So I have a schedule for the year. If I stick to this schedule then I will have three novel drafts by the end of the year (of at least 70k each). I made this schedule challenging, but reasonable. While I have the goal of writing 1000 words a day, that would be going above and beyond the schedule.
Okay, so it’s the end of February and I already feel the strain. I should be at 50k by tomorrow, instead I’m hovering around 41k. But I have good reason! It’s been a fantastic month! Last year I joined a writing group in my area, The Journey http://writingjourney.org/. It’s a fun, casual sort of group and I’m really enjoying it! So, at the beginning of the month, we had a bit of a workshop on my Drowning Sky novel (Book 1) and I got some seriously good feedback. So good that a huge chunk of what I already wrote needed revision. That’s right, two months into my novel and I’m already revision major plot points.
But it has also seriously crippled my schedule. To put some perspective on it, I was at around 32k by the beginning of February. The revision started at around the 7k mark and I’ve gotten to 41k. About 10k was deleted in the process. How many words does that put me at? 16k new? Which seems so pitifully small for the amount of work I feel I am putting in. But at least I’m back on track for moving the story forward into March. And the goal for March is to be at 70k, but really it is to finish the first draft, however long it might be.
In other news, I’ve been editing a novella ebook this month as well. Oh, the world never stops spinning!
Another excerpt!
Tranquil wakes to the smell of smoke.
She tenses, hands clenched in her blankets. “Father?” she calls and struggles to sit up. Her body aches and her bed feels harder than it should. “Father!” she calls again.
“Tranquil, he is not here.” A voice, an older woman. She has a strange accent. There is a cup pressed to Tranquil’s hands. “This is water, please drink. You are very dehydrated.
Tranquil pauses then, her memories catching up. Her fingers tighten around the cup and she glares in the direction of the voice. “You are still here.”
“Yes, Myria and I are still here. You have been sleeping for some time. Do you feel up for eating?”
Tranquil put aside the cup, feeling the familiar blankets, but there was no familiar bed. She was lying on the floor. The smoke she smells is coming from the main room, probably the fire pit. “Has anyone come back? Is there anyone-?”
The woman…Vesper, she remembers, pushes her back into the pile of blankets. “While you have been resting, Myria has been scouting the rest of the village. She has found…Tranquil, you must understand, there is no one else alive here, but Myria has found some…bodies that perhaps you might recognize.”
Tranquil tries to get to her feet again, but Vesper pushes her down. “No, you don’t understand, I need to find out if…” she trails off, her stomach turning unpleasantly. The idea that there are dead bodies around of the people she knew throughout her whole life, sickens her.
The cup is pressed to her hands again. “Drink, eat. Myria will show you the bodies, if you wish. But do not rush yourself.”
Tranquil drinks the water, throat tight. “Now, show me. I cannot eat until I know who is left here.”
A pause and Vesper sighs. “Myria, show her.”
A movement from the corner and Tranquil starts. She hadn’t realized that anyone else was there. She was too used to everyone in her village being overly cautious about her blindness. To the point that they would regularly announce themselves whenever in her presence.
There is a rough hand on her elbow, lifting her to her feet. “Come.” Myria’s voice is softer than Vesper’s, younger, but just as deep.
Tranquil maneuvers out of her grip, but she can feel Myria’s hand still ghosting by her arm, guiding her out of the house.
It is early morning, by the feeling of the sunlight on her face, but the cool stone beneath her feet. She is barefoot, but one foot has been bandaged. She does not remember it being hurt. Feet on the dirt path before her. “I wasn’t sure what to look for, everyone here looks the same to me. But there is a man behind the house down here.”
Tranquil follows, glad that Myria does not insist on leading her. The path is familiar and well worn. For a time, Tranquil had used a walking stick to maneuver around the village. But now she can feel the bend in the path, the familiar stones and bushes that mark where houses are built. Myria is walking towards Carter’s house, the smallest in the village. She finds her throat drying at the thought that her father could have been…left there, for days, while Tranquil wasted in that cupboard.
“The house is practically collapsed. Nothing inside, as far as I can tell. There wall is completely demolished here, careful of the rubble. And here, here is the man.”
Tranquil shuffles through the remains of the garden, her foot only getting caught a couple times on the stones from the wall. She stills when she feels something soft. But it’s Myria, who stopped before her.
“He’s about a foot ahead of you.”
Tranquil kneels, legs shaking. She reaches out and encounters cold fabric. “How-,” she croaks, voice trapped far down her throat. “Can you tell how he died?”
