The next day Mr Earbrass is conscious but very little more.
I’ve survived another round with the Beast*.
Time to watch back episodes of House online or something.
*Being The Novel Formally Known As In Ashes Lie But Frequently Referred To As Please God I’ll Be Good Don’t Make Me Deal With Seventeenth-Century English Politics Ever Again.
Warning: graphic metaphor ahead.
***
I currently have the vivisected body of Part IV lying in front of me. (Figuratively speaking; I’m working with an electronic file, not one of my cover-the-floor-with-paper stunts.) I’ve sliced it open and gone to work moving things around: transplants for a few organs, repairs to others, a bit of experimental reconnection that I’m hoping will work. Generally, I feel good about the changes. Having it lying there all bloody is making me nervous, though, because this revision is due on the 17th, and I’d feel a lot better if I could stitch this part up and get it on its feet again, so it can walk around a bit and tell me if anything isn’t functioning the way it needs to.
I can’t, though, because it doesn’t have a liver. There was one before, but it never worked all that well — just well enough to pass — and I’m pretty sure it can’t handle the load the new transplants will place on it. And while a liver isn’t so vital of an organ that you’ll keel over on the spot if yours is kind of gimpy, it isn’t an appendix, either; we really want one that works. So I need a new liver, and I need it in the next week. And I can’t go stitching up the body until I have one, because I’d just have to cut it apart again to put the thing in, and besides, there’s stuff that needs the liver to run right. Which means I’m increasingly fretting about how much work it’ll take to stitch the body up again, and how frantically I’ll have to work to get that done once I have the damn liver.
Fretting, in case you were wondering, is not good for productivity.
There are other things I can work on, and I’m going to do those, so I don’t have to do them post-liver transplant. But it’s harder than usual to trust my usual work pattern — namely, that the idea will show up by the time I need it. Generally it does, and I know from experience that I’ll get better results if I relax and let the hindbrain do what it has to. Unfortunately, that doesn’t silence the little voice whispering but what will you do if it doesn’t . . . .
I’d feel a lot better if I just had the goddamned liver already.
Dear Brain: I’ve had a stressful year. Please don’t add to it any more than you have to. (And consider very carefully what goes on the “have to” list.)
Off to work, while I wait for the liver to arrive.
[EDIT: At the advice of my commenters, I’m putting in a notice that this is a post about revision, not politics. I’ve apparently given a few people minor heart attacks already, before they got far enough in to figure out what I was talking about.]
I said it all the way back in July: “When in doubt, throw in an assassination attempt.”
Now, the attempt in question ended up being canceled, but I think putting one in elsewhere may in fact be the solution to one of my problems.
Send in a man with a gun. I don’t think I’ll have an actual gun, but the advice still holds. Funny how this whole “learning your craft” thing involves coming around to the basic lessons over and over and over again.
And now I have to disengage my brain from thoughts about modern America and participatory democracy and post-racism and the disintegration of the conservative movement and all that stuff, and go back to thinking about the philosophical underpinnings of seventeenth-century monarchy.
Brain. Hurty.
The inestimable Rose Fox of Publishers Weekly’s Genreville blog is on vacation right now, and I’m one of the guest-bloggers covering for her. So I’m over on their site, being a NaNoWriMo grinch and discussing the pros and cons of various ways to get yourself to produce a novel.
I need to figure out what I’m posting for SF Novelists this month, though.
The short story is going better, but by “better” I mean I now have pliers to pull the teeth with, rather than just my bare fingers. So I’ve decided, screw it, I’m going back to polishing the novel while I wait for my edit letter.
To that end: are any of my readers here familiar with parliamentary procedure for the House of Commons? Things like, what phrases do they use to summon the Commons up to meet with the Lords (assuming that still happens), and how do they announce a division?
(The nice thing about the UK Parliament is, I can with reasonable certainty assume these details haven’t really changed in three hundred and fifty years . . . I mean, they still drag the Speaker to his chair, and a Speaker hasn’t been murdered or executed in centuries.)
