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Okay. So I caved. At least there's no cartoon bishies...
What I am Writing--an occasional series
I'm waffling. No doubt about it. It's strange to not have a writing project eating my brain, because it was always *something*.
I don't know if I've broken myself somehow, or if it's the whacko schedule, but that has not been happening lately.
It's kind of scary.
But I did spurts on some short stories, and now am discovering energy to pick at some nigh-trunked manuscripts.
The Mortal Queen is my paranormal romance. I'm not longer sure what I did to it/myself/the space-time continuum, but I think I can work with it again.
When a good friend hits you up for a favor, you're going to hear them out, even if it sounds sketchy. And in this case, I owed her one: she'd bailed me out when my car gave up the ghost someplace near Bushy Head, outer Oklahoma wasteland, even though she had plans in town.
Walk Eager is my quintessential epic that-wants-to-be-unepic. I kept on tripping up on the fact that the humor was too low-level. I wanted voice. I didn't have it. I may have just found the jumper cables/defibrillator/lightning rod to give the hero his tongue-in-cheek lovableness. We'll see.
This is the story of Tohrya, of the far-coast Funayin—that is me.
I thought my story was simple enough, but this is now doubtful. Gossip has come round to me. Some of the tales are very interesting. They can keep on being interesting: I don't mind.
My own people, at least, should know the truth, though. So, I will start from the beginning. Don't groan at me, that's the only way I can tell a story.
Just in time to distract me from editing the Carnie sequels, I've found my way back into the maze that is:
Aolon (a.k.a. In Dire Need of A Title Project #1)
I'm pretty sure it has to start with Vol. 2, which is a short, sweet, and unobfusticated tale. In other words, I did away with the "epic" grammar (do you remember me saying something about sawing through oak with a butter knife? THAT is Vol. 1) to move up the period feel.
I don't think it will be right to do away with the first volume entirely (though it's a tempting thought) but I'm going to be patient about how to fit it back in. I think chopping it into itty-bitty pieces may be the only option...
A shadow blotted out the work under Farthaen hand. He didn't recognize the figure, but the platter in her hand was familiar. She had to be another one of Mother Shiael's strays, bringing him a meal. When she didn't move, continuing to block the afternoon light, he grew impatient and stood.
"Hiiiir," she said. It was a sort of hiss, as if confronting a devil itself.
~ Vol. 2
