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#22: Novel Excerpt Again

Didn’t post on Sunday, because…I forgot! But…we have more novel excerpt for your probably not reading pleasure. 😛

I’ve hit a rut, which means…I’m going to try new things this week! We’ll see what that means!
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#21: Novel Excerpt

So, I feel like of sick. I blame the heat. It’s okay, because I’ve written a good deal of words this past week (10,000 can’t be disappointing, even if I’d like to go faster) but I want to go faster.

Speaking of which, here’s another excerpt! Different things possible next week when I feel less awful.
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#20: Excerpt and Short Short

So, it’s another week. Those of you in the know know I’ve spent the past 3 weeks writing a novel. It’s not done, oh no. It’s at 30,000 words, which is a decent pace for three weeks. It’ll get better next week, I hope. But for right now, this throws a monkey wrench into this plan.

What I have is this: a short short, written from a prompt (I love prompts! they’re handy for getting the creative juices back) and a short except from the beginning of the novel. As you would say, writings.

They’re below the cut, too! You can go there!
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#19: Quentin Gray, Part the Last

It’s actually done! Just like I said it was. As before, I recommend reading part one first. It’s the post below this! You should read it first! I’m not wedded to the ending. In fact, I don’t like the ending, but I don’t know what else to do with it.

In novel news, 21,750 is the present rough word count. Or a hundred odd pages in Courier New, official font of novels. Things have happened. Other things haven’t happened. We’re about a quarter of the way there. Maybe.

Enjoy. 🙂

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#18: Quentin Gray Part One

Of two parts! It’s split in twain (‘E SPLIT ‘IS ARROW IN TWAIN!) because I felt like splitting it. Also, so I have more time to work on my novel, which won’t be posted here (though if you badger me, something could be arranged). Basically, it doesn’t count in my system, so I actually write short fiction, too. I like short fiction. I can enter it into contests, and stuff.

However, that’s not for today. For today is the first half of a one whole story. Which follows after the cut.
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Midweek Post!

So, the next story (which will be split over two weeks, because it’s long) is done. I’m as shocked as you are.

There’s a reason for this, though! I’m starting to novel today! I may not get too far today (I’m doing other stuff too, unfortunately or fortunately) but it’ll begin! Personally, I’m excited. I’ve figured out how most everything will work, and it’s just a matter of putting it into about 75,000 aesthetically pleasing words. Or, you know, three times the length of the longest piece I’ve ever written. But I’m confident in it. I’m dead confident in it. I’m so confident that I want it to be a trilogy and I’ve already planned out the second one (admittedly, by necessity, since plot carries over). I feel like Nic is a good character, and he can carry his own piece. He’s smart, and he has a number of flaws which I can exploit throughout the book. And he’s paired with a cool supporting cast. It’s very balanced. There’s a lot of people in it, but I feel like they’re all very important.

The few decisions left to make involve whether I should have a central villain. I think so. I mean, it’s not very much a “villain” novel, but I feel like I need some number of invisible antagonists to make it work. Antagonists are important, even if they aren’t central to the plot. Like, I know the beginning and end are solid, but I need to buttress the middle.

My goal, my artist’s statement with the work, so to speak, is to write a fantasy novel that is much more literary in execution. I’m not going for fantasy heroes fighting evil. I don’t think there’s even anyone in the novel who’s evil. That’s kind of how I want it to work. There are just commodities, and people who have them. But that’s for another show, and you may, one day, read it.

In the meantime, if you’re looking for a good read, Lev Grossman’s The Magicians is fantastic. Like, I got it because it was advertised in Barnes and Noble as “Harry Potter for Adults”, and…I wanted to laugh at it. I got it out of the library, with every intent to hate its guts, and…you know what? After an awkward first twenty pages where he tried too hard (or I noticed) I realized it was fantastic. That, Neon Genesis Evangelion (which we’re finally watching!) and random video games have take up my time. Along with, you know, writing a long short story about private investigators.

