May 15th, 2007

writing gorey earbrass unspeakable horro

Well, this is pretty nice right here.

From Library Journal:

Bear, Elizabeth. New Amsterdam. Subterranean . May 2007. c.267p. ISBN 978-1-59606-106-4. $25. FANTASY

Abigail Irene Garrett, a woman past her youth but not beyond the occasional scandal, works as a forensic sorceress and an officer of the Crown. Sebastien de Ulloa has seen more than 900 years and has nothing left to live for. When Abigail and Sebastien find themselves in the New World, one in which the magic of the Iroquois prevents the American Colonies from expanding, they become the young land's best hope for justice. The hardcover debut by the author of the Promethean Age novels (Blood and Iron; Whiskey and Water) pairs two unlikely souls as compatriots in a new series that takes place in an alternate America. Sparkling with wry humor and precise period detail, this belongs in most fantasy collections.



There are some more overly flattering quotes over on the Subpress blog.

*bounces*
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bear by san

we're so sorry, uncle albert, but we haven't done a bloody thing all day.

Progress notes for 15 May 2007

All the Windwracked Stars

New Words:  1,100
Total Words: 17,048
Words for the Year: 123,880
Deadline: November 1
Reason for stopping: quota, errands

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
17,048 / 100,000
(17.0%)


Today's words Word don't know:  moreso, wreakings, technomantic, libraried,
Darling du Jour: 

It had been given her by a dying man in a railroad town, when there were railroads, when they needed towns. She was tired, she thought, of dying. Dying people, and things, and ways of life.

Dead tired.

Mean Things:
flashbacks, hand still broken, sleeping on slate floors, ancient heartbreak.
Tyop du Jour: who couldn't be a real person, not quite, because she never got any alder

So, an interesting thing is that I am using pieces of the old book (this is a ground-up rewrite of my very first finished novel that wasn't juvenilia) but I'm not, exactly. I mean, there are no places where I am cutting and pasting text. What I am doing is taking scenes from the original draft, pasting them into a work file, and typing over them.

And sometimes I find a felicitous turn of phrase that I'm keeping. "There is still the matter of the widow," for example. And "old-iron voice." And the description of Mingan in the alley hasn't changed much, though the fight scene that surrounds it is totally different.

But more often not.

And things are happening very differently this time. For one thing, I have four more POVs on this rewrite than in the original book. (It was first-person single narrator. Yanno, I keep trying to do that? And almost universally, it winds up being a mistake. Apparently, I can only do successful single narrator at novel length while writing with truepenny.

Otherwise, my normal level of opacity becomes retripled.

So tonight or tomorrow, I have to write a scene with the Kitten With The Whip playing detective, while The Less-Fallen Angel naps. (There's a Really Really REALLY Fallen Angel, a Sort Of Fairly Seriously Fallen Angel, and a Less-Fallen Angel. And also an Angel who has not fallen at all, but who has turned into a steam locomotive with wings and teeth. Some of you might have read that story.) 

And then, when I am done with that, I need to figure out if I am going to handle this enormous chunk of backstory exposition as a flashback, as a series of Muire's historical journals, or as something else.

If I do it as a flashback, I also need to figure out a graceful way to get into it. Perhaps I shall just make it a chapter. Perhaps we can have flashback chapters scattered throughout the book.

Transitions are for sissies.

Fortunately, these are problems either for tomorrow or tonight, as it is now Time To Go To The Bank. And The Post Office.

And get pho.

Of course, it looks like it might rain. But I need the exercise.
And it'll be a good excuse to call my mom while I am out walking.

Miles to Rivendell: 250.2, or will be after I get back from the errands.
bear by san

verses. coiled again. ***

So, having carried out my errands, I took a little detour on the way home, to stop by the good pho place and fortify myself with some pho. (Real pho, even.)

It was closed.

I had just walked five miles in the heat (the sun was only out for the period of time when I was walking: it's gone away again) and thus, I sulked. And did not cross the street to the mediocre pho place, where I could have gotten surreal pho.

Because I was sulking.

I walked home instead.**

And so, in a fit of self-loathing, I bought myself a pomegranate slurpee.*



*I think this should become a catch phrase.

**And now I have to do laundry. The universe hates me.

***Write your own shaggy dog story to go with this punchline. What? I did the hard part!
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