Forever re-writing it… how does this beginning sound? Not too much, too early?
I really wish I could find the other version I wrote when Aurelia made it to the Night Market and found Mijifajifa was there. Alas, it seems to have been swallowed by the ether and I cannot locate it on any of my multiple devices… there’s just a tiny handwritten bit in a notebook.
Vato is replacing the roles of Jacques and Riana in an earlier draft. Whether either will exist remains to be seen.
Eyes squeezed shut, Aurelia struggled to keep her breath slow and steady, even as butterfly-nerves tickled her belly. Her ears pricked, alert to the noises of the night and her sleeping companions. Lucie, in the hammock above her, breath soft and even, with the slightest whistle on the exhale. Constance, an arms length away, made odd lip-smacking noises, as though she were sucking on a berry. Maryse, whose hammock hung on the far side, snored like an overweight tenrec. Beyond the confines of the treehouse eyrie, crickets trilled and frogs grunted.
Another sound came, a rustle of leaves and the dull, muted thud of feet striking a branch. Aurelia’s heart jolted sharply, and her eyes shot open. Moonlight streamed through the eyrie’s woven walls, tracing a delicate filigree across the slumbering forms of her companions.
He had come then. She had not been sure he’d keep his word — had both hoped and feared he would. She eased herself from the hammock, lowering her feet to brush the floor with barely a whisper of sound. Her fingers closed on Maryse’s dark blue scholar robes — a crumpled heap where she had tossed them — and Aurelia wrapped them about her. They hung loosely on her small frame, but at least would offer her some camouflage. Beyond the walls of the eyrie, he fidgeted restlessly, she could hear his heart racing as frantic as hers.
What they were doing was forbidden, and Ophelia had made it quite clear that punishment would befall those who broke the stringent rules of the Karazana. Aurelia shrugged away her fears — what could Ophelia do that she hadn’t already suffered? — and tip-toed across the platform. A misplaced footstep, a misaligned floorboard, and a low, groaning creak split the night with sound. Lucie snorted sharply. Fear prickled the fur down Aurelia’s spine. She stood motionless. Waited to be caught, to be reprimanded. Nothing. Just a whistling sigh, and Lucie’s breathing returned to normal. Aurelia all but sagged in relief. But there was no time to relax. They could wake at any moment.
She reached the entrance to the eyrie, and eased over the edge, lowering herself onto the rope ladder.
He was beside her in a heartbeat, swift, silent and as dark as a shadow in the night. Aurelia felt her heart clench and a cold chill erupt through her veins. But it wasn’t Noir, the black-hearted hunter. It’s Vato, she reminded herself, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. Kind, steady Vato. Your friend. You’ve asked him to meet you here. Her breathing slowed, heart-rate settled.
Vato’s fingers brushed the fur of her arm, curled around gently. A finger pressed to her lips, cautioning silence. She nodded her assent, and followed him along the rope bridge, away from the tear-drop shaped eyrie.
“Are you sure about this?” he whispered, his words rippling the fur around her ears.
She nodded mutely, and squeezed his elbow to reassure him; to reassure herself.
“The night market is no place for a novice,” he added.
“I’ll be all right,” Aurelia replied. “I’ve been through some pretty terrifying things, you know.”
He shook his head. “Terrifying isn’t the word for it,” he said. “Bewildering. Enchanting… well, you’ll see.” His golden eyes flicked sharply back to her. “Whatever you do, don’t lick the millipedes.”
Was that a joke? His scent betrayed nothing, nor did his tone. Vato’s nature was as solid as his name. “Millipedes?” she asked, but too late. Vato had slunk ahead, walking four-footed along the rope bridge, pausing to glance back at her. Aurelia cast one glance back at the eyrie, then hopped after him. The cloak moved oddly against her form; it made her balance less than steady. Above, the moon — plump and bright — had barely crested the long dark spires of sandstone, misshapen fingers against a tapestry of stars.
The valley was far from quiet, and in the darkness, any sound carried. Even at night, the Karazana did not sleep; now was the time of the nocturnals. Off in the distance, Aurelia’s pricked ears could pick out the sound of tiny tsidy, their voices high-pitched and excitable, and a tutor barked out instructions to his class.
Vato guided Aurelia around the outskirts off the orchard, away from the snuffling tenrecs, gobbling up insects and fallen fruit. They stole beneath other eyries, some wrapped around the trunk of trees, others which dangled from the branches like enormous wicker mangoes. The ground fell away sharply into a deep gorge, within which the waters of the Olymanga river ran dark and deep, almost invisible but for the faint shimmer of starlight. Moonlight illuminated a stone bridge in pale, ghostly light.
