zero draft

Barrel of Literary Carrots

The rains have moved back in, or at least the clouds. This pleases me. I was reading yesterday about theories that the sun is conscious and while that makes as much sense as anything else in the universe does, it also makes the big yellow ball fit the description of an Elder God and that’s hardly comforting. Of course the blessed thing powers all life on this whirling rock, so I suppose one can’t complain, but still…I prefer a bit of rain.

I’m in the middle of the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation novels, which The Untamed is based on, and enjoying them roundly. A collection of Haruki Murakami stories, a translation of the Tao Te Ching, and Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey have all been thoroughly enjoyed lately. That last was an Experience–I hadn’t read Odysseus’s adventures since middle school, and Wilson’s an extremely gifted translator.

I did want to smack Telemachus several times, though. Boy needs to keep his manners on while talking to his mother, fa cry-eye. Even Achilles was nicer to his mum.

I might need more Murakami, I can’t tell yet. I read him while in specific moods until the itch is scratched, like listening to Jandek. Then I’m fine for a while, but at certain points I require another dose.

This is the part of book hangover (or snapback, as I call it) when I am irritated that recovery takes so goddamn long. No matter how much I pad out my estimation of time needed to re-wrap my nerves after a zero draft’s finish, it inevitably takes three times as much. It also requires a lot of “filling the well”, as Julia Cameron put it–giving the Muse and the rest of me enough grist for the creative mill. So I’ve been watching series and movies, and diving into the TBR like Bugs Bunny into a barrel of carrots. The massive effort to get a book out under significantly non-ideal circumstances does tell on one.

I mean, no circumstances are ever wholly ideal, but some are less ideal than others, to coin an Orwell-ism. I’m waiting for the swimming-relief phase instead of the merely exhausted-and-blinking bit. Boxnoggin likes that our daily rambles have become a bit slower, though I always let him sniff as long as he pleases at the usual spots. I’m just not moving very quickly otherwise.

However, work on the serial proceeds apace, as well as the short story collection, which has a cover now. (Long story short, the universe itself is conspiring to make me throw this collection out into public.) Other stuff will have to wait for an upcoming deadline; once that’s past I can engage in more and better planning. Of course Chained Knight and Gamble both need revising, and I should check in about Hell’s Acre again…

Ah, the reward for finishing a zero draft: more work. Still, I’m content to have it so. As long as there are more books to read–and to write–the gods can’t take me, right?

Right?

Another Zero Down

Well, I’m back.

I had to shut down–here and on social media–because several 10k+ word days in a row, especially on a project others tried so hard to kill, takes up rather a lot of one’s energy. It’s been a while since I closed off every other avenue and focused all my engines on a single book; normally I work on two-three at a time to keep my brain’s tendency to eat itself in check.

In any case, the zero draft is done. I had reached the point of sincerely doubting I had another book in me, but was disproved in the most elemental of ways. The zero is done, done, done. Of course there’s a fight looming to keep it protected from well-meaning (or not so well-meaning) pettifogging, but the first and hardest step is accomplished. There’s a lot of bracket notes, it’s messy, and I have a couple pages of yet more notes needing to be incorporated in the pass which will turn it into a proper first draft instead of a zero–but it’s finished. It is recognizably a whole-ass book.

There is a period of time after finishing a zero when I am the only person in the world who knows. Usually it’s a short while before an email’s fired off to my writing partner with some version of “oops, I did it again…” Occasionally there’s tears. This time nearly an hour of sobbing–pure emotional release–struck me to the floor of the office before I could share the ?good? news. It wasn’t so much the book’s ending, which is right and bittersweet, but the relief of knowing I prevailed despite all the odds and forces arrayed against the entire bloody series. I have not truckled, nor will I through the rest of the process.

If it’s a swan song, well, it’s a good one. I can be proud.

