Paksworld

The growing tip of the story is alive and moving in the third book.   At the moment, it’s growing with a chapter in each of several  viewpoints.   There’s Arcolin having breakfast in camp, about to confront some annoyed gnomes, and Dorrin watching the children learning to make pastry, and Andressat about to make a very important announcement to his family.   I’m not sure what Kieri’s doing, because I’m not sure the end of the second book won’t change by the time I finish the revisions of it.

The second book’s revision work is also alive, to the point that it wants to grow more.  It’s already full-length.

“But you need to tell this bit!” Book Two says.

“So what do you want me to cut out?” I inquire.   Book Two looks sulky.  “Come on,” I say briskly, “you know the rules: we have a length limit here.  And we must, we absolutely must, get to at least this point–”  I make it clear.  “If you want to add something, then something else has to come out.”

“Not the bit about Paks and the Marshal-General,” says Book Two.   “Or Arvid.  Those are crucial.”

“I’ve been wondering about Paks and the Marshal-General,” I say.  “It just ends–there’s no resolution.”

“Well, I can’t tell you yet, and if you can’t find me more space, I may never tell you.”

“Don’t threaten me, Book, I’m your writer.”   A stern look at Book Two, which cowers not a bit.   “If there’s no plotworthy reason for what was said and done, it has to go.”

“There is,” Book Two says.  “But I can’t tell you yet.”

“Well, is she after the thief?”

“I don’t know–I mean, I can’t tell you yet.”

“You don’t know.”  I can feel my eyebrows climbing.  “You want to leave in how many hundred words and you don’t know if it’s plotworthy or not?”

“I don’t see why you can’t just write everything down and leave it to Angus–”

“Angus?  Who’s Angus?”

“You know.  That little red man with the beard down in the boiler-room.”

“My plot daemon?”

“All these years and you didn’t even know his name!”  Book Two sneers at me.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” I say through clenched teeth.  “And you’re evading the issue.  It’s different now.  I have editors to satisfy.   Contracts.  Things that didn’t exist when I was writing here before. ”

“So you waste time arguing with me when you could be writing down what I tell you?   How stupid is that?”

“You know what, Book Two–you are nothing but a big fat bully.”

“And you are nothing but a lazy cheapskate writer who would be nothing without books that dragged you along, doing all the work, because you can’t be bothered to outline–”

“Oh, sure.  Blame it on me.   When whatsisname–Angus–won’t let me see the plot more than a few pages ahead, how am I supposed to outline?”

“And that just proves you’re fundamentally incapable of coming up with ideas on your own!”   Book Two sniffs.  “Where would you be if I took a vacation now?”

“Same to you, you bloated monster.  Without a writer,  and someone to represent you in the real world, you’d never get onto the shelves. ”

[Loud banging on the pipes of the establishment and up from below comes an angry voice, in the weirdest stage accent you ever heard.]  “Will ye both stop argifying, ye stupid cows, or will I put a blast of steam up yer fat backsides that’ll make ye both jump like the silly goats ye are!   The Story matters–yer silly quarrel just delays it.  Get to work; I don’t have all day to deal with yer nonsense.”

“All right, all right,” Book Two says, with a pleading look at me.

“Friends,” I say hastily.   “We’d better go–”

“That’s fer damn sure!” says the angry voice.  “Get on wi’ ye!  Steam’s up; get this thing in gear.  And you, call yerself a Cap’n, just steer the bluidy boat and stay away from the engines.”

……

So that’s all for today.   Must get back to the story.