incidentally…
… you know that cliche about your heart being lodged in your throat, as a metaphor for terror?
I just sent off my very first query letter.
my new query letter (shred, please?)
I’m starting to be happy with Blue Crystal. I’ve finished a new query letter, and as soon as I’m farther with 3.2, off it goes.
In the meantime, what do you guys think of this?
Agent Name,
Wyrren became a political hostage to save her father. Now her own life is in danger.
An investigation originally meant to give the king’s enemies political leverage has led to the remnants of a plague, a vanished city order, and a conspiracy that could destroy the city of Vastii. Someone in the palace will kill to see their secret protected. They already have. Between the threat of imprisonment, the court’s manipulated king, the corrupt nobility, and the rebellious commons, it’s hard to know who Wyrren’s real enemy is. Maybe Vastii deserves to die.
Blue Crystal is a novel of action, intrigue, and dark fantasy, complete at 96,000 words. As per your submission guidelines, I’ve included the first X pages.
Eliza Wyatt
where did you get your novel ideas?
Nathan Bransford started this question, but I thought it interesting enough to relay. How did you get ‘the’ idea for whatever it is you’re writing?
Here are mine:
Blue Crystal
Why do ghosts wear clothes?
It’s not part of their soul. Neither is their face, their body… these images that represent them aren’t them, not really. They can’t be. You’re seeing a spiritual memory. And if bodies and clothes can be conjured from memory, what can’t?
And…
The Artificer’s Angels
Resurrection is possible, but illegal. They’re going to kill him, if they can.
my first 3d skit
I just found my very first 3d video, made back in ‘06. I’d forgotten about this.
There are a ton of things I’d do differently now, some errors here and there, but the idea is cute. Maybe I’ll make another just like it to see how my skills have improved.
‘licking it to death’
I learned that lovely turn of phrase from a sculptor who let out his studio twice a week– one day to draw or paint, one week to sculpt. The clay was a soft tan that melted under heat. To work it, there was a studio microwave were we softened blocks up. The artist, Terry Lee, would walk among us and give advice. Mine was, “You’re licking it to death.” Trying too hard to make her skin too smooth, too perfect, inspecting the exact proportional measures, putting on clay, scrapping it off again to achieve the same result.
Jody is virtually my only sculpture. The first time I tried, and perhaps the last. Not that I dislike sculpture, but it takes a lot of time, and I have too many things to do. Going over the last version of my book being one of them.
I didn’t really like the first chapter. I wrote a prologue to balance it, but I’m not happy with that, either. I got another idea. Started another prologue. Stopped. Got another idea. Started again.
After showing the revised versions and the samples to my fiance, he wonders if he didn’t like the original better. Now I’m conflicted.
How do I know if the book might have been already good enough? I was convinced it wasn’t. Now I’m not so sure. When do you realize you’re not doing anything to improve it any longer?
obligatory new year’s post
A quick note on the new year. It’s hardly original, I know, but why fight tradition?
Major things done this year:
- Started a new job teaching computer science at the local college.
- Met my boyfriend, got engaged. Did I mention the engagement?
- Wrote the second half of Blue Crystal, version 3.0. Revised to 3.1.
- Let betas tear apart version 3.1. Started 3.2.
- Started ‘The Artificer’s Angels’! Currently have 56k on v1.0.
Goals for 2010:
- Finish Blue Crystal 3.2. Edit for typos.
- Take Blue Crystal agent shopping.
- Get married. One week in Germany, the next in Italy.
- Finish The Artificer’s Angels.
- Finish my Beta-Reader website. I’ll tell you guys more about that later.
Anyone else have any ambitious plans for next year?
nano snippet
I wrote about two thousand words tonight, and finished up with this. (Edit: also note, it was 3am and I was sleep deprived).
This is how I think a real paladin would act.
That evening, after the rest had gone to bed, Merrily approached her mama on the sofa and took her warm, wrinkled hand. Gertrude squeezed her, and without opening her eyes said, “What’s wrong, baby girl?”
“Am I doing right, mama?” Merrily asked. “I… I feel silly, but I don’t know. No one seems to be really bad here. I mean, yes, they’ve done some wicked things, but no one’s been hurt. Mister Gennyson tried to put Leo back together, even if he was a grave robber. Uriel wants to take off the law that’ll kill him, Mister Gallows loves his son.