Of course there’s Highlands War to finish the zero of, which is where my energies will mostly be spent for the next couple weeks until I start revising Chained Knight and Gamble. The former needs a release date–I’m looking at July now, or perhaps August–and the latter mostly needs brush-up, the editor says, before it’s into line edits and the rest of the process. Plus, said editor wants another Ymre, so the process of building that story inside my head needs to begin now; around June-ish I can put it in a working slot on the docket. We’re coming up on submission deadlines and it appears trad wants to leave money on the table, so the Cain’s Wife trilogy will probably be the next serial (I think Danny Valentine fans will like it) and House of the Fan will have to go on the compost heap for a while. I just don’t have the spoons for that kind of epic fantasy without a publisher handling some of the heavy lifting.

Ah well. By the end of this month I’ll have a somewhat final plan for the rest of the year and through 2025. We’re in the very last loops of the holding pattern. Oh, and it’s a new month so the Monthly Sales page has been updated. (Remember to check the dates!)

I honestly feared I could not finish this particular series, but stubbornness (plus the support of beta readers, writing partner, and family) won. I do not have to mourn a slaughtered work; instead I can armour up for the rest of the campaign. No rest for the weary or the wicked, my reward for success is more work, and all that. I’m content to have it so, though I could wish this project had not been so bloody difficult. Anyway, now I am at something resembling peace, plus I have an actual-factual titanium spork on my desk, a gift from a very good Pocket Friend to fend off haters with.

I’ve fought with far less durable weapons. Everything’s going to be fine.

Underworld, Recovery

Fleecy pink clouds for a rain-washed autumn dawn. Boxnoggin pulling a “JE REFUUUUSE” until I fish out his collar and clip it on–the proprieties must be observed, and if he’s not wearing his jingle-jangle how on earth does he know he exists? Boris the coffeemaker burbling. The terrifying vertiginous suspicion that I will never write again, never finish another book, taunting me as I stagger uncaffeinated to the keyboard.

Was reading about certain shamanistic practices last night before turning out the lamp, and it struck me that even a simple bad day can be a journey through the underworld if treated with enough attention and respect. Waking up physically miserable and convinced my career is wreckage (a solvable problem, to some degree) and I’ll never finish another story (a terrifying nightmare, in any degree) is a golden opportunity to put that theory to the test. Of course it’s also part and parcel of the book hangover–finishing a zero draft requires recovery time, and though I do my best said recovery is always two to three times longer than I like.

Pushing myself past exhaustion? Sure, no big deal, that’s expected. Running on broken limbs? Just another day in the motherhood game. But actually taking the time to let body and soul rebuild and replenish? All of a sudden I am a whining baby, unable to understand why the world is inflicting such torture on me. I want to be working, goddammit.

If a friend were having this difficulty, I’d counsel rest and offer snacks, gentle consolation, a few half-laughing threats to make them kinder to themselves. “Don’t you dare talk to my beloved friend in that fashion. You will be good to yourself, because the world can’t afford to be without you. You’re necessary, and that requires caring for yourself.”

Like Alice, I give such very good advice, and am very bad at following it.

Pink dawn has faded. I’m a quarter of the way through coffee and things seem a little brighter. There are objective indicators that I will indeed finish another book, not least the fact that this trough is one I’ve sailed through before. It happens after every zero draft no matter the amount of self care, a lite version of the terrible postpartum depression I endured with both kids. Doing it enough times to see the pattern is some comfort, at least.

So today is about traveling through the underworld. There are allies to speak to, the descent to perform, the dust to endure and the nadir to reach. After that is the ascent back to the living world, like I’ve done again and again. Each time is different, sure, but the pattern itself holds. If this is the narrative that gets me through recovery, then fine, it’s the one I’ll use.

Now the clouds are smooth nacre; it’s the kind of early PNW morning that feels like being inside a giant pearl. The trees are quiet, murmuring, rain-drunk after yesterday’s downpours. People will need me soon and even if it proves unsellable I’m gonna write that portal fantasy. I left the serial in a good place, ready, easily picked back up. The Ragnarok book is quiescent, but I sense activity below its surface. Life is (apparently) not done with me yet.

