Writing In Between

I’m in The Fold of Ravka (and, yes, this is a plug for both the books and the Netflix series which is awesome). Why am I in the Fold? I’m in between writing books and am ducking Volcra trying to eat me as I try and find my way through the dark.

6B0A38EA-1AE1-4DB6-968B-4591C253806B_1_201_a.jpeg

I have all of these ideas: several new contemporaries, an adult romance, a dystopian idea (can’t work on the fantasy right now since it’s resting for the next eight weeks). I don’t know where to go. The thing is, I do this every time. I finish a book, then spin in the dark unsure what’s next, worried I’ve lost my way, and struggle with the doubt that I’ll ever be able to do it again. 

But somehow, I find the thread of light. I find my way through it and out the other side to write a new story. Not sure what’s next, but in the meantime, here’s a snippet of something I wrote while hanging out in the dark.

If you’ve read The Cantos Chronicles which starts with Swimming Sideways, you might recognize some of these names.


Something New…

I don’t need snow today, and it isn’t even the good kind. Instead it’s wet and slushy, sinking razor cold teeth into everything. Fitting really. I was prepared for the rain. Freaking Willamette Valley weather. I’m still getting into the swing of things after winter break. The swing of a new term, new classes. The swing of being single again, not that it’s much different than when Sebastian and I were together. Six weeks removed, and I’m seeing that more clearly, now. We’d been going through the motions as a couple, far longer than in the swing of two people truly in love, and I should have seen it but hadn’t until it was removed.

As I was walking out the door of my apartment to leave for work, he’d called. That was not in the swing of things. My axis, which had finally regulated, tilted more than I cared to admit.

“I’m just checking in on you,” he’d said.

I could picture him sitting at the desk in his bedroom at his own apartment running a finger along the edge like he often did when he was on the phone. His bedroom barely controlled chaos behind him. His curly dark hair in need of a trim. I didn’t like that I could picture him with clarity still. 

“That isn’t your job,” I’d answered as I checked the locked door of my apartment, then started down the sidewalk to my car, annoyed at the intrusion but also conflicted by it. I thought I’d been in love with him. I thought he was probably the one, then I got the We should talk followed up with him dating a new girl a week after that talk.  Nine months together, most of them pleasant, the comfort of sliding back into an easy pattern of behavior that feels safe and secure is tempting. “Why are you calling?”

“I just–” he’d paused as though weighing and measuring the impact of his words. This was a usual Sebastian speech pattern, as though he hooded his words, himself, in the guise of how he said something to make me feel complacent but equally unsure.  “I know the anniversary is coming up, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

I had a fleeting thought that maybe he’d been planning on saying something different, but then settled on what I’d heard. I dismissed the doubt. My normal pattern of behavior where he was concerned. What he’d asked was more endearing than holding onto any negative thoughts about his intentions. “I’m going home. I’ll be okay. Thanks.”

I’d climbed into my car, phone pressed to my ear with my shoulder holding it in place. Once inside the car, I’d started it, the phone switching to bluetooth, and I sat there, waiting for the car to warm up but also for him to say something else. The silence between us stretched into awkward territory. 

“Was that–” I’d started.

“I miss you,” He’d said at the same time.

“I’m not sure what to make of that.” My heart stalled in my chest, frozen in suspended animation awaiting something to bring it back to life. Being with Sebastian was so easy, yet he’d moved on way easier than me. I suspect it had started long before we actually parted ways. That hurts. The knowledge that I’d been so easy to replace slashed and burned the already broken parts of me. I was sitting in the car feeling like a hollowed out version of myself, and I wasn’t sure anything would ever feel normal again.

“I feel sort of lost,” he’d said. “And you always helped me figure myself out.”

My eyes had slipped closed. Always what I could do for him, just like my sister, Ruth, pointed out over the break. “He’s selfish,” she’d said. I’d opened my eyes back up and drove from the parking lot toward my job. “Sebastian. I can’t do this.”

