(no subject)
NaNoWriMo Day 1: 1579 words, 3.2%
The frantic writing commenced last night at 10pm and finished just in time to log a first day word count. Eeee. I actually wrote more this year than I did on day one last year. Good sign? We've yet to see.
For some reason my inner editor thinks it's been invited along for this ride. Silly inner editior. Go away! It's November! Take a vacation. In fact, take a whole month off. Starting now. Of course, last year's NaNo characters are all "it's November!" and now decide to come back. Argh. You had your chance; I'll deal with you later.
This year's NaNo novel is a Pern-fic. (Gaze with wonder upon my inability to write anything original.) I feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants on this one more than last year's. It's been occupying space in my head for a lot less time and I have a rough outline and all my major characters, but other than that the nicest way to put it is as a fluid concept.
Ultimately it takes place in the southern continent (post-Aivas) and focuses on the craft system (particulary the beastherders) and the reintroduction of lost technology (particularly in the life sciences). (Parenthesis overload!) Of course, there will be dragons.
Inner editor notwithstanding, I think I managed to produce something pretty decent last night, so here's an excerpt featuring two of my main characters:
South of Pern
Prologue
2522, 15th Turn, Ninth Pass
Fort Weyr
White, she decided, never was her color.
It wasn’t as though color mattered to the newly hatched dragons, not nearly so much as color mattered to the candidates, try as they might to convince themselves otherwise. A gold queen was certainly much more coveted than a green, and a bronze to a brown or blue, but any hatchling was just as likely to accidentally maul one white-robed candidate as it was to pass over another and croon joyously to yet a different one. Or even on rare occasions, to Impress someone watching from the stands in their Gather best.
They might as well paint markers on the candidates for the dragons to follow, for as much good that may do them. If things worked like that, it would’ve saved her a lot of wasted time. But there was no surefire way to know who a dragon would choose to Impress. For that reason alone, for that ever slimming chance of possibility, Kosora stood now for the fourth time, feet tingling from the heat of the hatching sands, shoulders twitching uncomfortably under the eyes of the entire Weyr and Hold guests, and chest heavy with the arrogance of confirmation in her cynical certainty that this Hatching would turn out no different for her than any of the three previous.
If she had her way, this would be the last time she’d ever have to wear that stupid white robe and endure this humiliation ever again. Her father could take his desire for another queen rider in the blood and shove them between for all she cared.
This vicious thought occurred to her as she turned heel behind the other dragonless queen candidates. Leaving the Hatching Ground was her first priority, but having to face her father’s reaction to another failed Impression made the idea lose some of its appeal.
Not of her own will did her eyes find the newly hatched queen, stumbling alongside her weyrmate with the regal aplomb only newborn queen dragons could achieve. The girl herself was about to stumble embarrassingly if she didn’t pay attention to something other than her dragon. That’s what solicitous bronze riders were for, Kosora supposed acerbically. She was aware that the heat and lack of Impression were marking her angry, but she let herself revel in her atrocious mood with vindictive glee.
With no wish to linger, she wasted no time leaving the Hatching Grounds. She skirted the bronze and two greens who had hatched and Impressed shortly after the queen, now stumbling from the hatching grounds with the help of three elated candidates. Long strides took her ahead of the dragonless candidates, out of the view of the riders who were gathering them together, and purposefully lost herself into the crowd of holders, crafters, and weyrfolk making their way out of the stands.
The open air of the weyrbowl was bracingly cool against her skin. Standing on the sands alone had coated her with a sheen of sweat. There was, perhaps, one practicality to the stupid white robe. She made an immediate right and nearly collided with a brown dragon. One large, faceted eye regarded her with green and swirling yellows of faint anxiety. The brown’s rider, his wingrider knots too new to be frayed and worn yet, looked at her with much the same expression.
“You don’t need to ask,” she told him wearily. Off the sands and out under the evening sky, with the sounds of the crowd temporarily drowning out the sounds of hungry and eating hatchlings, she lost most of the impetus behind her mood. The corkscrew of anger and humiliation and defensiveness spiraled slower.
Wordlessly, the brown’s rider handed her clothes to her.
She ducked around to hide behind the bulk of the dragon, thankful for his thoughtfulness. She shucked off the candidate’s robe and replaced it as quickly as she could, before the cooler air chilled her. Stupid, impractical robe. If she’d Impressed, she’d be feeding a starving dragon now, freezing her backside off with all the other weyrlings. Thank Faranth for the little things.
From the other side of the brown, she heard the rider speak, voice low so as not to carry too far. “You didn’t even try, Sorie.”
She sighed and moved to look over the dragon’s neck. “Is there such a thing as trying during a Hatching?” she asked pointedly, pulling her tunic over her head. When she could see again, the rider was frowning, somewhat wistfully.
“Don’t look at me like that, S’mat,” she said softly. If anything, the only person’s reaction and opinion she cared about on this matter was his. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if he of all people didn’t understand her in this. He’d seen her through two hatchings where she’d failed, Impressed his dragon a few feet away at one, and now witnessed this fourth. “You’re making Kantorth anxious.”
