I did not do any work on the novel last night. Instead, I revisited "Y.V. 7650.1," a short story that's had a long and difficult evolution, finishing up a much-needed edit I'd been putting off for months. Then I sent it on its merry way to Jetse over at Interzone. It's as unpleasant a piece as I've ever done, with more graphic violence and sex than anything other story I've written. I actually got the idea for it way back in college, when it would've made a pretty dramatic statement, not to mention an original one. But the intervening years have quietly stolen some of its thunder. It's taken me close to 15 years and no fewer than four very different takes on the material to even come close to readability, because my writing skills were woefully overmatched by this one. And even now I'm not convinced it works on any level. But hey, that's what the editors are there for, right?

Well, that's enough of an interlude. Tonight, it's back to Wetsilver.

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To my shock and amazement, I did a significant amount of writing over the Memorial Day weekend. More than 3,000 words. That's fantastic, because weekends are normally lost for me as far as writing goes, with way too much family stuff going on to squeeze in any writing time. Anything I get done on the weekends counts as a bonus.

A blurt of laughter cut him off. "Our Gauthier is right now hiding under the bed in his cell, praying that I don't come 'round to visit him once I'm done with you. The only arse Gauthier looks out for is his own."

"Th-that's not true," Jachym said, backing away. "He came for me tonight, when I was hobbled. There were Lidozrout."

"Lidozrout, you say?" Burgh's hand shot out, lighting quick, fingers digging into Jachym's shoulder. "If there really were Lidozrout out there, and they'd gotten you while you were in Gauthier's charge, you know what would've happened?"

Burgh pulled him close, beard scratching against Jachym's face, and whispered into his ear. "Your ten years would've gone to Gauthier. Think he came back outta the goodness of his heart, now?"

Jachym's pretty much hit rock bottom at this point. He's got a whole heck of a lot of challenges awaiting him, and his life is about to get far more interesting than he even has the capacity to imagine, but at least it doesn't get any worse for him. Although I suspect Jachym would take little comfort in that.

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Met my writing targets for last night, finished the chapter and moved on to the next. Yay! For someone who is as easily distracted as I am by any excuse not to write, this week has been an amazing success story. Here's a passage from the fruits of my sleepless labor:

"You were close to being freeholden?"

Jachym nodded. "In the s-spring."

"Gads, your parents must be real greedgrubbers," Gauthier said, shaking his head. His expression softened. "What'd you do to make them hate you so?"

"I don't know," Jachym answered. "I worked hard for them. Harder, after the floods. Matka and Otec didn't bond me last year, even when the drought got so bad that the river dried up and you could walk across and not get your feet wet. I never thought my parents would bond me. Our crops died. We had to sell our goats to buy bread. So this year the rains came. And never ended. Tvůrce is a twisted sort of god, if that's the way he answers prayers."

"No younger brother they could've bonded instead?"

"Two sisters. Ama and Dru. They're twelve and ten," Jachym said, tears welling in his eyes again. "Matka says there aren't enough girls in Neu Breclav, so they'll bring a good bride-price in a few years."

Gauthier whistled lowly. "Gads, you never had a chance."

"I wish they were dead. Let Tvůrce deliver that prayer."

I know my production is going to drop off at a certain point, because right now I'm covering ground that I've plowed before, so to speak. I'd love to be cranking out 2,000-plus words a night, but that's not something I'm capable of as a writer. At least, not when I'm having to stay up past 1 in the a.m. to achieve the current production levels. I'm pretty darn bleary in the mornings these days.

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Exceeded my goal for writing 1,000 words last night. Granted, there were some pre-existing passages from earlier drafts that I was able to incorporate into the narrative, so that wasn't 100 percent new copy. Even so, anyone who's ever written knows that the effort involved in making older copy mesh seamlessly with newer can be as challenging as anything. At any rate, I'm encouraged and hope to finish the current chapter tonight.

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Talk about biting off more than you can chew. I've got a couple of short stories in need of work. There are three reviews I've committed to writing but haven't yet started. The follow-up to Voices of Vision is sitting there, waiting patiently for my attention. And that's not even counting the radio script and viking longboat article I've been monkeying around with for far too long. So it's safe to say that my plate's very full, and my time is very short.

So last night I sat down and wrote. Not on any of the above, worthy tho they may be, but on my long-neglected novel, Wetsilver. I've farted around on this thing for too many years to count, junking the whole thing and starting over from page one at least twice. No longer. World Fantasy Con is coming up in November, and I committed myself back in December to having this novel finished by then. That gives me less than six months to get my ass in gear and meet my deadline. Here's a sampling of what I wrote:

Jachym tried to run. The hobble held firm, and he pitched forward onto the ground, needlefingers gouging his shoulder and cheek. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.

To his left, maybe a stone's throw away, he heard low snuffling.

"Tvůrce, Tvůrce, Tvůrce," he whispered urgently, but no prayer came to him. The Lidozrout would find him, no matter how still he lay. The they would kill him, eat him. And not necessarily in that order.

Slowly, his blood thundering in his ears, Jachym rolled to his side. Then he doubled over, reaching the hobble.

The Lidozrout grunted softly, then rattled off a quick string of barks and coughs more hushed than before. The second one behind Jachym answered softly, and the first replied. Both of them had moved closer. Farther away--to his right?--Jachym thought he heard a squeal. Three of them. Stalking him.

Total production was only about 750 words, which was a little disappointing since I was shooting for 1,000. But that's still 750 words farther along than I was at this time yesterday.

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June 16, 2006

Why the heck does this moron have a different date listed at the start of his post? Because, good reader, this is an introductory blog entry, designed to lay out the general philosophical impetus of all ensuing missives. And as such, it needs to come first. Only it was written somewhen in the middleish, thus necessitating the timestamp jiggery-pokery.

This, friends, is a retroactive blog. When I began writing this incarnation of Wetsilver, I was content to chronicle my progress on my main blog, Gibberish. After several weeks of writing, however, I found that it was growing more and more difficult to keep track of and locate previous posts relating to the novel. And I found myself regularly referencing them for various reasons as I continued writing.

So, hey, why not just cut to the chase and set up a dedicated blog? And that's just what I did. I've imported all the pre-existing Gibberish posts, and will continue to post my novel progress over there. But this blog will be exclusively devoted to the novel and the process of writing it, uncluttered by chupacabra photos, convention updates, pictures of the kids and other mundane, non-Wetsilver topics. I hope you enjoy!

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