To celebrate, I’ll be giving away a $100 gift certificate to any online book retailer(s) of the winner’s choice. More details to come in a separate post.
To celebrate, I’ll be giving away a $100 gift certificate to any online book retailer(s) of the winner’s choice. More details to come in a separate post.
Enter the freaky Twilight Zone of writing when I sound like a wingnut in need of psychiatric care.
Sometimes I can plan a book out in painful detail before I ever write a word. I know the characters’ background, greatest weakness, and every secret fear. I might run them through the Emotional Toolbox half a dozen times and even create a storyboard to capture elements of the story. Once I even needed three or four spreadsheets to track all the threads.
Othertimes, the story just comes from nowhere. Plop. Right into my head. I don’t know how it happens. I certainly can’t FORCE it to happen. I can’t recreate the situation at will in order to encourage a new story to take up residence. Sometimes it’s just there, almost fully fleshed out, characters living and breathing with wills and voices that I have not created.
That’s how Lady Blackmyre’s story has been. I told my friend Diana it was like taking dictation. Violet’s voice is so clear, so distinct, I can’t do anything but write down what she says. She came with a complete shitload of baggage that I keep trying to tone down and she just laughs and keeps right on telling me what to do.
I keep trying to tell her that maybe her name really isn’t Violet at all. I mean, I’m pulling some historic figures into this story — granted, with significant creative liberties! — and I have no idea what Wellington’s wife’s name was. I should go research that, I think.
But she keeps going on and on about why that doesn’t matter and I should just listen to her and go with the flow. It’s not like the real Duke of Wellington would ever have done half the things she’s telling me and the Britannia of Lady Wyre’s world isn’t real anyway, so who cares if Blackmyre steps in? Okay then, Violet it is.
I couldn’t sleep last night. By the time we finally went to bed, I’d broken 6K. I found myself lying wide awake plotting out each scene. Not just an idea of what would happen – the scene down to dialogue and action and everything that needed to happen. I figured out how Wellington plays in all this — and not the Wellington you met in yesterday’s snippet. *I know you’re confused but you’ll see how it all plays out in by the end. I was confused too but Blackmyre insists this is the way it is.*
I know how the end comes together. It’s just a matter of getting there before I lose it. And that, my friends, is what really terrifies me. All these immense passages of dialogue are solely in my head. I cannot type fast enough to capture it all. I also have this thing called a J.O.B. and K.I.D.S. and not to mention dinner and all the other things my family demands of M.O.M. I can type 100+ words a minute but that isn’t fast enough this time.
Lady Blackmyre had me up at 5 AM before my alarm even went off. We’ve almost hit 8.5K today between Dark & Early and lunch. No I didn’t work out today — I haven’t been able to get back in the swing of Power 90 since I got sick after RT. Besides she wouldn’t allow it. My mind is utterly consumed, filled to overflowing with her story. I have to dump it on the page before I either lose it or accidentally overwrite something else trying to hold it all in.
I just hope my wrists hold up. Hoping to break 10K before I go to bed tonight.
Next snippet: unedited first draft. This is where you figure out why she insists her story is titled Her Grace’s Stable. Squick warning: pony play ahead, some language. This snippet is also long – there just wasn’t a good place to break and the conversation with Dottie at the end is too fun not to share.
“I put him in here.” Cole paused outside the last stall in the far corner of the stable. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I took him without permission. They’ll know I’m your man and someone will come to collect the expense. I’m afraid we busted up the place rather badly.”
“No matter, Cole.” At her voice, something thudded against the heavy stall door. “You know I trust your judgment. Tell me what happened before I see him.”
“Twas awful, Your Grace,” Cole whispered. Head down, he stared at his trembling hands. “He was screaming with fury and pain, enraged like a beast. They had him in a cage and kept poking him, stirring him up more and more. If he could have gotten a hand on them, he would have killed them. He’s that bad, Your Grace. I couldn’t leave him like that.”
Dread tightened her throat. “Who, Cole? Who did this?”
“I don’t know. The ladies and gentlemen weren’t known to me.”
So they weren’t part of Violet’s small, private circle that knew her proclivities and indulged in the same kind of play.
