Today was a slower writing day for a few reasons. I didn’t get as much sleep as I would’ve liked and I had to get up in the morning. So I was pretty darn tired today, which always shoots my focus right into the seventh circle of hell.
But, hey, I got something written. I’ve been a lot better about writing every day for this writing even than I usually am. Burst writing sessions are great but they do wear me out sometimes.
I went overboard on Twitter today and am testing the limits of WordPress’s tolerance for my behaviour:
#WIPjoy day 14: Describe your protagonist’s personality using a gif.
#Fri1st: 1st line of your first chapter
Gem on Twitter started a thread of positive WIP questions so I responded:
1. What do you call your WIP here on the Twitters? How did it get that name? (If you don’t have a name, come up w one now. Or don’t)
2. When did you first get the idea for your WIP? Does it still look how you first imagined it?
3. Tell me about your MC(s). Visual art/aesthetics welcome.
4. Tell me about where your WIP takes place. Visual art/aesthetics welcome here too.
5. Where do you find inspiration for this WIP?
6. If you have any so far, tell me about the themes in this WIP. What issues does the story explore?
7. Has this story been fun? Painful? Both? Or something else?
8. Just for fun, imagine this WIP becoming a bestseller (if you want to publish it) and being adapted (if you want it to be).
9. If you’ve already written some of the actual story, post or describe one or more of your favorite lines
10. Describe your WIP in one tweet.
I’m going to pick an excerpt from earlier in the novel again because I’m near the end of writing it so everything is spoilers. So, this excerpt is set during the time Eira hides out at Argyle and Farlan’s cottage before Queen shows up to curse her:
Spending time in the cottage with these two men is actually quite pleasant. Argyle always has interesting stories to tell and Farlan has warmed to me considerably since our first meeting. Farlan is actually the one teaching me about the quirks of this particular cottage, how the well out back gets finicky in the cold and requires extra force to turn the wheel, which of the steps up to the two-bedroom second storey squeak louder than others, which cups are a moment of rough handling away from shattering to pieces.
Argyle, for his part, tells stories. They have a few days off before they have to return to the mines for their next shift, so he’s filling my head with as many tales as he can tell between bites of stew and fresh bread. Farlan nudges him every time he tries to talk with his mouth full.
“They used to make young children children work in the mines, you know,” Argyle tells me, swiping a chunk of bread through his bowl. “Horrible business. Not sure when it ended. Perhaps it died out when the monarchy did. Or maybe before. Who knows?” He rips off a chunk of bread with his teeth, chewing pointedly as Farlan threatens him with his elbow again. “My father worked the mines in his younger years. My brother didn’t inherit our dwarfism so he has to work in a different, larger set of tunnels. Less stable. Hence his recent injury. But he’s right as rain now.”
Farlan rolls his eyes. “This has ceased to be a story, Argyle.”
Argyle swats his shoulder. “I’m getting there. You see, now that children are no longer allowed in the mines, folk of a smaller stature are much sought-after to fill that void. I met Farlan, on the job, you know. A perfect match. Where else would we find men who work the same hours and understand the demands of the job?”
“I married once before,” Farlan says. “We lived in town on the other side of the mines, across the state border. He was some kind of administrator, you know the kind of work with regular weekly hours and a reasonable bedtime. It did not work out.”
“I imagine it would be like a thief marrying a town guard.” Argyle chuckles. “Though I suppose the fear there would be if they ended up arresting you.”
The thought of marrying a guard definitely doesn’t sound all that appealing. “I’m fond of serving girls myself, and the occasional errand boy who’s close to my age. They laugh at my bad jokes, at least.”
Argyle lifts his cup of strong-smelling liquor above his head. “What more could you need?”
“I don’t laugh at your jokes,” Farlan says.
“Oh, you chuckle a little.”
“Only at the funny ones.”
“Which is most of them.”
Farlan’s lips twitch but he heroically keeps his laughter from escaping.