Category: The Writing

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My First Booksigning

Today, we drove an hour and a half north, back to our hometown, Osceola, MO.  I haven’t been home much at all since I left for college.  For years, we lived in TX, NE, and MN, and I just didn’t keep in touch with very many people at all.  Once both That Man’s and my parents moved out of Osceola, we only made occasional drives around the square to see what had changed (very little), or to put flowers on Grandma’s grave, but we never really stopped and visited.

I think it was very fitting to experience this first where I grew up, especially in the library, where I read books by the shelf after school.  Where I quietly wrote my first stories in elementary school.  Where my teachers were so supportive and encouraging.  Mrs. Lightle made me write my own version of Beowulf my senior year and first instilled a love for poetry in my heart.  When I came home from college over spring break my freshman year, pretty sure I wasn’t going back because I couldn’t understand Calculus II, Mr. Kauffman gave me every teacher’s manual he still had so I could work through examples and figure out how to keep my head afloat.  I went on to be a mathematics major and even got my MS, but if he hadn’t let me come out to his house and given me his pep talk, I might not have made it.

Oh, and don’t even get me started about my family and friends, many of whom I haven’t seen in years.  Literally, my cousin who stopped by — I don’t think I’ve seen him for twenty years or more.  One of my best friends from high school came by — I hadn’t seen her since graduation.  The librarians I grew up with had retired, but both of them came in especially to see us.

We didn’t sell a ton of books, but we sold several, to very good homes, the library gained some donations, and more importantly, I connected with friends and family I hadn’t seen in an eternity.

It was a lovely day.  A huge thank you to Tish at the St. Clair Co. Library for organizing the event, and to everyone who stopped by to say hello.

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Friday Snippet: Return to Shanhasson

Since I’ve been working on this project for Revision Hell, I thought I’d share the opening prologue now that I’ve polished and smoothed it a bit.  I’m not one for prologues, usually, but these two sections set up the massive conflict of the entire book.  So much foreshadowing lies in wait in these words.  Keldar–the world of Survive My Fire and The Fire Within–will truly collide with the Green Lands in this book, bringing the entire story full circle.

Prologue to Return to Shanhasson, book 3 in the Blood & Shadows series.

In a wasteland of blasting sun and endless thirst, the man who’d used a thousand names and lived a thousand lives in Shadow stretched out on his face in blistering sand.  Above, a massive twisted spire stabbed the sky.  Poisoned waters hissed and bubbled around the tiny island.  His inflamed, festering flesh bore testimony to the acidic hatred of this place.

He choked on oven-hot air, his throat and mouth desiccated.  After dying countless times, he couldn’t even remember his original name any longer.  He’d lost all sense of time and place.  He rubbed his thumb against the small twisted iron ring on his pinky finger and shivered despite the baking heat.  Soon, he would have a new name, a new body, but his purpose was always the same.

Here in these savage lands of brutal death and endless thirst, the Great Lord didn’t need a sacrifice before He could stretch out His hand to touch and mold the world to His will.  They lived His Shadow every single day. 

It’s the perfect place for a new beginning. 

Lygon–or Yama, as the savages knew Him–moved through his mind.  It felt as though rancid oil soaked through every pore and crevice of his body.

WHAT NEWS, MY MOST FAITHFUL SERVANT?

He didn’t try to speak aloud; there was no need.  The Great Lord of Shadow could pull any secret thought from a man’s heart without effort.  Instead, he let the words ring in his head.  :Forgive me, Great Lord, but your son, Theo, the High King of the Green Lands, is dead.:

HERE IN THESE CURSED LANDS, ALL ARE MY SONS.

The ground shook, a merciless groan of laughter forced through the imprisoned earth.  Yama might taint the Spire and Venom Lake, but the rest of the Trinity exacted Their punishment on Keldar fiercer than any other land in the world.

Fools, he thought.  It was much better to plot according to a God’s will–even the Blackest Heart of Shadow–and live than risk eternal punishment and suffering.  However, there was one small catch.  He needed a new body, a new life, which only Yama could provide.

I will be Keldari this time. 

The thought sent an unaccustomed shiver of dread down his spine.  He’d been many men and lived many lives, some more vile than others, but he’d never actually carried a beast within him.

:What would you have me do, Great Lord?:

YOUR PURPOSE HAS NOT CHANGED.  I WANT her FILLIES OF THAT CURSED BLOOD EITHER BUTCHERED OR CORRUPTED BY OURS, BUT MOST OF ALL, I WANT A SON TO SOIL THAT SHINING BLOOD WITH MY OWN.  I WILL TAINT her LAST DAUGHTER FOR ALL TIME.

HERE IN THESE ENDLESS SANDS, BECOME ONE OF MY SONS AND CORRUPT HER YOURSELF.