“He’s magnificent, Your Grace. Huge, powerful, a beast of flesh, and so damned defiant. Proud. Even what they’d done to him, he was still fighting, still determined to break free. He’d have killed them all.”
Her heart quickened desperately. The last thing I need in this condition is a challenge. “Let me see him, then. But if he’s that far gone, Cole, I don’t know what I can do for him.”
“You can help him. I know it.” Cole cracked open the door. “Shh, now, big fella. It’s me, your friend Cole, remember? I’ve brought some help. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I give you my word.”
Violet held herself very still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkened interior of the stall. Straw rustled and something thumped against the wood again. A low growl came from the opposite corner, a raw animal sound of pain and hatred.
Cole turned up the lantern.
Dottie gasped. “Dear Lord, a man! I thought…” Her words stumbled into silence, as though her brain couldn’t even comprehend what she saw.
Even for Violet, the scene was bad. The poor man had been whipped and beaten so often that his body was a mass of bruises and welts. Even crouched in the corner, he was huge. His broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms looked like the work of a blacksmith. Still growling that low, vicious warning, he rose to his full height and her gaze went up and up. He had to be nearly seven feet tall. A veritable giant.
“The way your man was talking, I thought they’d trapped a bear or something. A man. God, Violet, what kind of person does this to a living, thinking human being?”
Me. Violet swallowed hard but she didn’t dare turn her gaze away for a single moment. Any sign of weakness or hesitation from her now, and he’d be gone. He’d be on her so quickly that Cole wouldn’t have a chance to shoot him before he’d snapped her neck like a twig.
“It’s all right now,” Cole soothed, his voice the singsong chant he often used on frightened horses. “She’s the Mistress I told you about. She’s come to help you.”
Calmly, she laced her fingers together at her waist and simply looked at the man, letting him look upon her likewise. “Dottie, I think you should wait outside.”
“I’m not leaving you. Violet, have some sense. He’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”
“No, he won’t.” She smiled at him serenely, ignoring the snarl that rattled from his chest. “I’m not going to touch him. I’m not getting any closer than this. I respect his space and his warning. He’s not ready for a woman’s touch. Cole, do you know his name?”
“No, Your Grace. If he can still speak, he refuses.”
“Dottie, be a dear and fetch that bucket I saw outside the door. We need some water to wash away the blood.” Grumbling beneath her breath about fools, Dottie passed the bucket to her. Violet set the bucket in front of her on the stall floor and backed away to the wall. “Cole, take off your shirt and use it to clean him off as gently as possible. We may have to sedate him if he requires stitches.”
Cole did as she ordered, still talking in that low, gentle voice that was almost a lullaby. With sure and gentle hands, he washed the other man’s upper body, stretching up to reach the top of his shoulders and his back. The man glared at Violet, his eyes black with malice, but he allowed the care and stood quietly under the other man’s touch. At least he was sure and steady beneath knowledgeable hands. Someone had handled him like this before, so his experience hadn’t been all fear and pain.
She knew firsthand the soothing, therapeutic strength in Cole’s hands. Muscle by muscle, the man relaxed under the thorough massage and Cole managed to slip the horse blanket off the man’s groin.
He hissed in pain, his muscles tightening, fists clenched at his sides. Violet closed her eyes a moment to try and make sense of what she’d seen while still giving him at least some privacy. A cruel trap enclosed his entire groin, tight wires digging into the tender flesh, and weights dangled between his thighs. Every time he moved, the agony must be unbearable. And if he became aroused…
She shuddered and forced her eyes open. Engorged and trapped by his own desire, his cock was swollen and so purple that she feared he might actually lose it. They’d tormented him not just with pain, but with desire, too, knowing the agony it would cause him. He’d been mutilating his own flesh, and yet powerless to stop it. No wonder he was lost in a killing haze.
“Get that abomination off him.” Cole flinched at the brittle, cold tone of her voice. “If he can release, let him, whatever it takes. But he might be in too much pain to even get the slightest relief until the swelling goes down.”
“Yes,’m.” Cole bobbed his head but kept his gaze down, his shoulders low and submissive. He knew that tone of voice all too well. “May I have permission to stay with him until he can be moved?”