Vato’s hand came to her shoulder, his fingers pressed to her muzzle, he motioned her to crouch down and pull the cloak over her face. They hunched together, against the trunk of the tree. Voices first, and footsteps, coming nearer.
This year, like most years, I’m giving Nanowrimo a go. Not a very enthusiastic go, I’m afraid. I’ve become hooked on Draconius Go*, for a start, and I’m generally experiencing an apathy towards completing my stories. Lacking in motivation to write a story that “matters”, so to speak (as if any stories really matter to anyone except the writer), I picked up a story I’d begun last year, in a last-ditch effort to attain my 2016 NaNo goal.
Yes, I turned to Fanfiction.
I’m not new to the genre (if you can call it that) of Fanfiction. I started with it, back in 2000 with ElfQuest and Pokemon (although you could argue even before that, when I wrote a “Fantasy epic” inspired by my favourite song). I chose ElfQuest because they were semi-feral elves that rode wolves -so different from Tolkien’s statuesque and noble forest dwellers. Pokemon because, animals with magic powers! I also dabbled in a little Xanth (more in a “what if?” situation, as in “what if a feral, REAL, elf found its way into Xanth” but my motivation of introducing my ElfQuest OC to the Xanthian pun-world quickly dwindled) and wrote a song-fic inspired by “The Golden Compass”. These can be read on my Fanfiction.net page. Warning: They’re raw, lacking almost completely in editing and indubitably contain numerous grammatical errors.
Why is Fanfiction so alluring?
Well, most writers are also readers, or at the very least, enjoy some form of pop culture. Whether it be movies, television, books, cartoons, or even music, there’s generally something that speaks to us, inspires us: Characters that we wish were real people, worlds that we wished we could explore. Stories that we wished we could read. Sometimes the author takes the story in a manner you might not like, ie: kills off or abandons your favourite character, or totally skips over something you would’ve really enjoyed learning more about. As a reader and a writer, you can CHANGE THIS!
Writing in a Fandom universe means that your world comes fully created, no shuffling around trying to define a magic system, or decide how the weather system works, or how the cities and forests are laid out. It’s pre-made. Not only that, but you already have an established fan-base, since people who enjoy a particular fandom may seek further reading.
Original Characters or Canon?
Canon characters are those created by the original author or franchise: Harry, Ron and Hermoine for example. They do require a bit of delicate handling, and some authors may take offense at their “children” falling into the hands of amateurs, so if you want to write fandom and share it with the wider world, it might pay to check and see if your favourite author appreciates it. Some authors have outright refused to let stories written in their fandom be uploaded to fanfiction.net. George RR Martin, for example, considers it copyright infringement. If writing with Canon Characters, try and keep them as true to their intended personalities as possible.
Original Characters (OC) also come with risks, specifically when they come across as author-inserts and immediately catch the heart and soul of a beloved Canon character, in an effort of wish fulfillment. OCs must be as well developed as any Canon characters you may choose to incorporate. They must have flaws, and they must face challenges. If they’re perfect, and all the other characters love them, then you might have a problem.
When reading Fanfiction, I tend to be okay with either – as long as it’s well written and the Canon characters seem true to their author’s original voice.
Some of my favourite fanfiction stories are the James Potter series by G Norman Lippert (staring Harry and Ginny’s children, not Harry’s dad), although their American flavour did wear on me after a while. His stories are well written, very professionally marketed, listed on Goodreads and, most importantly, FREE. Because, even if your stories are accepted (if not endorsed) by the author, you cannot make money from them:
- unless you change them dramatically so that they are no longer recognised as Fanfiction, ala Fifty Shades of Gray and, allegedly, The Mortal Instruments..
- unless the author has actually asked you to write in her world – the Cassandra Clare spin off short story books, featuring Magnus Bane and Simon’s training in Shadowhunter Academy really do feel like glorified Fanfiction.
- unless it is based on a story that is out of copyright (or a folk/fairy tale). This is why you see a fair amount of stories from Hook’s PoV, or with similar plot structures to Shakespearian plays and Austen/Bronte novels. Fairy tale retellings could also be considered Fanfiction.
Another excellent Harry Potter Fanfiction is “Better be Slytherin!” which answers a question I’m sure you’ve all been curious about.