Despite the blazing heat and burns on his body, he couldn’t help the shiver from head to toe at the thought.  She had never been part of his reward, not directly at least.  The Great Lord was jealous of His prizes, and the Last Daughter was the greatest prize of all.

He must be absolutely certain.  :You wish me to train one of your Keldari sons to corrupt her?:

NO ONE WILL BREAK HER BETTER THAN YOU.  IF YOU ARE WILLING TO PAY THE PRICE, THIS TIME YOU WILL BE REBORN KELDARI.

Something that might have been praise poured through him, although it was blackest night and smelled of rotting flesh.  There was no greater reward from the Great Lord.  He’d never hoped to be given this last, most important task of all.  :I will pay any price to drag her into Your Shadow.  What of her barbarian husband?:

Shrieking laughter crashed through his skull like boulders tumbling from the highest mountain.  THE HORSE KING WILL NOT LIVE FOREVER.  I NEED DO NOTHING TO SPEED HIS DEATH.  THE HORSE GOD CALLS HIS SON HOME TO WHINNEY AND CAVORT IN THE CLOUDS, WHILE HIS WOMAN SUFFERS ALONE.

ALONE, UNTIL YOU ARE PREPARED.

:I am ready, Great Lord, to do Your will, no matter how dark, no matter how painful.:

A painful, metallic shriek sliced against stone directly above him.  Slowly, he lifted his head, craning his neck to look up at the black rock rising above him.  At first, he couldn’t see anything, not in the moonless night.  The screeching came again, only feet away.  Shards of black glass stabbed his upturned face.

A massive claw seized his shoulder.  Talons sank into his flesh, grinding on bone.  The beast lifted him off the ground. 

Feathers and leathered scales filled the night, a stink of corpses roasting in the desert heat.  Red serpentine eyes glowed like burning cinders, searing him with hatred.  The beast lowered its head:  foul breath in his face, teeth as long as small swords, salvia drizzling on his flesh, hissing and popping like acid. 

Yet he didn’t cry out.  Pay any price, he’d said, and he meant it. 

IN THE LAND OF BURNING SANDS, THIS IS MY FORM.  THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU.  LET her SHINING SYMBOL REMIND YOU OF YOUR PURPOSE.  WELCOME TO KELDAR, MY MOST FAITHFUL SERVANT.

The dragon opened its jaws wide and closed its mouth over his head.  He couldn’t help but scream as the beast devoured him.

#

He opened his eyes and winced at the brilliant sun making its climb in the sky.  So hot, so fierce; he’d never felt the heat of the sun so miserably until he’d come to…

Startled, he jerked upright.  A black dragon was sprawled on the sands, already decaying.  The smell of roasted meat was thick in his nostrils.  A young man hacked beneath the beast’s chin and removed two small dripping sacs.  By his baggy trousers, fancy coat and wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes from the miserable heat, he must be a Far Illione trader.  Likely a well-to-do son with decent breeding, making a dollar or two for his family, hoping to find a way to escape this hellhole and make his way to court.

How do I know this?

“A foul beast.”  The man grimaced.  “Prepare the oil, and then I’ll ensure it’s delivered directly to her hands.”  He turned, pale eyes sharp as steel.  “What’s the matter?”

He blinked at the other man, trying to decide whether he could trust him or not.  Nausea burned up his throat.  His entire body screamed with remembered pain from rending teeth and claws.  He distinctly remembered a dragon eating him, ripping him limb from limb, but then the dragon had folded up, somehow, and slipped…inside out. 

Ice picks darted deep into his skull and he couldn’t stifle the cry of pain.

“Can you keep your part of the bargain?”

“What…”  He swallowed, wincing at the blades shredding his dry throat.  “What bargain?”

The other man harrumphed and squatted beside him.  He didn’t neglect to note the blade in the man’s hand, stained with blood.  The putrid musk leaking from the sacs made him gag.

 “You’re going to make a seductive oil that the High Queen of the Green Lands will find very, very amusing to be sure,” the man spoke slowly, as if he were too stupid to understand.  “Then you must find a way to get your lazy dirty hide to Shanhasson, into her Court, and then, ultimately, into her bed.  Simple, iyeh?” 

The last word was spat forcefully, a mockery, if only he knew what it meant.

Breathing deeply, he forced his body to accept the foreign odors of this place:  the rotting dragon, the stink of its glands dripping some noxious fluid onto the blasted sands; the rank body odor of the man beside him; and the scent of his own body, sweat mixed with an exotic spice he couldn’t quite place. 

It smelled…right, that scent, soothing his unease.  It was his scent, blending with the reek of the dragon until even it smelled right.

Mine. 

His stomach calmed, as well as his mind.  The High Queen of the Green Lands was definitely someone he knew.  The dragon had surely been a dream.  Now, if he could only remember…

“Tell me, my young friend,” he began casually, but the trader’s eyes widened with shock.

