What Is That Penslayer Girl Plotting?

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I mentioned in a comment that I have (I think) twelve novels in the running, and then I thought, Why not mention them in a little more detail so you can get an idea of what I'm up to, what I'll be up to, and what you have to look forward to?
plenilunar
Ethandune.  You probably remember that I wrote this one in 2013 over the course of two months.  The first draft needs lots of work: revision, expansion, overhaul, etc.  It needn't be large: my whole goal in writing it (besides writing a good story) was to keep it on the small side.  But I'm not satisfied with the first draft (who ever is?) and I won't show it to you until it is as perfect as mortal can make it.

Talldogs.  This is my current work-in-progress.  I am almost finished with the first draft - in fact, I should probably be working on that instead of writing this post. 

Lamblight.  What is shaping in my head to be a kind of murder thriller.  I know I am in no way ready to tackle this one, however, so even though it follows on the heels of Talldogs, I probably won't write it directly after my work-in-progress.  We'll see what I end up taking on next.

Maresgate.  This one is hard to nail down.  I have components of plot, but I haven't determined how to write it yet.  You know how this goes.  Again, while this comes after Lamblight in the Plenilunar sequence, I may not write it in chronological order.  Here's to C.S. Lewis and all that jazz.

Cruxgang.  Partially more clear in my head than Lamblight or Maresgate, but still fuzzy.  I can say that you should be able to revisit some of your favourite Plenilune characters here, and get a taste of Honour-Carmarthen interaction.  Cheers!

Amaranth.  This is a more tentative novel.  I have only a few catalyst ideas and don't yet know how to unfold them.  We'll see how this one grows.

Drakeshelm.  Possibly the meatiest of the Plenilunar novels in terms of what I have in my head thus far.  Of all my pending documents, I think Drakeshelm has the most contributions to its size; consequently it is the clearest in my mind.  I may wind up writing this one after Talldogs.  Stay tuned for inevitable developments.

DondonnĂ©.  Like Amaranth, this is a tentative idea, but I would like to flesh it out and pursue it one day.

Ampersand.  This one may be my darling notion.  I'm not sure why - it feels almost nostalgic, which means it feels familiar and sweet and it breaks your heart at the same time.  I don't know when I'll write this one.  It needs a lot of brainstorming, plotting, and organization.  I hope you'll like it.
et al
Between Earth & Sky.  I am already 74,328 words into this novel, but I stopped to work on Plenilune.  Looking back over the some odd seventy-four thousands words, it still looks promising.  I look forward to returning to this novel.

Gingerune.  Also put on hiatus for multiple (good) reasons.  I don't know when I'll get back to it, but assuming I live long enough, I will get there.

Adamantine.  This story has gone through several drafts, more than I can count.  It was my first serious foray into novel writing, after years of preparation.  Unfortunately, the current draft is still what I consider threshold material, somewhere between my excruciating elementary work and where I am now: it isn't quite up to snuff.  My tinkering-ideas have so overhauled the plot that it will probably look very little like the original when I am done with it.
in conclusion
There are a number of stories here that I began and had to put aside.  In case people were worried that I got bored of them and might never return, I want to assure you that is not so.  I had to put those stories aside for rational, legitimate reasons, and I eagerly await returning to them. 

Here are my current twelve ideas in varying stages of undress: half done, nearly done, dabbled begun, unbegun, etc.  Considering how long it takes me to write my average draft, revise it, and polish it off (upwards of years), I should be kept busy for some time - and hopefully you all have something to look forward to!

The Mendicant

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There hasn't been a lot of will for creativity lately.  I should certainly like to be writing, but mostly I am empty, so I've been reading.  Such times happen.  However, on a whim I was able to craft a tiny something for Rachel's Chatterbox this month.  I'm toying with a new method of work for the future, one which will include more study and less buckle-down writing, but will hopefully make room for "sketches" to keep me toned and hopefully to help exercise what I learn in my studies.  You could call the following a sketch.  I hope you enjoy!
chatterbox: superstition