Fanfiction also gives you the ability to dabble in crossing characters between your favourite fandom (what if Buffy met Edward?). You can also take minor characters and make them the star of their own story. Fans might get a bit miffed if you start killing off Canon characters (in my “Pookamon” (anthro Pokemon) Fanfiction, I evolved Meowth before killing him off. It didn’t go down particularly well), but overall, it’s the chance to take liberties and have some fun!
Fanfiction I wish existed (and would write if I had the time or ability):
- Twilight as a psychological thriller.
- The Battle of Hogwarts: how Ginny, Luna and Neville held Hogwarts against the anarchy and chaos that ensured in book seven.
- A predator/prey changeling relationship in the Psy Changeling universe.
And if you want to read an excellent story with an original character that is in no way beloved, beautiful and brilliant at everything she does, and like a good dark romance, I strongly recommend FANGIRL_15 by Aimee Roseland. It’s not technically Fanfiction, although one might argue that the brothers do bear a striking resemblance to those in another series, but the main character is a massive fangirl (as the name suggests) who finds herself sucked into the world of the stories she loves – but finds not only is it darker, more frightening and overwhelming in reality, but also that they don’t trust her very much. It’s an amazing book, that even on the second reading almost had me weeping for the main characters. However, the ending is a bit weird.
Another fun Fanfiction inspired book is Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell, in which the main character writes Fanfiction (slash Fanfiction) around a series of books that bears some similarity to a certain boy-wizard. The story was so successful, and the fans so clamorous, that Rowell actually went on to write the Simon Snow story that the protagonist was penning!
* it’s like Pokemon Go, but with more realistic monsters (even though they have ridiculous names and no natural history), quests, duels with opposing team mates and treasure hunts. Yeh, it’s pretty addictive. I’ll post more about it later, promise.
I have recently finished creating the second anthology for our local writing group. And it has been quite an experience, through which I’ve made more than a few mistakes and learned a lot. Here I will include some of the lessons I have learned that should help you, should you ever be masochistic enough to attempt to create one of your own.
- Have a set deadline: The correct parameters for this are hard, one month may not be long enough, but six months generally leads to procrastination and a lack of contributions. I would recommend around 3-4 months, but be prepared to be flexible.
- Have a set format and established guidelines. Things you will need to inform your potential contributors are:
- word length: most anthologies ask for a maximum of 2,000-10,000 words, depending on the intended audience. If you are accepting poetry or flash fiction you probably won’t want to set a minimum length.
- theme: be very specific, unless you are opting for a general theme. However, if your theme is too specific, then you may find no-one will contribute.
- format: .doc or .rtf files are the most versatile.
- speech marks: as you will want these to be consistent throughout your anthology, I recommend double-smart quotes, as they are the easiest to adjust with find and replace (trying to find-and-replace straight quotes or single-smart quotes is a complex and aggravating mission).
- em/en-dashes: although it’s possible to find-and-replace these, it certainly saves time!
- font: you may like to specify font in your guidelines, I use Century Schoolbook, but this is relatively easy to adjust during the compilation process.
- language: UK spelling or US spelling. Be aware that NZ and Australian English tends to be a hybrid of the two and can allow inconsistencies.
- Make it clear that you are seeking stand-alone stories, and the plot structure you expect (ie: inciting incident, rising action, climax, conclusion).
- Unless you are publishing literally everyone who contributes, make it clear that not all pieces will necessarily be accepted.
- insist that all pieces must be spell/grammar checked! (however, this doesn’t give you an excuse not to have further editing done: see below).
When receiving contributions:
- Acknowledge immediately that you have received their submission. Offer them a date by which they will receive notification upon whether their story has been accepted.
Accept or deny? And how to notify the authors?
- There are three levels to this:
- Acceptance: the story fulfills all specifications, and is well-crafted and interesting, requiring minimal or “easy” edits.
- Refusal: the story either fails to fulfill the specifications: it’s too long, too short, not on theme, poorly crafted, or not actually a story at all.
- Acceptable, but needs revisions: Fulfills most of the specifications, but requires some work to be polished for publication. This is the hardest category to deal with.
- When informing an author that their story has not been accepted: be polite, and keep the reasons for denying it brief: ie: “I’m sorry but your story was too long”, or “I’m sorry, but your story does not fit the theme.” You can also use, “I’m sorry, but your story has not been selected for this anthology.” Do not enter into further correspondence if they try and argue why you should have accepted their story. Remember, it is your anthology, your decision. DO NOT, no matter what, offer a critique unless the author specifically asks for it.
