Nanowrimo 2010

First of all, I wanted to remind you that there's only 3 days left before the submission deadline for the Amazing First Chapter contest.  We only have 4 entries, so you guys better get cracking!  :D  Surely you all must be nearly done with your edits by now... so send those chapters to me without any further delay.  The prizes are great, and you don't want to miss out.  Get them up there before there's no time left!

And now on to the subject of this post.

Do, do, do! *trumpet sounds*

Nanowrimo!

For those of you who don't know, the extremely funky word "Nanowrimo" actually stands for National Novel Writing Month in which participants from all over the world attempt to write 50k of a new novel in only 30 days.  I did Nano last year for the first time, and managed 40k before everything became too hectic for me.  This year, I'm going to try something a little different... perhaps even "forbidden" by some standards.  

Instead of writing 50k of a completely new novel, I'm going to attempt to REWRITE 50k of "Eldrei".

That's right; I'm being a rebel.  I'm crossing that line that should never be crossed... and I like it!

Well, in honor of my rebelism, I decided to create a book-trailer for Eldrei this year.  It took me most of a night and part of the next day, but I finally got it finished according to my standards.  Just a note, the photographs and pictures used belong to their respected owners, and the music is "Caislien Oir" done by Clannad.

The Dusty Glory of the Unedited

So in honor of Banned Book Week, I have decided to participate in The Rejectionist's little Uncontest thing.  In order to do this I must post a piece of unedited work from my journal, but in my journal's absence, (I have no idea where I put the stupid thing), I've decided to post parts of the original draft of Eldrei instead.

It was very interesting going back through this, I can tell you!  I just shake my head... I've learned so much since that first draft.  So without further ado, (and for your humorous enjoyment), I give you the original prologue of Eldrei in all its unedited, very purple raweness.

***

The night was chilled, the sky clear and dark cobalt with stars that glistened like studded jewels. A cold wind howled over the mountains; its many voices echoed through the crags and caverns in eerie moans. High above the mountains the single figure of a Pegasus flew silhouetted against the stars. Its silver-white color was muted in the darkness, the light of the moon dimly visible through its translucent wings. The wing feathers glistened like starlit rain beneath the silver light. If one listened, a strange song could be heard coming forth from its inhuman lips:

Eldrëi os Enin ûrn melnorë dest vaenr

Melnorë shïahn lïr ev im fïunr

Lïr esten rêdant os lïr esten vansrï

Ïnd im eliath ahstal lïr oglah ëahsrï

Esten ëahsrï ûrn shlenga ev eliath

Hwitr im ôlandrë; valla im fïunr cahlath

Cahlath tërh im myûrn tûr trahs emrï im fïun

Esten trûr ahstal drassa ûartahm lathëûn

Yërh ûrn ceiron trahs vahl ahsr ahtanï?(1)



The song continued, rising into the night: a heartrending lament, grieving the wrongs of the land. Below, the earth trembled, awakening to remember all of its loss, all the sorrows it had faced. Those who could understand the words cried unashamedly.

Higher than the Pegasus, up in the dome of the heavens themselves, stood a woman looking down on the earth far below. She was so fair that the brightest and most perfect sapphire ever mined was shamed at the sight of her deep blue eyes. Her hair fell in near liquid torrents of gold, shining like the sun itself with just the slightest gleam of moon rays woven in. Her lips, deep red, set against a fair and queenly complexion, might have been what inspired the rose to don such an elegant gown. Her robes, sparkling silver and aqua, shimmered with the light of stars. Indeed, the Lady was herself a star, the Queen of the stars no less, but her beauty was marred with worry that night as she looked down anxiously past her unshod feet to the land of Midgard far in the west, where a band of wanderers stumbled through an uninhabited, adverse wasteland. The only comfort to be drawn from the hostile earth came from the presence of a wide but shallow river slowly snaking its way across the land in a shimmering, meandering ribbon. But the presence of water had no visible affect on the land around.

Her intense gaze followed two small figures struggling to keep up at the end of the caravan. As the boy stumbled, the girl helped him to his feet. “Em hithrar valstor, esten frëar,”(2) she whispered into the darkness, nervously grasping the silver pendant strung about her neck.

As she gazed ceaselessly down on the land below, the sun crept up in the east, splaying his golden fingers to grasp the land in his embrace as the stars and moon began to fade away. And as the dawn crept over the hills in hues of peach and gold, the Pegasus flew east and disappeared from view in the rays of the rising sun.

*****

Down on the ground, not far from Ithin Renue — a large pillar of grey stone jutting up from the ground like a finger frozen in rock — there waited impatiently a coal-black horse. Its dark coat stood out against the bright sun like the shaded, clinging remnants of night, and its eyes glowed red like a dying flame. The rider on its back had a look that could send chills down even the bravest’s back. He held the reins tightly in a thin hand. Covered from head to toe in a cloak as black as death, the only thing that was quite visible was the sheath of a sword and the sword’s hilt sticking out of the cloak, both of which were the color of the darkest midnight. The sword blade, though hidden at the time, was a cruel and twisted thing, made of black steel like its owner. The blood drain was colored crimson, stained by the blood it’d spilt so many times before.

