End of January

It has been almost one month since I’ve begun my rewrite of Drowning Sky and my goal of completing it in three books by the end of the year. I’ve reached my word goal for the month of 20k (though I have been lax on my 1000 words a day goal) And it has been a trip getting to know these characters again.

Now, the characters of Drowning Sky have been with me for over a decade, but I haven’t actually written about them in a few years. Because the rewrite is changing so much of the original plot, I haven’t felt the strong need to re-read my old drafts or notes, since a lot of the information is irrelevant. But I did think it would be best to re-read my self-published version of Drowning Sky. And that has been the real experience.

I feel like my writing style shouldn’t have changed so much in just a few years, but it really has. I’m more aware of redundancies and inappropriate colloquialisms. But what is really shocking is, for all the changes in plot and direction, how much my characters have stayed the same. I started writing and planning my rewrite long before rereading this book and yet so much has remained constant that I wasn’t even aware of. The way the characters act and react; their relationship dynamics initially and how they change. I’ve taken a pencil to my book and have been making notes of the things I like or just find interesting (which is a lot more comforting that if I were take a red pen to everything I want to delete forever…which is most of it).

At the beginning of this month, I really felt that I was meeting really good friends that I haven’t seen in years. People that I remember fondly, but forgotten how to talk to over time. Now, after twenty days, it feels like I’ve been writing this story forever. That I never set them aside for any length of time. It feels amazing.

I won’t promise it will always feel this way throughout this year, but I do think there is a reason I’ve never given up on this idea over these past twelve years or so.

And to give a little insight to these ramblings, here is my favorite excerpt so far:

Tranquil opens the window, feeling the cool air of morning on her upturned face. Touching the windowsill, she feels it is still cold from the night. The sun hasn’t risen yet. Rushing around her room, she picks up her clothes and throws them over her body. She haphazardly ties her hair back before stepping outside her room. Her father is still sleeping, she’s sure. Otherwise he would have come into her room to wake her. She tiptoes around the small house, hand absently tracing the wall. She knows her home well enough not to need much guidance, but she doesn’t want to accidentally crash into anything.

Finding the water bucket by the sink basin, she opens the back door slowly, carefully. The ground is damp beneath her bare feet. Her father doesn’t understand why she insists on not wearing shoes when she often goes outside. She told him that it helped her feel around and judge what was before her. But truthfully she just likes feeling the ground, the rocks and sticks and whatever lay in her path.

She tries hard to remember the image of the narrow path to the water pump. Sliding across the packed dirt and edging around the sharper corners of rocks, she tries to remember the color of the dirt. It would be a deep beige, in this early morning. While midday it would be a blinding white from the sun. She tried to imagine exactly what the color beige is, but it was hard to grasp. Colors had faded so long ago and had been replaced by textures and sounds. Beige was rough and cool and very similar to grey in her mind. White was soft and hot. Yellow was warm and smooth, but she often mistaken it for silver as well. Green smelled bitter and red was sweet.

Tranquil usually carries a walking stick, but this morning, she left it behind. Instead she lets her free hand trail along the shrubs growing near the path. She can feel the hard buds beginning to form, promising sweet flowers in the coming weeks. The flies would return soon, along with the small birds. It is quiet now, but it wouldn’t be long before Tranquil would be forced to sift through the sounds of buzzing and bird calls in order to hear the people around her.

Her foot touches a stone slab and she knows she is at the stairs for the water pump. Crawling carefully, she takes her time descending the crude stairs. The first time she attempted this, she slipped and cut a long gash along her arm. Her father acted as if she had died and, ever since, never let her fetch the water alone. But he couldn’t hold her back forever. He needs to be at the school most of the day and there was so much that needs to be done at home. Without him knowing, Tranquil had slowly learned how to repair the roof, tend to the garden, and mend their blankets and clothes. But walking outside alone is not something Tranquil can easily manage. Her father had to tend to the snares and traps by himself, as well as visiting others in their small village to barter for supplies. Fetching water is difficult enough, the pump located below nearly forty steep, stone steps. She can crawl down them carefully enough, but towing the bucket full of water back up them is something she had yet to manage.

Her hand reaches out and touched the smooth metal of the pump. She traces it until she finds the spout and places her bucket beneath it. A few pumps and the water flows easily. She touches the water level, making sure it’s full before tentatively lifting it. She needs both arms to hold it steady and she backs into the steps behind her and begins to walk up them backwards. She cannot lift the bucket very high and so cannot judge where a rock might jut out on the path and tip it. And if she were to slip and fall, she could catch herself with her hands, instead of falling backwards down the stairs.

