pindrops on tiles

Just a “thank you”

I’m restarting my novel for the third time because I’ve never been happy with how I’ve started it.

And this time, I like this start. I like it a lot.

And now, the protagonist’s world has gotten a lot bigger and a lot more complex since my last draft. It’s very different and it’s satisfying.

Thank you, Neal Stephenson. You’ve given me so many ideas just from reading one of your books. I’m going to find the rest and I will devour them with the same intensity. Thanks for opening my brain to other possibilities.

just posting this here to show that I’m making progress

He feels. He can feel. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but he can. This is what it’s like, isn’t it? This must be. God. The ground beneath him, cool, cold, individual strands of grain bunching beneath his fingers, and it’s so much to take in because he’s never had fingers before, no, he mustn’t have, this feels so incredible, so real, so wonderful; there’s so much around him and he feels like it’s struggling to push through every inch of him so he can feel it all.

And then he realizes that he’s breathing.

He hears himself take a soft inhale—it hurts a little, just a little, not as much as everywhere else—and he can hear the shaky, slow release. This is one of those things humans do, right? Breathing. They have to do it or they’ll die. It’s something for their brain, isn’t it? Oxygen. It’s a subconscious process that they don’t even have to think about. It just happens so they don’t have to worry about it. And once he worries about it, it stops.

The sudden halt of airflow is sharp and obvious. There’s a swelling feeling centered in the middle of him, swelling and grasping and desperate and oh god, oh god, what does he do, the world is seeming to burst from inside of him—and then something clicks. He takes control, inhales, trying to suck in as much air as he can, drawing in sweet relief and ecstasy. Everything settles, the pain subsides, and it’s with another grateful breath that he recognizes something: the damp scent of the earth.

It triggers something. He doesn’t know why it seems familiar, but it is, and it’s something so deep and buried that he’s having trouble understanding exactly why this sense of I’ve done this before is permeating everything, and then he begins to panic because the world seems to bleed into darkness, black closing in.

I Can’t Decide [1/?] [wip]

He wishes it were easy to have a good time. It’s difficult when the thrill of life has long since bled dry.

Nothing will ever compare to those days in the field. Days of gunsmoke, bullet shells, blood spatters, the metallic taste in his mouth and the rush of adrenaline as he slips a knife between sets of trapezius muscles in the plane of an enemy’s back. If he were as susceptible to the call of the slots and cards as all the rest, he thinks, then perhaps the old vacancy in his chest would be filled. But even if he were, the house always wins.

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I haven’t written anything in a while so here’s part of my dream

“Please. Something’s wrong with him.”

He’s heard those same words many times before. Each time, it’s seemed worse. The quiver in her voice amplifies with every confession. It becomes a shaky wisp pulling out of her throat, strangling and choking and tight. He can see just how deep the fear threads inside of her.

Ivan pulls at the golden clasp on his forest cloak. “Tell me.”

The petite young woman averts his gaze, boring a hole into the wooden planks of the cottage floor. Her fingers are wrung into the fabric of her smudged apron. “It’s worse. He’s been this way for a few months now. During the day, he’s lethargic and weak, like he’s got some kind of debilitating sickness, and then at night, he’s got these… these fits.”

“Fits?” Furrowing his brow, he plods across to the stonework fireplace and prods at the coals with an iron-wrought poker. They’re still smouldering, warm and black and red. Another log should feed the dying flame.

“I can’t describe them. I’ve never seen them myself. The practitioner won’t let anyone else in. They lock the doors, seal them shut, bar them from the outside.” Shivering, she shuts her eyes. Pale blond hair falls across her face. “But we hear them. Every night, we hear them. It’s… it’s horrifying. It’s nothing human. The screams we’ve heard are not from this world.”

Ivan sets the poker aside and runs a hand thoughtfully through his dark hair. “You’re his sister, aren’t you?”

She takes a half-step backward. “What? I—”

“Blond hair isn’t common around here. You should have worn a hood if you were leaving the castle grounds.” He glances over his shoulder. “You realize that even if I were to get a look, I probably wouldn’t be able to cure him. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“But… but you use magic! That’s more than enough to—”

“Shush.” Ivan stares back into the coals, his fingers digging crescent moons into the flesh of his palms. “I’ll be honest, your Highness. I don’t know what it is. It’s been with me ever since I was a little boy. I’ll tell you what it’s not, though: it’s not magic. Not in the way you’re thinking. Everyone has so many misconceptions about what magic is and does, and believe me, what this is, it’s definitely not magic.”