“Yes. I’ll send someone with more supplies and food as soon as I return home. I’ll make arrangements with our host so that no one bothers you at least for a few hours. Do you think you can get him to Blackmyre by dawn?”
Cole gently worked the metal loose and tossed it aside with a clatter. Freed, the man’s erection rose hard and painfully huge. His singsong voice went sultry as he wiped the man’s bloody thighs with his shirt. “I’ll do my best, Your Grace.”
Keeping her head up and her manner as slow and regal as possible, Violet stepped outside the stall and firmly latched the door. The low murmur of Cole’s voice echoed through the stall, and the ragged groan from the man, whether in ecstasy or pain she didn’t know. Likely both.
She leaned against the wall for a moment and closed her eyes, concentrating on calming her breathing again. Yet behind her eyelids, she saw the tall, proud man again, his eyes bleeding death and rage while his monstrous erection rose up in defiance. A challenge indeed. She’d never beheld such a fiercely proud man with the inclination of pony play. He was truly a wild stallion, and potentially as dangerous. Would his desire be as ferocious?
I hope so.
Dottie wrapped her hand around Violet’s arm, drawing a soft moan from her.
“So that’s what you’ve been hiding from me.”
Violet opened her eyes and searched her friend’s face, but Dottie’s carefully schooled features didn’t reveal her thoughts. They’d known each other since their schooldays at Eton, and nothing had ever broken their friendship. Not even when Violet had done her worst to gain the black reputation of her House’s namesake. Losing her now would be a blow from which she might not recover, especially with her days already numbered.
Pushing that sobering thought away, Violet forced a light-hearted laugh and slipped into the practiced lazy saunter of the privileged upper class. “That’s my great secret, yes. The Duchess of Blackmyre occasionally finds herself rescuing poor mistreated creatures, yet I’m considered the vile blackheart of the ton.”
“That’s not what I meant. God, Violet, what was that? In all seriousness, I need to know.”
Violet let the fake mask of Polite Society slip away to reveal the harder, colder Mistress that Cole knew all too well. “There are some of us who like to subdue our partners before we take them to bed. In fact, some of our partners like to be trained and handled like fine horseflesh.”
“Like your man Cole,” Dottie dared, her eyebrows arching.
“Yes. He’s been my pony more than once.”
Dottie’s lip twitched. “Pony?”
“That’s the general term for people who like to be treated like horseflesh by their Master or Mistress,” Violet replied stiffly. “I assure you, I’ve never done anything to him that he wasn’t perfectly eager to receive, nothing like that poor man has suffered.”
“And you know people who do this? Regularly? Both the… master… and the… er… pony?”
“Yes.” Violet clamped her mouth shut, refusing to offer any entreaties or explanations. She’d tried to deny the darkness inside her way too long, afraid of the condemnation of her friends, the same as her mother. With Cole, she’d finally embraced her truest self. She’d found something that she not only enjoyed, she excelled at, damn it. She was a damned fine Mistress and had even competed in the ring. Granted it was a small community of people and the title meant nothing whatsoever to anyone but them, but it was the first time anyone had ever accepted the truth about her without a single reservation.
Dottie squeezed her arm harder. “And you didn’t tell me?” She made a noise that Violet hadn’t heard since their schoolgirl days giggling about the first boy they’d caught for a kiss in the barn. “Oh, Vi, I’m positively titillated. I can’t stand that you never told me!”
Violet blinked and tried to keep the silly grin from spreading on her face, but it was a losing effort. “Oh, Dottie, I never thought you’d care to learn about the pony games. It never even occurred to me.”
“Because you’re… so… normal.” And I’m so abnormal. She didn’t say that aloud, but it must be written in the sorrow on her face that had been present since her mother’s death.
“You’re the bloody Duchess of Blackmyre, easily one of the top five most powerful ladies in the known civilized universe,” Dottie said in a low, fierce voice. “If anyone dares say a derogatory word about you they’ll be meeting me at dawn.”
Violet patted her friend’s hand soothingly. “No duels, dearest. You know Queen Majel’s opinion about such frivolous acts of honor. Besides, I’m only Duchess at her whim. She refused to hear the Dowager’s plea to disown me since there were no other living heirs to Blackmyre.”