“Your voice.”  Suspicion narrowed the trader’s eyes and he drew back warily.  “No Keldari talks like that.”

He kept his face smooth and unconcerned, even though his mind lurched.  Keldar, yes, the place of dragons, poisoned sands, and savages.  He glanced down and noted the rough black garb he wore, the curved blade on the sand beside him, covered in dried blood.  Lightly, he touched his head, trying to remember how he’d killed the dragon.  “The dragon must have knocked me unconscious.  I’m afraid I don’t remember much at all.  What’s my name?”

The trader inched backward, his hands smoothing the fine linen of his shirt.  “Mykal.”   

A dull black ring on the man’s right hand sucked at the brutal sunlight, a black hole of evil that made him narrow his gaze in recognition.  Odd, wasn’t it, that he recognized a ring but not his supposed name? 

“You’re Mykal tal’Mamba.”

Ah, it was beginning to come back to him.  Tal, chief, he knew, of the tribe of Mambas.  Appropriately named, to be sure, for the mamba was the deadliest snake in all the desert.  Before the thought had even crystallized in his mind, his body exploded up with the curved blade in his hand.  He knocked the young man to his back and planted a knee on his throat.  “I’ll uphold this bargain, munakur, else the sands swallow me for all time.”

Wheezing, the man flailed at him with the knife, but Mykal effortlessly blocked the blade with his own.  This man had never been skilled with a blade; he knew that, now, as he also knew that he himself could dance the blades with any warrior on the sands and best him.  Cocking his head, he let his gaze travel down the man’s fancy clothing to fine leather boots and back up. 

His gaze stopped on the ring.  He stared a moment, and then deliberately examined the dragon corpse.  Its left front paw had been hacked, its claw missing.  “I believe you took something that belongs to me.”

Babbling choked entreaties, the man’s cries rose to a wail as the scimitar cut through his pinky.  Mykal picked up one of the leaking sacs and dropped it into the man’s wounded hand.  He howled, heels drumming on the sands, but the fluid cauterized the bleeding stump.

“Go to Shanhasson.”  Mykal claimed both sacs for himself and shook the severed finger from the ring.  Closing his eyes, he slipped it onto his left hand.  The ring fit his finger perfectly, as he expected.  Sands shifted within him, settling, filling up the empty spots of his memory.  Without opening his eyes, he unhooked the leather packet–which he now remembered preparing with his own hands–from his belt and dropped it onto the trader’s chest.  “Trade my oil to Her Majesty.”

He let the young man scramble away, cradling his wounded hand to his chest.  His pretty white shirt was ruined, stained by blood and burned by the dragon musk. 

Raising his voice, Mykal yelled after the fleeing trader.  “Tell Shannari dal’Dainari that soon I’ll soar over her Shining Walls!”  He rubbed his thumb over the ring and dropped his voice to a whisper.  “I have a purpose.” 

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Project Management: Evaluating Your Progress

Have you heard the quote that a high percentage of people who write down their goals actually succeed?  That’s only part of the secret to success.  The other part:  evaluating your progress.

It does you no good to write down detailed, measurable, attainable goals if you never check your progress and make adjustments.  I used to avoid this step because, quite frankly, I hate failure.  I made massive, impossible lists, and then I never wanted to see how little I actually accomplished, so I just worked like a busy bee and never sat down and really thought about what I was doing.

It’s much easier for me now because I have finally learned how to prioritize my lists.  I still have an impossible amount I want to get done, but I’m really only going to be disappointed if I don’t accomplish my MUST DO items.  That list is smaller, manageable, and easily evaluated.

For example, this week, my highest priority goal is to revise 100 pages of Return to Shanhasson.  It’s measurable.  It should be doable in one week.  Just editing 20 pages a day will give me the weekend off if I so desire, and I already knew the opening was pretty solid, so I wasn’t going to have to rewrite massive sections.

Now last night before  I went to bed, I evaluated my goal.  I have 55 pages finished out of 100.  I’m 55% done, I still have 3-5 days to work on this item, so I’m in really good shape.

Today, I have two choices.

  • I can keep pushing forward on the revision and get it done quicker.
  • I can take a look at my ROCKSTAR goals for the week and month to see if I want to get some progress done there.

Before each writing session today, I’ll take a quick look at my plan and see what I want to do.  Tentatively, I’m shooting for another 10-20 pages of revisions today, but I’d also really like to get a first draft of Victor’s query letter prepared.

So take a few minutes and evaluate your progress.  Are you on track?  Do you need to speed up or allocate more time to your projects?  Do you have a half hour to spare for a ROCKSTAR goal?