- Minimal or easy edits are things like: changing idioms into something more era/theme-appropriate; fixing inconsistencies (like capitalising certain words sometimes, but not always), perhaps adding clarity to some of the vaguer details. These sort of edits shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.
- Needs revisions: This one is the hardest category to decide, so if there is any doubt then it is better to outright deny the story. Revisions shouldn’t require re-writing more than 10% or less of the story (that’s 600 words of a 6000 word story). It may include re-writing the ending, or adding in more detail to the beginning. Only request revisions from authors that are fairly skilled at the craft: don’t, for example, try and teach an author a skill they have not already displayed (ie: how to show not tell). If your author is expected to re-write even 10% of their story, then you want to be able to accept it if they do that, otherwise you’ve wasted their time and your reputation.
Once you’ve collected your (possibly slightly revised) stories and notified all your writers:
- Send out emails/contracts that specify copyright timeline (do your authors retain full reproduction rights, or does it become your exclusive property for 1 year, 5 year or more?) and other details, especially if payment is being offered.
- Have all stories proof-read, by as many editors as you can convince or afford!
- Decide what order they should appear in the book: when reading an anthology, a reader is likely to start at the beginning, so put your strongest story/stories first, but don’t have them growing steadily weaker or the reader will give up. I prefer to put short stories between the longer stories, and end with a relatively strong piece.
- Collect biographies for the “accepted” authors (specify relative word length and insist that they are written in third person).
- Start formatting, design your cover, etc.
- Keep authors updated with the process, either by email or regular blog/twitter posts. Authors like to know that you’re working hard with their stories! Offer a tentative timeline, and stick to it as closely as you can. If you start to fall behind, keep them informed.
Some things to be aware of:
- From initial deadline to actual publication date could take as long as six months, depending on how many proof copies you are required to order and whether you are printing offshore or locally.
- If you are privately creating an anthology, contributors may either expect payment or that your proceeds will go to charity. Realistically, the amount of time and effort you put into creating the anthology is going to exceed any actual financial gain. Only offer paying for stories if you are going to be able to at least break even.
- If you are creating an anthology for a specific group or cause, make sure there is information in said anthology about the group or cause.
- Be wary of offering free copies to every selected author, especially if you have to post them. If you are printing through a site like Createspace and have US authors, it will work out far cheaper to have them sent direct to the author. Posting internationally from New Zealand is expensive. Avoid if at all possible.
- Creating anthologies is extremely hard work and requires a lot of time and energy. It is not a task to be taking lightly.
# of stories written:
- 1 x novella = abandoned (34k)
- 1 x short story = completed (10k)
- 1 x fanfic = begun but not completed (6k)
I really, really, really didn’t think I was going to make it this year. I gave up around the 23rd, thus forcing myself to indulge in a last minute spring of 4k+ or so a day. Funnily enough, before I began I made a list of all the stories I was going to attempt – and I attempted about half of it! So the rest can be kept in reserve for later.
My final 6k came from me picking up my Pokemon Fanfiction again. Entitled Kataryna’s Pokemon Jungle, I wrote them first as a fairly poorly edited serial some years ago and then gave up in 2004, ending on a real cliff hanger. My Poke-apocalypse begins some 13 years later when the character awakens (now aged approximately 30), emaciated and imprisoned, to find that the bad guy won, and along the way the apocalypse has, basically, happened. Not only that, but being unconscious (magically asleep) and in the clutches of her mortal enemy has lead to some other issues, specifically relating to the presence of a girl, approximately 11 years old… Needless to say, this is a fairly dark fanfiction, and probably should have trigger warnings for various reasons, not the least of which is PTSD in relation to earthquakes. Whether I will persist with it past the 6,000 words or so I’ve already written remains to be seen, but I will include an excerpt here. I would, at least, like to write at least as far as when she and Eva escape from the island, and become reunited with Kat’s boyfriend, Kameron (ps: I recycle names all the time) and experience the third – and probably most horrifying – revelation of them all:
That the apocalypse was partly their fault.
Here’s why Loki (not the Nordic god, but an ex Team Rocket member with megalomaniac tendencies) got up to when he’d finished draining the elemental power from the Seven Sisters (seven powerful Mew):
TRIGGER WARNING: Recounting of natural disasters: earthquakes, tsunami, volcanic eruptions etc, with multiple, incredible, casualties, including the destruction of named, real-world places. It might be Pokemon-themed, but this is pretty dark stuff!
