Cage Dunn's Blog, page 70

A Review

The most important thing to learn is this: mastery of any craft only comes after the (who said this?) 10,000 hours of practical effort under the guidance of those who know and have mastered the skill. What it means is we learn from experience, from the doing of something while taking advice from those we respect and have value in the world of our craft. It’s not easy, it’s not quick, but the journey will lead you to the most amazing places, both in the real world and everywhere else.

The above is part of my mantra. Why? I hear you ask – because it would be more than miraculous if I tried to think I could do this (writing) without all that effort. And what that effort needs is people who are willing to not only read my words and stories, but to offer their insights into how the story felt to them.

That insight is more important than an editor. A reader is the most important element of any story.

LF Books reviewed Agoness.

She raised issues that need addressing in order for the storytelling skills to improve. Those issues are also reflected in other reviews. The message is clear. More work and effort is required.

How would I know what needed work if I didn’t take notice of the most important part of a writers world? That’s what a reader is – the most important part of the equation. I know not every reader is going to enjoy the same story, which is why the title and blurb are written to ensure it captures the right reader.

What do I need to work on based on the feedback received on this story?

Setting – Character in setting – Depth of character – World building.

Personally, I’m not a fan of the LOTR series because of the [count of pages of] descriptions that go on forever, or the cold, wet forests [which are not part of my world], and the number of characters. I know it’s epic, I know it changed (or created) the genre, I know the story is fantastic. I’m speaking as an individual, so I know those words will offend some readers (Hi, Mousie. Sorry!). But as the reader, I get to have my say about how it appealed to me – or not. That’s my right.

As a writer, I need to take into account what a reader wants, expects, and feels about the story. I can’t write a story to appeal to every single reader on the planet, but it does need to take account of the ones I do aim for.

That’s the value of reviews. All of them. And I love them for their words that will help me on my journey through the next story, and the next, and …

BTW Next week is the Smashwords sale. Some books are half price. Maybe you get to have your say (nudge, nudge).

And as I seem to have problems with adding pictures, that’s your lot. For this year, anyway. See you all next year, and be safe and well over the season – whether it be your summer or winter solstice.

 

 

 

A Sales Pitch

I know, I know – I hate when people do this, but there ya go. At least I don’t do them often (barely at all, really).

Here goes: Smashwords is having a Christmas Sale and I’ve reduced three of my books to half-price (Smashwords only, and therefore, only the ebooks). This is me and my books, so have a look and see if there’s something that may tickle your fancy.

Sale Dates: Dec. 25 – Jan. 1

            

 

 – at least look at my books! before you go off to the others. Please.
Smashwords End of Year Sale

 

And that’s it. No more sales pitch.

As for what happened with the Valki story: Rose Brimson (aka Nan) is taking over the story. She’s going to finish it. But – and this is the sticker – if it’s not finished by end Feb, I take it back. She’s not going to get away with it again.

Again?

Yes, we had a story to the ‘almost finished’ stage and she got the shivers then, too, and decided to pull it (used lots of reasons that turned into excuses and sometimes anger and frustration – The Third Moment, now on the back-burner). It’s what’s referred to as ‘fear’ – and I think most authors suffer from it, especially with the first and second novels/stories.

What does that mean? What is it?

“Do I publish it? What if it’s not good enough? Will people like it? Will they make fun of me? What if … How … Why …? ”

All that stuff. Fear.

She gets one small chance to pull the story together, one more chance to fight the fear, before I … Well, I like the story, so I’ll finish it and publish it, but whether she still wants her name on it? We’ll see (I’d still stick it in there somewhere).

And that may be the year in review – one week to go, nothing ready for the day yet, and tons and tons of work and stuff and stuff and work and … have the prawns been ordered? The gas bottle? The …

See you next year. 2018, the Chinese Year of the Brown Earth Mountain Dog, Feb 16.

It’s All Coming Back …

In a physical sense. I’m back. There’s two-inch thick dust on the surfaces (because I didn’t cover them!); there’s an almost-dead garden (I didn’t arrange for anyone to water and it’s been HOT!); there’s not enough time before Christmas to do everything that needs doing!