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Revision Hell: Laying the Foundation

As I said yesterday, I’m attempting the first pass smoothing of this revision as I make my initial readthru with notebook and pens handy.  Obviously, I’m not going to bother smoothing sections that I already suspect I will cut, but this gives me a chance to spruce as I go.  After reading chapter one, I have 3 things to check on my list and I’m pretty happy with the opening itself — at feat indeed, because I usually battle the opening several times.

The foundation has been laid for this story — it just needs a bit of the mortar knocked off and tidied.  As I read, I’m making the following kinds of changes:

Repetitious sentence structure.  e.g. starting too many sentences with the same noun or pronoun.  See Spot sit.  See Spot run.  Run, Spot, run.  *yawn*

Misplaced modifiers.  I’m pretty good at catching these as I write, but it never hurts.  e.g. Standing aside, the open door was an invitation he couldn’t refuse.  (not from Return – I made up on the fly so it sucks)  So the door stood aside?

Incorrect MRUs.  e.g. according to Swain, feeling, then action, then dialogue.  Sometimes the dialogue comes first in my mind, so I type it, and then record the action/feeling.  I tidy these up now.

Before:

“Even at night?”  Sal asked, tossing his hair back over his shoulder.

After:

Sal tossed his hair back over his shoulder.  “Even at night?”

Wasted words, especially in dialogue and action tags.  When I have an action inside dialogue, there’s no need to add a dialogue tag, said, etc. 

Before:

“Great Vulkar, it’s an abomination,” he cursed, drawing his rahke only to shove it back in its sheath.  “How could any man or woman think to kill a child?”

After:

“Great Vulkar, it’s an abomination!”  He drew his rahke only to shove it back into its sheath.  “How could any man or woman think to kill a child?”

 

23 pages down!

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Revision Hell Begins

I stand at the formidable wrought-iron gates leading beneath the Mountain.  I’ve delayed too long already.  This novel has been complete for a year, just waiting for me to find the time — and courage — to enter into…  da da DUM ….

Revision Hell.

Okay, in all seriousness, this particular Revision Hell won’t be as bad as I’m making it sound.  I have a very solid and detailed (105K) first draft prepared.  It’s the third in a trilogy so I’d darned well better know my characters and my world right now.  Just as there are Nine Circles of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, there are various layers to Revision Hell, too.  For this particular work, I already know I have the following challenges to resolve:

1. A few scene holes, where I knew what happened but just wasn’t feeling it.  One is a fight scene, one was a potential sex scene that may be cut (e.g. if I didn’t need it written to finish the story, then maybe I don’t really need it!!)

2. A few wrong turns and rambling paths.  Even in a well-plotted story, it’s easy to write a scene and then later realize that maybe it wasn’t the best option.  I have that problem with a few scenes, in particular  with one  character, Jorah.  I don’t need them, they add nothing to the main plot of the story, and trivialize his character into a LKH stock character, which is not what I want.

3. Dropped threads. It’s like sending your character off with a backpack and then realizing she dropped it somewhere along the way — or needed it and I had no idea where it was.  (Inside joke: this happened with Isabella in Beautiful Death.)  For Return, where is Wind?  Sadly, I thought nothing of this special horse character until the very end, when I realized I had a way to make the ending incredibly powerful, but I had no idea what had happened to her.

4. Texture. This is a tough one for me, because I can add details, emotion, and worldbuilding all day long, and I’ve already got a 105K story.  However, there are a few scenes/details I’ve been thinking about the past few months that could really add depth and heart to the story, and in the end, that’s exactly what this story is about.  The heart.

I’ll post revision tricks as I think of them this month and next, since I have two full-length manuscripts to revise and kick out of the nest.  For now, this dark road descending beneath the Mountain requires a key to pass the gates, and that key, is a read-through.

  • Grab a notebook and pen and make notes as you go, recording page number or simply adding a comment in the Word file.
  • Since these revisions aren’t massive, I’m going to save time and smooth sentences and polish as I go.  This won’t be the final pass, but it’s like sanding a plank with the first, rougher grade sand paper.
  • Note all research items and find those answers.  For this story, that means I need to dig through Rose and Road looking for forgotten character names or places, etc.  I don’t have a series bible for this story — it’s all in my head.  Or not, in this case.

My MUST DO goal for this week then becomes:

  • Revise the first 100 pages
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Finish the Damned Book

Last night, I finished my 7th full-length novel, 9th counting the novellas.  Victor, the NaNoWriMo novel, is finished at 73K and before anyone asks when they can read it, it needs a ton of work before it’ll be presentable!  But the first major hurdle is done.

There was a time in my writing journey where I seriously doubted I would ever be able to finish a book again.  For one full year, I didn’t finish a single new novel.  Each time, I begin to wonder if maybe the magic is gone.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe this will be the book that breaks me.

Well, I’m not broken yet.

