Writing Days -- An Excerpt from "Song of the Daystar"

It has been a very LONG time since I've posted a writing excerpt. :)  I thought it would be fun to start doing that again, especially since work on SOTD has started to pick up once more.

As many of you already know, I'm working on a new rewrite for SOTD... I started after I got the reply from the publisher who was looking at my manuscript.  They thought I had a good story concept, but they thought that I didn't do it justice.  It took me a couple months of setting SOTD aside before I realized that they were right and I decided to start fresh... same characters, improved concept, story, and writing.

That was about a year ago, and since then I've been in a long stall... only three new chapters were turned out in a whole year, and everything's been on hold since.  My love of writing never digressed, but suddenly it became so much easier to put it off, and put it off, until I really had no more good excuses... just the fact that I didn't want to do it right then.

(This will lead up to a new post on Procrastination, I'm thinking... perhaps I'll be able to get that up in a day or two. ^_^)

But last weekend I decided it was time to stop stalling.  I went back and read over the three chapters I had rewritten previously, and decided that the first chapter started a little too late into the story.  So I started writing a new first chapter... one that really does start at the beginning where it should, instead of jumping right into the action where everything has to be laid out and explained in back story and the like.  This chapter is much truer to what I envisioned the beginning of the story to look and sound like, and already it's made it easier for me to plan out the next few moves. (That was one problem I had with the other rewrite... I got to a point where I felt like I couldn't move forward because there was still too much to go back and explain. :P)

I was able to write 1,513 words for the new first chapter on Sunday, and now I'm going to share them with you. :)  Note that this excerpt ends in a rather odd place, since I truly have not had time to work on the piece until today.  I'm hoping to get more done on it this afternoon after I finish the 8 measure composition due tomorrow morning for my Music Theory class, and finish the errands that my mom has me running for.

Until then, though, here's what I have up to this point:

Chapter 1

The Boy with a Secret

            The stable was cold and steeped in darkness when Curron stepped in and drew the door shut behind him.  Soft nickers drifted out to him from the stalls, followed by several welcoming snorts.  Shivering from his early morning walk, Curron latched the door with his free hand and reached out to grab the old lantern from its post.  The cold metal handle bit into the palm of his skin sending tingles up his arms, and for the hundredth time Curron wished he could afford a set of gloves.  He tipped his candle to the lantern’s wick and warm light flooded the walkway before him.  Several long muzzles poked into the aisle and dark eyes glistened at him from the cubicles lining either side of the path.  

Holding the lantern out in front, Curron made his way to the back wall where the feed was barreled.  The horses shifted to follow his progress, snorting quiet greetings and stretching their noses over stall doors for him to fondle as he passed.  A few reached out and yanked his clothing with their teeth, asking after the wrinkled apples hidden in his pockets. 

Curron winced each time he heard the fibers of his shirt pop.  The mornings were growing colder as the autumn months progressed.  Sooner or later he’d have to ask Téagh for another set of clothes if he didn’t want to catch frostbite or worse in the winter months, and it was inevitable that Téagh would be annoyed.  Téagh was annoyed at most things.  Only two winters had passed since the last time the old stable master had bartered a boy’s shirt and leggings off a servant for Curron’s sake.  The clothes had been too big for Curron then, at only twelve, but now the pants were up to his shins and the shirt stretched taught over his back.  He was afraid that someday soon the shirt might rip open, leaving him in nothing but his trousers and his skin.  Then how would he manage through winter? 

At the back of the barn, he hung the lantern on the nail protruding above the grain bins, picked up the pitchfork leaning against the wall, and turned back to his charges.  Cold and dark as it was, it was still worth rising before dawn each day to spend time alone in the stables.  It was the one place he was free to be entirely himself, the one place he could escape his nightmares. Horses always listened and were never judgmental; they didn’t care if you were a prince or a pauper, so long as they were treated with kindness and respect.  Which was good since Curron was far from princely.

“Alright then,” he said to no one in particular. “Who’s hungry?”  Grabbing up a fistful of oats from the nearest barrel, he approached the first stall and held his arm out to the occupant.  “How about you, Nathahl?” he crooned.  “Is your belly sticking to your ribs yet?”

Large dark eyes winked out at Curron from the shadows of the stall.  Several moments later the eyes drew nearer and a warm, velvety nose found its way into his palm to lip timidly at the grains.      

Calm flooded Curron’s senses at the familiar touch, easing the worry that still lingered from his bad dreams.  Setting the pitchfork against the stall door, he reached up, threaded his fingers through Nathahl’s dark mane, and sighed.  The horse’s warmth seeped into his cold hands and up through his shivering arms.  His muscles relaxed as the heat spread to his shoulders and rolled through his back. To Curron, there was nothing so consoling as the feel and smell of horse.  His charges were like family. 

It was humans who were strange, even if he must count himself among them.

