What now?

So... now that finals are over... and summer is here... I must decide...

What should I work on for writing?


And this is where I need your help, dear readers. Since I have multiple novels/stories underway (all in various stages of completion), I am at a loss as to which project to focus my attentions on. My options are thus:

Freeborn and Freegiven: Deep in the land of shieldsfell-ruled Quartorlen, the last of the freeborn must conquer their fears and journey into the heart of enemy territory to break the invader's hold on both their country and their countryfolk once and for all.

Stats: NaNo 2010 Novel
Genre: Fantasy
Word Count: 51,342
Project: Rewrite

Feather and Fang: Twenty-two years after the events of Freeborn and Freegiven, the freeborn of Quartorlen have split into factions, each vying for supremacy in the vacuum of power left when the shieldsfell withdrew their forces. When an assassin from one faction and a bounty hunter from the other are trapped together in the deadliest place in Quartorlen, they must work together or perish. And if they make it out alive, they will bring information that could change the face of the war.

Stats: Sequel to Freeborn
Genre: Fantasy
Word Count: 18,319
Project: Finish

The Truth/Trust Hole: In the heartland of a country much like ours, there is an arena. An arena where criminals with special abilities work out their life sentences fighting robots for public sport. These Games attract citizens of all ages, races, and walks of life, all come to see their favorite fighters cheat death again and again against a pitiless enemy. But when a young boy named Alen is thrown into the Hole, by chance, it would seem, everything begins to change.

Stats: NaNo 2011 Novel
Genre: Sci-Fi
Word Count: 52,973
Project: Rewrite

Deep Red/Crimson Streak: Somewhere in the Cluster an out-of-work headhunter sets out on a mission to find the greatest commodity in the markets of the Core: something he has heard is called 'Hope'. But when he enlists the help of a young boy who can apparently see the past and future, things go in a direction he wasn't planning.

Stats: Short Story
Genre: Sci-Fi
Word Count: 3,272
Project: Finish


What do you think? All of them have a lot of potential as far as ease of completion goes (unlike the other dozen or so which I could have listed), all of them get me excited when I think about them... so I'm in a pickle!

Help me out, and give me your opinions! And rest assured, one day I'll get to all of them, I just need to know which one to work on first.

Thanks in advance!
Farjag

The Prophecy

When feather and fang do clash in war, 

Much is forgotten, remembered no more, 

Darkness comes upon us again 

This time, from within 

When our country needs us most 

We turn away; unity is an empty boast 

Now a darker evil lurks near at hand 

A shadow soon will fall upon the land 

The dragon-fell, cloaked in black 

Despair comes soon, death no lack 

Quartorlen shall meet its doom 

We have dug our own stone tomb

Comparisons

So I spent several hours editing Feather and Fang last night, getting the first parts written on par with the last parts as far as style, continuity, and all-around quality is concerned. By doing this, I am able to reconnect with the story, add where it needs adding, and take away what needs taking away.
For example, my descriptions of several years ago were quite wordy and rather bland. I left little to the reader's imagination, tended to more boring than helpful, and usually made references to the real world (something I am trying to avoid). Consider the following:


But where the hawk had been a man was just rising from the ground, as if he had been kneeling. But as the wolf and the man he had turned into were alike, so were the hawk and his new form. His hair was composed of large, flat locks like feathers that flared out as they reached the back of his neck, giving him a low-lying crest. His garments were much the same as the other’s, but his shirt bore a fringe under the arms, also like feathers. His high boots had spurs like those of a rooster on the heel, and his face had strange marking along the jawbone, tattoos that resembled the black markings of a red hawk.

Not bad, but definitely not good either. So I did some reworking; and this is what it turned into:

And as the wolf and the man he had turned into were alike, so were the hawk and his new form. While his garments were much the same as the wolf’s, they were decorated with strips of colorful cloth, bright threads, and pendants of stone and metal. He wore his hair in flat locks like feathers in which were intertwined bits of shell and bone, and his face bore strange tattoos like small wisps along his jawbone. He had bone spurs on his boots and a fringe of leather ran along the arms of his shirt.

Much better. Not only do I accurately describe Crestlen's appearance (now that I know what he actually looks like), but gone are the clumsy references to real hawks and roosters. And it actually flows now, as opposed to the rather disjointed pattern of the former iteration.

That's the taking away part; now for the adding. This mostly comes in play during dialogue, which I've gotten a great deal better since writing this first chapter (this is my oldest piece of work still in current use, predating even Freeborn and Freegiven). For example:

He chuckled. “Indeed, our paths have finally crossed.”