Victor pushed me into places that were hard to go.  He wants things I can’t possibly understand.  Deep down, he fears he’s a very, very bad man, and at the core, unlovable.  Dealing with his fears was exhausting and yes, exhilarating.  Each book is hard for a different reason and teaches me something new.  I guess Victor had to show me that I can’t worry about people may think.  I can’t get too wrapped up in how politically incorrect, vulgar, or risky a character may be.  I just have to write the book and trust the magic not to fail me.

And even though Victor was making me doubt whether I would ever get to his endzone, his sister started blabbing in my head last night and her hero showed up.  Well, at least one of them.  ::ahem::

Final line from Victor, subject to revision:

“Watch the show and see for yourself.”

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Project Management: Stepping Stones

Hopefully you’ve taken your Dream List and broken it down into your top MUST DO priorities with a few ROCKSTAR goals just in case.  Now the question you should be asking yourself is HOW you can reach your goals.  

I’m reminded of the scene in The Mummy when O’Connell and Benny are yelling at each other across the river after the boat catches on fire.  Did you find yourself on the wrong side of the river?  Right now, the task may seem insurmountable. 

That’s because you’re looking at the river and letting it become an ocean in your mind. 

Instead of setting up a permanent camp of despair on the wrong side of the river, pick your number one priority item on your MUST DO list.  For me, that’s finish the first draft of Victor, the NaNoWriMo book.  Begin to make a list of all the things you need to do to meet that goal.  Anything, no matter how little, that you can do to accomplish the task.

So for Victor, I know I’m into Act III and the Resolution of the story.  That means I have a bunch of threads I need to tie up.

  • I need to tie up the romance between Victor and Shiloh, make sure they’re comforted and secure after the final showdown in the show.
  • I need to show how the trap Victor laid for the spy is revealed and resolved.
  • I need to reward Shiloh with the elixir, the very thing she created the show in order to win.
  • I need a clever, fun, sexy ending.

So I have about 4 scenes, give or take, that need to be written in order to finish my task.  I’m guessing this is less than 5K, and so I should definitely be able to finish by 12/7, which was my goal.

Maybe your goal is revisions.  I have three types of revisions I need to work on this month, and each will require a different set of tasks in order to accomplish them.  Maybe you like to read thru first and make notes as you go, and then tackle the revision.  Maybe you like to read online — or from a hardcopy with sticky notes.  Whatever your process, make a list of all the things that will enable that process and make you successful.

Maybe your goal is worldbuilding or plotting a new story.  (I have a ROCKSTAR goal for this.)  So my stepping stones are going to look something like:

  • Brainstorm and research.  These two often go hand-in-hand for me when beginning a story, until one particular element speaks the most to me.
  • Listen for the character(s) to show up.  Usually about the time I’ve settled on an interesting research item, a character starts blabbing in my ear about how cool all this stuff is.
  • Begin building the character.  (See the Character Clinic, the Emotional Toolbox, etc.)
  • Begin plotting the journey.
  • Write backstory.
  • Create a world bible (if the story needs it).

So pull out your A1 – MUST DO priority and figure out what step to tackle first.  Now you can cross small items off the list and feel like you’re actually paddling your way across the river, instead of stranded on the wrong side.  Don’t tell me you’re waiting for 2010, either – we’ve still got plenty of time to cross a dozen things off the list in December!

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Project Management: Wanna be a Rock Star?

I don’t know about you, but I’m a ridiculous overachiever.  I put way more things on my list than I can possibly do, and then stress myself out needlessly because I can’t get it all done.  Well, duh, of course I can’t get it all done!  Not with a full-time job and three monsters running around sucking out my brain cells.

Yesterday, we wrote up The Dream List of every possibly thing I’d like to get done by 4/30.  (Don’t look back, it’ll give you nightmares.)  Today, I’m going to do something hard, really hard.  It’s going to hurt.  I’m going to whine about it.  But it’s a necessity.  As with any project, we have to be able to define a successful timeline and deadline.  For that deadline to be met, one assumption that we always specify in the scope is that the required RESOURCES will be made available.

As much as I hate to admit it, I do have to sleep occasionally.  I also have to keep the monsters in clothes (you should see our laundry room), cook dinners, and keep my EDJ extremely happy, plus an endless list of household chores.  As much as I’d love to lock myself up in a writing cave until I finished everything on my list, I just can’t do it.

So bring out the scalpels.  Brace for the pain.  And cut that list down.

Take a long, hard look at that endless list of wishful to-dos.  I’m going to concentrate on December only and ask myself:  what MUST I finish by 12/31 in order to be successful?  What can I reasonably, safely, and sanely accomplish and still sleep and function like a normal working human being?

These are going to be my A list priorities, or my MUST DO items.  Now don’t throw away the rest of your list in disgust — we still may be able to accomplish a few extra things too.  Pick a few more things that you just really wish you could do — if time allows.  This is our ROCK STAR list.  If the top priority things are getting crossed off the list, who knows?  We might be able to fit a few more things into our schedule.