S’mat’s mouth quirked in a reluctant little smile. “You make me anxious and that makes Kantorth anxious.” His eyes briefly lost focus in the way that riders’ tended to when communicating with their dragons. “He wants to know if you are upset.”
A little smile crept unwillingly into the corners of her mouth. Being the recipient of the dragon’s concern kept her from fully indulging in her unpleasant emotions.
“I’m fine,” she addressed the brown dragon directly. Her father would be scandalized.
S’mat wasn’t so easily reassured as his dragon was. “And I’m a wherry,” he retorted.
“All right. So I’m not fine. But I will be,” she added, walking around Kantorth’s head. She patted the brown’s snout on her way past. It felt as though time had slipped her by, as though it were only last sevenday she had given the same attention to a much smaller, ganglier dragon. When she turned to reply to S’mat she got the same feeling, finally fully comprehending that she had to look up now to meet his eyes. So much time she had frittered uselessly away was gathering behind her mind with its full force.
“You saw same as I. That little queen had her mind made up before she even took a step away from the shell.” She didn’t quite succeed in keeping out her bitterness.
“Seemed to me more like you already had yours made up. You didn’t even look like you were paying attention.”
She felt her lips press into a tight line. She knew what Hatchings meant to S’mat now that he had Kantorth, as they did for all dragonriders, and she wasn’t about to ruin that for him by letting him know she was more concerned about other things than fawning and elbowing for position before the queen egg with the rest of the female candidates. Hatchings were associated with decidedly less pleasant memories for her.
“I made that decision long before this,” she replied, laying a hand on Kantorth’s neck, feeling the warmth radiating through the smooth hide. She tried to imagine a gold hide beneath her hand and failed to hold on to the image long enough to believe in its possibility.
Once more her eyes found the hatchlings, being fed by their new riders on the other side of the entrance to the Hatching Grounds. The candidates who had not Impressed were grouped nearby, as though uncertain of where to attach themselves, though some slowly dissipated to find friends and family or other companionship. Once she might have joined them, and certainly she had done her own stint among them, but commiserating with the failed candidates had lost its novelty the first time around. By the second she had walked off the stands, frustrated and upset, ashamed for failing twice in what had once been whispered to be a sure achievement. The third time had seen her angry from the pressure to Impress and embarrassed at failing to do so yet again. That was when it had become personal, realizing that her own wishes and her father’s were quickly diverging. As for the fourth, that was here and now. She no longer cared what others thought of her chances of Impressing a queen. That possibility narrowed each time she stood as a candidate. She was ready for realities now.
---
All references to worlds and characters based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction are copyright © Anne McCaffrey 1967, 2000, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern® is registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey.
Thoughts?
The frantic writing commenced last night at 10pm and finished just in time to log a first day word count. Eeee. I actually wrote more this year than I did on day one last year. Good sign? We've yet to see.
For some reason my inner editor thinks it's been invited along for this ride. Silly inner editior. Go away! It's November! Take a vacation. In fact, take a whole month off. Starting now. Of course, last year's NaNo characters are all "it's November!" and now decide to come back. Argh. You had your chance; I'll deal with you later.
This year's NaNo novel is a Pern-fic. (Gaze with wonder upon my inability to write anything original.) I feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants on this one more than last year's. It's been occupying space in my head for a lot less time and I have a rough outline and all my major characters, but other than that the nicest way to put it is as a fluid concept.
Ultimately it takes place in the southern continent (post-Aivas) and focuses on the craft system (particulary the beastherders) and the reintroduction of lost technology (particularly in the life sciences). (Parenthesis overload!) Of course, there will be dragons.
Inner editor notwithstanding, I think I managed to produce something pretty decent last night, so here's an excerpt featuring two of my main characters:
South of Pern
Prologue
2522, 15th Turn, Ninth Pass
Fort Weyr
White, she decided, never was her color.
It wasn’t as though color mattered to the newly hatched dragons, not nearly so much as color mattered to the candidates, try as they might to convince themselves otherwise. A gold queen was certainly much more coveted than a green, and a bronze to a brown or blue, but any hatchling was just as likely to accidentally maul one white-robed candidate as it was to pass over another and croon joyously to yet a different one. Or even on rare occasions, to Impress someone watching from the stands in their Gather best.
They might as well paint markers on the candidates for the dragons to follow, for as much good that may do them. If things worked like that, it would’ve saved her a lot of wasted time. But there was no surefire way to know who a dragon would choose to Impress. For that reason alone, for that ever slimming chance of possibility, Kosora stood now for the fourth time, feet tingling from the heat of the hatching sands, shoulders twitching uncomfortably under the eyes of the entire Weyr and Hold guests, and chest heavy with the arrogance of confirmation in her cynical certainty that this Hatching would turn out no different for her than any of the three previous.
If she had her way, this would be the last time she’d ever have to wear that stupid white robe and endure this humiliation ever again. Her father could take his desire for another queen rider in the blood and shove them between for all she cared.
This vicious thought occurred to her as she turned heel behind the other dragonless queen candidates. Leaving the Hatching Ground was her first priority, but having to face her father’s reaction to another failed Impression made the idea lose some of its appeal.
