.
I'll spend this weekend same as the last - light on the noveling, heavy on synopsis (part two), and continuing to wrestle something publishable out of my mundane-sf story. It's very, very important that I finish the story, almost moreso than the novel. I know that sounds insane, but I tend to abandon story projects at the last minute, blow off submission deadlines with the idea that it doesn't matter, it wasn't like an invite or anything... That's just a very bad way of thinking about stories, and I need to work on correcting it. I don't need to sell as many stories as Jay Lake - but when I commit to a market and an idea, I need to commit all the way.
Below is another excerpt. FYI, the protagonist's name is Sylvia, but her nickname is Silver, and it's what she goes by for a number of reasons - one which is made clear in the first few paragraphs of the novel. I know it sounds very sooper-precious violet-eyed Mary Sueish, but I chose the name for a reason. There are certain medical and bonding properties - as well as mythological/religious ones - to the metal that I think accurately reflect the female protagonist. When silver is used as a weapon, it's for a specific reason. :)
*********************************************************************************
Against the opposite wall, rows of armoires leaned like oversized tombstones. I made my way around tables and throne-like chairs to the largest, a beast of coiled columns and leering satyrs thrusting out of ropes of ivy and leaves. I touched one pointed face, running my fingers over chin, grin and horns--and whipped it back, rubbing my hand against my shorts. For one wild second I'd had the impression that the little face was nuzzling my fingertip, pressing up against my skin. Backing away, I walked down the length of the building, past row after row of vanities, to the steps leading to the third floor. My reflection moved with me in each mirror I passed, and in all the other mirrors scattered over the floor. As I turned my head, some of them turned more slowly, others quicker.
"Keep your shit together," I whispered. Some of them whispered with me. Others did not. I stared down the end of the row to the stairs, ignoring them all. A small legion of Silver's followed, all meeting at the end of the row, converging into a single, unnerved woman. I grasped the splintered handrail, and stared up. More sunlight, and the glint of polished mahogany under a high-beamed ceiling. Again, I climbed the stair in slow motion, as though crawling up into earth. Dust filled my nose and lungs, settled over my face like flakes of pyroclastic snow. I reached the top, and peered over the landing, mouth open in awe.
I'll spend this weekend same as the last - light on the noveling, heavy on synopsis (part two), and continuing to wrestle something publishable out of my mundane-sf story. It's very, very important that I finish the story, almost moreso than the novel. I know that sounds insane, but I tend to abandon story projects at the last minute, blow off submission deadlines with the idea that it doesn't matter, it wasn't like an invite or anything... That's just a very bad way of thinking about stories, and I need to work on correcting it. I don't need to sell as many stories as Jay Lake - but when I commit to a market and an idea, I need to commit all the way.
Below is another excerpt. FYI, the protagonist's name is Sylvia, but her nickname is Silver, and it's what she goes by for a number of reasons - one which is made clear in the first few paragraphs of the novel. I know it sounds very sooper-precious violet-eyed Mary Sueish, but I chose the name for a reason. There are certain medical and bonding properties - as well as mythological/religious ones - to the metal that I think accurately reflect the female protagonist. When silver is used as a weapon, it's for a specific reason. :)
*********************************************************************************
Against the opposite wall, rows of armoires leaned like oversized tombstones. I made my way around tables and throne-like chairs to the largest, a beast of coiled columns and leering satyrs thrusting out of ropes of ivy and leaves. I touched one pointed face, running my fingers over chin, grin and horns--and whipped it back, rubbing my hand against my shorts. For one wild second I'd had the impression that the little face was nuzzling my fingertip, pressing up against my skin. Backing away, I walked down the length of the building, past row after row of vanities, to the steps leading to the third floor. My reflection moved with me in each mirror I passed, and in all the other mirrors scattered over the floor. As I turned my head, some of them turned more slowly, others quicker.
"Keep your shit together," I whispered. Some of them whispered with me. Others did not. I stared down the end of the row to the stairs, ignoring them all. A small legion of Silver's followed, all meeting at the end of the row, converging into a single, unnerved woman. I grasped the splintered handrail, and stared up. More sunlight, and the glint of polished mahogany under a high-beamed ceiling. Again, I climbed the stair in slow motion, as though crawling up into earth. Dust filled my nose and lungs, settled over my face like flakes of pyroclastic snow. I reached the top, and peered over the landing, mouth open in awe.
Labels: "the ruins of love"
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