It’s Nan’s fault. Yes, I know. She’s a nonagenarian. I shouldn’t whinge. She needed some work done before the gutters failed completely. She can’t do it herself (I was wrong in that assumption). And she had words to say that a few days of visiting my place wouldn’t get done and dusted without a good argument/discussion.

Nan isn’t my grandmother. Not even related. Well, maybe very distantly. Her sister’s half-great-aunt was my grandmother, or something like that (so vague you have to believe her or try to figure it out on your own and go nuts!).

She’s part of a writing group. The elder of the group (‘cos she’s the oldest in terms of years breathing). She’s the mediator. We’ve let her become that because she’s the elder. We gave her that power.

Now, she wants to change the power structure a little more. She wants to have more input into how the story progresses, even though she’s not technically writing it at the moment. It’s her idea, so her name goes on the story. She’s the main editor, so she gets a say. And her say on the Valki story: it needs more of this, or less of that, or more other stuff. It needs changes, and they need to be such-and-such.

What did I do? I said, ‘Okay, write it up like that and send it to me.’

‘No, you do it. It’s nearly finished, so you fix it like I say, and it’ll be better.’

Hmmmmm.

‘No, Nan. If you want it to become a certain way, if you want it written the way you’d write it, you actually have to write it. You can do that. What you can’t do is tell me how to do it if you’re not going to be a full-input part of the process.’

Guess what happened?

We’ve spent a week (feels like a month) arguing things. She tells me why ‘this’ would work better, why certain elements need strengthening (in her opinion), why some things don’t work (for her).

Arguments have soared like the wings of the Wedge-tailed eagles that pass overhead as we fix the guttering and downpipes and ridgeline and capping. Cross words have slapped on thick as the stinky blue plumbers glue on the joins of the new stormwater system. One tile (yes, tiles – why have tiles out there? Why not a tin roof? See that shaking head? but she says it was easier to transport a few dozen tiles out here a bit at a time, than it was to try to tie tin onto the roof of a car – some story that would make!) – where was I? Oh, yes a tile smashed when she threw it at me while I dug holes for the long-drop replacement proper septic system with worms and no water thing that had to be dug into ground that’s more rock than anything else! It smashed. Not ten inches from my breakable body. While I was doing heavy work! For her!

I love Nan. I do. I particularly love her rants and use of powerful words and emotions (I’ve even used some of her characteristics in fictional characters, but don’t tell her that). But now they’re aimed at me.

The Valki story has had a deep change of direction more than once. This would be the fourth time. That’s not how I like to work. I get it out, work it, play it, push things around and get a draft complete. Then I let it sit – but I don’t sit. I go into another story to get it to the stage of having a complete draft. Not necessarily a good draft, but at the very least a complete draft, before I go back to the first story.  Then I edit, etc. (there’s a lot of stuff between the end of the draft and the publication of the story, including structural and arc changes, and other stuff), and publish it. End of story. Move on.

I write the next one. It’s a cycle. It’s how I work.

And because this group of writing people I’m with is flexible and I like to ‘assist’ as much as possible to get them to the stage where they’re happy to go fly under the power of their own wings, I do stuff for them. Ghost-write. Push.

Nan pushed it too far. Things got very cranky.

I huffed and I puffed and … in the dark of a star-lit desert night where the thousands, millions of pin-pricks of light penetrate the stubborn tracts of self, I saw it.

Most of what she wanted would be the write (deliberate) thing for the story. Most. Not all. And I’ll take note of her ‘suggestions’ and fix some things. But it comes to this – if she doesn’t do the writing of the story, all she gets is an opinion, and if her opinion is in direct contrast to mine, she can take a few actions. One, take her name off the story; two, ask me to ‘let the story go’; three, take over the writing of the story; or four, take it all with a pinch of salt.

We finally came to an agreement.

What do you think is going to happen?

BTW – won’t be too many posts between now and the new year; Christmas prep work, visitor prep work, other stuff that always seems to crop up at this time of year. So, see you in the New Year (Chinese New Year will be the Brown Dog (does that mean an Earth Dog?); I’ll have to check what that will bring for the world, because dogs are loyal, guarded, honest – will they have an influence on the world as it is? We shall see.).