The rider’s hood was pulled far over his face to hide it from the light of the sun; what could be seen of his hands was but a shadow. The horse grunted impatiently and stamped a hoof to the ground. The rider turned and looked into the west where his sharp eyes saw, far off, the shimmering leaves of the golden tree as the early rays of the sun hit them—and farther than that, over the border of Nerovell, he saw the mountain rift of Kreshin rising up against the western horizon from the lands of Midgard like great ominous walls of some ancient time when the land was ruled by giants.

They stood and waited until midday, horse and rider, and finally a small figure could be seen coming toward them from the west. It was a sickly green, brownish-gray color and wore no clothes, nor had it fur or plumage of any kind. Its horrible, stretched-taut skin revealed its gaunt skeleton in a most grotesque manner. Its long tail, vaguely resembling a snake, flicked back and forth as it approached, just as a cat’s might. The creature walked on all fours with its extraordinarily long limbs moving it forward quickly. Its back was twisted and misshapen; its hands and feet, disproportionately large. Approaching the black horse, it fell beneath the gaze of the cloaked figure, wretchedly groveling at the horse’s hooves.

“They are now on their way easht to the Mountain Rift of Kreshin,” it said in a thin and tortured voice, hissing through its teeth. “It will not be long and you will have them in your grashp.”

The cloaked figure looked out over the western plain; a sneer of satisfaction escaped from its throat. In a hollow voice as cold as ice it spoke, clear loathe of the creature evident in its every word. “You're sure they're unaware of you?”

“They know not that we follow.”

“Good. Go then and keep track of their progress. I want to be notified as soon as they cross the border. They shall not get far.”

The scrawny being bowed its head low and touched it to the ground. Then it turned and raced westward as fast as it could go. The black horse grunted and the rider tightened his grip on the reins, letting out an evil chuckle as he thought of how easy his task was to be. Two small children were all that he was required to capture… two children and then the task was done. It seemed almost a joke. Surely his master couldn’t think this a difficult undertaking!

He drew out the sword and stared at the coal-black blade as he spoke absently to his horse. “This shall be effortless. All I need do is capture two witless, worthless babes and I shall be done—but what would he want with children?” He shrugged and resheathed his sword. That was not something he needed to be concerned about; let his master keep his reasons. He need only do as commanded.

Laughing darkly, he turned the horse east, galloping over the plains toward a forest some days’ ride away. It would take him only a matter of hours.

***
 
Wow... talk about "NOT NEEDED"!  Pretty much all of this has been completely taken out and worked into the story in some other way, and that poem thing has been completely redone as a prophesy.  Yeah... old and a bit embaressing... oh, but believe me; it gets better.  I just can't post this wonderful awfulness right now because of a contest I'm in... because, it has my character names in it, and that would mean people would know which entry is mine, which is forbidden... XD

Accountability and the Writer – The True Challenge

Start the ominous music, right?  That title just screams "Run Away!"

I mean, as a writer I like to work on my own time, go with the flow, wait until I'm inspired. Because of that, this is a subject that I often try to get around – at least in my writing life.

But here's the thing; as a college student, I practice accountability every day. I need to be at school on time, sitting in that classroom and taking notes. I need to get my homework in when it's due, or make sure I have that report written. I need to be ready for that test.

When at work, I need to focus on my job because I am accountable to my boss and to the people I work with. (Granted, I don't exactly have a solid job currently, but even with my chores around the house, I am accountable to myself and to my family.)

And I need to be accountable to God: I need to pray daily and make sure I have my heart set right before him every morning.

If I can be accountable in all these other points of my life, then why can't I be accountable in my writing life as well?

A common remark I hear from artsy friends (and that I sometimes harbor myself) is this simple truth… "You can't rush art". And as many of us know, writing is an art-form. But a common misconception among writers is that, at the root, this saying means "wait until you are inspired and write then." I've done that before.
Sometimes it works; other times it doesn't.

But here's the thing; if you write only when you are inspired, it might be months before you sit down in front of your computer screen again and type a few words. However, if, like me, you are basing your entire future on writing and the ups and downs of the publishing world, then once every few months isn't going to cut it. You need to have your book written and be working on another one, and you can't afford to have a really crappy first draft.

This is where accountability really starts to apply. As a writer, you are accountable to your future publisher and your readers to do everything within your power to write your book the best that it can be and to do it in a timely fashion.

Let's look at Bryan Davis, for example: in an interview I once read with the author of four best-selling Christian Fantasy series, Davis stated that he usually completes a book in 4 months: 3 months for the writing, and 1 for editing. Now, we can't all be like Davis, I'm sure  (I, for one, have to work around a school schedule, musical practice, and work, along with family life), but his example is admirable. If he can do it in four months, why can't I do it in six, or even eight? I may not always be inspired to write but, like I do with every other part of my busy schedule, I can work a time in that's dedicated to nothing but writing.  And, at that time, I can sit my butt down in that chair and type out SOMETHING, even if I'm not all that happy with how the scene reads at the end of the session.  I can always go back and fix it later.

