I am three parts lazy, two parts bereft of ideas, and six parts bad at math. And that is why The Penslayer has been so quiet lately. But I think you do care about my writing and I like to tell you how things are going, I just don't always have a meaningful update to give. "I'm writing. I'm still writing. I've petered off for now. Okay, I'm writing again," is an accurate but dull description of my progress.
My "current work-in-progress" is Drakeshelm, one of my Plenilunar novels. It's pretty far down the chronological line, but I don't like putting novels on hold which are bursting to be written, because then I lose the inspiration and the story isn't as good when I go to write it later. So I'm working on that now. At the risk of jinxing myself, the storyline is coming along nicely. This is the first time I am writing in the third person from two separate characters' points of view, and the trick is to make sure my readers don't feel sorry to leave one character behind and try to rush through the next character to get back to the first. Because, let's face it, we've all read those books. Both characters need to be equally engaging. And it is not easy.current work
Alongside Drakeshelm, I am also allowing my rewrite for Adamantine to bob up now and then whenever I get the inspiration for a scene. I am intensely excited for this novel. I have almost completely divorced myself from the original draft, and very nearly cut myself free of the nagging terror that this draft won't be as good as the first. Mirriam said "It's more like the dreams other books have when they go to sleep," and I think that is pretty much accurate. And just in case anyone still needs a little more convincing that this draft is going to be in lockstep with what you have come to expect from the Penslayer (yours truly, not the blog), allow me to favour you with one of my current favourite clips. Enjoy!dabbles
I could smell the electric spirit reaching fever pitch and I knew it was too strong. In a panic I leapt forward, my staff crosswise over my body, and screamed into the gale, “Fall back! fall back to me!” with every nerve straining to make my voice heard through the tempest.
They heard me. The roaring turned on its heel and seemed to rear up into a howling shriek which rattled my bones. Out of the fireshot darkness came first one streaking white weasel, then another—then they were fleeing past me like a comet storm while the Good Dog filled the void behind me and made for them a bulwark against the onslaught. My skin felt raw with their light, my nerves were breaking with blast and surge and thunder and the effort to hold it all together. The last little spirit shot behind me and something in me almost had time to whisper, It is over, get gone at once! but then I sobbed with heartbreak for at the same moment I saw it was not.
The storm came at me out of the vale, hurling aside the trees, burning sky and landscape in a titanic lightning battle that shivered and sheared and turned the marrow in my bones to vapour. I could not move. It rushed up the hillside at me in a manic wall of fire, cracking off thunderbolts from a dozen places at once so that the air bled with energy. Every hair on my body rose on end as the electricity coursed in blue streaks across my flesh. It roared up to me—
And stopped. Out of the wall but inches from my blood-drained face shivered a crack and materialized a mask of ivory and scarlet geometrics, caught in a mimicry of a snarl, and I came face to face with the Weapon.