Myria’s voice is calm, deep. “Beaten, he is very bruised and battered, but there isn’t much blood. Probably internal injuries. Here, do you want me to-?”
“No,” Tranquil gasps. She slowly, delicately feels her way up the torn tunic. The chest is more barrel-shaped than her father’s, she believe. She finds his neck, skin soft and icy. There is the scratch of worn beard and Tranquil does not need to feel the flat nose or narrow eyes to know it is not her father. “Carter,” she breathes. “His name was Carter and he is much older than my father. Blind, like me.” She retracts her hand, and resists the urge to wipe it against the ground. Her skin is crawling and she can’t seem to breathe properly.
But she knew Carter, their closest neighbor. When she was younger, she used to help care for him, making meals, tidying his house. He was the first person Tranquil really knew who was blind. She felt bad for him, living alone and trying to survive on the harsh mountain. Everyone always pitched in to help the old and blind, as they seemed so helpless.
It wasn’t until Tranquil started going blind, as such a young age, that she realized how trapped she felt. Not only from her blindness, but from the people who coddled her, who carried her like her legs were also broken. Who tried to pick up her chores, even though she still had working hands and had lived in the village her entire life. She knew where everything was, what was dangerous, what wasn’t. But when she became blind, she was absorbed into the ranks of the old, who all had more problems than just being blind.
But she would give all of her freedom away to feel someone, anyone, come up behind her and hold her and guide her back to her home. Put her in her chair and pet her hair. Cook her a warm meal, and talk to her about mindless things, like the weather or the latest hunting trip.
Tranquil stands and steps away from Carter, stumbling over a rock. Myria doesn’t reach out to steady her and Tranquil doesn’t know if she is grateful or not. Her heart hurts too much. She navigates her way back to the path, fingers tingling with the feeling of Carter’s cold skin.
Myria follows. “There are several more men that I found, do you want to examine them?”
Tranquil nods. “And anyone else. Show me everyone.”
A pause and Tranquil knows Myria is staring at her. She doesn’t need to see to know the girl is giving her a pitying gaze. “Okay, uphill then.”
It becomes easier, after the second and third and fourth body. The cold skin is normal, the sensation of crusted and congealed blood is normal, the pattern is found. They are all of the elderly, from Tranquil’s village. All of them blind in their old age. Just five total, five bodies.
Tranquil’s fingers stop shaking and she can breathe again. But she feels numb inside, she turns her face towards the sun. It is midday and it warm on her worn self. She wishes she could do something for the bodies. The soil is thin, on the mountain, and the precious amount is usually used for gardening. When people die, the strongest usually take them to a ridge on the far side of the mountain, and deposit them over the edge. It is several miles away, but Tranquil could always hear the sounds of the wild dogs barking and snarling in the night that follow. It used to terrify her, but her father would hold her and kiss her forehead, saying it is the natural way of things.
Tranquil knows that she could never take so many bodies to the ridge. Instead, she turns to Myria, who had been silent for so long. “Take me home.”
Another excerpt!
Tranquil wakes to the smell of smoke.
She tenses, hands clenched in her blankets. “Father?” she calls and struggles to sit up. Her body aches and her bed feels harder than it should. “Father!” she calls again.
“Tranquil, he is not here.” A voice, an older woman. She has a strange accent. There is a cup pressed to Tranquil’s hands. “This is water, please drink. You are very dehydrated.
Tranquil pauses then, her memories catching up. Her fingers tighten around the cup and she glares in the direction of the voice. “You are still here.”
“Yes, Myria and I are still here. You have been sleeping for some time. Do you feel up for eating?”
Tranquil put aside the cup, feeling the familiar blankets, but there was no familiar bed. She was lying on the floor. The smoke she smells is coming from the main room, probably the fire pit. “Has anyone come back? Is there anyone-?”
The woman…Vesper, she remembers, pushes her back into the pile of blankets. “While you have been resting, Myria has been scouting the rest of the village. She has found…Tranquil, you must understand, there is no one else alive here, but Myria has found some…bodies that perhaps you might recognize.”
Tranquil tries to get to her feet again, but Vesper pushes her down. “No, you don’t understand, I need to find out if…” she trails off, her stomach turning unpleasantly. The idea that there are dead bodies around of the people she knew throughout her whole life, sickens her.
The cup is pressed to her hands again. “Drink, eat. Myria will show you the bodies, if you wish. But do not rush yourself.”
Tranquil drinks the water, throat tight. “Now, show me. I cannot eat until I know who is left here.”
A pause and Vesper sighs. “Myria, show her.”
