just another time i'm caught inside
every open eye
holding on tightly to the sides
never quite learning why
I recently did this new-to-me thing called "word warring," in which you connect with one+ people online, block out a certain amount of time, and then write as much as you can in that time period. Whoever writes the most...wins? Being an insular writer, I always thought I was slow and stupid when it came to the mechanical process of writing. Turns out, I'm comparatively quick. (But it's so stressful and I avoid stress as much as possible. O_o)
But this exercise has got me through some of the sticky parts of Drakeshelm and I am definitely farther along than I would otherwise have been. The manuscript is now roughly 43,160+ words; I guess when you consider how late in the year I started it and how much I've had to deal with in the latter half of 2015, that's not too shabby a showing.
the electric charge
of a change in the weather
you were touching my arm
you were holding a feather
and then i opened my eyes
CHVRCHES, Shearwater, Rachel Platten. My music list for this novel is small, and frequently the songs have very little* to do with the plot itself. I think it's more the spirit of the thing which agrees with me. I need a kind of militant energy and a strong undertone within the music to help me construct my writing.
Welcome to the outer Hebrides. It isn't usually until I'm well into the plot before I can give my readers a rough summary of what I'm writing. You know I tend to feel my way as I go. In Plenilune you were thrown headlong into the heart of the Honours' world; now in Drakeshelm you're perched on the windy outer rim with little civilization, where people live with a trowel in one hand and a sword in the other. Our characters don't have much in common save their pride and their struggle for survival.
“I am not a devil,” she said, “although I prove myself to no one.”
“It was a mess, and some doing was needed to tidy it,” she curtailed her story. “It was decided that being finely dressed and looking pretty was a luxury I could lay aside for the time being. I took my legate year in Capys and took up the Green Branch shortly after.” She jerked her shoulders. “And here you find me.”
“Insane creature! Malamour outranks Touchlight, she must know that.”
In a voice of almost demonic depth, Drakeshelm shouted: “Where is the captain of the Beacon tower?”
Carrilus took a step back, stunned.
With a scream of rage, she bounded for the next stone, but at the same instant Destrian was on her. The leap swept her up into his arms; he pitched backward, hauling her writhing body after him. He was a tall, spare man, and she gave him a wretched fight of it. Alwin watched her twist and reach, pulling, jabbing, every motion at once calculated and desperate. He saw her pitch round in Destrian’s arms, her mouth open in a snarl—then she saw who held her, and of a sudden the fight went out of her like a candle blown out in the wind.
With a sigh she shoved her thumb and first finger up under the captain’s throat, into the soft of his jaw. The skin was thick, rough with stubble, gritty with blowback dust from the explosion. Under it all beat the throb-throb scarlet of his pulse. In her own chest, her heart felt like a ring of golden light as the thrill of it passed through her nerves.
“If there is a world made out of pain and fire and darkness—hell, perhaps? I must have been there. I saw nothing. But I remember a woman’s voice like the archangel yelling across the vault to find me. I don’t know who she was or where to find her. I don’t know why she called for me. But I got out somehow. I don’t know how. I don’t know. I smelled something strange…”
“Aye, something strange in the kindling,” [she murmured]. “Lucky you are to be alive and altogether,” she added, “and not blown to pieces. You’re a rummy one. Hush, now. Sleep. Sleep without dreams. It will be better that way.” She put her hand across his brow and when she drew it away, his breathing was falling soft and heavy, the quick lashing behind his eyelids had ceased.
With his tattered wadmal hauled roughshod over his lobsterstail, his face beneath its rim scored with rime and care, the orderly jerked up his chin at the Sluice door, as if it had any bearing on his words.
“Malamour is without.”
"Whatever you think of Krichirin, he bears you no affection.” The word came torn at the edges by his teeth. “He will give you no quarter, not even if you manage to deliver the consul to him.”
Quietly, the orderly mused, “Sometimes I am not sure which is the more dangerous, the consul or the Higu-Carmarthens.”
Alwin laughed. “Oh, the consul, for sure.”
*katie hates it when I use "very" and "little." they're crutch words. XD