“Hannah–”

“We’re over. Remember?”

His silence was confirmation enough.

I took a turn. “I can’t be your go to, Bash.”

“You’re right.”

I parked the car and sat back against the seat surprised by his admission. This was different for us. The swirls of us had mostly been the opposite, Sebastian maneuvering the conversation to where it was in his favor, and me capitulating. “I have to go to work.”

“Okay. Maybe I could call you later?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just to talk.”

I sighed. “Okay. Sure.”

We’d ended the call, and I sat in the car imagining myself the shape of a gooey heart where everything gets stuck inside the viscous jelly of my inability to set limits. I folded forward with my head on the steering wheel and bumped my head a couple of times with annoyance. Why couldn’t I just be stronger? Returning to rehash Sebastian even if that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about wasn’t good for me. It was good for him.

Now, I look up at the clock and hustle from my car. I need to get back into the swing of work, and because of that call, I’m running late for my shift. I hate being late; I hate letting anyone down.

 I rush through the doors at Hammerson Library, my eyes unfocused and replaying the conversation with Sebastian in my mind, and bump into someone hurrying out. The books in my arms flop out, falling to the ground in a syncopated succession of thuds. “Oh. I’m so sorry,” I say, and bend down to pick up the books which I don’t want to get wet. Shoot. Shoot. I’m going to be late.

“So sorry,” a deep voice says at the same time. “My fault. I wasn’t–” A familiar voice. Stalled now on his last word. “Hannah?”

I glance at a face I recognize. Warm amber eyes. A dimpled smile. 

A smile spreads across my face. “Seth! What are you doing here?” My smile won’t stop and communicates with the rest of my body that it needs to get involved in the joy. My heart hammers against my ribs. My face heats.  

He looks like high school Seth, but different. Older. Slightly crooked nose, mouth with perfectly proportional lips that cut adorable dimples into his cheeks when he smiles which he does now. Light brown hair—darker now— styled so that wavy locks stray across his forehead. He’s still taller than me.

My heart adds a hot hum of awareness in my chest. 

Because he’s my friend, I tell myself. One I haven’t seen him in a long time.




April Challenge: Finishing the Draft

Have I ever mentioned I was writing a fantasy book? Probably once or twice if you’ve been following my writing journey for any length of time. Or maybe this is new information. I started writing it over ten years ago, and for the last ten years I’ve started and stopped and tinkered and dabbled. The story has undergone a series of overhauls because I inevitably get stuck. A year ago—almost to the date—I scrapped everything I’d written chalking it up to world-building and started over. Over the last year, I’ve gotten the closest to a finished draft than I ever have, which is both exciting and terrifying.

Fantasy.png


Why?

Because this book has become my personal Camino de Santiago, my creative pilgrimage. Despite my many years of writing and having written ten books over my lifetime, this book has been the one that alludes me and makes me feel like I’m fooling myself as a writer. I set it as a goal, the unattainable one that is a moving target of someday. 

As a contemporary writer for the most part, there is safety in the known. I can draw from the world around me. I can create a place rooted in the safety of a world that exists in the here and now. The process for writers of historical and fantasy face a different challenges, and for fantasy, specifically, one of those challenges is building a world, its inhabitants and its systems from scratch.

And I’m close!

I made a promise to myself to use April as the month to finish the draft (or work hard trying to do it).  April is here.

So here are the current Fantasy WIP stats:

  • This WIP is currently at 82,000 words.

  • It is tentatively titled: Deconstructing Cale Elysian.

  • There is one main protagonist—Cale— with a cast of “found-family” characters around him.

  • While the story would be categorized as a high fantasy because it is in a brand new world with new systems, the story is driven by low fantasy elements to keep it grounded. 

  • There is a magic system.

What I hope to accomplish this month (so you can hold me accountable):

  • I want to add around 50,000 words (like during NaNoWriMo), or as many as I need to get this book close to a finished draft.

