Jul 26
Posted: under the writing life.
Tags: the writing life July 26th, 2016
Posted on July 25, 2016 by Elizabeth …that visa problems might still exist in the far future worlds science fiction writers write about? Surely future political entities will have better solutions than we have…won’t they? (Plot Daemon says “Bwah-ha-hah-hah-hah-haaaaa….”) And rules about who is really a citizen…and problems with missing paperwork…and what happens if you’re […] [...more]
…that visa problems might still exist in the far future worlds science fiction writers write about? Surely future political entities will have better solutions than we have…won’t they? (Plot Daemon says “Bwah-ha-hah-hah-hah-haaaaa….”) And rules about who is really a citizen…and problems with missing paperwork…and what happens if you’re deported from your own planet and you haven’t ever done anything wrong there?
NewBook progresses, still generating plot and complications in a healthy way.
Addendum July 26 Comment posted by Elizabeth:
Jul 17
Posted: under Background, Story.
Tags: snippet, story July 17th, 2016
When the storm passed, they rode on, over the melting lumps of ice and the wet grass. Oktar’s sheepskin, sodden with rain, hung over his horse’s rump; he walked, leading his mount, his bare feet so cold from the ice he could not feel the bruises. His grandfather rode ahead, not speaking to him, but […] [...more]
When the storm passed, they rode on, over the melting lumps of ice and the wet grass. Oktar’s sheepskin, sodden with rain, hung over his horse’s rump; he walked, leading his mount, his bare feet so cold from the ice he could not feel the bruises. His grandfather rode ahead, not speaking to him, but muttering continually to the horses, who bobbed their heads as if they understood.
Home was too far behind to imagine, that cold night. Read the rest of this entry »
Jul 12
Posted: under snippet, Story.
Tags: characters, snippet July 12th, 2016
When he had the flasks full; Oktar splashed back to hand them up. His feet were bruised by rocks, aching from cold. His grandfather looked down at him. “Drink one swallow. Then give flask. Catch your horse.” [...more]
When he had the flasks full; Oktar splashed back to hand them up. His feet were bruised by rocks, aching from cold. His grandfather looked down at him. “Drink one swallow. Then give flask. Catch your horse.”
Read the rest of this entry »
Jul 11
Posted: under Craft, the writing life.
Tags: craft of writing, the writing life July 11th, 2016
In the “where are we now?” category, the book is, as of today, at 16,000 words (still short fiction of the novelette or novella type) and 83 manuscript pages. The good news is that story is flowing. It’s going nonlinear in the “threaded plot” sense, as Aunt Grace, Rector of Defense, has just gotten home […] [...more]
In the “where are we now?” category, the book is, as of today, at 16,000 words (still short fiction of the novelette or novella type) and 83 manuscript pages. The good news is that story is flowing. It’s going nonlinear in the “threaded plot” sense, as Aunt Grace, Rector of Defense, has just gotten home to find her place booby-trapped, while Ky, at dinner in another location, is about to be unpleasantly interrupted by the persons who rang the doorbell there, and a character from Cold Welcome has taken on a new identity. Read the rest of this entry »
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Lordy, lordy, this is being fun. No, the characters aren’t having fun. There’s frustration on all sides. Officialdom is annoyed with people who don’t tick all the boxes, fill in all the blanks, sign on dotted lines, get things notarized, and then stand patiently in line for hours… (yes, I was caught in a bureaucratic paper-pushers’ delight a couple of weeks ago, and got to watch other people have a worse time than I did. Then watch a nearby city’s evening news report on the “new mega-center” that the online stuff kept directing me to because it was “faster.” It wasn’t faster; it was jammed and people who weren’t there at 5 am weren’t going to get whatever it was they needed done. Thank you SO much, Texas legislature.) Anyway.
For the writer, the chance to make use of such experiences is one of the things that makes them bearable. The other thing is knitting. Knitting is perfect when you have to wait…and wait…and wait…and wait.
People who say they aren’t patient enough to knit sit or stand in line jittering and fussing, and miserable, while I am adding rows to a sock. It becomes a game. How many stitches or rows can I do before the line moves again? How many while waiting for my number to be called? And it amuses others who are waiting, at least some of them. At least one person in any room is either a knitter, or a relative of someone who knits/knitted or crochets/crocheted. Someone will ask what it is, or if the yarn is wool or cotton, or comment on the colors. And often we can get a lively discussion going that’s not about how slow the line is.
Post & Comment mirrored from Universes blog
31,000 words now