Teaser Tuesday Chapter 11 part 2

I had a hard time deciding where to cut this week’s #TeaserTuesday off. So I erred on the side of too much, because I can.

 

Hot tears traced his face as his eija held him and his eijye did for him what he could not. He was home. He was safe and cared for, and it only served to underscore his inabilities. He had never been able to take care of himself, relying on the Dai for everything, then falling into a useless sleep when they had been taken away. Who was he? What was he good for, but poisoning the world with his bastardized magics? Why were these strangers taking care of him, when the first things he’d done had been to raid their memories with an out of control s’Era’ramn, then show their leader how to half-kill herself? They should turn him out now, before he had the chance to do any more damage.

 

 

I will never not love Naj. If given half a chance to highlight Naj, I will. Even if it means highlight his torment. …I’m also a great one for torment. *shrugs* I promise it’s not all oh oh agony woe, but don’t take my word for it. Check out Saturday’s Update to find out.

Teaser Tuesday Chapter 11 part 1

Woo holidays. My whole routine is off this week, but it’s not too late to sneak in a #TeaserTuesday.

 

Jostling in the dark.

Strong arms around him, carrying him with quick even strides down a torch-lined hall. None of them were lit anymore– he’d stopped wasting the energy after the first three or so.

“Master, are we–”

 

Talk about putting the teaser in #TeaserTuesday. We’re getting into some stuff that has been great fun to write, great hell to edit. Where Naj and Seth diverge is only slightly easier than where they merge, and both are a royal pain in the butt. 😛 Be sure to check in on Saturday for the full extent of my suffering.

Teaser Tuesday Dreams in the Desert part 1

This week’s #TeaserTuesday is from a part of the story I’ve never really known what to do with.

 

The earth pressed close and cold around them. The smell of an extinguished torch was an acrid tickle at the edge of the shadows. He longed for a fire, but he knew why Aezir held their magic closed tight against them. Just a little longer, a few more days in the darkness, and the danger would be past. He hoped.

 

I spent a lot of time between the first draft and the first revision really getting to know Seth and Naj. I’ve written dozens of shorts, talked with them on my commute to work, talked even more with Cait about this or that scene or motivation– just really dug down deep. As a consequence, during the first revision, I had more history and sense of character to play with. I’d get little flashes of insight and memory from the silliest places: off hand comments, a flavor, the touch of fabric. I kept a collection of the scenes they sparked, and those scenes became Dreams in the Desert.

For this incarnation, I’ve broken up DitD into smaller parts and dispersed them between relevant chapters. It all comes together in the end, but I don’t know how much sense it’s gonna make until then. Again, we’ve hit the section of Asylum I most want feedback on. So if you have any input after reading Saturday‘s update, I’d love to hear it.

For all my Latinx followers

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/zabet/this-is-what-latinx-looks-like?ref=thanks_link

Guys! Check out this Kickstarter! My friend Zabet makes amazing stickers, and now she’s running a KS for Latinx pride stickers! I’m super excited about these, can’t wait to get my set and slap ’em all over my car, laptop, and phone case. Please help get the word out and share some pride!

Just a week left! Please help support and spread the word. This is really important to me.

Taking this seriously, results

So, it’s been about a month since I decided to start logging my writing hours, and here’s what I’ve found:

  • In a good week, I can put in 10-12 hours of work on drafting, editing/re-writing, blog posts/formatting, and promotion work.
  • Rougher weeks merit 1-2 hours at best, tons of guilt I can’t shake at worst. Heavier on the web stuff over actually writing/editing.
  • Average weeks, I hit 3-5 hours all together, hitting 500-1k words, unless I have a strangely good writing day.
  • None of this counts time spent daydreaming, world building, and otherwise mentally wandering Asylum.

So yeah. I suck XD

That’s harsh, but that’s how it feels. I spend so much of my time falling asleep/waking up due to working nights. It’s hard to write when you’re groggy, and it’s hard not to be groggy when you sleep twice a day. So the real thing I’ve learned is that I’ve got to do something about my sleep schedule. No idea how yet, but there it is. If I want to take this seriously, something’s gotta give.

Othering

Had a poignant dream last night, thought I’d share. Tales of Mu already told this story, but it’s my dream and my emotional resonance and I don’t care. You’re reading my blog for a reason, hang in for my wild ride.

So, college lab setting. We’re sitting down to day one, intro style labs, partners are assigned at random. The instructions are to fold the page in half long ways, print your name at the bottom, cut it in half and exchange halves with your partner for tracking all the generic details we’re going to share with each other.

A slow but familiar feeling of dread has building since I walked down the hallway to the classroom. As I hold the pencil in my hand (a pencil in a science lab, I know. That’s dreams for you *shrugs*), it feels awkward and unwieldy. I do not write in print often, and I never write out my name. Not this name.
My given name. I can see the letters. I can see that they are all there, but I keep writing them out of order. The first name comes out well enough, it’s not that far off from the name I go by. But the last name, my father’s name…
“Hey!” My lab partner snatches her half of the paper before I’ve sorted out fixing the spelling. I don’t look up. I don’t shout. I can’t react.

She waves the paper about with glee, squealing like she’s won some sort of lottery. Smooth, pale skin, pretty, well-behaved hair, tiny, feminine– she’s won a lottery all right. One she’s never appreciated or even noticed.

“Those are orcish characters– you’re a half orc!”

My stomach drops out. Orc. I am no orc. Just ask my uncles. I stare fixedly at the letters on my remaining paper, pencil starting to strain under the pressure of my grip. I can’t relax my fingers.
The teacher is restoring order in loud, clear tones. I had spoken to her in her office, well before lab. I speak to all of them, just in case. This always happens, sooner or later.

“That explains why you’re so tall! Do you wish you had tusks? Your brow ridges are so small though, you don’t look orcish at all! Must be on your father’s side then, or you’d be a lot thicker, wouldn’t you. Gosh, you’re so lucky! I wish I was tall–”

“You’re the kind of girl who tells goblins they’re such a pretty shade of green, aren’t you? Ask them if they wish they had more warts on their nose?”

I shouldn’t have spoken. It was quite, even toned, but it was still an outburst. Still going to be blown wildly out of proportion, as always. Everyone will be chittering about how I lashed out, totally lost it. Battle rage.

I stand as carefully as I can, move in slow measured steps to the door, down the hall, to the bathroom. I don’t think about which one I use. It’s not the one I’m allowed in, but it’s the one I feel comfortable in. It’s between classes anyways. I need a little comfort. I don’t look in the mirror.

I want to tuck my feet up on the seat, perch like I used to, hide. But my legs are too long now. My body too wide for my elbows to fit if I wrap my around myself. So I just sit, very still, hands on my knees, staring at the beige stall door. I do not cry. I cannot cry.