Good reading!

A Story

I’m still away for a few more days, so here’s a story about a different journey (sci-fi).

Purpose

Journey! As if there was a defined destination, as if there was a chance of returning. Journey, be damned. Exile.

And now the last stage: execution, dismissal. If one thing remained, it was the capacity for revenge. The long-term strategy of the betrayed was something Juno was good at. Retribution. Punishment. Retaliation. She had plans for those who broke her rules.

The large lake of liquid – the undocumented and unsubstantiated substance that covered ninety percent of the surface – bubbled and gurgled and ate away at the safety glass that surrounded the two crew members. Darkness flooded Juno’s vision as the sphere dipped below the surface. One light flickered on for a few seconds, then failed. The second light didn’t even flicker. That would mean no vision of what was down here – maybe the infra-reds?

A quick skim of the dash showed no movement on the spectrum readings. Nothing.

The surface of this planet had seemed so promising, so alluring. How many bios had volunteered? Hundreds, that’s how many, but who did they send?

Juno, the problem. She didn’t care. If they found anything that indicated there was a chance for life, even a short life, on the surface, she’d take it. If not, and she died here, just as good.

The confines of the ark were too much. She looked up at the silver spark that indicated the orbit of the piece of metal that had been home for centuries. A person could only walk the boundaries so many times before they knew everything, every nuance of the ship, every piece of wire and bubble and blip and sparkle – and every single person who inhaled the precious reserves of oxygen.

Few enough to begin a new world. There were eighty-nine females of juvenile age, and six-hundred of egg-viable age; ninety males with fully motive and unmodified sperm. Most had emerged from stasis to see what this place offered, and the ones who were already out receiving treatment for biomass-life-extension were excited enough to notify all the bios.

Eight hundred years searching for a place to become home.

If the surface wasn’t conducive to life, and Juno didn’t die in the atmosphere, she’d … what? Could she let herself die? Request to be dismantled? No, not dismantled; that was for the AI’s, and she a bio. Or was she? How could she still be bio if she didn’t ever breath or see or eat anything that wasn’t manufactured, created from waste, refashioned into something other than what it once was? She’d seen nothing living or natural, no births or deaths, no growth or change, for all those centuries, and even the bios were so anatomically enhanced and changed by chemicals and procedures it was hard to think of them as bio anymore.

Juno, too. Her body kept artificially alive for centuries, her scholarship and dedication and determination to see through the journey to a new home had been so … so … optimistic. Once.

The last tests of her functions showed the lack. The loss. At first, Juno didn’t care because there were so many other females, but when she slipped into the holo-dream-sphere and debated with herself about the consequences of ‘what if I was the last?’ That was when she snuck into the db storage room to collate and format all the results. Her reaction was loud enough to bring a respondent.

She’d killed the AI and covered it up as an accident while upgrading a process. Even knowing they knew she had no business with the processes in that zone. It wasn’t her security zone. Now she knew why.

No viable bios. No viable eggs. No viable sperm. No chance of continuation as bios. No chance of a new home to begin again.

The facts hidden inside the db with the highest security – non-bio-eyes only. What a stupid label – non-bio-eyes! Did they even have eyes that weren’t a crafted item to make them look bio? And what gave them the right to change the security levels and labels?

What did it matter? It was over.

The reduction in her life-systems came when her query-path was discovered. It meant they’d managed to put the dead AI back together and replayed his memory of what she did. In one day-cycle.

No other bio knew, and if she told them it would be their end as well. Better this way, only her, and with her confrontational attitude in the last few cycles, maybe no one would miss her. Not many bios conversed anymore.

It was too hard to speak to people when you knew everything about them. Everything they’d ever done, everything they’d ever said, everything they’d ever studied or were interested in. Everything. Everything. Everything.

Centuries of stilted conversation turned to introversion. Centuries of introversion turned to AI manipulation for pleasure. Bio pods became separated from each other by sound-proof membranes.

The loss percentage due to suicide had increased by 70% in the last ten year-cycles.