The other snorted. “As well they might, twould be difficult for two assassins to seek each other without ever meeting.”

“Ah! So that is why you seemed not overeager to cover your tracks. I had begun to fear they were a false lead, so obvious were they.”

The first snarled again. “Yes, tis not often that Redpaw, chief of the hunters in Burndell is careless enough to let his tracks go uncovered.”

“Aye, but even if they had been covered, Redpaw Wolf-hunter, not often is Crestlen, Hawk-assassin of Embervale hard pressed to find the trail, however hidden.”

Redpaw nodded scornfully. “Indeed? Know this, Crestlen, Hawk-assassin; if I were to hide my trail with all my skill and cunning, even the keenest hound-scout would be at a loss.”

It was Crestlen’s turn to toss his head in scorn. “Ah, that stumble-footed, keen-nosed kind! Yes, but I am no hound-scout. I track not by smell, but by sight, and I warn you, I can spot a hare-runner from three bowshots off.”

Now, my imagining of this has been forever tainted by an ill-fated attempt I made at a radio theater, in which I did all the voices. And my attempt to make Crestlen sound like a sneering, cold assassin, just made him sound like he had a cold. So now I hear that in my head whenever I read these lines. So... I needed to change them, obviously. Hopefully, the rework is better:

“What sort of civilized talk can there be between us, Redpaw?”

The former wolf, Redpaw, chuckled. “Well, you could at least thank me for waiting here for you. When I learned you had heard of me, I decided it would be far easier to wait for you to come to me than to chase you across all four provinces.”

“Is that so?” replied the other, Crestlen, a sarcastic edge creeping into his voice. “No wonder you left your tracks so plain! They were so obvious I had begun to fear they were a false lead!”

Redpaw’s easy grin faded. “Watch what you say, Hawk-assassin! Not often do I let down my guard without good reason! Him named chief of the bounty-hunters in Fanglen faction is never at a loss to cover his tracks!”

Crestlen snorted in derision. “Even if they had, Wolf-hunter, not often am I hard pressed to find the trail, however hidden.”

Redpaw nodded scornfully. “Indeed? Know this, Crestlen, Hawk-assassin; if I were to hide my trail with all my skill and cunning, even the keenest hound-blood would be at a loss.”

It was Crestlen’s turn to toss his head in scorn. “A pox on that stumble-footed, keen-nosed kind! I am no hound-blood. They may track by smell, but I hunt by sight, and I tell you, I can spot a my prey from near on three bowshots off.”

Not only did I fix most of the Yoda-esque style of speaking, but Redpaw's speech actually fits his character, and all the "Ah!"'s and "Aye!'"s have been deleted. I mean, who starts every sentence with "Ah!"?

Well, that's where I be, sitting in the shadows of a cave deep in Flamehope, watching two master hunters face off in a fight to the death. Call me if you need me. :)

 

Moment of Realization

Sometime, as an author, you have a particular moment when you suddenly realize something important. Like when I realized that this is what I was going to post about today. Well... maybe not. But definitely like the moment I had yesterday evening.

See, I've been muddling along in Feather and Fang, getting bogged down constantly, but not wanting to stop. There's so much in mind for it, and I don't want to let it drop by the wayside. But something's been hindering me from writing as freely as I'd like. And yesterday evening I realized why.

I was telling two different tales. And pretty obviously so. Crestlen and Redpaw struggled through the Brightgorge, turning from mortal enemies to brothers-in-arms, and Daegless and Korra trekked across Thunderfell, changing Daegless from the Tiger-scourge into... something else. The two stories joined at the end, which is why I was telling them together in the same book, but now I think both stories would benefit if they were told separately, and then joined in a third tale.

Woah... trilogy...

So! Trilogy, eh? *thinks hard about names*.... Feather and Fang... Fellborne and Fearless... Faith and Fallen... those'll do nicely, I think. And as a whole? The Faction Trilogy. Because, of course, everything revolves around the featherwen and fanglen factions and their chaotic war.

As of right now, however, work will proceed strictly on Feather and Fang, until that tale has been told in full. I do try to keep the number of projects I'm working on to a minimum... if that is even possible. So expect talk to be mostly about Feather and Fang, and Daegless and Korra to not show up for a while.


Buuut....


Remember that plot bunny? Well, work was so slow yesterday I pulled out some printer paper, sat down in a corner, and started writing. And I liked what I found. So I may or may not be following him further in the next few days, depending on what it looks like when I transfer my illegible scribbling to the computer.  We shall see...

Snippets of a Story- March

Because we all know I need an excuse to post...

