The quick writing update, i.e., writing does happen around here. Which, you know, is why blogging is light.
All novels are evil brats (or mine are) demanding they be written a certain way. This one is more evil than most. It wants me to jump six, eight scenes ahead, write that, them jump again. All of which leaves me backtracking and playing connect the dots.
I’m not stuck, not blocked or any of those terrible things writers fear. I know exactly what needs to happen and where to go. But detours–jumping and writing ahead. A lot.
This, gentle reader, makes things difficult and takes much longer. I am at heart a linear writer. Why this book has decided to be written this way is a mystery to me. But as I’ve said so often before, I only work here. Refusing results in no forward motion at all.
But it appears to be worth it. When I go back and read what I’ve written, I’m almost even satisfied. Some of this is really good, even if I did write it myself. I’m my own harshest critic, so I don’t say that too lightly.
In addition to all this, dear dear Dora is lobbying hard for her own book. Said book has a title (ON TO ME), a cast of characters, emotion and a plot. She feeds me little tidbits every day. Because as we all know, I need more ideas and more novels in the hopper.
I will leave you with two raw, out of context and subject to revision darlings, as I do from time to time, one from Delia’s POV and one from Gabe’s. Deep as I am into plot and conflict, darlings without spoilers for book two or this book were hard to find.
The ghost stayed silent, her voice frozen in the past in the same way her image was frozen in the glass. That wasn’t unexpected.
After all, memories only spoke in dreams.
“Gabriel Ryan, as I live and breathe!” She stood and came to greet him, hands outstretched to take his. Rings glittered on every finger, stones scattering light. She’d bobbed her thick, black hair since the last time he’d seen her, a fashionable style that flattered her. “I haven’t seen you in years. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
Maggie DeVere had been born on a hog farm in Kansas, but anyone who didn’t know would never guess. She was the picture of charm and good breeding, well dressed and well spoken. Years of effort went into perfecting that facade, years of living in the shadow of society and being sneered at. No one sneered now. Maggie had too much money, knew too many secrets.
Gabe hoped that made her happy. He smiled and took her hands. “Hello, Maggie. It has been a long time. I guess that means you’ve stayed on the right side of the law.”
The day job bellows and I must go. Be kind while I’m gone.