Loki reached over for the remote and flicked a few buttons, then a few more. Ash and his friends and their colourful adventures disappeared, replaced with a grainy image that jerked and blurred every other second. “Would you wish for her to be exposed to this?”
It was difficult to focus, as buried amongst static as it was, but I could make out a city in ruin, smoke and fire billowing forth from the skeletal remains of the broken buildings, tumbled like a child’s playthings into a shimmering, rippling pool.
“That is Cerulean City,” he replied. “And that, I think you will realise, is what happens when a peaceful seaside city is struck by several earthquakes – magnitude 8.4 and 8.1 respectively – followed by a 12m tsunami wave.” He pointed. “Look.” Between the buildings, some distance from the ocean, lay the carcass of a wailord, its ribs exposed to the sky and being picked at by.. murkrow? Dark avian shapes that I could not quite discern as they blinked and blurred in and out of focus. “Seven kilometers inland,” Loki grinned, proud at his gruesome achievement. “Of the 240, 000 people that lived there, only 326 survived.”
I gaped at him. “You destroyed it?” He was lying. He had to be lying! I’d been to Cerulean City. It was beautiful, with its water parks and fountains. Now, almost everyone… dead. “Why?”
“Oh dear Kataryna,” Loki replied, running his fingers down my cheek, tracing trails of fiery heat. I slapped them away. “You’ve been away a long time. The world, well, it’s a wee bit different now, I think you’ll see.”
“But… why?” My shivering was now so bad that I had to struggle to get out the words. “Why destroy a city?”
“Why not?” Loki leaned back and crossed one foot across his thigh. This is not, I should point out, something that any respectful member of society should do whilst clad only in a towel. “Because I can? To make a point? All valid reasons, so take your pick.”
“None of those are valid.” I clenched my teeth to stop them chattering. Oh my god. Cerulean gone… Where else had Loki destroyed? Loki flicked the switch again. A mountain, or what had once been a mountain, now crumpled in on itself, slopes burning with bubbling magma.
“Alola,” he said. “A series of islands created by volcanoes, that brought land forth from the sea. And what the fire brings, the fire can take away. Population, prior, 1 million. Now, a mere 457. Ain’t population control grand?”
Another flick, and a new image appeared, this one mainly churning ocean studded with a few black rocks. “The Orange Islands. Gone!” He laughed. “I melted the ice caps, and threw in a tsunami for good measure. What fun. Now only the mountains remain above water.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, most of the islands were unoccupied.”
My heart, almost stilled from panic exhaustion, gave a frantic kick. There was one special island amongst the archipelago, an island of freed Pokemon, ex-captives unable to fully release their domesticity. They were watched over by one of the most legendary Pokemon of all, Mewtwo, and several of my friends – including the drained Mews – had been offered sanctuary there. What had become of them? The island had featured a tall mountain; I could only hope that they had sought sanctuary up its slopes.
Again and again the image flicked, and Loki repeated his tales of massive natural disasters, vast numbers of casualties. “Why?” I kept asking. “Why would you destroy everything?”
Finally, Loki ceased flicking and, with one hand, twisted my eyes to meet his. I fought to look away, but his grip was powerful, infused with the energy of almost all the Mews. “Because they wouldn’t take me seriously,” he said. “I offered them the choice: surrender to me, worship me, but they just laughed in my face.”
“Who did you offer?”
“All of them: presidents, prime ministers, even dictators. No-one would believe me. Not even when I sent earthquakes and tsunamis and blew up hurricanes to prove to them that I had the power! Oh, some of them fought back. Some president fired a nuke, but I brushed it away, and it destroyed most of Liechtenstein instead. Oops. That caused a bit of conflict, upped the political-ante, you might say. Then they were too busy bickering amongst themselves to pay attention to me.”
“If you’ve destroyed the world,” I said, my voice growing increasingly frantic, even as I sought for calm – I didn’t want to antagonise someone who could, literally, flatten cities. “Where the hell are we now?”
“Oh,” he said with a shrug, “Aotearoa.”
“Where?” I thought back to what felt like only a few weeks ago, when we’d been pouring through maps to try and track down the Mew sisters. “Isn’t that near Tasmania?”
“Correct,” he said, rather flippantly. “Tasmania’s gone. Ground zero, more-or-less. But Aotearoa, a forgotten, abandoned island in the South Pacific.”
“Isn’t it occupied? And two islands?”