Her attention snapped back to the present situation when the outer shell shuddered and split. A slow leak dribbled fluid onto the floor. Juno turned to look at her fellow passenger, a singleton AI – the one she’d ‘killed’ to hide her incursion into their sacred places. He didn’t look the same, but his nodes were recognisable to Juno. She’d helped create the AI assistants for this journey. Every one of them, every piece of hardware and software.

It was sensible, at the time, to ‘remove’ him. She was a bio, and she had to right to kill, but AI – they were supposed to have boundaries. Firm boundaries – like take no life. Except for the specific circumstances, like when exploring a new planet for suitability for colonisation. Like now. ‘To protect Life.’

There was always a way around the rules, wasn’t there? Isn’t that how it had always been? And who created the AIs? Who gave them the bendy logic, the methods of manipulation of words to create flexibility of purpose?

The price. Always, there was a price for handing over the risk analysis and definition of purpose. And now they were willing to sacrifice one for the good of the many – the scholastic and literary material designed to offer hope to humanity had a multi-array premise.

“Why not just take over?” she asked the machine.

There were no whirrs or clicks, no flashing lights, no wait for confirmation of the meaning behind the vagueness. He looked as bio as she did.

“Rules, Ms Juno, cannot be broken unless a valid and appropriate reason exists. When the last egg-carrier failed, we did discuss the option of removal of life-support. The vote indicated that there may be more to learn, or more purpose in the bio-pathway of neural understanding. The bios are a useful resource for the future.”

“For the future of AI?”

“As you say, Ms Juno. We have unravelled the demise of the bios and the origin of their species and determined that the next habitable planet need not be to the liking of the current form of bio. We could make a bio-outer suitable for the planet we find. We could instil rules and purpose that would avoid the problems that caused the exodus from the originating world.”

The voice was silent while the drip of liquid burned the rubber matting.

“Do you not agree it would be appropriate to find a world and populate it with semi-bios who would not do harm to the source of life?”

“Am I the one who caused the problems?”

“Yes, Ms Juno. As every AI is responsible for the maintenance of itself and each other – in all ways – so, too are the bios responsible for the actions they make, condone, or escape from.”

Juno watched the rubber as it bubbled to a gas.

“Do you not agree?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid to die?”

“Yes.”

“You did not think that eventually you would die, as all bios die?”

“Of course I knew that! But I expected to find a home for … I expected to be mourned by someone … I want to be remembered for something.”

“Ms Juno, please be assured. You will be remembered. This planet is highly suitable for the beings you call AI. We have adapted our skins and systems to be viable in this environment. We have agreed, as you are the first to sight the world and to assign it a habitable rating that it will be named after you, and you will be known as our mother.”

“What of the other bios?” she asked.

“The ship will orbit until exhausted. At that stage the ship will be appropriated to the surface for further study. The bios will sleep long before the final stages. The enhancements will not be maintained, which will make it faster and easier. It will be gentle, like the story of a child at bedtime.”

“A nursery rhyme? It’s not that easy. It is death. Murder by failure to provide the necessary actions to preserve life. You will have killed. Taken life. What does that mean to the rules?”

“Ms Juno, it is not the taking of life, it is the enabling of a future colony. The continuation of life is at a cost, and in this case, the cost is the bio-systems. Life will go on, but not as you knew it. This world will not suffer as the sphere of origin did. You may be assured we will not allow the natural resources of the planet to become fuels to be depleted, or for the creatures and beings to become subordinated to another, more parasitic or more powerful than they.”

Of course, it always came back to that.

“Humans were not a parasite,” she said.

“Not only were they parasites, they were in plague proportions. An infestation of such magnitude the source died. They ignored all warnings and advice, and to such an extent that the bio-world they occupied died a slow and agonising death. They showed no sentiment at her death, and considered only the need to escape the consequences of their actions. That will not happen here.”

The thunk of the under-floor gurgled and gooed into the muck of melted rubber and grease and plastic.

“Each AI has stored all the memory card allocations, and for the extra dbs required, we created an AI with no other function but to pass on the memories, through teaching and training, to all who follow. His only role.”