It's Snippets of a Story! Thanks again to Katie, at Whisperings of the Pen, for the marvelous idea of giving us all an excuse to tease our readers!

But enough of my blithering. You want ze snippets. These are from Feather and Fang, which I was writing last night, and coincidentally, thinking about posting a snippet(s) from!

* * *

Daegless snarled as he watched flames leap ever higher from the burning barn. His sweep of terror and fire had now reached from the Shardberg Cliffs to Havenport on the eastern Thunderfell coast. Homestead after homestead, village after village had felt his black fist. A swathe of darkness had followed in his wake, a trail of burnt homes and wasted farms. The name of the tiger-scourge had reached the furthest corners of the north provinces, and fear followed close behind it.

* * *

The freeborn’s eyes flitted open slowly. He felt pain all over. Especially in his head. He groaned, and heard movement nearby. He looked up into a dappled light, frowning.

“Where am I?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Under the Loneoak,” spoke a clear voice to his left.

The speaker moved into his field of vision, a young woman holding a wooden bowl. She looked quizzically down at him. “How are you doing?”

The freeborn frowned. Something was wrong. How did he get here? His mind seemed empty for some reason. He was… who was he?

A low growl sounded in his throat as he found he could not even remember his own name. He tried harder, gritting his teeth, but there was nothing. His gaze focused on the girl kneeling over him.

“Who am I?” he asked, suddenly suspicious of this strange female.

The girl raised an eyebrow. “I beg pardon?”

The freeborn sat up with a snarl as his arm shot out to grasp her by the throat. The bowl clattered to the ground, spilling its contents on the grass.

“I said… who am I?”

The girl choked on his grip, pulling at his hands. “What… kind of… a question… is that?”

“My name!” growled the freeborn, squeezing a little harder.

“Dae… Daegless!” the girl gasped.

The freeborn let her drop, breathing heavily. Pain shot through his body and he slumped back. A tear formed in one eye. The name meant nothing. He could remember nothing. The girl had scrambled back, holding her throat and grimacing.

“Daegless… what’s going on?”

The freeborn… Daegless… turned on his side, curling up into a tight ball. It was awful. There were no memories in his mind, nothing. He had no recollection of anything! And the pain, it sparked and flared all along his body, but especially in his head. Pain had come to fill the gap left by whatever memories he had had.

Since you insist...

Well, since everyone seems to be demanding more excerpts from Feather and Fang, and since I have forgotten the deep and mind-stimulating post I was going to write (I really should write these ideas down when I get them), and nothing new has come to me during the last ten minutes of staring at my blog header... I guess I'll post an excerpt!

But, there is reasoning involved here. Seeing as I have given you the set-up for Freeborn and Freegiven, it stands to reason that I should do the same for Feather and Fang. However, doing so in the straightforward, no-secrets-kept sort of way I did before would spoil a good deal of the last part of Freeborn. But to understand Feather, you need a least a little bit of backstory. So what I'm going to do is inform you in the same way any other reader would be informed: straight from the book. So you'll know exactly what you need to know, and not a cent more. *evil chuckle*

Anyways... the excerpt


The Blue Beard had the best ale for miles, or so it many patrons swore. Be that as it may, its warmly-lit windows and spacious common room looked especially inviting on a night such as this. The stranger strode up the wooden steps that led to the abandoned porch, knocking his boots against the railing to rid them of most of their mud. Then, pulling his wide-brimmed hat down closer over his eyes, he entered the building.
It was fairly quiet at the moment, only a few folk were out of their homes on a night like this. The stranger looked around carefully, taking stock of the room and its occupants before choosing a table in a corner next to the stone fireplace and sitting down with his back to the wall.
On the far side of the large room sat a low bar, with a portly man sitting behind it polishing spoons while four elderly men sat at table telling tales. Two young boys sat at a second table, playing a game of fourlens, and a third held two middle-aged men talking politics over their ales.
“They say the Featherwen faction’s planning to assassinate Flamehope’s Fanglen leader.”
“Scaeldren, Lynx-lord?”
“Aye, the very one.”
“Bah, you listen to every rumor you hear, Scratch. There isn’t an assassin good enough to even get close to the Lynx-lord! Why, he’s won the Fistfire matches every year for nigh on four years now!”
“Aye, but that’s why they’ve got the best assassin since before the Blood-Invasion.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “Tell me, did ye ever hear of Crestlen, Hawk-assassin?” 

(More after the break!)