He turns to face her, but she’s now drawn away. Pigeon-toed and eyes downcast, she’s wringing her poor peasant apron furiously, channeling her fear and anger and rage into the worn cloth between her hands.

Ivan draws a gentle breath. “I’ll look at him. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll look at him.”

Before he can grab his gauntlets off the mantle, she’s hugging him fiercely, buried into the front of his tunic. “Thank you,” she chokes. He can feel her frame tremble against him. “I just—I don’t know what to do anymore. He’s not with us, I can’t see him, he’s a stranger in our family, and at night, the entire castle desperately prays for dawn.”

Ivan bites his lip. The stark blue marks on the walls shift before his eyes.

“Lead the way, Cara. I’ll follow.”

I love suddenly getting ideas and then actually being able to write about them. Breaking through writer’s block, no matter what kind, is the best of feelings.

novel, HOOOOOOOOO

Slowly but surely working on my novel.

I’ve been trying to convince myself to write a little each day, even if it’s only a hundred words. Without discipline, this is never going to get finished.

Small progress, but at least I’m getting somewhere.

new word documents cause progress apparently

The howling cries of the blizzard crawl into the chilled marrow of Lance’s bones.

He’s already managed to pry the gate open. The seal on the thick metal entryway has been broken with the careful coercion of a pinpoint laser and an industrial strength crowbar. Snow blankets the inside shadow of the half-open door, crystal white and shimmering under the slider’s headlights.

Pushing with all of his might, Lance gradually manages to edge the slider into the entrance of the ruins. Its treads scritch and screak across the cool metal tile, pathing through patterns of powdered snow. Once he’s sure it’s a safe enough distance inside, he grabs the door’s handle and forces the door shut behind him.

Darkness creeps in, broken only by the harsh, piercing lights of the slider. Stirred dust and snow motes sway eerily in the bodies of the beams.

It’s cold here. Warmer than outside and away from the scathing wind, but still cold; no less bitter or stiff or close. Lance fights the clambering sensation of a shiver, adjusting the thick, thermal material of his facemask more securely above his nose. If he were bare, he’d be able to see his breath. Chances are the moisture would freeze.

Taking stock, he double checks the buckled pouches of his thermal suit. He knows that all the items are accounted for, but it’s the ritual that puts his mind at ease.

Satisfied, he climbs back onto the roof of the slider and opens the hatch. Leaning inside, he’s greeted by the soft glow of the blue HUD that’s splayed across the length of the windshield. Command keys and gauges are backlit by a similar icy tone. Lance grits his teeth, stretching along the cockpit, and terminates the machine’s power with a single key press.

Light fades into emptiness and silence.

it’s sad how long it took to write this

“Take care, old friend.” Jerrick clasps Lance’s forearm with a thick hand, giving one curt shake.

“You, too.” Lance mimics the gesture with a brisk roughness. “Dig deep and lock down.”

The prominent scar that cuts down Jerrick’s left cheek and temple wrinkles with a knowing smirk. Brushing past with heavy footfalls, his calf-length coat ends catch on the jingling buckles of his modified thermal suit as he stalks toward the liftways.

Wistful, Lance looks over his shoulder. The hulking figure of his friend looms across the metallic expanse of the temple grounds while flocks of hooded recorders pause and part for the giant data miner like water. Lance isn’t sure why, but he finds it funny. Their enlightenment and sense of superiority seem to quake rather quickly under the shadow of a pure physical powerhouse like Jerrick Ambrose.

Adjusting the lapel of his coat, Lance presses toward the sloped staircase to the main entryway. He supposes he’s kept the administrator waiting long enough. A few hours should have done the trick.

the good news is that I was productive today

so I was in the rocking chair outside of our computer science wing when I suddenly had this epiphany for the fantasy novel that I scrapped ages ago.

I kind of want to start working on it again.

I mean, I still have my cyberpunk novel that I plan on finishing in the distant future and all, but this is… really intriguing and I want to see where it goes.

I just

why do things like this happen to me when I have FIFTY THINGS TO DO?

brain

hey brain

listen

I hate you

“why do I do this to myself” is an awful popular tag lately good grief