So, yeah. If you’re enough of a British political geek to answer those kinds of questions, let me know, and I’ll give you the list.
I know some writers who outline their novels . . . after the first draft is written. They go back and look over what they’ve got, outlining it to help themselves figure out what exactly they’re trying to do, and where it doesn’t yet work. And it came to me just recently that, you know, I do the same thing.
It’s called making a soundtrack.
I talked about this a bit with Midnight Never Come, which is where the practice jumped from RPGs to novels. It started as a mood-music thing, but when you think about it, sitting down to figure out what characters and events deserve songs, and what kinds of songs they require, is basically like creating a musical outline of the novel. Trying to make my choices, I find myself pondering what mood a scene is trying to communicate — is it more ominous or mournful? Is that thing that happens an end-punch to a sequence, or a turning point halfway through it? I’m mostly working from film scores, which are great for this kind of thing; I can be finicky about the shape of the songs I pick, trying to find one whose contours match the events I want it to describe.
Those are my major requirements in picking a song, but there’s a secondary game I sometimes play, hidden beneath the surface. I used a track from Henry V for this particular thing, so if I use something else from the same score over there, will that create an appropriate thematic connection . . . I end up pondering linkages in an unexpected way. And there’s a wealth of ironies hidden in some of the source titles, too; I don’t pick songs based on their original names, but when those line up, it amuses me. (Two non-spoiler examples: Lune’s song this time around is “One Mistress, No Master” from Elizabeth, and the High Court of Justice, which put Charles I on trial, is “The King Is Dead” from Ennio Morricone’s Hamlet score.)
Oh, and then there are the utterly obscure musical in-jokes from Memento. This book bears only a distant relationship to the game — it pretty much consists of the Great Fire being more than just a bunch of flames — but I re-purposed several pieces from that soundtrack to appropriate effect. I mean, if a song is good for the Black Death, why not use it for a later outbreak of the plague? Not that 99.99% of the world will ever know those connections are there.
Some of it, though, is annoyingly difficult. I don’t know why, but I have a devil of a time picking songs for certain characters, protagonists especially. I’m not happy with my current choices for either Antony or Jack, though Lune’s is good. (It’s like trying to pick for the Merrimans in Memento. I never liked about three-quarters of my choices there, but they were the best I could do.) Maybe it’s just that characters are too complex in my head to be reduced to a piece of music — I don’t know.
Anyway, this gives me something to do while I wait for my edit letter. Though I’d be making faster progress if my computer would stop choking on iTunes . . . .
I don’t suppose any of you out there happen to know the kinds of phrases used in the seventeenth century when one was about to chug an alcoholic beverage? “Bottoms up,” which is the phrase I wanted to use, is very twentieth-century, and “cheers” is also way more recent.
I know it’s bad form to get too enamored of one’s own characters, but I think the great tragedy of this novel is that Jack isn’t in more of it.
I should let myself write smart-asses more often.
ETA: Also, more novels that merit revision notes like “don’t forget the severed heads.”
We’ll call that done.
Ladies and gentlemen, a minor announcement bundled into a major one: In Ashes Lie (note the slight change) is complete, at approximately one hundred and thirty thousand words.
***
This is my longest novel yet, by about four thousand words. I am very glad I asked my editor for permission to run over my target wordcount; it needed that extra 20K. I strongly suspect it is also my most ambitious book to date, though from here in the trenches it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t give me the feeling of accomplishment that Midnight Never Come did, because this one isn’t a watershed: last year, I reached the summit of the peak I had been climbing for some years, while this year, I started up a new one. The latter is better for me than the former, but it doesn’t give quite the same warm glow of satisfaction.
I think it will be a good book, though. Ambitious. And full of stuff blowing up. And who doesn’t like that?
***
No rest for the wicked. Tomorrow I tackle the remaining revisions, so I can get this thing to my editor. Much of the novel has already been beaten into shape, each Part before each day of the Fire, but work remains to be done. (Like fixing the prologue. Which currently blows. Not blows up; just blows.) But I’ll try to find time in there for some celebration. After a hundred and thirty thousand words, I think I deserve some kind of party.