A movement from the corner and Tranquil starts. She hadn’t realized that anyone else was there. She was too used to everyone in her village being overly cautious about her blindness. To the point that they would regularly announce themselves whenever in her presence.
There is a rough hand on her elbow, lifting her to her feet. “Come.” Myria’s voice is softer than Vesper’s, younger, but just as deep.
Tranquil maneuvers out of her grip, but she can feel Myria’s hand still ghosting by her arm, guiding her out of the house.
It is early morning, by the feeling of the sunlight on her face, but the cool stone beneath her feet. She is barefoot, but one foot has been bandaged. She does not remember it being hurt. Feet on the dirt path before her. “I wasn’t sure what to look for, everyone here looks the same to me. But there is a man behind the house down here.”
Tranquil follows, glad that Myria does not insist on leading her. The path is familiar and well worn. For a time, Tranquil had used a walking stick to maneuver around the village. But now she can feel the bend in the path, the familiar stones and bushes that mark where houses are built. Myria is walking towards Carter’s house, the smallest in the village. She finds her throat drying at the thought that her father could have been…left there, for days, while Tranquil wasted in that cupboard.
“The house is practically collapsed. Nothing inside, as far as I can tell. There wall is completely demolished here, careful of the rubble. And here, here is the man.”
Tranquil shuffles through the remains of the garden, her foot only getting caught a couple times on the stones from the wall. She stills when she feels something soft. But it’s Myria, who stopped before her.
“He’s about a foot ahead of you.”
Tranquil kneels, legs shaking. She reaches out and encounters cold fabric. “How-,” she croaks, voice trapped far down her throat. “Can you tell how he died?”
Myria’s voice is calm, deep. “Beaten, he is very bruised and battered, but there isn’t much blood. Probably internal injuries. Here, do you want me to-?”
“No,” Tranquil gasps. She slowly, delicately feels her way up the torn tunic. The chest is more barrel-shaped than her father’s, she believe. She finds his neck, skin soft and icy. There is the scratch of worn beard and Tranquil does not need to feel the flat nose or narrow eyes to know it is not her father. “Carter,” she breathes. “His name was Carter and he is much older than my father. Blind, like me.” She retracts her hand, and resists the urge to wipe it against the ground. Her skin is crawling and she can’t seem to breathe properly.
But she knew Carter, their closest neighbor. When she was younger, she used to help care for him, making meals, tidying his house. He was the first person Tranquil really knew who was blind. She felt bad for him, living alone and trying to survive on the harsh mountain. Everyone always pitched in to help the old and blind, as they seemed so helpless.
It wasn’t until Tranquil started going blind, as such a young age, that she realized how trapped she felt. Not only from her blindness, but from the people who coddled her, who carried her like her legs were also broken. Who tried to pick up her chores, even though she still had working hands and had lived in the village her entire life. She knew where everything was, what was dangerous, what wasn’t. But when she became blind, she was absorbed into the ranks of the old, who all had more problems than just being blind.
But she would give all of her freedom away to feel someone, anyone, come up behind her and hold her and guide her back to her home. Put her in her chair and pet her hair. Cook her a warm meal, and talk to her about mindless things, like the weather or the latest hunting trip.
Tranquil stands and steps away from Carter, stumbling over a rock. Myria doesn’t reach out to steady her and Tranquil doesn’t know if she is grateful or not. Her heart hurts too much. She navigates her way back to the path, fingers tingling with the feeling of Carter’s cold skin.
Myria follows. “There are several more men that I found, do you want to examine them?”
Tranquil nods. “And anyone else. Show me everyone.”
A pause and Tranquil knows Myria is staring at her. She doesn’t need to see to know the girl is giving her a pitying gaze. “Okay, uphill then.”
It becomes easier, after the second and third and fourth body. The cold skin is normal, the sensation of crusted and congealed blood is normal, the pattern is found. They are all of the elderly, from Tranquil’s village. All of them blind in their old age. Just five total, five bodies.
Tranquil’s fingers stop shaking and she can breathe again. But she feels numb inside, she turns her face towards the sun. It is midday and it warm on her worn self. She wishes she could do something for the bodies. The soil is thin, on the mountain, and the precious amount is usually used for gardening. When people die, the strongest usually take them to a ridge on the far side of the mountain, and deposit them over the edge. It is several miles away, but Tranquil could always hear the sounds of the wild dogs barking and snarling in the night that follow. It used to terrify her, but her father would hold her and kiss her forehead, saying it is the natural way of things.
Tranquil knows that she could never take so many bodies to the ridge. Instead, she turns to Myria, who had been silent for so long. “Take me home.”
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