“Pish posh, the Queen’s lucky to have you as Duchess. Now about these ponies…”
I returned to the Evil Day Job today and wasn’t as buried as I feared. I do have some testing feedbacks I need to resolve quickly, and a TON of “light” (said with a snort – the book is over 800 pages long) reading on the engrossing topic of Java, but not too bad after having over a week off.
I’m also getting back on the diet and exercise horse. I only gained 1.4 pounds last week at RT. Given my food choices, I don’t think I did too badly at all. I was supposed to get back to Power 90 today, but I had to use my lunch to mail my taxes. Ouch. So tomorrow’s the day, assuming I don’t have any meetings in the way of my normal lunch.
I’ve created ARCs of YOURS TO TAKE for any interested reviewers. Just drop me a note (joelysueburkhart AT gmail DOT com) with your desired eformat. May isn’t far away!
I was talking to my boss at the Evil Day Job the other day and she sounded surprised that I was doing Power 90. She said something like, “Isn’t that for men?”
Tony has both a woman and a man (young – he calls them “the kids”!) behind him for the Power 90 routine and she looks darned good. Firm and toned, yes, but not muscular like a Russian weightlifter or something. None of them are bulky that way. Even Tony doesn’t look like a massive weightlifter. These are not exercises to bulk up.
But it got me to thinking about WHY I choose to do Power 90 and why I like it so much, so I thought, hey, another blog post.
When you diet, you inevitably lose muscle along with fat (unless you’re exercising to counteract it). When you cut the calories significantly, your body will attack muscle first and hoard the fat cells. When you crash diet a lot without exercise…and then gain it back…this is bad, obviously.
Everything you gain is fat.
I’ve been doing this for years and years and YEARS. So my number one priority is to regain some muscle — which will improve my overall health as well as my metabolism, which has slowed to a snail’s pace.
I’m over 40 now. Losing weight is harder than ever. My metabolism is only going to slow down even more if I do nothing about it. My flexibility and strength are going to deteriorate. With That Man’s problems (hip and back plus he’s diabetic), he can barely get around most days even with weekly chiropractor visits and medication, and he’s not even 50 yet.
I don’t want to join him there in pain and constant doctor trips. I want to be able to play basketball with the girls or horse around with Middle (even if she kicks me in the knee!).
I don’t want to have to go to a gym and use equipment. While I do LIKE lifting on fancy machines, it’s much more likely that I won’t go if I have to find time to leave the house. I can do Power 90 at home over my lunch or after dinner each day with minimal equipment.
I simply like lifting weights and always have. I was a charter member of my high school’s strength club about a hundred years ago. I even got up early to be at school by 6:30 3 times a week to lift weights before class, even though we’d lift more in PE during the day. It got hard to find an exercise I hadn’t already done when it came time to lift in class. These were free weights too — just bars and weights locked on the ends. I could out-squat most of the boys in my class, easily squatting more than my body weight.
But when you lift that much…and then stop…where does all that muscle go? Sigh.
So an exercise routine that involves strength training is perfect for me. I used to hate to work out – especially cardio. So I didn’t want that to be the ONLY thing I was doing, for fear I wouldn’t stick with it.
Plus, I just like how I feel doing Power 90. I feel STRONG and dammit I need to feel strong in my life. In my workout, I can punch and kick and pretend like I’ve got one badass right cross and left upper hook. (In reality I’d probably suck in a real fight but while I’m working out, it feels great!) I’d probably love a boxing or taebo class but I don’t know of any around here.
There is a deep tiredness I get from the strength days that’s hard to explain. I always wonder if I’m going to be able to finish. I’m lifting to the point of muscle failure, and that’s not always a comfortable feeling. But it’s also exhilarating in a way. To push myself that hard and work out until my arms are shaky and my knees don’t want to carry me up the stairs. For someone who’s been so overweight most of my life, it makes me feel GOOD to do something I know I couldn’t do before, and conquer it. Every single day. I need that too.
I need it bad.
I need to feel strong and invincible at least for awhile. That’s what Power 90 does for me.
I can only imagine how P90X would make me feel. Maybe I’ll tackle it later in 2012.
As Tony says, “Do your best and forget the rest.”