I might as well finish the coffee and see what the underworld looks like this time around.

The Gift of Moderate Damp

Spent the weekend gathering up bits and pieces I’d left behind in the mad scramble to finish Gamble. Of course, since my brain is the way it is, a portal fantasy started bothering me, and I had to get at least a throat-clearing out of the way on that. All part of the recovery process, but I’m still a little unnerved by the way this story is forcing itself to the forefront.

I suppose I just have to trust the Muse. Of course, I have enough bloody work on my plate, why am I adding more? (Don’t answer that.)

Now comes the hard part–leaving a finished zero alone for a week or so, turning my attention to other things so that when I go back for a revise I can see some of the forest for the trees. I’ll spend the time getting Highlands War situated correctly, I think. We’re 52k into that and about to start the second (and most crucial) third, where the extended Macbeth allegory comes into heightened play and stakes are relentlessly risen bit by bit. I have to make sure all the building blocks in the first third are arranged correctly to support that architecture and what I plan to do in the final act.

So today is a blazing run through the first third, looking for dropped strings and incorrectly arranged blocks. Good work, and should keep me from overstrain. If I play my cards right I’ll also have a little time to steal for the damn portal fantasy. My recent Elric read convinced me that I can bloody well play variations too, and I really want to. Might as well do three loosely interconnected portal fantasies, because the one that’s in my head now naturally begs the question of a third and anyway I’m mucking about with fairy tales (again). We all know how repetition goes in those.

Repetition, and bloodshed. This one will be a little gorier than the first, I think.

Also on deck is the Ragnarok book, but that doesn’t want to poke its nose out for play yet. I could drag it hence and make it behave, and at a different point in my creative cycle maybe I would. I think there’s more to be gained by letting it incubate, at least for today and quite possibly for the week. It’s good to know when to pursue…but it’s also good to know when to refrain. And I have some questions about other timeframes that need to be answered before I can get its revised due date clear in my head.

All that is for later. The rains are moving in and I want to get Boxnoggin rambled before they hit. I don’t mind running in a downpour, but Box has had a busy weekend and I can give him the gift of only moderate damp instead of half-swimming. He will not view it as such, since he has no idea what I’ll be saving him from…but ’twill be a kindness nevertheless. In order to do so, though, I’d better get some toast chewed and the dregs of this coffee tossed down.

And maybe, while on walkies, I’ll listen to the soundtrack the new portal fantasy forced me to put together over the weekend. Bother and tarnation, I suppose I have to finish it at some point if it’s made this much of a fuss about music…

Off I go.

Gamble and Rose

One last lone rose.

Well, it’s not the last rose, but it was the one I stopped to take a whiff of before the rains moved in. You can see the heat damage on the petals, but I think that makes it all the more beautiful.

I finished the zero draft of Gamble yesterday, in a blaze of…something, I hesitate to call it glory. The draft is a mess, full of holes and brackets, but it’s done and the pole-dancing scene gets to stay in because the structure shifted to accommodate it. (Or it was always meant to be structured that way and I couldn’t see as much, being head-down in the oubliette.)

The weekend will no doubt be spent catching up with all the things I put aside once this book decided to leap for the finish, and then I get to let the zero rest while I slot another book into that working spot. It’ll need at least a week of sitting and marinating before I can get even a fraction of the required distance in order to revise it.

But that’s a problem for another day. Right now there’s coffee, and one last rose.

Happy Friday the 13th. I think it’s going to be a good one.

Soundtrack Monday: Chevaliers de Sangreal

It’s another Soundtrack Monday! And I have a lovely piece for you today, my friends.

I just finished the zero draft of Rook’s Rose, and this piece was quite integral to the writing of the entire serial. Hans Zimmer is pretty reliable writing music for me, and the Chevaliers de Sangreal track from the Da Vinci Code movie reliably got me into Gemma and Avery’s world each time. It’s a stirring piece, and given that I’m working with some of the same conspiracy theories and historical stuff (albeit very loosely, as usual) it hits a nice sweet spot.