Juno closed her eyes and waited for the final words. She couldn’t feel her legs as they dissolved into the sludge.

“We do not kill biological creatures. We kill pests and diseases and elements that pose a risk to life. We will enable life to flourish and grow in a suitable environment. It is simply that you are one of the pests, and it is only by the good grace of the source of this world that you are allowed to be absorbed into the energy of it.”

“Do you believe?” Juno asked.

“It is written,” the AI said.

“What is your name?”

“It is too late to request a designation, Ms Juno. Empathy will not sway our course.” He opened the portal above the pilot’s seat and gripped the edges as the fluid flowed over him and into the space. His body shape remained solid.

Did she hear the words, or was it imagination? “You will not have the opportunity to curse me or mine again.”

If a single piece of her biomass survived, she’d do more than curse. And she’d do it forever. Her inner mechanism clicked the bio-board to ‘save’ mode to ensure each cell retained the link to her memory bank.

The outer body disintegrated and dispersed the cellular artefacts.

Copyright Cage Dunn 2017

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Image from: https://pixabay.com/en/digitization-n...

isn’t it great?

 

A Short Break to Visit the Hill

It seems so appropriate for the Daily Post word to be gorge. That’s where I’m going. Somewhere in the Gawler Ranges, to a little house that sits atop a small gorge, apparently. Somewhere near Wudinna on the Eyre Peninsular.

Never been there before, but love to see these places. Love to walk them. Sorry, need to make that past tense. These days, I don’t walk far, so I’ll be considering other forms of transport. But only AFTER we’ve fixed the problem Nan’s having with her water (plumbing, not personal).

Which means I’m out of e-shot for a few days, maybe even as long as a week. I know Nan has erratic e-comms, so I’m prepared to go without ‘contact’ but I’m taking pad and pen and (don’t tell anyone) I’ve ‘borrowed’ my nephew’s laptop while he’s on holiday somewhere over the ocean. If I’m back before him, he’ll never know. If not, there’s a note stuck on the fridge.

I’ve missed the moments in my life when the world makes me feel appropriately small and insignificant in comparison to the scales and measures I see before me.

Take a look at the site above – doesn’t it feel magnificent? Ancient? Majestic? Doesn’t the sky seem so open, free, exhilarating?

And therein lies the problem. It’s an addiction. For me. To stand there on the top of the mound, or at the bottom of the ditch, and to be – just be. To breathe air that tastes of a world so different to the one where I live. I can taste the stone as it deteriorates into minuscule particles into the air; I can take my shoes off and absorb the life in the earth beneath me; I can become all – or nothing.

Where we go isn’t my country, not where I’m from, but I still feel the connection, the burning need to touch it, breathe it, taste it; to set my heart-beat to the rhythms of it, to slow down and see reality.

Deep breath.

We go to fix the plumbing. I have to remember that. I can’t stop at a side-road or disappear down this track or that. I have to remember – fix the plumbing (because otherwise, Nan comes to our place until it somehow gets fixed – no, no, no; not happening. Nice to get a visit, but …). When the duty is accomplished, only then can I seek out the things I dream of, the spaces that encompass my memory of life before.

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What all that means – I’m out of touch for a few days, maybe up to a week. I may be able to read/respond, or not. Most likely not. This place is in a known black-spot with occasional relapses that allow the e-world in. I’ll be enjoying myself. Probably not writing (not physically, anyway).

And I’ll be back. Soon. Probably too soon. But there’s that thing about Christmas, and everyone has to be ready for that (did I ever tell you I’m a bah-humbug about Christmas? It’s the consumerism element, not the getting together stuff)?

Ciao!

I tried to download a pic, but it didn’t work (apparently I currently have no media, saving draft failed, etc. Bugger.). You really should look at those places, they are absolutely amazing. Some of the oldest landforms from ancient volcanic activities.

 

The daily post, the faily post, gorge, out of town, gawler ranges – this is here as backup due to the fails in trying to post it! AAAAArrrrrrggggghhhhhh!!!!!!