So after taking a careful look at my list, I chose the following things to concentrate on in December.  If you can, assign a deadline to each top priority item so you know immediately if you start to fall behind.

DEC MUST DO (deadlines penciled in)

  • Finish the first draft of Victor by 12/7.
  • Polish first 3 chapters of Return to Shanhasson by 12/11.
  • Revise The Horse Master by 12/15.
  • Revise Return to Shanhasson by 12/31.

DEC ROCK STAR

  • First draft of Victor’s synopsis and query.  Oh, yeah, and a TITLE that’s better than the hero’s name would be good.
  • horror short story (antho deadline is 1/15/2010)
  • First Revision Hell pass for Victor.

And now, to keep myself in touch with projects on the horizon, I’m going to make a list of things to keep in mind.  They don’t have deadlines, exactly, but I can’t forget all about these items or I won’t be successful in January, etc.

FARSEER

  • verbally committed to submitting Victor in January.
  • horror story antho call 1/15/2010
  • SFR series:  read partial, organize notes, prepare to return to drafting in January
  • steampumk antho call 4/30/2010: continue mulling over plot, characters, and world.
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My December Plans or Why I Need Project Management

Since it’s the first of December — OMG can you believe 2009 is almost over?  Nooooo! — I decided to evaluate my goals and make sure I know what the first of 2010 will bring.

And let me just say that I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach looking at my to-do list.  Seriously, how on earth am I going to get all this done?  I have one book on submission, one that’s *this close* to a completed first draft (Victor), and then I’ll have two books in desperate need of Revision Hell ASAP.  Then there’s a short story I’d like to write, and maybe something for that steampunk romance anthology at Samhain, and oh yeah, my new SFR series I want to kick off.  Oops, and I also owe one last Keldari novella to Deena at Drollerie.

Not to mention all the promotion work for Rose releasing in print Dec/Jan and Dear Sir, I’m Yours in April.

Before I started popping Motrin for the splitting headache or uncorked the bottle of wine, I decided to step back and approach this just like I would any major undertaking I complete for the Evil Day Job. I always have multiple projects in the queue, with varying needs and usually tight deadlines, yet we always manage to get everything (or nearly so) done.  That’s because we plan.  And then we plan the plan.  And then we plan just a bit more.

So for the next few days, I’m going to post about planning and goals, in particular mine, but maybe you’ll get a few ideas on how to start off the new year with a solid plan in hand, while I work toward the endzone for Victor aka THE END.

My first step I completed was to make a list of every possible thing I’d like to get done between now and 4/30.  (I picked that date because that’s the deadline for the steampunk antho.  You can pick any date.  A month.  A week.  All year.)  At this point, I let myself put anything and everything on the list, no matter how unlikely it’ll be that I can humanly accomplish a fraction of all this work.  This is dream time, pie in the sky list in no particular priority or order.

  • finish the first draft of Victor.
  • Revision Hell for Victor with a goal to submit by the end of January.
  • Revision Hell for Return to Shanhasson with a goal to submit by the end of December.
  • Polish the first three chapters of Return quicker — say by Dec. 11 — for potential giveaway idea.
  • Revise and polish The Horse Master, my old freebie story (the first I think I ever put up on the blog) for potential promo idea.
  • Consider writing a short story to give away for the holidays with The Horse Master to help promote Rose.  How about Dainari?
  • short horror story for fun looking anthology
  • Finish Deathright and query ASAP.
  • Replot Seven Crows once Deathright is done.
  • Jot notes for Vicki’s story (the last Connagher).
  • Come up with an idea for the steampunk antho.  Worldbuild, plot, etc.  I have something possibly in mind…but the pieces won’t fall into place.  Needs some major brainstorming.
  • Drag out Given in Fire notes and rethink the plot in preparation for drafting.
  • Manage all the promo giveaways for the holidays, keep the blog interesting, etc.
  • Set up the “Find Gregar!” contest.
  • Book signing 12/12 at my hometown library.
  • Personal note:  trip to home office for EDJ likely in first quarter 2010.

I’m exhausted!!!  I’ll continue this process tomorrow.

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NaNoWriMo: Day 30 Final #Victor Snippet

Despite just a little over 4 hours of sleep, I’m alive this morning and working on getting the monsters out the door for school.  I’ll post one last snippet from Victor, and then I’ll have to find something else to entertain you for Friday Snippets.  It might be January before I start that tradition up again, because Dec. will be finishing Victor and Revision Hell, on not one but two books.

First up, it’s past time for me to revise Return to Shanhasson, last year’s NaNo novel that took me until Dec. 23 to finish (105K).  I have something I’d like to try, and I can’t do it unless this book is ready to go.  If it works out, I’ll post details later.

