Thoughts and words
I haven't been writing. It frustrates me to no end because there's no revision into submittables into representables into purchasables if there aren't the original writables. Nor do I understand how a ritz cracker, cold tomato sauce and cold cheese is a "pizza" Lunchable, but I guess that's off topic.
One thought I have been toying with is music as it relates to my writing. I rarely do theme playlists for a particular WIP or have "writing music" that properly stimulates and encourages me. I'm an overweight, balding, insomniac 30something teetering on the brink of mental collapse and financial ruin on a regular basis...things that stimulate and encourage me can generally be counted on one hand. "Things that keep me from eating D-Con" isn't that much longer a list.
Occasionally, though, I'll stumble upon a song that fits the overarching mood I'm aiming for in a WIP novel. After I updated my ipod for a recent trip to Pittsburgh, I found two that, while proving I am stuck in my college years, musically, hit the mood I wanted.
For the first fae novel (ie, the one permanently in revision), George Michael's "Freedom '90" speaks to me. In my mind, it's main character Scott going through some introspection about who he is compared to the masks he's chosen to wear.
For the final (third) fae novel*, Alice in Chain's "Rooster" really nails the darker and grittier feeling I'm aiming for. Scott's come to terms with himself, but the outside world is still pressing him and he's feeling without allies.
But anyway, now I'll move on to the part none of you are here for...fresh words, pushed out in an attempt to force myself to do something productive before my brain exploded from creative frustration.
(In which Prince Scott, hiding at his cousin's place, views the state of the fae civil war...)
The battlefield was huge. Miles and miles of trampled dirt, blood stains and scattered equipment. At various points, looking completely like an abstract mosaic from my vantage point, knots of men were clustering around bright pennants.
Next to me on the stone tower, Simeon murmured something to the pages at his feet. The winged boys leapt from the roof, spiraling toward the great green flag closest to the tower. A few arrows zipped past, but they were quick.
“Samael will give us a report,” he said. The silence grew as we waited. Simeon looked concerned. He’d be worried about Sam, left in charge of his mother’s armies without training wheels. I’ve been away, but I know Sam.
I used to quiet moment to extend my senses. I could no more forget how to smell than how to feel the energy around me, but it was different. It took a moment to get the feel for the way the power hung. Great shimmering lines of orderly raw power, running like rivers, crossed near the tower. In the spaces between them, little loose bits of raw power hung and glowed. Some of it was reabsorbed and others faded away, burning out like an asteroid on reentry.
“Seventeen Ush dead. Forty-five fae,” I said. I didn’t really know how I did it. The power that gets released on death lingers briefly and I could still see where they had been.
“All of them theirs,” Samael said from behind me. I didn’t give my nephew the pleasure of a jump, but it was close. I’d felt his power reaching out across the ley lines only at the last minute. The sweet raw power of the freshly dead was distracting the rest of my sense.
“You struck many of their officers?”
“All of the dead Ush were officers, I believe.”
I must have looked surprised.
“The old rules of lines of soldiers facing off in some sort of melee are over, my cousin,” Simeon said. His voice was calm and gentle as always, but there was something there. If I had to guess, I’d have said regret.
“What did we do?”
“The God Queen collapsed the ground beneath their officer’s mess. We followed up with as much boiling water as we could transport,” Sam said. He wasn’t proud, necessarily, but he wasn’t ashamed. A generation ago, a noble Ush would have slit his wrists rather than engage in such behavior. Of course, two generations before that, the first Ush were busy gnawing each other’s wrists off in a rush to gain power over this land.
As Sam described it, I could pinpoint the location. The pit was shallower than I expected, or at least looked that way from the tower. Raw power circled over it in a cyclone. The chaotic power wasn’t just released on death. Violent and unpleasant death ripped it free, so much stronger and fresher.
I breathed deep. I could smell it. As soon as I could smell it, I could taste it. It was sweet. Sweeter than sugar or candy. Far more primal than any taste. I swallowed, bracing myself, and tapped the ring on my finger.
Simeon was watching me as he carried on some conversation with Samael. He smiled briefly as he saw the ring glow blue for a moment, sucking up the raw power around me. He was a creature of the old manners, though, and he’d never mention anything gauche. He’d never inquire about if I was feeling particularly insane or regicidal. Instead he just kept an eye on me and one hand on his sword, in case I started drawing the chaos to me in fulfillment of all those prophecies about the end of the world.
“So tell me about your sentries,” Simeon asked my nephew. He moved his electric eyes from me, reassured I was still on the side of the good guys. His trust alone was enough to convince me to stay there.