(Power 90 Update: 30 Days)
I can’t believe I’ve made it 60 days! I’ve never EVER worked out so consistently in my entire adult life. If you check out my calendar in the picture, I only missed two days in February (Sat is usually my rest day). One I made up by walking almost 3 miles on a Sat. The other I took off because I was afraid I’d hurt my knee. Otherwise, I earned all my stars!
(sorry, some of them are wobbly because my arms were shaky!)
I’m stunned at how far I’ve come. When I started Power 90, I:
After 60 days, I’m now:
In February, I lost 6.6 pounds, bringing my total since Jan 2011 to 69.4. Still on Weight Watchers, the most significant food change I made this past month was eating more. I eat anywhere from 3-7 points over most days and still lose. I also lost the following inches (totals since Jan 2012):
Today I’ve decided to move up to Level 3/4 for the rest of my 90 days+ (I’m going to continue doing Power 90 up until I leave for RT in April). I hope it doesn’t kill me! I have no idea how much harder it is – I’ve never even watched the routine. Wish me luck!
First the good news: I finished the revisions to The Bloodgate Warrior and shipped them off to Alissa this morning. Even BETTER news – she likes what she’s read so far! Woot! That’s always such a relief. Did I interpret her revision letter correctly, thoroughly, and then most importantly, did I carry those revisions through the ms in a logical way?
Which brings me to today’s revision topic. It’s something I’ve been thinking about the last few days and decided I should blog about it in case it might help anyone else working through a rough patch of revisions.
As I told Raelyn earlier this week, I was so deep into the forest that it was hard to see the trees. All the threads (changes) I was juggling began to get muddled and tangled, and I was starting to lose my grip on what to pull forward when.
What am I talking about? It’s that chaos theory I’ve joked about before: A butterfly flaps its wings on page one and you suddenly find yourself revising every single chapter until it’s an entirely different book.
This is why revisions are hard.
I’m not talking about minor line-edit type revisions, but something more challenging. For instance, Alissa wrote that she’d like to see more of a contrast between Cassie’s driven focus for her job and what happens when Tecun climbs into her bed. *winks* I already had some bits of character traits that I really liked for her — her static trait involves her nightly ritual before getting into bed, for instance — but I didn’t go far enough. (In fact, I realized as I got into the revisions for this element, that I’d gotten a few things terribly wrong that didn’t jive with her character at all.)
Now you might think this was an easy change. I’ll just throw in a new trait – like maybe she’s OCD about her schedule and has every minute of this “vacation” mapped out down to the minute. Easy peasy right?
Wrong. Because if you’re going to ADD something to a finished manuscript, it has to have impact. If the butterfly flaps its wings, there’s wind, no matter how faint, that must spread and ripple throughout the story. Otherwise why even bother with the change in the first place?
So if I’m going to add a character trait, I have to SHOW it again and again. It has to affect the plot in some way, no matter how small, or it’s just noise. Like a random hair color or scar that I mention without ever explaining where the scar came from or how it changed the character’s life. Why even bother if it’s not important and crucial to the story? I couldn’t just mention this trait once and let it drop – that would be doing a lazy injustice to my character.
Everything has to matter. It has to have impact. WHY is she doing this? HOW can I show it? WHEN does this affect the plot?
And that, my friends, is where the real bite of Revision Xibalba comes into play. Once you start affecting plot, um… news alert… your plot changes. Scenes change. Actions mean something else entirely. If you change one turning point, then all the others are affected too.
See that trickle down effect? More than shit begins to roll down hill at this point. And oh, all those pesky trees. I had several items I was changing at the same time, not just this one character trait, each one like a colored thread that had to be pulled all the way through to the end in a logical manner.
For example, Alissa mentioned in passing that she liked the idea of the family journal that Cassie brought with her to Guatemala and wondered if there was any way to make that more important. Well sure. I could — and did — write several thousand words of journal entries, which became a cool way for me to resolve several items in the revision letter at once.
But which events should the entries cover (I ended up spanning over 500 years!!)? It couldn’t just be backstory or it’d slow the plot too much. It couldn’t be all emo whining or moaning about the past. They had to have real, measurable impact. Things had to change because of these entries.