After Victor has sat for a couple of weeks, I’ll be ready to tackle him again.  My goal is to have both books submitted by the end of January.  Then it’ll be back to Deathright full steam ahead, in conjunction with Seven Crows.

In this snippet, I introduce Mama Connagher, a woman to strike the terror into any daughter in law.  Well, hopefully.  Unedited, first NaNoWriMo (shitty) draft.  This happens after the dark moment when Victor thinks he’s lost it all.

Virginia Connagher waited on the wraparound porch as though she’d known her son was coming home, even though he hadn’t made the hour drive up from Dallas in months.  She wore the same thing she always did:  riding jodhpurs, English riding boots, and a spotless white shirt, even though her hands and knees were dirty from digging in her garden.  Her black hair was sprinkled with a bit more gray, her eyes lined with a few more wrinkles, but her eyes still snapped with the fiery spirit that had captured Tyrell Connagher’s heart forty years ago.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Son.”  She looked him up and down and he couldn’t help but straighten his shoulders and widen his stance.  He braced for her to begin questioning him, but instead, she smiled.  “Come on down to the stables and see the new foals.”

Relieved although he tried not to show it, Victor walked with her down the red-dirt road to the long horse barns behind the house.  She proudly showed off the new stud she’d shipped in from Ireland, the yearlings in the paddock, and bit by bit, he managed to relax.  The smells of sweet hay, feed, and horse were as familiar to him as the two-story farmhouse where he’d grown up.  He’d worked with Mama in the show ring and Daddy in the fields, rounding up the cattle and shipping them to market.  He’d ridden every inch of their acreage, spent hours with Conn down at the creek fishing and swimming, and fixed countless feet of fence with him and Daddy after a storm had knocked a few trees down.

Watching a sleek bay mare with her spindle-legged baby, he felt the last stone of guilt fall away.  Here, he knew exactly who he was.  He was the Victor, the oldest Connagher son, football champion, and proud of his hard-working parents.  Maybe he could convince Shiloh to drive out here with him.  If she saw him here, the real Victor, then maybe…

“I saw your show last night,” Mama said, her voice too careful for him to tell what she’d really thought about it.

He propped a boot up on the bottom rail but didn’t turn to look at her.  “What’d you think?”

“I was wishing your Daddy could watch it with me so we could recreate a few of those challenges ourselves.”

Victor practically choked on his tongue.

Mama chuckled at the look on his face.  “Surely you wondered where you got such an inclination.  Did you think I’d be horrified at my baby boy with a crop in his hand?”

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted sheepishly.  “I guess I should have known better when Conn called me a few years ago for help.”

Nodding, Mama leaned against the fence and turned that steely blue gaze on him.  “He’s not as hard as you.  He never was.”

“Not as mean, neither.”

“Oh, Victor, is that what you think?  That you’re mean?”

I’m one mean sonofabitch, Mama.  I like to hurt people.  Especially the woman I love.

He ground his teeth and averted his gaze.

“I suppose you think I’m mean, then.”

That made him jerk his gaze back to hers.  Just a few inches over five feet tall, she possessed the kind of quiet, commanding presence that made people snap to attention whenever she walked into a room.  No one would claim she was a ravishing beauty, but once someone met her, it was hard to take their eyes off her.

Reluctantly, he had to admit it was the same kind of power he’d always had.  People listened to him.  He never had to raise his voice, and if he did, he scared the shit out of people.  He’d always assumed he’d inherited that top-dog attitude from Daddy.

Thinking back over his childhood, he tried to remember a time when Mama had ever overruled Daddy.  They’d always worked like a team, smooth and well-oiled.  Daddy wasn’t a big talker, but he’d always handled the discipline.  A look from him could strike terror into the most recalcitrant boy’s heart, so he’d never gotten into much trouble beyond the normal boyhood scrapes.  They’d both been there for him, through heartache and disappointments, like when he’d blown his knee and kissed his future goodbye.

They’d seen him at the lowest point of his life.  His dreams turned to shame, his love lost, his victor’s heart broken.

His gaze fell on the old barn in the distance.  Worn gray wood still stood, lost and forgotten amidst the shiny redwood and white picket fences of the newer horse barns.  When his last hope of returning as a pro-quality quarterback had died, he’d retreated to that old barn, too ashamed to come home and face Daddy.  Too heartbroken to risk their pity.

“As soon as I noticed my old crop was missing from the barn, I should have had a talk with you,” Mama whispered, her voice as gentle as the hand she dropped onto his forearm braced on the fence.  “But you’d been through so much already, and you didn’t ask any questions.  I watched, I waited, and you seemed to move on with your life.  When Conn went to you for help, I thought you were settled and comfortable with your needs, but maybe I was wrong.  Maybe I should have talked more openly with you.”

“This isn’t the kind of thing a man wants to discuss with his mother.”