“The vows talk about putting the wicked and the strong to flight, defending the helpless… but I don’t see anyone like that here. I feel like I don’t know what to do. Everyone has reasons. Lots of people, all being reasonable…”
Gertrude squeezed Merrily’s hand again. “Do you think evil things are never done with reasons? Good reasons, good intentions, wonderful goals in sight?”
Merrily thought about that, and she shook her head slowly.
“The evil you fight is not the people. I told Diane we’re all bad people, and I meant it. You start thinking that you’re good and they’re bad, and you’ll be in for a world of trouble, baby. The difference between hero and villain isn’t always in what they want. And if you pay real close attention, you might just see that the bad fellows are the ones that need the most saving.
“Now you come right over here.” Gertrude kissed Merrily’s cheek when she bent down. “You listen to your mama. You were meant to be who you are, little Gamble. Made to be who you are. You keep this boy safe like you promised, and you don’t compromise. Someone’s got to hold the world in check.”
The corners of Merrily’s mouth tugged, then drew into a smile. “Thank you, mama,” she whispered.
“Silly girl. Now, it’s late. What you doing up so late anyhow? Scoot! Bedtime.”
Merrily kissed her once more, bid her a good night, and held her skirts as she took the stairs and tried to keep them from squeaking too loudly on the way to her bedroom above the front porch.
temporarily away from the blog
So, my CPU died on Monday.
It was a wonderful computer– I built it myself three and a half years ago, and it was a hardy machine. Everything in the computer was saved, of course; the hard drives are fine. The ram was good, but since it’s DDR2, I doubt I’ll be able to do much with it. The graphics card will come in handy until I upgrade it– a Geforce 7900 GTX. Top of the line three years ago, still a decent brand, but all good things must come to an end.
…
Point being, with my hard drive out of commission until my new computer arrives next week (I’m bastardizing a mac pro with Windows XP– just plugging the old hard drives in) I won’t be around much.
See you next week!
nano excerpt
My latest NaNo excerpt:
The Crooked Cabaret.
Three establishments, all sharing the same space and name, none of the lot respectable.
Entertainment! Singing women wore too little behind guarded doors, windows blacked out with board and paper to keep High Hope’s decency laws. There the girls wore too much makeup, and during the shows in the middle of the night they would remove their stockings and put legs up on chairs, showing glimpses of their thighs to titillate and delight a male audience. Back stages doubled as brothels– a portion of the girls sold themselves on the sides. Muscled bouncers stood guard over the doors, exterior and dressing rooms both. They were paid extra for the latter.
Alcohol! While not illegal in High Hope, the bar in the second subdivision of The Crooked Cabaret could make a man go blind, and moonshine was illegal. Not that they called it that. Not that they bought it, or had it tested– the bathtub and a second-hand water extractor was the beating heart of the establishment. Sticky floors and sticky bar stools, grubby coins and the smells of urine and vomit lingered at the edges. A few drinks of the house special, though, and none of that shone through.
Miss Polly Owens was in the last portion, nestled in the back between the two others. Near enough to hear the drunks shouting nonsense, near enough to hear the singers in their backstage rooms. Red fabric pinned to the walls, old pillows in piles– nothing more to the furniture but a few candles. Polly leaned up against her cushion and blew opium smoke from her mouth, eyes shut and peaceful. Others about did the same, all in silence. Someone sang one room over. Polly didn’t care to open her eyes, nor discern whether it was a drunk carousing or one of the ‘real’ singers. It all sounded the same after a while.
… I wonder where this story is trying to take me. It’s already ramping up to look far longer than I’d intended.
in which i attain an illustrator
That was easy.
Have I ever mentioned that my mother is a professional artist?
I mentioned that I wanted Victorian-style pen and ink illustrations for my novel to my mother; she mostly does a lot of still life and landscape. She got very excited when I described the sort of things I wanted– cloth bows, still life with wine, a top hat and gloves, birds’ nests between the junction of steel beams. She’s not a fantasy fan, but then, I’m not much interested in fantasy illustrations.
(Though the giant mechanical crab might be nice.)
