Woeful Wednesday ROW80 and WIPpet
Yes, a very woeful Wednesday. Yesterday I was putting the finishing touches on Emergence, getting the ARCs ready to send out. I wasn’t satisfied with the last couple paragraphs. The ending felt a little bit like…
At least to me. Which isn’t a bad thing. But it wasn’t the right thing. So I spent some time on my break at work tweaking the last two paragraphs and adding another 800 or so words. It was a thing of dark perfection and foreboding, with lines like, “He dared to breathe only because he refused to die. He had come too far to give in to that petty master.” When I went to open the file at home, to convert it to my ARC…IT WASN’T THERE!!! Even though that blankity-blank-blank-bleep-bleep work computer claimed to have saved it, IT DIDN’T! It saved something I did after that. My ARC of Emergence? Poof!
I’m working on recreating it. It’s like trying to reconstruct a smashed vase.
Okay, so, ROW80 Check-in, right?
- Emergence: Did nothing on the cover, and, well, the above explains the rest.
- Still need to hammer out some semblance of a cohesive plot for CBC.
- Added more words to the first draft of CBC but I didn’t track how many.
- Didn’t spend any time with Medieval Swordsmanship.
- Exercised Monday and Tuesday. Getting my eating back on track.
Okay, WIPpet time. The date is 01/15/14 Hmmmm…..okay, I’m going to give you the first 29 sentences (+ two extra because I liked where that ended better) from page 1 of CBC since I have totally rewritten the beginning to give more of a feel for Driev’s current life.
Moonless nights, only the stars for light, when the darkness is thick as a cloak smothering sight and sound, those are my favorites. Those are the nights it’s possible to move unseen and unheard, flitting from one shadow to the next as nothing more than a wisp of thought.
It is a sad but true fact that the gods don’t give a rat’s balls what I favor.
Perched on a rooftop, huddled beside the chimney for warmth, I pulled my scarf tighter about my neck, and glared at the full moon. The Silver One, her Holiness of the Dark, may bless the edge of a fine blade with her kiss, but she’s no friend to the shadow trades.
I tipped my wine skin back for another pull, frowning when it offered up nothing more than a whiff of the ambrosia it had contained. Damn the gates, I should have brought more. It’s not like the job demanded the utmost skill or concentration. A bantling crack could manage it without getting nabbed. In truth, it was a waste of my talent, but my purse bore a striking resemblance to my wine skin at the moment, minus the pleasant aroma. Hope of refilling one depended wholly on refilling the other.
Voices rose from down Tartan Road, magnified by the sharp, cold air to make it sound as though they came from right beneath me. The water clock on Sounder’s Hill had long since chimed third watch. Not too much longer before it would sound fourth watch, and with it would come the false dawn. Soon after that, the bustling of Runoff coming to life for another day would claim the stillness. I needed to be on my way back to the Tart by then, prize in hand.
I rolled my shoulders back, and pried my head from between them, working the stiffness out of my neck, and shivering as the cold slid beneath my scarf. The houses across from me were no different than the one I sat on: two story, dilapidated, half-timber structures containing shops and homes, wedged up tightly against one another in a sagging row. A line of drunks propping one another up. Most of them with just as little to offer. Not that any building in Runoff had much to offer. In the hierarchy of Mossrae, Runoff stood only a turd’s width above…well, a turd. All bad things flow downhill after all.
The pale, flickering glow of a low-trimmed lantern appeared through the cracks of a shuttered window directly across the way.
“About time,” I murmured, my breath frosting through the silk mask covering the lower half of my face.
I edged away from the chimney to squat on the lip of the roof. The lantern bobbed out of sight, and a moment later the door to the house opened with a protest of cold, rusty hinges. A man stepped out and stretched, grumbling under his breath. He pulled his heavy cloak close around his hulking frame, stomped his feet as though they were already cold, and gave a sharp whistle. A lanky hound trotted out to join him before he jerked the door shut.
They had just stepped into the road when the hound lifted its broad head and scented the air. I narrowed my eyes at the creature, willing it to be gone.
Don’t forget, we had a great WIPterview with Shan Jeniah Burton on Monday, and we’ll have another one on Friday.
Connect with me on Facebook Goodreads Twitter
Read excerpts and buy copies of my works on the Published Works page. e-book & paperback copies also available on Amazon Smashwords Barnes & Noble and other on-line book retailers.