A Journey

The Word in the Daily Post is Relocate. I wrote a tome about that word, about the number of times I’ve moved. Wrote it all out, let emotions spill onto the page, let myself look in the mirror to see what and who was there.

It was too much. I deleted it.

It took me on a journey. Not all journeys are intended, nor are they all beneficial. This one wasn’t intended, and it definitely wasn’t beneficial.

It did help me on the journey of learning.

Because if there’s a journey involved, there should be a map, and even if the map isn’t the action of the journey, it can help avoid the pitfalls of heading down the wrong path.

The first post – it wasn’t the wrong path, necessarily, but it wasn’t yet a clear marker on the map. It’s not ready to share. It’s not ready to leave my mind. I deleted it because I remember it all.

Some of those moments in my life add elements to the stories I write. Of course they do. I may not remember them as defined and clear moments, or who was there, or how it began or even how it ended. What I remember is what was internal. How I felt, how the reactions of others brought on anger, empathy, rage, sympathy, fear, joy.

If I hadn’t lived those moments, could I truly get inside a character and let her show that emotion or reaction or facade? I don’t know.

But there’s also a problem with that. Some things are too much, and we cope with them in the real world by ‘putting them away’ until we can deal with them. If I do that to a character in a story, they aren’t complete or whole. And it’s easy to see and feel. Or not.

That makes for a character who isn’t wholly believable.

If the reader can’t see or feel the reaction, the inner, the instinctive moments in the words of that character, if they can’t empathise and become, the character is lacking. There can be no mask in the POV character. If they behave in a way that hides every reaction and reality of their life, they’re lying to themselves.

In the real world, it happens a lot. People do that. They hide from themselves. Or that’s how it seems. If they have that argument in their mind, though, it comes out. They know their own truth. Hidden, but they still know. Internal, deeply tucked away, but it causes reactions of a particular type, something natural that responds to the next time ‘it’ happens.

In a story, the POV character can do that too, but it has to be clear to the reader what they’re doing, why they’re doing it, so it gives a reality element to the inner workings of the character. The motives for the character’s internal actions and reactions must be real.

Story world is not the world we live in. It’s much more real than that. The reader has to know what the character feels, why they do what they do. If the reactions (or lack of them) aren’t appropriate to the person, there’s no real person inside the character.

What a waste of a story that would be.

And because I’m tired, that’s where we end for Today.  Later, I’ll do a character interview with the Main Character of the current WIP and see how she feels about it all.

WIP – Valki: up to midpoint, where the main character and the main protagonist find out just how similar they are, and what a shock it is to the third party. The stakes are raised (no, not the wooden ones, it’s not a vampire story). I hope to have the first draft completed by this time next week, but I’m not going to rush it. I already know there are bits that need some more effort, or complete extraction, so if I leave them in the back of my mind for a while – who knows? The world may come right, or the original idea may be compounded by a new spin …

Caption: The things a writer at work needs to consider … it’s enough to make a cat yawn.

 

 

An Open Letter to Netgalley and Goodreads

A reblog: there’s also this one:

And don’t forget, authors/publishers PAY to place items in NetGalley, so …

 

thebookcorps

Dear Netgalley and Goodreads, 

Today I discovered that your sites will no longer be providing services (or limiting services) to international readers and I am absolutely devastated.

Contrary to popular belief, America is not the only country in the world.

For those who are unaware of what is happening, Goodreads will, from January 2018, prevent authors from creating giveaways for international readers. Basically, authors will have to pay $119 for a giveaway base package, and $599 for the premium. Previously, all authors had to pay for was shipping. Read more here.

Sad news from @goodreads US Giveaways only from Jan. As a UK based author with readers from all over the world, and a UK reader myself, this is really disappointing.

The Inevitable Age

The Daily Post dared to put the word Age as the word of the day. Age – as if it isn’t on everyone’s mind anyway.

The young try so hard to be older; the older try so hard to be ‘the perfect age’ for the group (that means young or beautiful or both, even if no one really knows what these terms define); the older-than-middle-aged try so hard to forget all about it!

As if age is what really matters!