Jimmy the Smoke

In full! The riveting, focusing changing epic novella.

In addition, as a prelude, an introduction to the affairs of one Quentin Gray, Private Investigator. Recently sent to the Expanse under order of Carrenza based crime boss Bernie Pierson to retrieve a certain item from the Sorcerer Tower of Kemmeth, the old City of Dreams, now resting in the secluded, Expanse-locked fishing village of Dorlington.

It’ll be a 2 part short story, with a much greater horror focus than Jimmy had.

So, enjoy. The excerpt comes first, before the cut, where the full story comes. If you’d like it in a better selection of formatting, I can set you up with that.

Quentin Gray woke at four thirty in the morning, cold sweat down his back. His room at the Poplar Hotel was spinning in darkness, the moonlit shadows spinning on the wall. The smell of the sea air filled his nostrils. The bedsheets were claws scratching at him, calling him back. He couldn’t escape. He had to escape.
Quentin Gray shoved himself out of bed and threw his gray trenchcoat over his sleep clothes, grabbing a tin of tobacco, rolling paper, and a small, half empty bottle of vodka from his bedside table. These in hand, he stumbled into the thin oaken door of his room.
The ocean greeted him, roaring to his left, the tide approaching its zenith. The Poplar had five rooms, and they all opened directly to Lowe Street, one of five streets in tiny Dorlington. Outside the air stank even heavier; the weight of sea salt combined with the sweetness of rotting fish. A fog had rolled in, and the streets were just illuminated by the twin moons, Sanus and Ebech, light red and white.
Quentin rolled a cigarette. He swore there were shapes swirling about him, ducking down Ocean Avenue and Middle Street, the two north south arteries the village had. He knew no one was out at this time. How could they be? It was four thirty, and he couldn’t even see ten feet in front of him, so how could he see shapes.
He had to be cracking up. Had to be. It was one of the perils of private investigation, but it had to go away. It was all planned out. He’d spend a couple days in Dorlington, calm, relaxed days, steady his nerves with tobacco and alcohol, maybe some fresh fish, and he’d be on a boat to Carrenza by the weekend, back in his office by Quothday, at worst. He lit a match, and set it to a rolled cigarette.
Then came the scream. Middle pitch, piercing, probably a road over.
He passed it off as a prank, or something, but then the screaming continued, and he could hear a sound, like a loud squish. He dashed down the street, away from the Ishmaer Ocean, full tilt with a bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He turned the corner onto Middle Street, running fully tilt into the fog; it didn’t dissipate as he went inland, which worried him. Meant it wasn’t oceanic. He couldn’t see anything, but the screaming continued, a bloodcurdling cry he’d only heard once before, and then a dozen more times in his nightmares.
He turned onto Main Street and there he was. Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. The man was in his thirties, beard and fishing overalls. His spine had been cracked in half like a twig, and blood was pooling in the cobblestones.
Running down the street, the other way, was a tall, thin humanoid.
“Hey! Hey!” Quentin shouted, breaking off into a run after the man, but the thin man was quick, and faded into the fog. Quentin kept running after him, stopping only after his footsteps grew louder on the wood of one of the town’s two piers. He couldn’t have gone this way, and the fog made it impossible to see the edge. He didn’t want to fall in. Quentin wasn’t the best swimmer.
He turned around and walked back to the man. A crowd had appeared in the streets, two men in their night shirts and a Nar, a short, scaled, snouted humanoid, all peering over his body.
“Hey! Mister!” one of the men shouted. He had short cropped red hair and pasty skin, his gut sticking out underneath the nightshirt.
“I saw the guy who did it,” Quentin said, “chased him down to the pier, but he disappeared. Damn fog.”
“Wait, you saw him?” the Nar said with a high pitched voice.
“Yeah, I just said-“
“That’s impossible. This man’s been dead for six hours, at least,” the redheaded man said.
Quentin Gray passed out.

And now, your feature presentation.
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