She laughed again, shaking her head.  “You could have asked your Daddy, but he could have only helped you understand the other side.”

That made him whip his head back to her face.  “Daddy was a submissive?”

She snorted.  “There wasn’t a submissive bone in your Daddy’s body.  He never wanted to be conquered or tied up.  He wasn’t into that kind of game and neither was I.”

Dreading her answer, Victor asked, “What were you into?”

“Pain,” she answered simply.  “I used to joke that a bronc rider would have to be a masochist to get back on after getting trampled a few times.”

Victor tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t imagine his weathered father submitting to the sting of a lash, let alone asking for it.  The man had worked from sunup to sundown every day of his life, raised three God-fearing respectful children, and died loving only one woman his entire life.  Victor had always thought him the strongest man in the world, fearless on a horse, even the wildest, rawest green broke mare.  He just couldn’t imagine the same man asking someone–a woman, his wife, no less–to whip him.

“Do you think I liked knowing that I yearned to hurt your Daddy?”  Mama asked sharply, her fingers tightening on his arm.  For a woman, she had a fearsome grip.  He’d always assumed her strength came from a lifetime of training show horses, but now he wasn’t so sure.  “Do you think it made him feel like a man in our day and age?  To lock the door of our bedroom, strip off his shirt, grip the bedpost, and ask me to whip him within an inch of my life?  I had to, son.  He had to.  The need was there, eating away at him constantly.  He needed the pain as much as I needed to give it.”

She turned away, but not before Victor saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.  “He said once that he wished I were a man so my arm didn’t give out quite so quickly.  He’d meant it as a joke, but it hurt, son.  He could have taken much more than I could ever give him.  For years, I worked out with the whip and crop, training my arms and body to make sure I met his need to the best of my ability.  So don’t you look down on yourself, Victor Connagher, or you’re looking down on me and his memory.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all someone I love,” Victor whispered, hanging his head in shame.

“The young lady on the show?”  Mama asked softly.  He nodded, so she said, “When do I get to meet her?”

“Maybe never.  She left me.”

“I saw the way she looked at you, son.  Even on television, I could see that woman would give her heart and soul just to see you smile.  So why would she leave you?”

“She needs more than I can give.”

“Can, or will?”

He growled deep in his throat and jerked his hair tighter, but the pain didn’t help.  Not this time.  Nothing would ease the raw, aching need burning in his gut.  Nothing but Shiloh.

“It’s got to be difficult for a woman to find the right man when she needs to be hurt.  Women in our society have fought tooth and nail to get to the place where they can demand what they want in bed, but pain is a different beast all together.  It’s not politically correct for a woman to play the submissive, but it’s somehow even more horrible if she needs pain, too.  If someone had dared hurt Ty in a way he wasn’t interested in, he would’ve plowed his fist into the bastard’s face.  What’s your woman supposed to do, son?  Walk up to a stranger and ask him to hurt her?  How’s she going to be able to get him to stop when she’s had enough?”

Rage exploded in Victor at the thought of another man laying a hand–or a whip–on Shiloh.  He wanted to hold her, love her, and yes, hurt her.  Exactly the way she needed it.

“If she needs to be hurt, son, then it’s better done by someone who loves her and cares for her wellbeing than an arrogant fool with a whip who doesn’t give a damn about anything but putting on a show.  Do you love her?”

Victor clenched his jaws and nodded.  God, yes, he loved her.  He hadn’t been able to sleep last night, tormenting himself with the memory of the pleasure she’d given him, mixed with the guilt.  He’d lain there all night, hating himself but rock hard and aching with the need to do it all over again.  All I could think about was how f*cking good it’d felt to hurt her.

“You can’t deny this side of you, son.  You’re only lying to yourself.”  Mama  gripped his upper arms, leaning closer so she could stare up into his eyes.  He might be a foot taller, but she made him feel like a little boy again.  “We didn’t raise you to be a liar or a quitter.  You might have lost a game, but everything’s on the line now.  This is the biggest game of your life.  You’ve searched your whole life for a woman who could love you and accept the pain you need to give.  Are you going to let her get away?”

He smiled, not the nice, gentle smile a son would give his mother, but the grin of a confident conqueror bent on razing his enemy to the ground.  Even–especially–my own stupid hang-ups. “No, ma’am.”

“You go get her, son, and you bring her home this very night.  I want to meet the woman who finally claimed my Victor’s heart.”

“Soon,” he promised, leaning down to kiss her cheek.  “But not tonight.  We have to finish taping the show first.”

“Then you’ll bring her to the ranch?”

“If she’ll come, yes.”

“Remember, give her the pain you both need, son, but hurt her with love and hold her when you’re done.”  Mama smiled back and Victor felt a chill dripping down his spine.  “And don’t worry.  She’ll come, or I’ll fetch her myself.”