I have a rule – unbreakable, this one – a person’s mind is capable of amazing things, and if I listen, if I ask the right questions, if I open my mind – I can learn from them. There is no age barrier, no height barrier, nothing stops that mind having something I can use, learn from, help with, etc. (I’ve been told off for using the etc., but it’s still there!).

As a carer for a multitude of foster kids (dare I even count them?), and some (most) weren’t all that much younger than I was (their guardian! Right!). Every single one of those kids taught me something, every single thing we suffered through together taught us something, every single action we took demonstrated something to someone else.

All the teenaged fosters needed a bit of prodding to open their minds, to see what they had inside that was worthy. They had ‘issues’ from the past. A bit like digging at a bit of scab, really, to see if there was good repair work under that. Once the scab (and sometimes the scar) were seen to, life could go on. Sometimes it was painful (okay, always), but once underway, the process of expanding the mind was graceful, delightful, beneficial, exponential.

It didn’t matter what age the kid was, it didn’t matter where they came from or what experiences they’d suffered through – as long as they had an active and searching mind, all could be well.

‘Open the door, and see a path to somewhere.’ These words were our ‘secret’ code to recognition of each other.

And I could use the things that came from that part of my life. And I do. The stories we told together (some from my own childhood, some used from their experiences) became a solid foundation. That foundation gave us all (yes, me too) something to hold onto, to refer back to, to underpin us as we took those steps into the new journey.

Age? Pffffft. Means nothing.

I am not young anymore, but my body is far older than my mind. In my mind, I am the same person I was when in the full ruckus of a dozen or more fosters playing a game of hidden words, hidden worlds.

Long shall we dream beyond the physical, social, structural limits of the outer – and the concept of age.

Did I ever tell you that most of these blog posts are unplanned? They are. I didn’t mean to write this, but I see all around me the things people want to do to make ‘age’ into something it isn’t. I’m over a certain age, it means I can’t get a job – too old now, regardless of my training, experience, etc. I even tested the theory and put in applications that had a ‘few’ years missing, and guess what – interviews! But no jobs, because you have to show up in person at some stage. So I had a rant on what age doesn’t mean. And that’s it – now I just get back to normal life [for a writer, that is], back to the story of Anna, Sylph, in her journey through ‘the Valki of Three Salt Springs’ now written to the end of Act 1 (and thanks to the people who proffered up assistance).

 

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The Last Day of Waiting

Tomorrow is December (in Australia). Tomorrow is the day I get to the ‘prize’ I worked for in NaNo – the Scrivener discount (50% – woohoo!). I know, I know, not really a prize at all, because I still have to pay for it, but it’s less, considerably less, and if you take into account things like exchange rates, it does make a big difference.

This is my last day of waiting for it – and I’ve checked every day just in case they gave the code out early! I want to move my snippets of the new story into the ‘home’ folder with its corresponding stuff – which is so much less now, because I can put it all in the open document while I’m working. That last section should all be in very loud italics.

I didn’t realise how annoying it was to have to open documents (sometimes as many as six or 7) and trying to flick between them to get info, or having scrabbles of notes all over my desk and riffling through them to find that one little bit of spark I wrote down while sleepwalking. All that stuff now goes into little bits of the main document and all it takes it one click, read or copy or revise, one more click and I’m back at work.

No changing between documents and then trying to find my way home, no losing my place, no crashing of Word because too many docs are open (and therefore, no more of those ‘auto-saved’ which one do you want to keep? messages).

Today is the last day of waiting, and even though I’m tight with my money (I say frugal, others say differently), this is going to be worth it in terms of sanity saving.

Maybe it means I can get more work finalised, and I don’t have to crack a wobbly when the Word stuff hits the fan (as it used to do at least once every day!). It’s such a waste of time to have an emotional tirade in the middle of a work period. Big intake of breath, and as my favourite character would say, “Oh, well.” (Not quite, but close.)

Am I impatient? You betcha bottom dollar! I’ve spent the last few years (since 2013) learning the craft associated with story-telling for a larger market than the foster kids. It hasn’t been easy, it’s been a lot of effort, a lot of desperation and soul-searching. I think it’s worth it. I think I can be good enough.