Not of her own will did her eyes find the newly hatched queen, stumbling alongside her weyrmate with the regal aplomb only newborn queen dragons could achieve. The girl herself was about to stumble embarrassingly if she didn’t pay attention to something other than her dragon. That’s what solicitous bronze riders were for, Kosora supposed acerbically. She was aware that the heat and lack of Impression were marking her angry, but she let herself revel in her atrocious mood with vindictive glee.
With no wish to linger, she wasted no time leaving the Hatching Grounds. She skirted the bronze and two greens who had hatched and Impressed shortly after the queen, now stumbling from the hatching grounds with the help of three elated candidates. Long strides took her ahead of the dragonless candidates, out of the view of the riders who were gathering them together, and purposefully lost herself into the crowd of holders, crafters, and weyrfolk making their way out of the stands.
The open air of the weyrbowl was bracingly cool against her skin. Standing on the sands alone had coated her with a sheen of sweat. There was, perhaps, one practicality to the stupid white robe. She made an immediate right and nearly collided with a brown dragon. One large, faceted eye regarded her with green and swirling yellows of faint anxiety. The brown’s rider, his wingrider knots too new to be frayed and worn yet, looked at her with much the same expression.
“You don’t need to ask,” she told him wearily. Off the sands and out under the evening sky, with the sounds of the crowd temporarily drowning out the sounds of hungry and eating hatchlings, she lost most of the impetus behind her mood. The corkscrew of anger and humiliation and defensiveness spiraled slower.
Wordlessly, the brown’s rider handed her clothes to her.
She ducked around to hide behind the bulk of the dragon, thankful for his thoughtfulness. She shucked off the candidate’s robe and replaced it as quickly as she could, before the cooler air chilled her. Stupid, impractical robe. If she’d Impressed, she’d be feeding a starving dragon now, freezing her backside off with all the other weyrlings. Thank Faranth for the little things.
From the other side of the brown, she heard the rider speak, voice low so as not to carry too far. “You didn’t even try, Sorie.”
She sighed and moved to look over the dragon’s neck. “Is there such a thing as trying during a Hatching?” she asked pointedly, pulling her tunic over her head. When she could see again, the rider was frowning, somewhat wistfully.
“Don’t look at me like that, S’mat,” she said softly. If anything, the only person’s reaction and opinion she cared about on this matter was his. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if he of all people didn’t understand her in this. He’d seen her through two hatchings where she’d failed, Impressed his dragon a few feet away at one, and now witnessed this fourth. “You’re making Kantorth anxious.”
S’mat’s mouth quirked in a reluctant little smile. “You make me anxious and that makes Kantorth anxious.” His eyes briefly lost focus in the way that riders’ tended to when communicating with their dragons. “He wants to know if you are upset.”
A little smile crept unwillingly into the corners of her mouth. Being the recipient of the dragon’s concern kept her from fully indulging in her unpleasant emotions.
“I’m fine,” she addressed the brown dragon directly. Her father would be scandalized.
S’mat wasn’t so easily reassured as his dragon was. “And I’m a wherry,” he retorted.
“All right. So I’m not fine. But I will be,” she added, walking around Kantorth’s head. She patted the brown’s snout on her way past. It felt as though time had slipped her by, as though it were only last sevenday she had given the same attention to a much smaller, ganglier dragon. When she turned to reply to S’mat she got the same feeling, finally fully comprehending that she had to look up now to meet his eyes. So much time she had frittered uselessly away was gathering behind her mind with its full force.
“You saw same as I. That little queen had her mind made up before she even took a step away from the shell.” She didn’t quite succeed in keeping out her bitterness.
“Seemed to me more like you already had yours made up. You didn’t even look like you were paying attention.”
She felt her lips press into a tight line. She knew what Hatchings meant to S’mat now that he had Kantorth, as they did for all dragonriders, and she wasn’t about to ruin that for him by letting him know she was more concerned about other things than fawning and elbowing for position before the queen egg with the rest of the female candidates. Hatchings were associated with decidedly less pleasant memories for her.
“I made that decision long before this,” she replied, laying a hand on Kantorth’s neck, feeling the warmth radiating through the smooth hide. She tried to imagine a gold hide beneath her hand and failed to hold on to the image long enough to believe in its possibility.
Once more her eyes found the hatchlings, being fed by their new riders on the other side of the entrance to the Hatching Grounds. The candidates who had not Impressed were grouped nearby, as though uncertain of where to attach themselves, though some slowly dissipated to find friends and family or other companionship. Once she might have joined them, and certainly she had done her own stint among them, but commiserating with the failed candidates had lost its novelty the first time around. By the second she had walked off the stands, frustrated and upset, ashamed for failing twice in what had once been whispered to be a sure achievement. The third time had seen her angry from the pressure to Impress and embarrassed at failing to do so yet again. That was when it had become personal, realizing that her own wishes and her father’s were quickly diverging. As for the fourth, that was here and now. She no longer cared what others thought of her chances of Impressing a queen. That possibility narrowed each time she stood as a candidate. She was ready for realities now.
---
All references to worlds and characters based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction are copyright © Anne McCaffrey 1967, 2000, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern® is registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey.
Thoughts?