Progress
Chugging along on Breath of Earth:
Writing, writing, writing. My Excel chart estimates a done rough draft in about a month. The book continues to be fun, even if the characters and their vastly different motivations make my head spin at times. Plus, the world-building. Oooooh the world-building. I'm continuing to slog through a pile of research books, and likely will for several months yet, and revise the novel as I learn more.
An excerpt from this week:
Mama used to say that whoever decided women should wear skirts should be forced to do constant jigs for the devil in hell, and this was one of those moments when Ingrid agreed. The wood of the fence was a tad coarse, and once it had hold of her skirt, it didn't let go. Instead of heaving over the top and landing with finesse worthy of those militia in Chinatown, she ended up upside down, skirts tangled and half upended for all of three seconds before gravity did its job and brought her down with a mortifying rip of cloth. It took everything she had to not screech at the hard impact on her hands, her forearms, and then her knees.
"Are you alright?" hissed Cy.
She choked down some blasphemy that would have made the southern boy turn vermilion, and managed to crawl a few feet to hide behind a bush and assess her injured skirt and dignity. The cheap cotton had shredded from the knee on down to a 90-degree angle at her other leg. The apron didn't fall quite far enough to cover it. It would have been easiest to just rip the whole parcel of fabric out, but no one needed to see her lacy bloomers up to the thigh.
But Cy had, and a whole lot more. Good Lord, of all the people.
Writing, writing, writing. My Excel chart estimates a done rough draft in about a month. The book continues to be fun, even if the characters and their vastly different motivations make my head spin at times. Plus, the world-building. Oooooh the world-building. I'm continuing to slog through a pile of research books, and likely will for several months yet, and revise the novel as I learn more.
An excerpt from this week:
Mama used to say that whoever decided women should wear skirts should be forced to do constant jigs for the devil in hell, and this was one of those moments when Ingrid agreed. The wood of the fence was a tad coarse, and once it had hold of her skirt, it didn't let go. Instead of heaving over the top and landing with finesse worthy of those militia in Chinatown, she ended up upside down, skirts tangled and half upended for all of three seconds before gravity did its job and brought her down with a mortifying rip of cloth. It took everything she had to not screech at the hard impact on her hands, her forearms, and then her knees.
"Are you alright?" hissed Cy.
She choked down some blasphemy that would have made the southern boy turn vermilion, and managed to crawl a few feet to hide behind a bush and assess her injured skirt and dignity. The cheap cotton had shredded from the knee on down to a 90-degree angle at her other leg. The apron didn't fall quite far enough to cover it. It would have been easiest to just rip the whole parcel of fabric out, but no one needed to see her lacy bloomers up to the thigh.
But Cy had, and a whole lot more. Good Lord, of all the people.
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