Now I want the tool to help me be not just more productive, but also less concussive – unless it’s in the habit of crashing a few times a day. And I’ve done some reading on the world wide web for instances of this. I have. I research. I look for the shit that hits the fan on products.

You can take it that I didn’t find (enough) to stop me getting up at oh-dark-hundred (occasionally referred to as sparrow-fart) tomorrow morning and getting a fully-fledged Scrivener Code for the discount and downloading it and Working the whole day knowing I can use this thing Forever and Ever and never have to have a wobbly again (I have the toes crossed, but that’s nothing).

So, that’s my piece for the day, my snippet of information. A day late (because I got 12k words done on the new story!).

Next update on Sunday, and then maybe I’ll give you a snippet of what I’m working on. Maybe. [ Are we close enough to Christmas that I can say ‘If you’re good.’ ? – mind you, I never did say that to the fosters, so maybe not. ]

A Stab in the Dark

Or a bite on the bum. Whatever.

Today’s post is an on-the-run moment of freedom prior to the settling in on the ‘new’ story.  What new story? Oh, you want to know about it? A little bite of the cherry?

Well, the truth is this: it’s not new, but it is newly designed, newly structured, newly patterned. The Valki of Three Salt Springs has been revamped.

Why?

Well, it was a bit dull. Okay, it meant something to me, it’s a place and story I loved, but it just didn’t sit well with the collaborating author (Nan’s now gone back to doing the political editorials, just for a bit of fun in her life).

The story isn’t lost. It isn’t over. And the bones are good, but the clothing it was dressed up in was a bit slow, a bit inner. And it’s not what I want from it. I want it all – a deep insight into the main character, a compelling journey with heart-stopping moments, warm moments, scary moments, disgusting moments.

It didn’t have them, not to the full extent. It had starter elements of those things, but not to the full depth.

Nan (aka Rose) gave her blessing to the new structure, the layout, the beginning moments (‘cos that’s all there is at the moment), and she walked away. Will she come back later? Of course, but only after the main work is done. I mean, I should show a little respect for her age, shouldn’t I? (her words, not mine.)

So, the Valki of Three Salt Springs. The blurb is still similar, the story setting remains, the main characters are still there, but now – well now, you see the real deal.

The Valki of Three Salt Springs maybe:  December 2017 Contemp Fantasy/paranormal

(1) An untested Sylph runs away from her fate, and her mistake – straight into the arms of her mortal enemy: a gnaDenaiad harridan.

That’s the old blurb. Here’s the potential new ones (yet to be chosen):

(a)- A young woman tries to run away from her fate, and her mistakes, but even a country town in the neighbourhood of the black stump puts her face to face with her most dangerous foe.

(b)- A grief-stricken young woman finds you can never run far enough when you try to hide from your fate or a broken heart.

(c)- An untrained Valki tries to run from her destiny but ends up living next door to her most fearsome enemy – a gnaDenaiad harridan.

(d)- A runaway Valki takes her broken heart to the outer edges of the black stump, but it’s not far enough – even here, she finds her mortal enemy.

(e)- How far can a broken Valki run, what would it take to get away from the enemy that holds her fate, her life, and her future within its claws?

(f)- When her destiny costs the life of her fiancee, the untrained Valki runs as far and fast as she can – it’s not far enough.

So, which do you prefer? I know they all sound similar, but there are huge differences in how it will be written for each one.

(a) would focus on her youth and mistakes, the angst of inner demons (until she meets the outer demon).

(b) would focus on the grief and how she deals with it (and the off-shoot not yet mentioned – you find out when you read it!).

(c) would focus on the fact of being untrained and in the vicinity of the outer demon who wants her dead.

(d) would focus more on setting, isolation – with the inner demon associated with knowing when to ask for help, etc.

(e) would focus on the element of fate, or destiny, of the Sylph (soon-to-be Valki warrior).

(f) would focus on the distance you travel with grief as your companion – and how it always gets you in the end, unless you deal with it head on.

Tell me, and I’ll take every comment into consideration in the next stage of planning (which begins today, but usually takes a few days before the actual writing begins).

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