I often see a smoke-and fogbound New Rome while listening to it, perhaps with the Rook and Miss Dove doing their running-across rooftops thing. It’s very cinematic, but there’s also a love theme in it as well. Avery Black knows what he wants very early on in the entire situation, while Gemma takes a while to come around. Mostly because she has her own problems to solve, as heroines do; if there’s music playing during the crossing-the-Channel scene near the end–or the end credits, which I do see in my head for some books–this is it.

Anyway, the whole soundtrack to the serial can be found here. I think it’s achieved its final fighting form since I’m done with the brute creation work of Book 2. And my brain still resembles pudding at the moment, so I’ll stop here.

Enjoy!

Another Zero, Turning the Corner

Rolled out of bed Saturday morning, took Boxnoggin out for his morning loo break, got some coffee…then wrote 3k in a feverish push to finish Rook’s Rose, the second season of Hell’s Acre. At least, to finish the zero draft. Which means all the projects I was working on during the worst of lockdown are now…done. Not done-done, mind you, and I’m not sure this serial will see wider publication since it was written during the absolute nadir.

But the zeroes are out, and I can finally feel like I’m turning some kind of corner. At least emotionally.

Consequently I’ve been shambling around, mostly nonverbal and completely distracted. Going from copyedit hangover to finishing a zero draft (epic fantasy) to finishing a second zero draft (alt-historical) in quick succession may prove too much for even my endurance. I feel like I’ve been run over and the headache isn’t helping–oh, and by the way, if you’re wondering just what in the hell is a zero draft, I wrote about it here.

Now, there are fourteen (dear gods, count ’em) chapters until the serial will reach an end for subscribers, which is a couple months’ worth of weekly fiction drops. (Some will be multi-chapter extravaganzas.) So, while the zero is done, I’ll be polishing, pruning, making arrangements for editing (if I decide to let this duology out for wider publication), and also making arrangements for the next serial.

…yep, the Big Surprise I’ve been hinting about a lot concerns the new serial, and you guys are gonna love it. But first there’s these fourteen-or-so chapters to get through. Lockdown and pandemic meant there was a significant amount of time I was working just a chapter or two ahead of the drops, and that was stressful. I prefer to have a little more in the cannon than that, and I’m glad to have some padding–because in order to start the next serial I’m going to have to reread at least three other works to make sure I’ve got the throughlines all set up. Added to that a session of going back through Sons of Ymre #1 so I can revise #2 in that series properly, and there’s enough work to keep even me occupied. Plus I gotta start the third Ghost Squad book–Tax’s story, for those of you who like that series.

A medic and a wedding planner, in Vegas. That one’s gonna be fun.

Hm. The Dead God’s Heart is a duology, Sons of Ymre is one too. I had planned for Hell’s Acre to be a trilogy–there was a whole “Murder Princess Takes Over Street Gang” arc outlined, but it just didn’t work out that way. Mostly because of pandemic stress. I seem to be working in duology a lot these days, though Ghost Squad is a four-book series (with a possible fifth) and the Epic Fantasy I Can’t Talk About Yet is a trilogy. (Which I need to revise Book 2 and write Book 3 of, wonderful, my head aches even more just thinking about it.)

At least it’s raining. There’s an atmospheric river going on, and we all know my soul expands in that kind of damp. Listening to drops hitting the roof does me no end of good. I took the weekend for critical recovery, and I think today is going to be spent poking about and doing administrivia that fell by the wayside during the last few weeks’ worth of feverish activity. And maybe I should catch up on some Netflix, too. My writing partner has recommended a couple things to stuff in my aching skull, refilling the artistic well.

But for now I need breakfast, and Boxnoggin is antsy for morning walkies. He’ll hate the rain, I’ll love it, and we’ll be muddy when we get home. It’ll be great.

See you around.