Saturday, March 28, 2015

Writing Two Novels at the Time

I'm sure it's not a new thing to be writing two novels at the time. But I'm doing it. I've given in to the daily and nightly stream of ideas being generated in my unconscious mind and sent into my awareness for dealing. Or some such mental process. And writing it all down. It's a new thing for me, ideas glissading at me non stop. Who am I to deny any of them?

I know I'm going against best practice, and writerly advice, and all the other well-meant commentary as well as pedantry like: You'll see what I'm talking about. Wait and see. Progress on both is slowed. Can you afford the time?

I'm putting them in the virtual corn-cob pipe I suck on while I'm typing. Because I'm working on/typing out the stories alternately, spending a few days on each. Right now I have Cele King the MC in EarthFall, the Monster-Moored prequel, being given a gift to deliver to Allie, her live-in Antagonist.

I've borrowed an image from https://www.pinterest.com/june13/dolls/ to illustrate: (Good stuff on this site, check it out)

This image with just the right sort of innocence to contrast with the macabre thing
to happen to them. 
The gift (different in looks but with same general idea) is being made in the scene below. 

Nancy wrenched her bulk out of her chair. She went to her craft cupboard and gathered some things into a basket. Spread everything onto shop counter. Two of everything, with pink things predominating. “I’ll give you something to take back with you from us, to make her feel better about coming in.”

“That’s good thinking,” Maeve said.

Cele nodded. “I’ll have Nalbo give it to her. She has a hate thing going toward me."

Nancy caught two round white soaps in a pale pink lawn hanky each, and passed them to Maeve one by one, for Maeve to catch the corners of the hankies together and make a neck with an elastic band.

Then Nancy took them back and folded a white face flannel around each of the hankies to make a little body, sewing the shoulders to the pink necks with a couple of stitches.

She lay each baby diagonally on a pink face flannel and swaddled it together, stitching the outlines of the arms with a darning needle threaded with pink yarn. She sewed each of the top triangles with smaller needle and small stitches to make a hood.

She lay the babies together yin-yang style, each little head on her sister’s feet, and caught a few stitches here and there to fix them in position.

Cele glanced up at triangular window in the elbow of the roof. The colour in the sky meant it was middle afternoon. “I should be going soon.”

“I need to mark in their faces,” Nancy said. “What have we got, Maeve?”

“Eyebrow liner?”

“Of course we have. Can you believe I sold a pencil of that yesterday. Well, gave it away. Young hussy making eyes at the Orbit boy.”

“That reminds me,” Maeve said. “Young Orbit is due tomorrow. We sort and pack the rest of the day, and that night. I make a run the next day. Have to because of the perishables people ask for.” She shrugged. “Instead of stores against a rainy day, you’d think.”

“Which we are doing for them,” Nancy added.

“So. I can pick up Allie the day after tomorrow?”

“Wonderful!” Cele said. “I really think that will work better than what is being planned.”

“You bet,” Maeve said. “Imagine me making a midwife call out there?”

“There you are,” Nancy handed Cele the dolls. “Gave them a bit of individuality as well. One of the dolls smiled. The other stared seriously.

“Marvellous, Nance. And you did that with two dots and a line each.” Cele packed the dolls gently into her backpack, despite that she should be in a hurry. Nalbo I love you. “Here’s my list. I can’t come home with it. Can’t drop it anywhere. Make a fire with it. I’ve really got to get going. I’ll go out the front, if I may?”




Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Amble, Part 3

What I should be writing is .... the prequel to ...

Monster Moored, a novel still hanging around unpublished. With a beautiful front cover, ready to go ...
 

I know I'm slow, when in my Google+ writing groups people are publishing constantly. Talking about publishing. Talking about marketing. Talking the talk.

My health is slowing me up. Dare I say my age is starting to slow me up? Regular life is slowing me up. I'm at a stage where Writing, with all its bells and whistles, can not be number one. Bummer.

Following is Page 1 of what I would like to be writing. 

Amble woke in someone else’s skin, seeing through not-his-own eyes. A woman’s. Impossible. It was only men and herd animals he could be, for the weit sicht.

Then he remembered. She lay her hand on him. Made him hers. The Esse. The damned stone wolf called her that.

All he saw through her eyes were bare grey walls. She woke to an empty room. As though she'd been abandoned as a piece of collateral shit.

Zap!

That sound. He opened one eye. The newly re-upholstered seat-back of his own cab? A hole in it! With clean cream foam rubber bulging out.

Za-att!

Another hole, closer to him. The scream of a projectile followed it an instant later. Windscreen totally gone? How? He was being shot at?

Both shots too high. Safe for now. Don’t move, just feel. Observe.

Hurt. Handbrake digging into his side. He lay across the seats of his own car. Knees under the steering wheel.

“I want to see a white flag, Surly!”

Surly? Yeah well, who he used to be. Don’t give them the satisfaction of telling them he was awake. Esse stood waiting for a bus. Busy city streets in the background. Not the person she was, either. A crow on that sign near her. Keeping her company?

Caw caw.

A couple of them flew across above him. He glimpsed the scene through their eyes. An open valley. Eucalyptus forest either side. A creek/gully at the feet of the southern trees. …..

The rear vision mirror angled into the car bothered him. What if the damned shooters could see him reflected? Shoot at the pretty toys dangling from the mirror you dumb bastard and show me where you are. He blew at the charms hanging from it. Delayed reaction while the force travelled through the air. There, they jiggled.

Flup!

“What the fuck are you shooting at?” Older voice. Man in charge.

“Ow! He moved! Something moved! If only we had some real guns!”

At least two of them. They were close. And ha ha ha, they didn’t have a real gun. The sun’s rays were nearly level with the dash. Early morning. The Esse was on a bus making for the harbour. The crow flew ahead. Go Esse. I am with you.


“The passenger door is swinging open. Shoot?”

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Reading, Writing, Writing, Writing.

A story is as ephemeral as clouds before it is written down, or memorised, or told. 

I've been reading #Saturdayscenes, the local newspaper, brochures and leaflets
for I cannot read a novel while I am writing one.

I've been editing Tech Wizard Bard one last time. Found out just now I missed at least one passive sentence.

I've been writing a second draft of the Cele King and the Alien story. It's the hard grind, the have-to, the sit-down-and-do-it story. It's the prequel to Monster-Moored and I can't take its protagonist further in his story until I have the Cele King and her grand daughter waiting for him at the Reefarium.

And I've been writing Amble's Story. It's a first draft, just getting my ideas down. I write long hand and shorthand, with biro and by keying in. I'm very partial to Amble just now.

And very conscious of a story's kinship to clouds before it is written down.