On the bright side, I almost have a complete novel.
6647 words tonight. I’m too sick of sitting at the computer to look up whether that beats the giant marathon I did at the end of MNC. I’m closer to the end than I was then, though; all I still have to write is the epilogue.
And a half-finished scene I glossed over because I’m still not sure what bit of folklore to stick in there. I think we may cut that out for now, and put it back in if I find something appropriate. (Because I have a long-standing habit of insisting that I cannot declare a novel done until it has no holes in it. And I want to write the epilogue last.)
Anyway. Bedtime came and went hours ago. Time for me to do the same.
Three parts revised. Three days’ worth of London burned down. One hundred twenty thousand, three hundred and thirty-six words.
I’m nearly done.
Observations: I have lots of great epic battle music. “Holocaust” not only was a word back then, but originally meant a sacrificial offering that has been completely burnt, which is a fabulous thumbs-up to me using it here. I am spoiled by the internets, getting mad at them for not giving me a high-enough-resolution image of Hollar’s 1658 plan of St. Paul’s Cathedral for me to clearly read where Sir Christopher Hatton’s grave monument was. (What do you mean, I have to actually go to the library? And that I can’t do so at one a.m.?) I am, however, pleased all over again by history’s obliging tendency to drop perfect bits of story in my lap. St. Faith’s was right where narrative logic says it ought to be, and I didn’t have to go at all out of my way to smash Sir Francis Walsingham’s grave.
Destroying things is fun.
(Even if I’m running out of ways to describe stuff burning without just repeating myself over and over and over again.)
Over 4K words today (all of the London Go Boom variety), and over 8K of revision. We’re nearing the home stretch.
This book feels more raw to me than Midnight Never Come, in a way I find hard to describe. It’s not simply that I think I’m being meaner to my characters — though that’s part of it. (I think Irrith is the only viewpoint character I haven’t done anything horrible to. I wonder if I can fix that before the end?) Partly it’s that I think the politics are less polished; whether it’s a genuine difference of time period or a result of the rough edges being worn off the Elizabethan era, the seventeenth century just feels messier, with more sharp corners sticking out. And I’m really going all-out on the explosions, which no doubt contributes in its own way.
Raw. That’s the only word I can find for it.
112K of book at present, with two days of Fire yet to be added.
I finished revising Part Two last night (in a marathon session made possible by the fact that it’s been revised once already), but here’s the real landmark:
I’ve killed a pen.
Yes, dear readers, I have taken so many notes for this novel that they have single-handedly killed a pen. The thing was new when I took it to London. But in the midst of scribbling down some details about how the wells and conduits in the City were running dry in the Fire, I noticed my ink doing the same thing. So we just took a break to walk to the store and buy a new one.
(Because I couldn’t just go to the ammo box and pick out another. Why? Because our stuff isn’t here yet. But the latest forecast is that it should be arriving tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed.)
I’m just hoping I don’t run out of notebook before I’m done. That would be very inconvenient.
I am up stupidly late, but I have 2325 words of Fire and — more importantly — precisely 100K of book.
There will be no LBR measurements taken here. It’s all Fire, all the time, exactly as it should be.
Revisions of Part One are done. At least in the broad, chainsaw, “this scene can just die already” sense.
Tomorrow? I start blowing shit up.
Other writing-related news:
While in Dallas, I sold “Kingspeaker” to a new magazine called Beneath Ceaseless Skies. I’m really pleased by this one; I quite like that story, and am glad to see it find such a pretty home.
***
This month’s post at SF Novelists is about characterization — specifically, how being an introvert affects the way I write characters, and therefore the way people read them. (i.e not everybody will interpret the tightening of a character’s fingers on her wine-cup as a sign of growing anger.)
***
More reviews of MNC lately, but most of them are saved to my desktop, which is on a truck right now. Several negative ones, though. There may be a faint logic to seeing the negative reviews now; people who read and liked my previous work probably make up a greater percentage of those buying the new book right when it comes out, and those readers are more likely to give it a thumbs-up. Strangers to my work may come across it later, and with them it’s a toss-up as to whether they’ll like it or not.