“More than that actually,” Loki grinned, exposing his sharp canines. “Historically, in any case. Now? Not so much. Had a couple of advantages over the other islands – no wild Pokemon, for a start, just some ferals released by unscrupulous traders. And as for the occupied bit? Well, it is on the ring of fire.”
“Quite. Tore the southern island in half with an earthquake, erupted a couple of volcanoes in the north, and their government declared a national evacuation. Not sure what happened. Australia wouldn’t take them, they had enough problems of their own, what with all the fire storms and hurricanes. Probably still floating about in their cruise ships, but good luck to them with finding an inhabitable island in the South Pacific. Well, there’s always Antarctica. It’s warming up nicely now I’ve melted away the ice.” He stroked his chin. “Now where was I, before I digressed? Oh yes. Anyway, they abandoned their islands – or what was left of them – and I moved on in to raise my daughter in peace and relative harmony.”
My absence from NaNoing has probably not been noted, especially given my previous post on the 20th. But things have changed in the life of LemurKat. For, you see, on Tuesday the 22, a new little “mews” entered my life. We’d been talking about adopting a furry wee companion for some time, now that we have owned our own house for just over a year, but had put it off due to the affections and interests of the neighbour’s calico, Lucky, who attempted to adopt us.
Hereby, I would like to introduce Lucifer Persephone* aka Lucie or Lols (short of Lolly, her fosterer’s name for her, because she’s so sweet).
Little Lucie is super-gentle and has the cutest quiet meow. Because she’s only little (about 10-12 weeks at a guess), she’s only allowed access to specific parts of the house, consequently I’m spending a lot of time in the lounge with her. Therefore, I’ve taken to working on my laptop. Since my “Love in Tirra-Inle” story wasn’t really going much of anywhere, and I was up-to-date with my editing and formatting for 2 of the 3 titles, I began writing again – it’s not yet too late to win NaNo for 2016 – although I am pushing it damned close.
Yesterday I wrote: 5,169 words on a short story
Today I finished that story, clocking in at 9,801 words.
Over the next two days, I have to write around 3,500 words per day. Unfortunately, I’m currently out of a story!
The not-quite 10k story is a fairy tale retelling of the Icelandic tale, Kissa the Cat. And is, of course, somewhat inspired by our new little furry friend. In my version, Kissa is, like Lucie, a fluffy black cat, but unlike Lucie, she has one – just one – white paw. Whilst I have taken some of the elements of the traditional tale, I have given it a modern-day setting, thrown in some elements traditionally found in fairy tales and twisted the original meanings. I hope it is true enough to the original (and not a crossover) to be accepted into Shelley Chappell’s anthology, Wish Upon a Southern Star. There are, however, a few darker implications.
If you wish to read my version of Kissa, please note that it is password locked. You will have to enter the name of my cat to access it (just her first name).
* name may be changed, not yet entirely settled.
I’m officially calling it quits, currently, for today/for now. The story has kind of burned out before it got anywhere, and I need to take a day of consideration before I either force myself further into it, or decide to write something different. If I go for the latter, I might just aim for a short story every day/two-three days.
Kataryna and Daniel have been characters beloved to me for a long time, and their romance has always been a thing of mystery. I think trying to write their “origin story” is somehow destroying the magic. I’ve got why it’s – if not technically forbidden, then at least strongly discouraged – but then the plot has pretty much fallen apart.
So it’s – currently – “goodbye” to Kataryna and Daniel, and onto the next thing. I feel bad, like I’ve failed them somehow, so to make it up to them, here is the “fabled” reunion scene from Reborne:
He stood before her, facing away, and her breath caught in her throat. She reached up, grabbing a tree branch to keep herself steady. His long dark hair cascaded down his back, the sunlight bringing out the brown hues from the black. She longed to run her fingers through it.
“Daniel…” she whispered, almost afraid to speak his name, lest it shatter the illusion.
He turned, and she thought she had never seen anyone so beautiful as her beloved, naked save for his kilt and the panflute that hung about his neck.
“Kat,” he whispered, somehow recognising her immediately, despite the change in her. “Kataryna?” Then he turned away again. “Nay, it canna be. Just another trick.”
She stepped up behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder, stroking her fingers through his silky fur. “No,” she whispered, “no trick. It really is me.” This close she could bask in the glory of his scent and her entire body ached – with eagerness, longing, sorrow. He turned at her touch and stared at her, his emerald eyes beyond fathoming.
