on the ground, scuffling backward and leaving a red streak in the dust. Something didn’t feel right about it, but Ajira couldn’t understand what.

Then, finally, the whistling was gone.

She barked gleefully as the pressure in her head finally vanished. Now there was nothing but instinct, and hunger, and the urge to run wild. She flexed her claws, digging them into the ground to hold her steady, and opened her maw to finish off the pesky little thing that had dared to bite her.

The tiny creature was faster. It rose up on its legs, the stick held high in the air. It changed colour and let off a bright green glow before it swung downward, directly onto her clawed foot. Pain shot through her leg, and she howled as fur and muscle alike burned away where she had been struck. Before she could pull away, the other foot suffered the same attack. She cried out again in agony, hunger driven away by the desperate need to stop the hurt. There was too much. She couldn’t stand it, couldn’t keep holding on to the burning earth with her mangled paws. Her claws practically melted away, and with it, her balance. Her body slipped backward, sliding down the side of the chasm.

As her head went over the edge, she caught sight of the tiny creature. It was on its knees, tiny head fallen forward, stick abandoned at its side. Then all she could see was misty sky as she fell, and finally plunged into the searing water.

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I’ll have to admit, I did not expect to write this. I started it yesterday (Friday), but wasn’t able to finish it until this morning. I’m not really sure how I feel about it, although I did enjoy writing it. This could be one of those stories that gets tucked away for a long time before I pull it back out for editing. Hopefully the next First Line Friday will be less… heavy, I guess the word would be.

Another one of those questions that seems to keep popping up: how long should a book be? The answer varies drastically depending on what you’re writing, but all in the all, the most common answer is: long enough to tell the story.

Of course, that is not particularly helpful if one is trying to put together a collection of multiple stories. In thinking more about the collection I’d like to put out there, I find myself wondering how long it should be. How many stories should I include? Obviously, this will partially depend on the length of each story. All the same, I’m going back and forth between making it a longer collection, including more content and approaching the size of a typical novel, and keeping it shorter to prevent it from feeling like a doorstop. (The doorstop is not literal. Unless you use a Kindle as a doorstop. In which case, you probably shouldn’t be using a Kindle.)

So, I’m hoping to get some other opinions on this. At what point should I stop adding stories to this collection of mine and say, that’s enough? When does a collection of shorter stories become long enough to be a book?

I’m sure I’ve mentioned at least once (maybe more so, knowing me) that I have a handful of short stories I would like to publish. Including those I’ve been writing for First Line Fridays (which should be returning with more regularity very soon), I have quite a few that, with some editing, I would love to put out there. That said, publishing a collection of short stories is not an easy thing to do. Traditional publishing makes it nearly impossible for a “new” author to do so. Which has made me come to the decision that I will be looking to publish my stories through independent publishing.

This is a scary thought for me. While it has been an idea in my head for quite awhile, when I started taking my writing seriously, it was all but unheard of. I did a lot of research into taking the traditional approach, and had a plan in my head for when I got my novel(s) into good shape. The part where I got a novel into publishable condition took a lot longer than I thought, and while I was working on that, the publishing industry changed. Ebooks became popular. Ereaders appeared. Traditionally published authors began taking the independent way of doing things. An entire world of possibility opened up to authors who struggled to break through the barriers of traditional publishing.

It is this world I’m hoping to take advantage of. Once I finish editing my current novel (which is still in progress, though moving more slowly than I’d like), I will be digging through my short stories, pulling out the best of the bunch, writing a few new ones to go along with them, and taking the plunge. With any luck at all, this will get my foot in the door, and prepare me for whatever comes next.

(I know, I used a lot of metaphors here. Forgive me, it’s still morning. Morning and I don’t get along very well these days.)

I went digging through some of my old stories last night. In the process, I discovered something that was quite clearly once intended to be a novel, but never got there. In fact, it never got beyond the first chapter. I don’t know why it stops right in the middle, but I know that it is, in my opinion, very good, and deserves to be finished.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember writing it. I don’t remember what the plot was, although I can guess at it based on the clues in that unfinished chapter. I don’t remember what I intended to do with it. I don’t even remember why I stopped writing it. The second scene of the chapter just cuts off mid-sentence, in a rather strange place. My only guess was that something distracted me from a writing session, and I simply forgot to go back to that particular story.

This isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten my own stories. Every now and again, I get so involved in what I’m working on that the process of writing it is completely lost on me. Sometimes I will wake up the next day and read through what I’ve written the day before, and not be able to remember putting those words down. Strangely, the words I don’t remember are often the ones I like the most.

It makes me wonder how much of writing is about craft, and how much is just intuition. Would it be possible to write an entire novel this way? Working purely from intuition, rather than thinking about how the story should go? Or would writing that way lead me into a corner that would require me to use craft and logical thought to get myself out again?

And how many other fantastic stories do I have sitting around, just waiting to be rediscovered?

Okay, so this is more like a First Line Saturday. This piece also makes very little sense, even to me. I didn’t write it with any intention of putting an underlying message in it, and I’m not even sure where it came from in my head. But once it showed up on paper, I couldn’t stop.

Today’s first line came from Dragon Writing Prompts.

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“‘Do not tap on glass’ is not a suggestion!”

“Really?” Den gave me a cheeky grin as another of the tiny shrieking nymphs shot overhead.

I batted at a little black creature pulling on my hair. “Don’t you ever follow the rules?”

He shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?” Gleefully he darted to another of the glass trees. Its nymph, a fiery red creature that matched the tree, watched him warily. He raised one arm and knocked firmly on the trunk. The glass cracked, sending a spiderweb of lines up to the top. The nymph screeched, her eyes wide and wild, and she launched herself at Den.

She landed square on his shoulders. Her tiny clawed fingers scratched at the back of his neck while her wings, a pair of razor-sharp sheets that looked like broken stained-glass windows, whistled as they sliced back and forth through the air. The noise she made only added to the din of already agitated nymphs, and I pressed my hands over my ears in a failed attempt to block the sound.
Den shrugged at the nymph and moved toward another tree. As he came closer, the red nymph let out another inhuman shriek and leaped out of the way.

One of them was pulling on my hair again. I whipped around to tug it away, only to find myself staring directly into the black nymph’s eyes. It was like looking into a set of tiny twin mirrors. I could see my panicked face looking back at me. The nymph froze, then slowly raised her arms. Eight glittering talons moved toward me, sharp enough to rip me to shreds in a matter of seconds.

They settled gently on my arm. Shocked, I looked down at the creature’s tiny hands. For the first time, I saw a metal band around her wrist. A series of links connected the band to the base of the only black tree in the enclosure. The nymph followed my gaze, then solemnly fluttered back to her tree without a backward glance.

The world froze, for just a moment, but it felt so much longer. I stared at the enclosure, full of trees, their arching branches bearing the nymph-made sheets of glass, so perfect in their myriad of colours. And the nymphs, all of them, chained to their trees, created of the same glass they spun each night. Created by foolish people who believed they could create life and do with it what they pleased.

Everything snapped back into focus. More of the nymphs were zipping through the air now, but this time I could see how they did not move far, how they stopped just before their chains pulled taught. How they screamed as their trees were splintered by Den, still marching through the enclosure and laying his fists to every one he passed.

I stooped long enough to pick up the metal pole that had been holding up the “Do not tap on glass” sign that Den had cheerfully knocked over. I gripped the smooth pole in my hand and marched over to the black tree, where the nymph peered down at me from a low branch. Quickly, before I had the chance to change my mind, I lifted the pole up over my shoulder and swung it down hard.

It struck the tree and sent a shower of glass splinters into the air. The black nymph howled, but did not attack. I struck again, seeing the cracks weave up through the trunk and through the branches. One final swing, and the tree trunk made an ear-rattling crack – then started to tip.

I threw myself out of the way as it came crashing to the dirt floor. Shards of glass spilled in all directions, slashing my unprotected calves and arms. Only when it stopped did I dare to look up, to see what I had done.

The black nymph hovered in the air in front of me. The chain had been caught beneath the tree as it fell, and now the links had been roughly sliced so that only a few inches still hung from her wrist. She was staring at the broken chain, as if she didn’t understand what it meant.

I pushed up to my feet, ignoring the stunned expression from Den standing only a few steps away. Once again I grabbed the sign pole, then fixed the nymph with a firm stare.

“Go.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. The nymph rocketed upward, toward the netted roof of the enclosure. Her wings made short work of the impossibly strong netting, and she disappeared through the hole she’d made in it.

I glanced at Den. He was sporting a few new cuts on his face, but his eyes had lit up. Silently I handed him the pole.

“Don’t tap on the glass,” I said in the sudden quiet. “Bring it down hard.”

The nymphs shrieked with anticipation and joy.