The best way to understand the nature of the trinity is when one is in a dream.
I was coming down an uneven screeside, covered over now in thick grasses and clumps of broom late-blooming and alight with the red sunset.  The world was half and half around me, the hills topped with the burnished glow of the sun, the zigzag valleys between drenched in dark.  Going down into that dark was not, as often is in dreams, like going into a smothering closeness: it was like wrapping a rug round one’s head and burrowing into a pillow.  But I lingered, watching myself linger, on the shore of light and darkness, and surveyed the landscape.  The ground was soft, the air cool, both heart-breakingly coloured.  I, all parts of me, that which I was and which watched me at the same time, might sit down a moment and rest from the bite of frost, the unrepentant ring of metal, the slab of stone under a palm, which accented my life.
Without turning my head I saw behind me the approach of small, rough-coated goats, trotting through the runnels of sunlight and dusk of the scree, the foremost with its bell jingling and flashing like a star.  They bore marks of woad-blue on their flanks, and soon their herder emerged from the rocks above them, hovering on the brink of cumbrous earth and thin heaven.
I turned my body to see.
It was a woman who stood on the barren jut of rock, the crook in her hand tufted at one end to make of it a hearthside broom.  Her hair, blazing uncannily white in the yellow dusk, ran riot around her features, loose and wild in the wind.  She wore the ample folds of a gown about her tall, tragic frame, woven of coarse, country stuff, belted in a fraying length of tartan cloth which the dream muddied from recognition.
For a moment I was unmarked.  I watched, my limbs enchanted, as the wingless fey surveyed the vale as I had, her young, snapping brown eye glancing with sunsetlight out from the shifting veil of her hair.  The goats milled around her, streaming past her over the grass.  She oversaw them, vigilant and exquisitely sad, and she did not move.  I felt a movement would break her.
I watched her see me, suddenly, outside my body looking on at the interview with painful interest.  The eyes swelled with surprise—not terror, I noticed, but something like a rally against terror.  Never in my life, and perhaps never again, would I experience the power of exerting something like fear over another so adamantly endowed with native endurance.  It was a moment shortly lived.
“Thou.”  As she spoke, she lifted her arm, the free arm—she clutched her staff, half shepherd’s crook, half witch’s broom, in the other arm immobile.  Thou.  With deliberate step she came forward, down the scree, moving smoothly through the knee-high grass.  The yellow broom-flowers snapped and swirled in the air as she trod them loose.  But I watched transfixed as I stared into those eyes, come closer, closer, wild alight with what I first thought was passion: as she drew to me, but a yard off, I saw it was desperation. 
She stopped and the wind hurled her white hair from her face.  I saw she was merely a girl, high-crafted, too noble for her vocation.  She knew it, too, and though the Latin which she spoke to me was heavy with some other accent I did not know, rendering it almost inarticulate, her voice was imperative.
“Thou!  Help me!”  She stretched out her hand again, fingers shivering with the power of her request.  Now I saw her eyes were wide with genuine terror, terror of some other thing not myself.  Her hand shook in the air; the clasp on her crook trembled.  The wind was gaining strength, turning cold.  I heard the goats begin to bleat piteously and raw, unfettered fear stung my heart.  “Help me!” she cried.  “Help me!  I beseech thee!  Soldier-fey, help me!”
In total darkness the woman was swept up: burnt hillside and dark vale alike were lost.  I heard the wind: within it I heard a canine howl that struck my heart with frozen dread.  A clamour of hoofbeats rang in my skull.  Feeling as though I fell, I stumbled into the vestibule of the nightmare to see two eyes, hellish red and bodiless, staring bloodshot at me a hand-span from my face.
“Lord Duke!”
Called back by lungs infused with living blood, I swung round, within my body once again, sitting up in my cot in my own sleeping cell.  Weak dawnlight stroked the stone wall opposite my window.  In the distance, the bell rang the morning sacrifices. 
“Sir?”
My eyes cleared and I saw Hilarion standing in the doorway, mottled wings livid with the torchlight shining from the wall beyond.  There was frost on their edges: real, cold frost that somehow anchoured me to life.
“Are you awake?” he asked.  “You sat awhile staring, and I did not think you were.”
“Yes,” I replied shortly, breathlessly.  I looked back to the wall at the end of my cot, at the striped rug which covered my knees, at the stark memory which broken dreams leave on the mind.  “Yes, I am awake.”
But in truth, I was not so sure.