“You’ve changed,” he whispered huskily, reluctantly reaching out to her as though afraid if he were to touch her she would evaporate. They were so close, so close and the desire to press her body against his was almost unbearable.
“Yes,” she replied simply and took his hand in hers, guiding it towards her, pressing it against her fur.
It seemed to be all the encouragement he needed and he took another step, engulfing her, wings and all, in his arms. She nestled into the familiar spot against his chest, his chin resting on his head and melted there. His arms about her were strong, and warm and she felt as close to perfectly happy as she had ever been.
Here was where she belonged and she could remain here forever.
(written in 2004)
Word Count: 1,883
Daily Reward: Pecan pie 🙂
Re-introduced Tawny (Without a name), then had my character abused in the cafeteria. She’s now run hiding to her room.
Random stuff I’ve googled today (mostly entomology related):
- How to determine gender of cockroaches (depends on species, can be quite difficult)
- Can tarantula re-grow their limbs (yes)
- How to cockroaches communicate (scent)
Daily Reward: None achieved.
There usually comes a day during NaNo when the motivation wanes, when you (the author) realise that the story just isn’t work and that the characters are meandering around doing not much of anything and you’re just using their actions to help with your world building.
That day was today (or, to be precise, yesterday, since I’m updating my journal belatedly now).
The conflict has really established itself and the main intended antagonist is pretty much just playing-the-friend atm, leading me to wonder: what turns her into the enemy? Does she strive for friendship and have it flung back at her, and turn in an act of petty revenge? <– this is my preferred option. Or was she just a sly fiend all along?
I’m not sure how to fix it, and I’m totally okay with rewriting or deleting large portions of work (they still count towards my final goal, after all!) but… my brain is no longer in it. I’m tired of forcing the words out. Being a writer is not necessarily easy.
I’m working my way through Take your pants off at the moment (a different kind of writing book than I give you my body despite the possible connotations in the title) and plotting out Tail of Two Scions using their techniques. I think, ultimately, the plot I had previously, tentatively, planned out does fit the character-overcoming-flaw-scenario, and hopefully this will help me to tighten it. Possibly I will return to this story later in the month, but whether or not I can achieve my NaNo word count goal remains to be seen.
There’s always option #3, which is just to write random scenes that do fit into the Love in Tirra-Inle plot and see how it helps develop the world and the characters. Or further develop the “ghost story” I had started on (featuring Lilith), turning the other students against Kataryna and more or less pushing her into a dark, dark place. Keeping in mind the beginning of Book Two (Which is hardly a spoiler – it’s printed in this very blog!), Kataryna’s story must be a bittersweet one.
Today’s illustration is by Amanda Allan, drawn way baaaaack in the early days, when Kataryna was my online fursona and I went by a different moniker.
Word Count: 1,638
Daily Reward: None (goal not achieved) – did sneak a few spoonfuls of Monday’s ice cream though!
Now Kataryna and Tawny have actually ventured out into the Deadlands, I’m just having some fun exploring the premise and building the background. I think I’ll view this story predominantly as creating the backbone of Furritasia, and developing the world in which my furrae live. Of course, aside from Scavengers, I doubt any of the stories will actually follow conventional enough plot lines to actually form a coherent book but ah well… Spent too much time looking up images from Hiroshima and Nagasaki and getting distracted, which is one reason I fell slightly short of the word count goal, the other reason being that the story had bascically drawn to a logical conclusion and I had to go to bed early on account of being required to taxi my husband to the airport on the morrow at approximately 5am. He’s off to Wellington for a conference (work) that has not been hampered by earthquakes or wild weather, and is going ahead as planned. To distract myself too much from worrying about him, I intend to fill the next two days with work, socialising and writing, and focus on Saturday, when I will be collecting him from the airport.
The jumble of rocks had tumbled together as though a great worm had borrowed through them. Tawny, taller than Kataryna by a full head, was forced to stoop almost double. Kataryna slouched, ever conscious of the wall of rock a mere finger’s breadth above her tufted ears. Her whiskers twitched with the air currents, even through the mesh, and her eyes kept drifting back to Tawny’s bracelet. Green — orange — orange — red — orange — green.”
“How bad is the red, really?” Kataryna ventured.
“One flash is fine,” Tawny called back. “Two, time to take precautions. Three or more, and … well … let’s say, we’ll have to hope you didn’t want children. If it stays red or you start throwing up, then, well, you’d better start notifying your heirs… You’re not feeling nauseous at all, are you?”
Kataryna shook her head, although, truth be told, her rushed breakfast was resting queasily in her belly. Probably just nerves though.
