Man, it’s hard to be grumpy when your evening consists of a stage production of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu, followed by performing with a local burlesque troupe.
But I’m doing a pretty good job of it.
I’m still going to work on That Thing, and update my writing schedule.
But I will be petulant about it!
Petulant also sounds like the name of an Elder God.
Or a good cat’s name.
There’s something nice about typing. The comforting clack of the keys and the black words sliding across the 
white empty box.
At my day job – I type a lot. A LOT. 100 emails is an average day. And when I sit down in the morning, I actually feel a dim sort of muscle-pleasure at the prospect of typing. On weekends, or days away from a keyboard I feel an odd sort of regret.
I’m also particular about keyboards — I miss the giant, tall-button clacky ones from older PC’s ..and typewriters! Man, typewriters were awesome.
So, the eternal question – why do you write?
Because I like to type, apparently.
“You see them birds, boy?” A brown glob of spittle hit the side of the lime-green fusion reactor.
“Yes, Pa.”
“Them birds….them birds is chaos birds. Make sure you don’t feed them no maths.”
“Yes, Pa.”
Pixellated wings rustled, then were still.
[The world is improved by this. You’re welcome, Brent.]
Very productive couple of days on That Thing – I just crossed the 100 page mark!
I know it gets old, me crowing my feeble accomplishments — it must seem so unimpressive to WordPress at large. But this is the first time for me on a long-form writing draft. [I know, I know — I should just give up and call it a “book” or “novel” — that neurosis is a whole ‘nother blog post.] The first time I’ve ever had 100 pages of my words in one place — all existing and crap.
My writing schedule called for me to be hitting this benchmark by 3/3 — so I am nearly two weeks ahead of schedule! I don’t want to jinx the productiveness of this week, but on Friday I’m officially going to recalibrate my schedule — don’t want any danger of getting lazy, or losing the forward momentum. I’m shooting for around 140 pages/45,000 words for the first draft — very exciting to feel I’m so close.
I know, I know — lots can go wrong in the next section. But as any unpublished or semi-published author can tell you — you gotta take the days of deluded optimism when they come. There will be plenty more rays of Infra-Doubt to dodge later on.
I’ve been researching this service lately – any of you guys have any personal experience? I’ve seen a few horror stories and a few glowing recommendations, so I’m more than a little curious.
I’m still a long way from publishing anything — but—-
TELL ME THE SECRETS.
The lip of the crystal vial was cracked, blue fluid seeped quietly down the side. A clean trail of blue falling from the stained cork, ending in a perfect droplet — racing towards the bottom of the vial.
Meredith placed her finger just below the drop, and watched it pool — filling the whorls of her skin like canals on a forgotten planet. She slid her finger upwards, carefully gathering the falling liquid into a blob.
The liquid was blue, almost dark but not quite. A hint of spring on a cold hillside.
She held her finger up to the lamp, carefully observing the blue smear.
Meredith tucked the vial into her belt, keeping the world on her finger undisturbed. She leaned in close, and took a slow breath. The liquid had no true odor, only the barest chill in her nose – a quiet taste on the back of her tongue.
What would it taste like? Her mouth parted, and then closed.
There was a dagger on the desk. The edges of it shone in the lamplight, slick and blue.
The liquid had a purpose. The dagger had a purpose. She had a purpose.
The tiny world on her finger shimmered, a larger world waited outside. A quiet moment here, before. Considering.
A quick taste, and worlds spun – changed by this quiet moment. But which?
Which world would end?
The blue drop sat on Meredith’s finger, a blue death sat on Meredith’s dagger, a blue world waited — hushed, and listening for her answer.
The blue liquid was blue.
It was unconcerned.
[Story on Demand for Belle of Mountains. ]
I’ve had a great time doing these every weekend — you guys are nefarious idea-mancers, flinging white-hot bolts of creative inspiration at me, which I’ve done a yeoman’s job lobbing back over the net.
[TENNIS METAPHOR. BAM.]
This week, could I humbly request — well, something a little more vague? The past few weeks people have
given me extremely specific prompts, and I’ve had to sort of push it around my plate with a fork for a while.
One of the best prompts I’ve received was “music as weapon” and I had a freaking blast with that one, and am quite proud of the results. [Thanks again, HTBS!]
Glass Dogs. [ Go ahead — read it again!]
So, I think what I’m asking for is for you to give me an idea — not a plot. Make with the vague!
Forgive the presumption! FORGIVE IT, OR THE WEASELS.
[The weasels are bad.]
Drop your lovely ideas in the comments, and I’ll churn out a story for the shiniest.
The third week was when Gorton really started to stink.
The other Ghosts tried to put as much space as possible between them and the wizard, but the cramped cavern gave few options. The thin illumination provided by the blue crystalline moss on the ceiling showed dejected, tired faces and not much else.
After being seized by the Tyr-Elf Rangers they had been dumped in this small pocket of a cavern, and ignored. No threats were made, no trial was held – not a word had been spoken. Food and water were dropped in by a strange black cage that came down from a narrow hole in the ceiling. The adventurers had attempted a few times to break the chain, or gum up the mechanism in some way — with no success. Whatever material the metal was made of, it was fiendishly strong.
Their weapons confiscated, magic rendered inert by the stone walls of Iax — the Ghosts settled into despair and boredom. The spirit, Tetch, had spent several long days attempting to spook the Shadow Elves into opening the cell, or revealing some other helpful information — with no success. The phantom had finally given up, and departed the caverns in search of aid and rescue.
Gorton really smelled terrible.
Suddenly, the stone wall opened into a smooth hole. There was no mechanism, the wall simply opened. The Ghosts leapt to make an attempt at escape, catching a glimpse of dark-eyed rangers with glittering spears — before a dark figure was flung into the cell, colliding with the adventurers. They all fell down in a heap, watching as the stone wall closed — becoming as featureless as before.
The new prisoner dusted himself off, threw a hand through his gray hair and grinned.
“So.. I’m here to rescue you.” Simon said.
Battle-mage? No. War Wizard? No. Combat Caster? No. Spellblaster? No. Magus Melee? No.
Slaughter-wizard? Yes. Most definitely, yes.
spell-sword.com 