A Dusty Chest

Sometimes a writer's work is a like a dusty chest hidden away in an attic. You come back to it again and again, filling it with things that are important, but you never sift back through what's there already.
As I've been working on Feather and Fang, I've been rereading what I've already written, checking for consistency, making sure my character's arcs are doing what they are supposed to, and fixing any small problems I find. And problems I found, trust me. If the story is a chest, then there cobwebs in certain corners that need cleaning out; nasty pieces of prose and dialogue that need reworking. But what I didn't expect to find were the gems hidden under the cobwebs.
When you've been working on a book for as long as I have (since early 2010), you tend to forget a good deal of what you've put in there. Today, as I was lengthening my timing from two days to a week (Another problem of being sporadic in writing; you forget you're still in the same day as the one you started in), I reached the fight with the bladesfell.
These bird-like creatures are feathered with metal instead of, well, feathers, and their scream carries terror with it. They hunt by freezing their prey with fear, and then swooping down to finish the job with razor beaks and talons. But when Redpaw and Crestlen become the prey, they keep enough presence of mind to run like scared rabbits for shelter. Maybe 'presence of mind' is the wrong way to say it. 'Self-preservation'? Anyways, they flee. But when the bladesfell come again, there is a very different outcome.

Then together the two monsters opened their fierce maws and roared, a roar filled with terrifying thoughts, fear and coming death. The night air whipped into a frenzy, driving towards Redpaw and Crestlen. All around them rotten roots snapped and exploded, leaves tore themselves from their branches, and the forest floor shot up in a torrent of dead leaves and branches as the twin roars blasted into the surrounding jungle.

But in the center of the whirlwind Redpaw stood slowly, the wind of the roars whipping past him like a wave receding from a rock. The fear that he had felt before was suddenly gone as a sense of peace broke through the noise and chaos. A quiet voice within was telling him to be strong, to face the evil that now crouched in the clearing. No more would he cower in the dark. No more would he let fear rule his actions. Before he had fled, but no more. Now was the time to fight, to stand strong. The terror of before reached out for him again, but the freezing claws skittered away on the iron armor of determination and will Redpaw had been given.

Words came unbidden to his lips, tumbling forth like rain. First a mutter, then a battle cry; a song of defiance and courage in the darkest of hours.

Chaos all around,

But a Voice breaks through

Death will surround,

But these words are true

Let the evil flee!

Though terrors do roar,

We will have the victory!

Dark will come no more!

When life and it's chaos surrounds you, may the Voice of the great Peacemaker come whispering in your ear, telling you to be strong, to face the danger, to run with endurance the race set before us.

Sincerely,
Farjag

Snippets Of A Story

As if Beautiful People wasn't enough, here's another monthly mission... quest... thing... to do!

Basically, I post a snippet, (or two, or three, or...) and give no explanation. How awesome and evil is that?! All credit goes to Miss Katie S., at Snippets of A Story. Drop by her blog to read all the other snippets fellow bloggers be postin'!

Anyways.... the snippets.

From Railway:

Greetings, Rattlehead. Mind if we drop in?

A few miles away, Hatch’s garbled voice sounded out of an old black radio. Its antenna rose at a crooked angle into the air, and both speakers buzzed as they spat out the sound. Footsteps passing by stopped, and a shadow bent over the dented pile of knobs and switches.
“Did you hear that, brother?” came a voice from a little ways away.
“Aye, I heard it,” came the reply from the man crouched over the radio. “Came from channel 93.1.”
“No one around here ever used that frequency.”
“No, this one’s not from around here. Small group I’d say, he said ‘we’. Portable radio, if they’re paying us a visit. Fellow’s got spunk, to just announce himself out like that.”

From Feather and Fang:

Daegless's thumb twitched a little, plucking a string on the violin that sat, unused, in his lap. He sighed.

A soft footstep behind made him turn. "Oh, Korra, it's you."

The cougar-rogue smiled, her teeth flashing in the darkness. "Tis too beautiful a night to spend worrying, Tiger-brave."

Daegless smiled wryly. "I cannot help myself. There are too many thoughts flitting through my mind right now."

Korra nodded. "I understand." She motioned to the ledge below Daegless. "Mind if I sit below you? The stars are shining beautifully tonight, and I cannot see them from below the trees in the camp."

Daegless nodded. "Go ahead. Just don't expect me to talk."

Korra shook her head as she seated herself. "No, talking will not help you, I do not think."

Well, that's what I'm working on right now!

Beautiful People- January

Apparently, it's that time again! First, a nod the creators at Further Up and Further In, and Before My Penn has Gleaned, you guys are awesome! And to the Director at Castles, Quills, and Cameras, since that's where I first heard about it!