            Curron closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his head against the small white star on the bridge of Nathahl’s nose, allowing his emotions to uncoil.  The Black knew of his dreams, of course; it wasn’t something Curron could hide from him.   The nightmares had been growing steadily worse, and Nathahl sensed them as deeply as Curron did.  He often woke hours before dawn now, panting and sweating through his bedclothes though the hearth’s fire had long since retreated into the coals and the room was cold and still.  Several months before, in a rare moment of visible concern, Téagh had insisted Curron visit the Fort Infirmary, but none of the Healers’ treatments improved the dreams or eased his sleep. Commander Olan had berated him for valuable time lost. 

Curron breathed in deep and let his mind brushed against Nathahl’s consciousness, light and airy as the tips of feathers.  The thoughts and feelings of the other horses crowded forward, eager to comfort him, eager to grab his attention, but he didn’t immerse himself.  Not this time.  He touched each of their minds and gave them all one order.

Be still.  You will get your turns in a bit.

Their wild blood pressed against the boundaries of his command, but he shielded his thoughts from them.  They were wild, yes, but he was strong… thanks to Nathahl’s guidance.  If Commander Olan ever discovered his secret, it might be the death of him, but the Black had taught him well.  Nathahl humbly shook his neck as Curron let his thanks touch the Black’s mind.  He nipped the cuff of Curron’s sleeve and nickered softly in his ear.

 Curron had no idea how long he’d been standing like that – an hour, maybe, or a few minutes – when a draft of cold air broke his concentration.  Nathahl snorted uneasily, stamping a hoof to the ground.  Curron opened his eyes and the Black jerked its head away.  The horse grunted at something over Curron’s shoulder and pranced back into the shadows of its stall.

SCREEEE!!!

            The sound erupted from nowhere and echoed through the rafters, rending the silence in two and sending the rest of the horses into frenzy.  Curron spun around, stretching out his mind to quiet them.  He caught snatches of their thoughts and his muscles tensed.

            Stranger! they warned.  Predator.  Bloodlust. 

            Unnatural.  

            Curron’s eyes skimmed the shadows for danger as he moved down the line, placing his hand on each horse’s muzzle to calm it.  He’d never seen them so uneasy before; not in their own stalls, not while he was near.  Their minds resisted him until finally he had to force his way in between the cracks of their fears and compel comforting thoughts to take the place of terror.  It was no easy task.  By the time he reached the end of the stalls, his chest hurt and he felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.  

            He turned back toward the lantern and the pitchfork he’d left leaning against Nathahl’s stall.  It seemed so far away now, but if he finished his work quickly, maybe he’d still have an hour or two to rest before Téagh was up and yelling for him.  He took a step forward, sagged against a support beam, and yelped as a large rust-colored bird swooped down over his shoulder, missing him by inches. It lifted into the rafters and stared down at him with golden predatory eyes as if unsure what it wanted to do with him.

            “Now that’s some trick you’ve got there,” a deep, rich voice commented from somewhere behind him. 

            Curron spun, searching the shadows for the source of the voice.  His eyes roved over the cubicles one by one, but found nothing.  The lantern’s light, once offering warmth and comfort, now splayed across the floor in a pitiful pool of insipid gold reflecting like flames in the eyes of the raptor perched aloft.      

            “The horses,” the voice explained, “They respond to you like none I’ve seen.  ‘Tis a rare talent, that.  A pity it’s wasted in such a place as this.  But then again, Olan never was one to recognize ability.” 

A dark figure pealed itself away from one shadowed corner and stepped forward.  It had a slight frame draped in the dark billows of a traveler’s cloak with the hood pulled up to hide most of its features.  Only the lower part of its face was completely visible, dark ginger stubble shadowing its chin and upper lip.  A twinkle of eyes glimmered out at Curron from the darkness beneath the hood, assessing him, judging him…

Curron glanced up as the hawk warbled a few curious notes and tilted its head at him.  It followed his movements closely, shuffling back and forth on its post, its talons scratching along the beams. 

The stranger tipped his head back to follow Curron’s gaze.  “Ah,” he said.  “That’s just Aigneis.  You needn’t fear her, if that’s what you’re so anxious about.  She’ll fight like the guardians of Grimwryld themselves if I ask her, and she’s got a call to chill the blood, but she won’t attack without incentive.”  He lifted an arm and the hawk screeched again, spreading its wings and drifting down to alight on its master’s shoulder.  

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

Writing Backwards is Bad for your Novel.

A while back I wrote a post on perfectionist writers.  I am one of them.  And one of the things I struggle with the most in my writing is... just writing.

As writers, we all have some vague idea of where we want our poem or novel or memoir or biography to go, but getting it there is a completely different story.  We may have a great idea, get excited, sit down and write a few chapters... but then we pause and, instead of continuing on as we should, we make the one fatal mistake that has often kept many amazing story ideas from becoming amazing published books:

We go back, re-read, and edit.