***
I have all kinds of other writing-related program activities I want to do, but the truth is, AAL is consuming pretty much all of my spare processing cycles. So until that’s done, it’ll be pretty quiet on other fronts.
I’m sure you’ve all been dying to know how the novel’s going.
The answer to that is complicated. Have I been getting work done? Yes, almost every day. How many words do I have? 96,224 — which is not so much, given that I was at 86K back on the 7th. But this discrepancy comes about because I’m doing something different from usual.
As I’ve said before, I’m structuring this book so that it cuts back and forth between long sections skipping forward through the years I’m covering, and days of the Great Fire. So I wrote Part One, then Part Two, and so on, with the intent of going back to write the Fire days once I finished Part Four. This is more or less what I’m doing, but I realized that a) given the massive revision Part One needed and b) the advisability of making sure each part flowed properly into each day, when I got near the end of Part Four, I went back and started revising Part One. I’m 13K+ through that and making good progress; you would have to see it to believe just how much less it’s sucking now. (I’ve lost all perspective as to whether it’s good, but it’s definitely better.) When I finish that, I’ll write the first day, then revise Part Two and write the second day, and so on to the end.
I haven’t quite finished Part Four; it needs maybe one or two scenes, which I will have to get done before I write any Fire stuff. (The night I was supposed to tackle those, I just didn’t know what I wanted to do with them, so I went back and started revising instead.)
Some of the revision has been polishing; some has been wholesale replacement of scenes. It helps that now I know, as I did not when I wrote this, that I don’t have to stay below 110K for the whole book. Antony’s got a series of three incredibly short scenes coming up, where I all too obviously am trying to keep my word-count in check, to the detriment of the story. So expansion of existing material is the third leg of this process, and possibly the most important; only a couple of scenes have been chucked out in their entirety.
I’ve become a moderately better writer over the years, but a substantially better reviser.
Mush!
This?
Was not supposed to be a 4200-word night.
In fact, I think I even promised kitsunealyc that it wouldn’t be.
But, um, that promise, it got broke real good. There are just bits of story that you cannot stop in the middle of, and this turned out to be one. Not because of explosions — the usual excuse — but because I really didn’t enjoy going some of the places I had to go, and once there, I’d rather just stay and get it all done with. Suffice to say that we are at the height of the Great Plague, at this point, and I feel obscurely that I owe it to the hundred thousand Londoners who died to do everything in my power to communicate just how horrific that was.
Horrific enough that people committed suicide rather than wait for the plague to finish killing them. Horrific enough that they threw themselves into the mass graves, already wrapped in their winding-sheets, as if they were corpses before they even died.
Imagining that is not exactly fun.
4200 words for seven scenes, most of them deeply unpleasant. It’s a good thing tomorrow’s scene will be . . . not exactly enjoyable, but a breath of air after this suffocating passage, because otherwise I’d be sorely tempted to take the day off. And then perhaps another, and then moving eats me alive, and the next thing I know I’m behind schedule and out of the novel’s headspace.
I’m making good progress, at least.
Word count: 85,888
LBR quota: What do you think?
Authorial sadism: See above.
Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Tonight’s work was supposed to be a particular scene, which would take at least my 1K quota to finish.
2,411 words later, the bloody thing is done at last.
I didn’t think I would reach 80K tonight, what with being over 2K away from it. Well, hello, you novel-thing you. We’re still a long way from the end, but 80K is traditionally minimum real novel length, so the number still looks a little magical to me. Crossing that line means we’re approaching the end. (Even if it’s still 50K away — which I hope it isn’t.)
Oh, and that’s with having skipped over one bit, because I’m not sure what to put in it. Dear Merlin: no, you cannot be in this book. Please go away.
Word count: 80,277
LBR quota: Blood. And how.
Authorial sadism: The funny thing is, Lune believes that was less mean than the alternative.
