Surprise! Yes, it’s Thursday, but I just made the rounds of WIPpeteers and decided I’d throw something out there. If you’re looking for the WIPpet linky thing, it’s now on Emily’s site. Go.
When I’m stuck on my actual WIPs, I play in my ‘sandbox’. I suppose you could liken it to an artist’s sketchbook. It’s a folder on my jump drive labeled ‘misc’ and contains six other folders containing numerous docs, as well as 59 other docs. All bits of stuff. Odd writing. Characters that darted in, spoke to me, left. Some might get used some day. Most won’t find their way anywhere else.
Since I’m floundering in edits for Edge of Darkness (which now looks like it won’t be released until early 2016 ~ if you’d like updates on all my writing endeavors, plus fun giveaways and interesting articles, feel free to subscribe to my newsletter —> ) and since Bound in Shadow is in limbo as the achingly slow wheels of traditional publishing grind my patience to a bloody pulp, I’m going to share a bit out of my sandbox.
Today you get 13 paragraphs because it’s the 3rd week of the 11th month (3+11=14) and I’m a day late (14-1=13). How’s that for creative WIPpet Maths? Booyah! No context because it’s just my playing when what I should be writing isn’t flowing. I actually have a bit more of this written, and like it well enough that some day it might become something more.
**Side note: this actually developed one morning before leaving for work as I stood on the deck in the pre-dawn light, finishing my triple espresso, and gazing down our drive-way.**
I stood on the wall above the main gate in the pre-dawn light, a warm mug cradled in my hands, flanked by Fain on the left and Tark on the right, as different as day and night. Fain, the day, with his slight build, light coloring, and wild mane of flax-colored hair framing a long, craggy face that had seen more years than me by a handful and then some. Tark, the night, solid, all broad shoulders and corded muscle, taller than me by a head at the least, and younger than me by only a few years, ebony hair, and a beard and mustache he kept neatly trimmed whenever the situation allowed.
They were my closest companions, confidants, drinking partners, and advisors. So as I watched the hooded, bent figure shambling up the slight hill toward the gate and asked, “Who’s that?” I expected more than the confused silence that answered me.
Tark arched a brow. “Who’s who?”
I gestured with my mug. “The old one.”
Fain’s face wrinkled and he glanced about, mouth pursing. I canted my head from him toward Tark. His brow remained elegantly tipped toward his hairline.
“What’s in your mug this morning?” he asked.
I reassured myself there was, indeed, a figure approaching. “So you see no one coming up the road?”
The men exchanged a look over my head. “No one.”
The figure had shuffled a good number of paces closer.
“No one?” I asked of Fain.
He shook his head.
I blew out a sigh and downed the rest of my lukewarm coffee, set my mug on the rail and resituated my weapons belt on my hip. That last was more out of ingrained habit than anticipation of trouble. I clapped both my companions on their backs.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “I believe my past has caught up with me.”
Funny how I’m far more comfortable writing in first person since Coinblade Chronicles came along. I never used to care for it much before that. Hmmmm.