What clues could I drop in the journal that would make the reader go OOOOOOOHHHHHH when I finally laid out the live-action scene before them?
Notice that if I’m changing the plot or character…that’s more than just copying and pasting a new journal entry into place. That means I’m changing significant elements of the plot itself. Alllllll the way through the ms.
So then it becomes a balancing act requiring a delicate touch and a sharp eye. If I’m going to drop in this little tidbit here, and make it really really matter, then I have to do it again over here. I can’t drop a bunch of bright red paint in chapter two and never ever paint with red again. I also have to remember the green and blue I’m adding and balance that with what’s already there and the new red. It has to be consistent from start to finish. All of these new colors are important now so I have to drop some over here, and again here, and then yeah, it’d better become crucial and important before the ending again, or…
Again, why bother?
Threading the plot — carrying these changes through in meaningful and consistent ways — building momentum page after page, THIS is the difference between making your editor happy when she opens up your revised document and making her groan and pull out her red pen again. I truly believe this is where you can really learn to shine as a hardworking professional.
No, I don’t mean you have to blindly accept every change proposed by your editor. But when you dig in and begin to make those changes, carry them through. Don’t just plop a few things in and send it back. Really think and dig. Yes, it’s more work. Yes, it’s painfully hard to come up with new ideas once the story’s already done. Trust me, I know. I added over 5K to this story (net – I added way more new words but deleted other passages that didn’t work any longer), and wrote another couple of thousand words of journal entries that I didn’t end up using at all.
But you know what? I loved Tecun and Cassie before I sent The Bloodgate Warrior to Alissa (or I wouldn’t have submitted it, obviously). But now?
Well. I always say this but I think with her help, it’s become the next best thing I’ve written.
One year ago today I made a commitment to myself. I decided I was done playing around. Done feeling miserable. Done trying every crazy restricted diet. I signed up for Weight Watchers Online – again.
Yes, it wasn’t the first time. My first exposure to WW was as a kid. I remember Granny (my mom) gagging down the weekly requirement of liver and fish. *shudders* After Princess Monster was born (today’s her bday, by the way! Our first teenager!), I did an At-Work stint and lost my 10%.
We moved to MO shortly after. I had two more kids. And yeah, this time I had to lose quite a bit more to get the 10% award.
That’s how it is with “diets.” Any diet will work. For awhile. But then I get tired of eating all meat and eggs but no bread or fruit. Or all grains and fruit and no meat and eggs. Or no salt. No sugar. Or no fat… And inevitably, I fall off the plan. No matter how much I’ve lost, it sure is easy to gain it all back again. And then some.
No more. I decided I was going to choose a plan I could live with. If we go out to eat, I won’t have a panic attack that someone put salt on my veggies and I’ll be up ten pounds tomorrow. I won’t have to eat salad only. If I want a steak, fine. If I want dessert, great.
Within reason, anything is possible on Weight Watchers.
I wanted to be a good role model for the monsters. Instead of being OCD about what I can and can’t eat, I just try to make the healthiest choices I can. We’ve talked a lot about “points” and healthy guidelines. For fun, they’ve all taken turns figuring out how many points they’ve eaten. It’s eye opening, and has helped us cut back on seconds and poor-choice snacks more than once.
I can live on this plan. Really live. I’m already doing things I never thought possible.
In 2012, I’m continuing my healthy eating habits, and I’m also working harder at exercise. So far, I’ve made it every day this month/year. Granted, we’re not even a week in yet but that’s an incredible start with my track record.
I’m feeling so good right now, not just physically, but about myself as a person. I’m taking care of myself, something that can be remarkably hard to do.
Thank you, Weight Watchers, for helping me LIVE.
Thank you, everyone, for telling me about your homemade gift memories. They seriously touched my heart.
Congrats to DarkBloodyVamp, the winner of my giveaway!
Happy holidays everyone!
I haven’t given up on hitting 50K but wallowed in the glow of finishing ZCR a bit too long. It’s hard to switch gears without much down time, especially this time of year. I’ve been a shopping, cleaning fool the past two weeks preparing for Thanksgiving. I’ve got two fridges absolutely stuffed with all the fixings. Cooking will start Tuesday night this week, Wednesday is prep day when I’ll bake the pies, make at least 10 batches of egg noodles, and mash 20 pounds of potatoes. (We like our carbs…) Then of course the turkey needs to go into the oven by 8 AM Thursday and we’ll have a house full of guests until late Thursday night.