  • I’d like to shut down my perfectionist tendencies and just write forward (it has been harder with this book than my others).

  • I’d like to share my weekly updates with you here and on Instagram each Wednesday. 

That’s it.

Fantasy2.png


Here’s a snippet of what’s been written. This is from the POV of Cale’s best friend Yoneo:

Yoneo squinted in the darkness of his tiny attic room of their family cottage. Wondering if he heard something, he waited. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes again and rolled over deciding one of his sisters—probably Teniko, who was hiding a new, secret lover—was sneaking back into the house. The brin coursing through his system was wearing off, leaving a nasty headache in its wake which required sleep. When he heard the tap again, his eyes snapped open; he sat up and groaned. 

“Teniko, if that’s you, I’m going to kill you,” he whispered it to no one in particular since if it was in fact his sister, she wasn’t in the room. 

Being stuck between a quartet of sisters was a challenge in and of itself, add the extra pressure of being the only boy and it increased exponentially. The oldest sister, Nika, had paired last summer and lived in Billerdem with her partner, but that left the other three, Kira just above him, Teniko who was just below him in birth order and drove him crazy most of the time, and then the youngest Martika. While he had lots of attention, it was often too much, and his dad wasn’t much of a respite wanting him to be the strong silent type he could count on while his sisters nagged him to share his feelings. It was exhausting. 

Yoneo rolled from the comfort of his bed and slogged his way around Teniko’s bed where his sister was actually sleeping.  Which meant, if it wasn’t her, it was someone else. His heart picked up speed wondering who in the blister of the dark would be throwing pebbles at his window. Probably Jem since he’d be the only one likely to do something so irrational. But that didn’t make any sense. Yoneo loosened the fastener and pushed the window open, not particularly concerned it would be someone dangerous. They lived in the tiny village of Brockton, for light’s sake. 

“Yo?” A familiar voice sort of whispered up from the garden below.

“Cale? What are you doing? Your dad is going to kill you!” Yoneo whispered back.

“Can I come up?”

“Wait. I’m coming down.” Shock flooded his system. Cale sneaking about was like Hah stopping its rotation around the suns and then changing direction to go around the opposite way.

He moved through the cottage with care avoiding the creaks of the old home. Like the third step on the way down the stairs along with one right at the bottom that seemed to have an odd thump when you removed your weight. He took a wide step just the other side of his parents bedroom door to avoid the squeaking floorboard, and when he opened up the door, he made sure to do it slowly so it didn’t groan. 

His friend was nowhere to be seen in the yard, the bushes, the herbs and flowers his mother coddled looking more like a wild meadow than a manicured garden. “Cale?” Yoneo whispered into the dark. 

Cale stepped out from behind a tall shrub. It was difficult to see him in the dark, though the moon provided some light, but not enough to chase away the shadows. He looked weird. And lumpy.

“What are you doing? I thought you were sick,” he said. “Come.”

Cale moved down the walk and into the house, looking behind him as he went.

“What’s going on?” Yoneo asked once they were inside and the door shut behind them.

Yoneo’s father coughed, and he held a finger to his lips. It wasn’t that his dad would be angry that Cale was there, but the man loved his sleep he had so little of it. His temper was formidable. “Wait,” he whispered, went up the stairs retracing his silent steps, grabbed some blankets, and returned to Cale the same way. The difficulty of having so many people in a tiny little cottage meant there was no space. “The barn,” he whispered and led the way to the out building.

When they were safely inside and out of the hearing of his family, Yoneo asked again. “What’s going on?”

Cale’s face, despite its usually golden glow, looked pale and stricken. 

“Are you still sick?”

Cale flopped into a pile of straw and it was then what had made his friend look lumpy; he was carrying a bag. “I’m not sick.” Cale finally said after some time.

“Are you running away?”

“You could say that. I’m going on The Tour.”