I like to call this "Writing Backwards" because I'm going back and writing over again, when I should be working on moving the novel forward and finally reaching its end.  I catch myself doing it all the time.  In my mind, I know what I want that scene to look like; I know what I want that character to do and how he should do it; I know what that artifact looks like and I want the reader to see it that way.  If a writer could just go back and do a quick edit, and then continue writing from where they left off, that's great.  I wish I could be like that.  But so often I find myself stuck on trying to figure out just the right combination of words to make the scene perfect.  And usually, while it seems like the editing is helping to perfect my story and make it the best that it possibly can be, it is actually hindering real progress.

So this post is basically to help me realize that I have to stop being so darn picky.  Especially with November looming closer and closer. (Because, for those of you who don't know, November is National Novel Writing Month, or Nanowrimo.)  When November hits, I don't want to be a picky writer... I want to just write.  That's what Nanowrimo is for; for writers to type out the rough draft of a novel in 30 days and get it all out on paper before the idea is lost.  It goes against every perfectionist grain in my body, but perhaps that is good for me.  I can always go back and edit later.

The Curse of a Perfectionist

The other day I was reading “Song of the Daystar” to my dad (who is not really a reader to begin with) and asked him what he thought of the story. His words to me:


“Well, it seemed a bit flowery; I couldn’t get into the story.”

"Flowery?!" I thought, "After all I've done to make it perfect, now it's too flowery?  I thought it was done!"  :(

Now, granted, my dad is not a reader: “NOT” in all capital letters unless, maybe, it happens to be the Bible. And he’s certainly not a fantasy reader: Heaven forbid he pick up even the “Chronicles of Narnia”, let alone ”LOTR” or “Through the Looking Glass”.

BUT…

It raised the question in me about whether or not I really was making my prose sound too flowery. Was I getting right to the point? Or was I taking too much time trying to describe everything, just sort of dancing around on point-shoes like a magical pixie to make everything seem wonderful?

Well, knowing my dad, if it doesn’t say something out right then it’s just a nuisance. I love him, but that’s just how he is. He likes the idea of second, hidden meanings, but he would much rather get right down to solving those second, hidden meanings than get all the clues first. He’s an artist, but in my opinion he’s more “straight forward” than I am.

Does this mean my writing is not good enough? Could this mean I have to go back and rewrite?

Well, no. No, it doesn’t. I do have to go through it and edit, check for grammatical errors and spelling typos, but I don’t have to rewrite.

Some of you may be asking, “Then why on earth are you posting on this subject?” But my reasoning is simple. Many writers take any advice given by any random person and immediately apply it to their work. These are the ones who want to please everybody.

I am one of these.

I’m probably at the top of the list.

You see, writers are automatic perfectionist. In real life it may not seem like it: we may leave clothes on the floor, not comb our hair a certain way, leave stacks of books lying around, or not care all that much whether everything is organized on our desk or not. But set us down at a keyboard and we immediately start criticizing ourselves. We don’t want to let our stories go until they are everything they have the potential to be. They must be perfect.

“Perfect!” we scream. And we type, and the keyboard starts to smoke, and eventually the smoke detectors go off, and then at last we have to get up to turn off the screaming buzzing noise that is wracking our concentration. But then we are back at the keyboard, changing things, rewriting, debating with ourselves, trying to make everything “perfect”.

The sad truth is, no matter how hard we work on it, it will never be perfect. It will never be finished. And perhaps, the most gulling fact of all, we will never be able to please everybody.

Never.

Once, while reading an interview with one of my favorite authors, I read this quote: “My book will never be finished until my publisher pries it from my fingers, and even then I’ll keep working on it”.

Unfortunately, it’s a truth. I will probably do the same thing. Writers seem to have this need to please everybody, to make everybody happy, and prove to themselves that they are not the computer loving weirdoes that many people think they are.

But we are. Oh we are! And the only way we’ll be able to ever be satisfied with our writings is to come to grips with the facts that we can’t make what we write please everyone.

I seriously thought about what my dad told me. He was only trying to help me, I know. He didn’t mean for his words to sting (even though they did.) I thought about what he said. I considered it. I went back and read over the manuscript.

But you know what I found out?

I liked the manuscript the way it was. I ran it through several critique groups and they enjoyed it as well. I let random people read the prologue and first chapter (which was all I read to my dad). The random people seemed pleased. A few of them made suggestions which I took into consideration. But I don’t need to change the entire book just to please my dad, who doesn’t like reading that sort of stuff in the first place, let alone the fact that his daughter writes it.

Yes, I am a perfectionist. I want my book to be perfect. But I can come to grips with the fact that it won’t be. As long as I’m happy with it and know that I have taken it as far as I can, someday I know that it will sit on a book shelf and people will pick it up and read it: the people who do like what I write. It doesn’t have to be perfect for everyone.

Well, at least I’m still trying to convince myself of that.