The passage dropped further, the walls turning to smoothed rock. “Look,” said Tawny, illuminating the wall with her blackemarr rod. It was a hand print. The palm not much larger than Kataryna’s own hand, the fingers long, with a well defined thumb, the fingertips tapering into rounded points. “Someone — probably a child — must have grabbed the wall here, and here,” — she lowered her light to illuminate another hand print — “maybe to catch their balance and then, BOOM! Vaporised instantly.”
Kataryna shuddered. “That’s powerful magick indeed.” She felt slightly uncomfortable. As fascinating as it was, a juvenile Ancient had perished here. But at least it had been quick, and the heat had purged the atmosphere clear. Kataryna could locate no residual presence, although a shiver still passed down her entire body.
“Not magick,” Tawny sounded almost gleeful. “Science!”
Further on, the smoothed rock turned back to a jumble of shattered pieces, then widened out, into what was quite clearly, a vestibule. The doorway beyond was still mostly intact, the stone weathered but solid, the stone bricks clearly defined, unmelted. Beyond it, Kataryna could catch the slightest glimpse of a chamber.
“Don’t be scared,” Tawny encouraged her, holding her wrist band high. Orange — orange — orange — green — green — orange. “It’s perfectly safe.”
Kataryna stepped forward. There was light here, a spectrum of colours, dancing across the mosaic floor, illuminating interconnecting circles, squares, the perfect geometry of the tiles. She entered the chamber.
Stone columns, thick, white and sturdy, beautifully sculpted, rose up, and up and up and up, curving inwards, like the ribs of an immense animal. Each connecting point featured a stone protrusion. Patterns decorated the smooth ceiling between them, faded almost into oblivion, the colour barely discernible.
“It’s magnificent. They must have been master Sculptors.”
“That’s the fascinating thing.” Tawny’s voice came so close to her ear, that Kataryna could not help a slight spasm of startlement. “It is highly unlikely that the Ancients had any Elemental Affinities at all. Their sculpting was done with tools, and their hands.”
The light came, dilute with dust, through windows taller than Kataryna. Coloured glass, individually set, into a framework, transformed it into a rainbow against the tiles. It wasn’t perfect — there were multiple pieces missing, panels lying broken on the floor, but it was beautiful — and to think that these had been created without the use of any magick at all…
“What was this place?” Kataryna’s voice sounded small in the immensity of it. It echoed back at her, ever so slightly.
The wristband still flashed: Orange — orange — red — orange — orange — red.
“We can’t stay for long,” Tawny cautioned. “Not unless you want to join them.” She motioned at the outskirts of the chamber, at what Kataryna had originally overlooked as broken branches, debris of the ages. What she realised now were bones. Hundreds and hundreds of bones. Her eyes flickered up, to a figure, carved of stone and set into an alcove in the wall, barely visible in the shadowed part of the nave. He was immense — perhaps some of the Ancients were giants? — arms spread, as though he wished to fly, strapped to his back an immense crosspiece, like the centre of kite. His face, so worn that his expression could no longer be read, his eyes no longer be seen.
“It was their place of worship,” Tawny replied. “The place they came, when their End of Days came, the place they came to beg their God,” she gestured at the statue, “to save them. But,” she shrugged, “he didn’t. They died here. Probably of starvation, or maybe of the poison that crept through their blood.”
Orange — red — orange — red — red — Kataryna held her breath — orange.
“We’ve got to go.” Tawny grabbed her by the arm, hauling her out, half pushing her along the passageway, out through the vestibule. They ran, gasping the Weave of the hoods in and out, feeling it tangle against her muzzle, stifling against her nose. Shivers of anxiety raced down her spine, sweet beading against the fabric of her second skin. Clammy, uncomfortable. She wanted to rip it off, to feel the breeze against her flesh, but the breeze would bring with it the death of the poisons. Past the hand prints, over and through the rocks, out into the open air. Staggering to a halt, gasping, hands pressed on knees, chest heaving in the struggle for air, trying to hold back the nausea.
Tawny’s wrist, held close to her snout. Orange — green — green — orange — green — beautiful, wonderful, green!
“Their God wouldn’t save them,” Tawny said. “They put their faith above their instincts for survival. And now they’re extinct.” She rose her orange-gloved hands to the sky. “Their God couldn’t save them, and Elysia doesn’t give a damn about us. If you want to survive in this world, you’ve got to put your faith in one person, and one person only: yourself.”