© 2008 T.M. Thomas
*Regular reader(s) will recall my original manuscript suffered from many events and little plot, so it's being chopped into pieces...hence I know the beginning and end of the tale.
One thought I have been toying with is music as it relates to my writing. I rarely do theme playlists for a particular WIP or have "writing music" that properly stimulates and encourages me. I'm an overweight, balding, insomniac 30something teetering on the brink of mental collapse and financial ruin on a regular basis...things that stimulate and encourage me can generally be counted on one hand. "Things that keep me from eating D-Con" isn't that much longer a list.
Occasionally, though, I'll stumble upon a song that fits the overarching mood I'm aiming for in a WIP novel. After I updated my ipod for a recent trip to Pittsburgh, I found two that, while proving I am stuck in my college years, musically, hit the mood I wanted.
For the first fae novel (ie, the one permanently in revision), George Michael's "Freedom '90" speaks to me. In my mind, it's main character Scott going through some introspection about who he is compared to the masks he's chosen to wear.
For the final (third) fae novel*, Alice in Chain's "Rooster" really nails the darker and grittier feeling I'm aiming for. Scott's come to terms with himself, but the outside world is still pressing him and he's feeling without allies.
But anyway, now I'll move on to the part none of you are here for...fresh words, pushed out in an attempt to force myself to do something productive before my brain exploded from creative frustration.
(In which Prince Scott, hiding at his cousin's place, views the state of the fae civil war...)
The battlefield was huge. Miles and miles of trampled dirt, blood stains and scattered equipment. At various points, looking completely like an abstract mosaic from my vantage point, knots of men were clustering around bright pennants.
Next to me on the stone tower, Simeon murmured something to the pages at his feet. The winged boys leapt from the roof, spiraling toward the great green flag closest to the tower. A few arrows zipped past, but they were quick.
“Samael will give us a report,” he said. The silence grew as we waited. Simeon looked concerned. He’d be worried about Sam, left in charge of his mother’s armies without training wheels. I’ve been away, but I know Sam.
I used to quiet moment to extend my senses. I could no more forget how to smell than how to feel the energy around me, but it was different. It took a moment to get the feel for the way the power hung. Great shimmering lines of orderly raw power, running like rivers, crossed near the tower. In the spaces between them, little loose bits of raw power hung and glowed. Some of it was reabsorbed and others faded away, burning out like an asteroid on reentry.
“Seventeen Ush dead. Forty-five fae,” I said. I didn’t really know how I did it. The power that gets released on death lingers briefly and I could still see where they had been.
“All of them theirs,” Samael said from behind me. I didn’t give my nephew the pleasure of a jump, but it was close. I’d felt his power reaching out across the ley lines only at the last minute. The sweet raw power of the freshly dead was distracting the rest of my sense.
“You struck many of their officers?”
“All of the dead Ush were officers, I believe.”
I must have looked surprised.
“The old rules of lines of soldiers facing off in some sort of melee are over, my cousin,” Simeon said. His voice was calm and gentle as always, but there was something there. If I had to guess, I’d have said regret.
“What did we do?”
“The God Queen collapsed the ground beneath their officer’s mess. We followed up with as much boiling water as we could transport,” Sam said. He wasn’t proud, necessarily, but he wasn’t ashamed. A generation ago, a noble Ush would have slit his wrists rather than engage in such behavior. Of course, two generations before that, the first Ush were busy gnawing each other’s wrists off in a rush to gain power over this land.
As Sam described it, I could pinpoint the location. The pit was shallower than I expected, or at least looked that way from the tower. Raw power circled over it in a cyclone. The chaotic power wasn’t just released on death. Violent and unpleasant death ripped it free, so much stronger and fresher.
I breathed deep. I could smell it. As soon as I could smell it, I could taste it. It was sweet. Sweeter than sugar or candy. Far more primal than any taste. I swallowed, bracing myself, and tapped the ring on my finger.
Simeon was watching me as he carried on some conversation with Samael. He smiled briefly as he saw the ring glow blue for a moment, sucking up the raw power around me. He was a creature of the old manners, though, and he’d never mention anything gauche. He’d never inquire about if I was feeling particularly insane or regicidal. Instead he just kept an eye on me and one hand on his sword, in case I started drawing the chaos to me in fulfillment of all those prophecies about the end of the world.
“So tell me about your sentries,” Simeon asked my nephew. He moved his electric eyes from me, reassured I was still on the side of the good guys. His trust alone was enough to convince me to stay there.
© 2008 T.M. Thomas
*Regular reader(s) will recall my original manuscript suffered from many events and little plot, so it's being chopped into pieces...hence I know the beginning and end of the tale.