So, this month's character of choice is: Redpaw, Wolf-hunter, from Feather and Fang


1. If your character’s house burned down, and they were left with nothing but the clothes on their back, what would they do? Where would they go?

Seeing as Redpaw spent his childhood as a wolf-cub, Contained during the Shieldsfell rule, he has had a lot of experience in living with nothing and no home. And since he has no family or real friends, he'd probably just head off into the woods without a backward glance. He lives in a tiny shack on the outskirts of Burndell, keeping mostly to himself, so no one would miss him.

2. Are they happy with where they are in life, or would they like to move on?

He doesn't know anything more than the life he has right now; being a solitary bounty hunter suits him pretty well right now. There is a longing for something more hidden deep down, but he doesn't know what for.

3. Are they well-paid?

Oh, quite well. Bounties make a nice bit of profit. Most of it gets buried away though, since he doesn't really know what to do with it.

4. Can they read?

Yes, though he would not be called a learned man. He would much rather read the signs of the forest than an old manuscript. He has a good memory, though, and has committed many of the tales and ballads of Quartorlen to heart, almost without trying

5. What languages do they speak?

Anglic, or "English." There are only three languages spoken on Primorlen, the ancient and slippery Dyrmtongue; spoken by those that come from Dyrmlen; the rough and plain Anglic by the folk of Quartorlen and Theorlen, and the lilting and musical Hidden speech used by those that dwell in the Burnmist of Theorlen.

6. What is their biggest mistake?

So far? Probably dismissing the feuding between clans as a necessary evil.

7. What did they play with most as a child?

Bones! I mean, being a wolf-cub... :P

8. What are their thoughts on politics?

Redpaw has grown weary of the incessant bickering and warring between the clans, and often wishes for a peace. But he tells himself that such thoughts are not warrior-like, and must be forgotten.

9. What is their expected life time?
As a bounty hunter? Until his target proves too strong. He should like to reach eighty, though.

10. If they were falsely accused of murder, what would they do? How would they react?

All chaos would break loose. Redpaw is not easily provoked, but when he is, there is not much in the world of Primorlen that could dam up his anger. Accustomed to being able to fight to the top of any situation, being attacked with subtlety would render him confused and helpless, so he would lash out in the only way he knew.


Thanks for the questions! Now I want to go write Feather and Fang!

When words won't come

Ah yes, we all know it. The infamous "Writer's Block." Where we stare at our paper/screen and frantically try to think of something worth putting down, but nothing comes. What makes it worse is if you know what you want to write, but not how to write it.

That's where I've been with Feather and Fang for a couple of months now. (By the way, if anyone thinks I'm juggling too many projects, yes I am! Three full-length stories, college, and at least three movies in various stages of completion.)

So, this is where I've been stuck:


The wolf-hunter growled in desperation as his boots began to sink into the churning sand. The cavern wall rose away from him as the sand began to sink. Fingers scrabbled at smooth clay, searching for something, anything to grab on to. A stone pillar rose up out of the sand, hitting him in the side as he dropped down.
The pillar rose past him, and Redpaw altered, his claws locking onto the grooved face. He turned to look for Crestlen and caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, hanging with one hand from another pillar, above and to his right.

I didn't know how to describe what happens next. Point blank. Which is pretty sad, because (as you can probably tell), this is shaping up to be a very dramatic scene, and to not be able to find words to tell it is just... well, sad.

So the other night I switched to a different writing spot (not sure if that did anything), put in headphones with epic music (Two Steps from Hell, anyone? Don't hate the name till you hear the music :P), and just started writing. I almost immediately deleted what I had put down, but that didn't matter. The point was that I had started pushing myself to write, and when that happens, you break the dams on your imagination.

Soon the ideas began to flow again, and I find myself knowing exactly where the scene was going to go, and how I was going to describe it. Mind you, I didn't get very far; (it was late), but I got somewhere. And next time I sit down, it won't take long for me to slip into the channel again and speed on with the river's flow.

The cavern begin to shake violently, chunks of rock falling from the ceiling. The delicate balance that had held the surrounding rock and sand together had been disturbed, and now everything was falling together into the abyss that had so violently opened up below the two hunters.
Redpaw scrambled up to the top of his pillar, gathering himself for a leap. His sharp eyes flitted from point to point, marking out a path among the collapsing pillars. For a brief instant he looked back at Crestlen, and his heart sank as he realized the hawk-assassin hadn’t moved. Below them a red glow had begun to break through the spinning sand. A thousand thoughts spun through Redpaw’s mind in an instant, and he knew exactly what he must do.
With a snarl he spun around on the pillar and launched himself back to the struggling Crestlen.

Full of watery similes,

Farjag