The water slops over the edge of the bucket, wetting her feet, but Tranquil can still feel the stone slowing heating up. The sun must be rising and her father will be wondering where she is. She doesn’t mean to rush, but she tries picking up the pace. Her feet are slick against the rocks and one heel doesn’t quite make it up the steps. She falls hard on her backside, and her hands let go of the bucket. Grasping the air, she winces, waiting for the crash and splatter of water against the steps.

But there is no sound and Tranquil remains still in silent shock. Her hands flex in front of her, wondering if it hit the side brush or a soft spot in the dirt, but it would still make a sound. But it is silent and she feels a very odd sensation creeping up her fingertips. It is the touch of wet wood and cool metal. It is the feeling of the bucket, yet her hands aren’t touching anything. She even feels its weight, though she is holding nothing.

Tranquil slowly stands, reaching out, still feeling and not feeling her lost bucket. Carefully she steps down, her feet feeling numb. Then her hands touch the real wood. She wraps her arms around it, as it seems to be hanging at chest level. Half of the water has sloshed out, she notices as her hands slowly feel around it. It didn’t land on something soft or nearby, it didn’t land at all. She steps back, half expecting the bucket to be tugged away from her by some invisible force. But it stays gently in her arms and feels as it always does.

There is a quiet wind, cold with nightly air. It smells of the snow from the top of the mountain, passing by to slip beneath the clouds that hover constantly beneath Tranquil’s village. It feels cold, she realizes, but it also feels rough. It feels like the thorny mountain bushes, just budding with spring flowers, it feels like stone made rough by villagers feet, and fresh, damp dirt.

Suddenly, the path before her is revealed. The steps, the water pump, the plants, and dirt, and every detail. It isn’t like seeing, not like Tranquil remembers seeing. It is as if she had lay herself upon the whole land in front of her, feeling the curves and corners of the mountain and holding within her mind. There is no light, no color, but there is so much texture that her mind is overwhelmed with the feeling.

The wind passes, the warmth of the morning sun returns, and everything fades. Tranquil stands, clutching the bucket painfully against her chest. She cannot think to move, feeling utterly blind. Her strength drains from her and she sinks to sit on the steps. The bucket slips from her grasp and she hears it bouncing off the stone, before coming to rest against some shrubs near the bottom.

“Tranquil?” The voice startles her, the sound suddenly foreign.

She turns, still sitting, and she realizes that she is shaking. She cannot place who is calling her. “Yes?”

Footsteps down the stairs. “Are you alright? I couldn’t find you this morning. You really shouldn’t wander off like that, you could…Tranquil? Quil?” She feels a hand on her face and she realizes that she hadn’t been really listening.

“Ah, sorry. I-” She is broken off by a soft breeze. So gentle and unassuming. It touches the person before her and the first time in almost a year, Tranquil knows her father’s face. In a strange moment, she realizes that she had forgotten what he looked like, had forgotten he had even had a face. He was a voice with gentle hands, everything else too unimportant to constantly imagine.

But his face is more winkled now, worry lines deep in his forehead and mouth. His eyes are set more inward, as if he is always squinting. His hair is long and unkempt, she wonders if he hadn’t cut it since she stopped seeing it.

“Quil?” His mouth barely moves, but still his lips curve around her name, holding it in his breath.

The breeze moves on and the contact is broken. Tranquil finds herself crying uncontrollably, leaning forward to wrap her arms around her father, clutching his with shaking hands. His large hands wrap around her and she feels a little more grounded. Her tears slowly cease and she is reduces to soft hiccups, trying to calm herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright. You’re not hurt, are you?”

She shakes her head, still pressed against his shoulder. “No I…” She breathes deeply, voice feeling foggy from crying. “I wanted to get the morning water but it…slipped.” She turns pointing in the direction of the bucket. “I’m…sorry.”

Her father sighs. “Quil…don’t push yourself like this.”

She doesn’t want him to chide her for going to fetch water. What scared her now wasn’t her blindness, it was the strange ability to see. She pushes away from him and he stands with her. “I…I think I’ll go lie down for a bit, okay?”

He still holds her by the elbow. “Alright. I’ll bring you back.”

She doesn’t argue, unwilling to cause a fuss when she feels so jittery and confused. Walking on the familiar path back to the hut, Tranquil wonders if she should say something about what happened. But she isn’t sure what was happening, it all seemed a little too unreal. She knows it would worry her father.

Weeks ago, after she became fully blind, she thought she could see shadows. They would startle her and she never knew if they were really there.