So, I finally have a sword…
Recently—a week ago—on June 1st, 2017 and (as one of the countless apps I have on my phone informed me) the 20014th day of my life—I finally received full absolution to do whatever I wish.
I can drink (which I never stopped), smoke (which I stopped—not quit, mind you, stopped—eleven years, four months and four days ago to date, but can start over with no effort whatsoever*), talk (if I suddenly want to), leave the toilet seat in an upright position, touch art in museums, and cross the street on a red light.
I stumbled upon this picture on Unsplash and simply could not resist posting it. This is how Castle Stormhold should look from the shore, assuming the architecture of the castle itself is adjusted to fit my description and all the clouds are removed from the sky (it has been a drought there, so the air is extremely arid). Small details aside, the feel is, nevertheless, perfect.
Back to the title of this post, however (and trying to stay on-topic).
I could never figure out how to effectively challenge the cretinism of the question “please, rate your pain on a scale from zero to ten“.
Just finished a scene and starting the next one: I am back to the Castle, where newly arrived Sir Alann and Sir Vernon (and the rest of the riders) are met by Verra, Marque, Veneammen and Northhill. This should be fun to write, for as long as I keep it short (right…) and make it advance the story further toward the final battle.
While figuring out ways to achieve said goal, I allowed myself a little treat in the form of brainless screen gazing, and, taking advantage of Netflix free promotional month of service, decided to check out the show which is praised as the best Netflix original show of all times: Stranger Things.
Continue reading “On Things Stranger and Strangerer”
Last Monday’s upper endoscopy showed that my tumor is NOT gone, as I was led to believe by my doctor earlier.
Now, another six sessions of chemo later—although it has decreased in size (by about 30% in the esophagus and 50% in the stomach area)—it is still pretty much there. Small wonder I still cannot swallow without chewing everything but drinks to mash.
It is happening! I have finally found a use for my pain enhancer. One more thing off the mantel (not without going back and fiddling with the chapter where it was first mentioned, but I think I managed to have the changes worked in smoothly). Go me.
I am now thinking about not killing one of the characters just yet. He is simply too potent to discard. I do realize, that once I do that, he shall be found sitting on that very mantel, dangling his feet and making funny faces at me, until I figure out how to use his abilities, but the challenge is on.
And counting. I nearly missed this one—only yesterday I was still three or four hundred words away from it, and I do write slowly—but another scene is in and all of a sudden I am past 500K.
This is what happens when you start with a five-bullet-point outline, a strong sense of direction and absolutely no idea what you are doing.
As much as I love the nation’s favorite Pagan’s holiday, I have to admit (damn, I fear I need to watch for that particular expression—I have to admit—or all my characters might start to sound alike, er… like me?) that ’tis the time to be worried.
Nearing the completion of the first draft (I cannot believe I am actually saying this out loud, but, according to my calculations, I should be done in about two to four chapters—which, in all fairness, might take quite a while, considering my propensity to endless expansion), I decided to extend my web presence a little, while gaining some “credits”/”karma points” along the way, which would let me post excerpts of my own writing for critique, once I am actually finished with the first draft.
It also allows me to stall a little while pondering upon what I am to do with the next scene—whatever it is.
Not Everything that Rhymes is Stupid (or at Least I Hope Not)
or, better yet
Other Poisonous Things that are Pumped into My System, Other than the Ones Depicted Above
Those poisonous things are, of course the ever-buoyant (a fancy way of saying never-sinking) doubts that I am doing everything I can to progress the story forward in the most naturally consumable way—and that means that I need to give the reader a break and stop escalating the tension for at least a few hours of the story’s timeline.
Even if that means restraining myself from killing or hurting people for a time.