Some of you may say, "well, yeah, that works fine for a rough draft, but what about the second draft or the edit? I want my book to be perfect, and if that's going to happen I need to take my time on it."

Yeah, that's a tricky subject; I like to take my time on the edits as well. But if Davis can manage his edits in a month, then why on earth can't I keep my editing down to 2 or 3? After all, the basic story is already there; I just want to make sure it's written well.

So what can a writer do to become accountable to their writings?

1. 
   
   Go ahead; schedule in that writing time each day, and then be faithful to yourself and make yourself sit down at that time of day and write… no matter what. I don't care if the world is falling apart and aliens are invading at the same time that all life as we know it is about to be snuffed out. Write! You have no one to blame but yourself if your story never gets finished.
   
   
2. 
   
   Research. This isn't always the most fun part of being accountable to your writing, but it usually comes in handy at some time or other. Now, if you are a fantasy or Sci-fi writer (as I am) then perhaps the hard-core science and history research isn't your thing, but that doesn't exclude you from this step. This step is vital. If nothing else, research your craft: that means look up books about writing, blogs about writing, websites about writing. Read… always read. If you do nothing else in this area, READ! And, of course, practice. Put all that writing research to work: apply it as you write and see how it improves your writing, or makes it worse. Look up the Publishing business; get familiar with potential allies and potential competition. I've been researching writing technique and the publishing world for almost 7 years and I'm still not tired of it!
   
   
3. 
   
   Make yourself accountable to someone. When comparing your social life with your writing life, you probably notice that you are much more accountable in your social life. I know I've noticed that in my life. That is because when people feel obligated to do something, they usually do it. Without that drive, we all tend to be lazy. Talk to a friend or relative and have them make you accountable to your writing: have them ask you every so often how far you've gotten, or what your word count is. If you know that they will be watching to make sure you do it, you will most likely sit down and DO IT! 

I challenge all of my readers to be accountable to their writings. And, following my own advice, I pledge to be accountable to my writings through my readers. Right now I'm working on the edit of my novel "Eldrei". (SOTD is about as finished as it gets!) From now on, when I post I'm going to try to remember to post my current Word Count until I have "Eldrei" completed. That way my readers can see that I'm actually working on writing my novel, and not just letting it sit until I feel inspired to get at it. If you see that I haven't posted my word count, shoot me a comment and let me know: I'll get it up as soon as I can.

And to start off on the write foot – er, RIGHT foot – here is Eldrei's current word count: 23,082

When Inspiration Comes A-Knocking, the Best Thing to do is Open the Door

Last night was just an ordinary night when I sat down at my keyboard. The hard copy of “Song of the Daystar” sat beside me on the desk in its neat red folder, my purple editing pen and idea-ballpoint lying on top. I glanced at it, turned back to my blank screen, opened my documents and scrolled through my options. Did I want to start something new, or work on something old? I was growing tired of editing, re-editing, questioning myself, going back and editing yet again. I wanted to write. Several documents flickered up in front of my face, each with potential but each one denied. I wanted to work on something I’d started before, something that I could get excited about… but I just couldn’t decide what.


Then it happened.

The folder was several years old, covered with several layers of digital dust from not being opened in so long. The labeled documents inside promised glimpses at old ideas, excerpts that were cut, snatches of song lyrics and poetry for the book, a half-composed attempt at a language, and other such creations expelled from a young writer’s mind.

But halfway down the folder, it was there, staring me in the face, beckoning me with the promise of adventure. I hadn’t opened it in so long, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect; four years ago I’d only managed a few chapters worth of revision before I stopped to pour all my writing efforts into “Song of the Daystar”.

I clicked the document open, scrolled down to the last scene I’d revised and…

Started to type!

I couldn’t believe it; four years on the shelf, and then quite suddenly and unexpectedly the story that had begun my love of writing had drawn me back in again. I swear my keyboard smoked as my fingers flew over its keys. It was all coming back to me: the characters’ personalities, their problems, their world. I could see the map in my mind's eye, could hear the trees whispering to the shadows that haunted their woods, the mountains’ rumbling song, the vast ocean’s quiet lullaby as the rivers rolled down to meet it on the shore.

I was back.

I never imagined it to happen that way. After I finished the revision of “Song of the Daystar” I’d thought I might go back and give one or two of my stories a once-over, see if any of them were calling my name. None of them seemed to be. I thought about this project – the one I’d titled “Eldrie” so long ago – but at the time the long and tedious hours of revising held no appeal; Eldrie’s rough draft was long and complicated, and, true to a first draft’s nature, very, very rough.

But now…

I can’t help but get excited over it. It’s like I’m stepping back into myself all over again (not that SOTD wasn’t a part of me too.) And its good to have something I can get excited over while I try to pen-in my frustrations with the cruel publishing world. When I told my mother of my unexpected joy, she just smiled and said, “Then you must know it’s time to start working on it again.” She’s been telling me to finish the revision for years.

And all of this just goes to show that when inspiration comes knocking, you’d better not let it stand out in the cold; hurry up and open that door!