Writing? In all of that?
Yes. I’m trying. I did some plotting and brainstorming for Lord Regret’s Price. I also decided to see if I could expand the free prequel, Lady Wyre’s Regret. IF I can get to RT next April, I want to have something to hand out and sign (since Lady Doctor Wyre is an ebook). I’m thinking about printing up a chapbook of the prequel and a nice excerpt. But of course I want it to be the absolute best I have to offer, and there’s a lot more to how Lady Wyre and Regret meet than I’ve given you so far.
NaNoWriMo count: 40,450 words
Snippet: this is continuing the free read prequel, Lady Wyre’s Regret. First draft only, etc. etc. I love the little line tying into the next book…. What exactly is Lord Regret’s price?
Waving regally, Charlotte paused on the front steps of Wyreton and awaited her public assassination. Her heartbeat ramped to supersonic speeds, but she managed to smile for the millions of Britannians watching the Solstice Eclipse festivities. Cameras flashed, broadcasting her departure for the royal ball.
As the Duchess of Wyre, she’d be fashionably late. Eternally
late, if Lord Regret manages to pull off this charade.
She heard the shocked whispers and gasps before she felt the assassin’s blade digging into her neck. This time he didn’t spare any pressure, deliberately drawing enough blood to leave DNA evidence on her spotless white marble.
It must look real and authentic.
Drawing in a deep breath, she let a shrill scream echo across the plaza. She clawed at his arm locked about her throat so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Combined with the rigid corset, she was afraid she might actually pass out.
Pain burned across her throat and she screamed again. She hadn’t counted on being so terrified. Her orders had been
explicit. He must rough her up enough to make it look real. He must draw her blood, obviously wounding her severely enough that the general public would believe her dead.
Yet she couldn’t help that niggling doubt. What if Majel had gotten to him? What if someone had upped her price, making the amount on her head too attractive for the famous assassin to resist? Every man has a price. What is Lord Regret’s?
As you can probably tell from my lack of posts over the weekend, NaNoWriMo was a bit of a bust.
We host for Thanksgiving, so we had a ton of preparation we needed to do this past weekend to ensure the house was fit to open up for guests. The basement was a pit of toys and junk, but we couldn’t clean it until we cleaned the garage and the unfinished storage area (so we’d have a place to take all this junk). We’ve been in this house just over a year now, and last Thanksgiving I cut us some slack because we had just moved. However, there’s no excuse this year. Some of those buckets and tubs hadn’t been touched in a year, and they were taking up much needed space.
So we worked almost all day Sat. We donated several bags of clothes, toys, and coats. Plus I found some things I’d totally forgotten we even had (because they’ve been packed up for over a year). I didn’t find everything, like my leather coat I bought in Texas many a moon ago, but overall I’m pretty pleased. We still have to hang some artwork, but the general organization is much better.
In the middle of all this, Middle Monster decided she would really really like to have her own room…in the basement. Right now, she’s sharing a room with Littlest, and the only thing downstairs is my office and the kids’ play area/family room. We don’t have another bedroom and I can’t give up my office (I telecommute for the Evil Day Job), but she was happy with just having a bedroom set up in the corner.
So on top of all the cleaning Sat, on Sunday we put together a platform bed in the basement (involved a trip to Lowe’s to replace the plywood base that had cracked) and moved a bunch of her stuff into the basement. She hung pictures. She set up shelves. She made her bed.
And lasted about 10 minutes after bedtime. 😉 Then she was back upstairs with her little sister. Oh well. I think she’ll make it eventually, and she loves having her own space. Once the newness wears off, I think she’ll be able to sleep down there permanently.
NaNoWriMo Count: 23,274. I’m going to start falling behind if I don’t pick up the pace.
In a discussion with Dmitri, one of Yiorgos’s best friends, Clare says:
My specialty is food and he sampled the best I can offer for Remy’s. You heard me warn him not to eat another piece of cake but he insisted on another piece not once but twice. It’s not my fault he’s a pigheaded chocoholic.