[writing] Closing in on Sunspin volume one

I’m in the downhill slide now. I figure another 12-16,000 words from here and I’ll have a wrap on the first draft of Calamity of So Long A Life.

Yesterday was the first day since last Thursday I could write, thanks to the marvels of chemotherapy. It was nice to slip back into the characters and watch them move through the page. I’m of course riddled with self doubt right now … “More characterization” … “Not enough description” … “This sucks” … but that’s all part of the drafting process. And this is definitely a draft. I like it a lot, but I do think it will need more clanky bits later.

Mmm. Clanky bits.

Did you write yesterday? Post a snippet in comments if you’d like. It’ll be like a really odd version of exquisite corpse.

5 thoughts on “[writing] Closing in on Sunspin volume one

  1. TadK says:

    Snippet
    for a Call of Tentacle Horrors clone, for a Push or Jumper styled game, or an Alias inspired game world where hackers roll on the fly while agents mingle with the bad guys sipping margaritas. Or for those of us who like a little Seelie with our back Alleys or even into the near future where People can upload themselves onto Flydrives and slot into a new combat robot form to do battle with Sentient Memes riding solar rays to virally infect the unwitting.

  2. Brenda says:

    I’m in the “this sucks” phase, myself. But I don’t mind this snippet:

    And down from the gnarled branches of the trees came hundreds of fleshy things. They dangled above her. It only took a moment for her to realize they were each the arms of infants, reaching, grasping, and clenching.

    A voice that was many voices, that were not Askafroa, sounded from within the trees or the ground or that stagnant air and bellowed, “Won’t you hold us? We are so lonely.”

  3. ken davis says:

    “Mr. Preston… really.”

    Pale morning sunlight shone on the windows of the manse. Mist broke across the untended meadows, curled through the trees on either side of the lane. Preston stood by the back of the wagon. He took off his tricorner and ran a hand across his balding dome.

    “Nine of them, Dr. Morgan. Fair number.”

    “I can count, yes. All the way to nine.”

    Morgan looked over the bodies. Dank clothing over stiff limbs. He pressed aside the collar of one of them. Rope burn.

    “Shot. Stabbed. Beaten. Hung,” Morgan said. “And that’s just this one. Tell me, Mr. Preston – you couldn’t also find one who’d been pressed to death? Beheaded?”

    “Bodies is what you ask for, sir.”

    Morgan sighed.

    “I suppose good health and sound bodies are a particular province of the living, aren’t they?”

    “As you say, Dr. Morgan. As you say. I bring what I can get for you. But two days old, these.”

    The bodies were at least relatively young, which his initial experiments indicated would offer more precise control.

  4. I’d never thought my choice of career would mean I’d cursed myself into a lifetime of shivering and wearing heavy wool year-round. Babbage University had the premier school of mathematics in the world and one of the few that had a dedicated Department of Mechanical Mathematics. It also had one of the largest Analytical Engines in the world.

  5. Cora says:

    I didn’t do that much new writing yesterday, because I got a backlist novelette ready for e-publication. But here’s a snippet of what I did write:

    The Banksy graffiti was still there, of course, newly restored and probably granted protected landmark status by now. Though the eternal triangle of the jealous man, cheating girlfriend and naked lover dangling precariously by one hand from a stencilled window sill while covering up his dangly bits with the other seemed less funny now than it had the morning it had just appeared on the on the plain brick wall of the sexual health clinic. Maybe some things that just seemed screamingly funny when you were young suddenly became a lot less hilarious, once they started to resemble your own life.
    The opening hours of the shops and cafés were still as erratic as ever. If there was one thing you could be certain about on Park Street it was that regardless whether it was three a.m. or three p.m., there was always at least one shop that was open and at least one that was closed in spite of the normalcy or oddity of the hour.

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