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Clarion West Writeathon: halfway through!
Jul. 12th, 2010 09:37 pmAaaand that would be a first draft of Word of the Chosen!
8700 words, two chapters and an epilogue later, the short first draft of the book is finished. It's only about 55,500 words long, alas, and so barely escapes novella range. I haven't decided if I'm going to add more to it or move into the plot of the next book, but that's for revision to decide. It's done and I'm on to writing a few short stories and then starting on The Saint of the Splendid Bullfrog.
The draft is off to the Usual Suspects, and those who've donated! It's totally not too late to donate, if you feel so moved! And because I managed to finish the book, those who donate will get the shiny first draft of this book as well as drafts of the short stories I'm going to be working on (with the exception of one, since it has a home already if I manage to finish it).
Excerpt from Chapter 10 of Word of the Chosen:
The heat of the day was being given back by the stones and walls of Tehran. The air was still, and Jumana found herself very glad that her home was in Alamut, where the night wind would always cool down the fortress at night. The city was alive around her; a group of children screeched and ran past her, to the disapproving tutting of their elders. She heard shouts, a scream, a woman's voice raised in what certainly resembled ecstasy.
And now she was at Omar's door, and she paused to make sure that the veil of Hassan was secure. Relax, she told herself. Forget Jumana. For now, be Hassan.
She closed her eyes and Hassan opened them. He was tired, defeated. The chosen was dead, and he was forced to consider making peace with an enemy rather than destroying him. At risk was Alamut, and everything that Hassan still held dear.
That was his story, at least, and the weight of it tugged the corners of his mouth downwards as Omar opened the door to his knock. Omar had been scribing something, if the spatters of ink on his hands and the edge of his sleeve were anything to go by. He looked exceedingly surprised to see Hassan on his doorstep.
“Old friend, Allah himself must have guided your footsteps here!” He stepped back, beckoned Hassan forward. “Come in, you know you are always welcome. We will have refreshment in the courtyard. This night air, ach! It steals the breath and we all faint for lack of a breeze. Alamut must be fine on nights like this, yes? With the mountain wind.”
His friend was chattering, and Hassan let him. Lanterns were lit by a scurrying servant, water scented with citron and honey brought and poured. “What brings you here, my friend?” Omar asked. In the light of the lanterns, he looked younger than his years. He’d been a handsome youth who had grown into dignity, and unlike Hassan, care had not yet carved deep furrows into his face.
“Defeat,” Hassan said. The word was bitter and sweet, much like the drink he had taken but a bare sip of.
“Whose?”
“Mine, if you can believe it.” Hassan grimaced. “This…disagreement between Nizam and I has gone on too long. I’ve lost too much ground to keep fighting it.”
8700 words, two chapters and an epilogue later, the short first draft of the book is finished. It's only about 55,500 words long, alas, and so barely escapes novella range. I haven't decided if I'm going to add more to it or move into the plot of the next book, but that's for revision to decide. It's done and I'm on to writing a few short stories and then starting on The Saint of the Splendid Bullfrog.
The draft is off to the Usual Suspects, and those who've donated! It's totally not too late to donate, if you feel so moved! And because I managed to finish the book, those who donate will get the shiny first draft of this book as well as drafts of the short stories I'm going to be working on (with the exception of one, since it has a home already if I manage to finish it).
Excerpt from Chapter 10 of Word of the Chosen:
The heat of the day was being given back by the stones and walls of Tehran. The air was still, and Jumana found herself very glad that her home was in Alamut, where the night wind would always cool down the fortress at night. The city was alive around her; a group of children screeched and ran past her, to the disapproving tutting of their elders. She heard shouts, a scream, a woman's voice raised in what certainly resembled ecstasy.
And now she was at Omar's door, and she paused to make sure that the veil of Hassan was secure. Relax, she told herself. Forget Jumana. For now, be Hassan.
She closed her eyes and Hassan opened them. He was tired, defeated. The chosen was dead, and he was forced to consider making peace with an enemy rather than destroying him. At risk was Alamut, and everything that Hassan still held dear.
That was his story, at least, and the weight of it tugged the corners of his mouth downwards as Omar opened the door to his knock. Omar had been scribing something, if the spatters of ink on his hands and the edge of his sleeve were anything to go by. He looked exceedingly surprised to see Hassan on his doorstep.
“Old friend, Allah himself must have guided your footsteps here!” He stepped back, beckoned Hassan forward. “Come in, you know you are always welcome. We will have refreshment in the courtyard. This night air, ach! It steals the breath and we all faint for lack of a breeze. Alamut must be fine on nights like this, yes? With the mountain wind.”
His friend was chattering, and Hassan let him. Lanterns were lit by a scurrying servant, water scented with citron and honey brought and poured. “What brings you here, my friend?” Omar asked. In the light of the lanterns, he looked younger than his years. He’d been a handsome youth who had grown into dignity, and unlike Hassan, care had not yet carved deep furrows into his face.
“Defeat,” Hassan said. The word was bitter and sweet, much like the drink he had taken but a bare sip of.
“Whose?”
“Mine, if you can believe it.” Hassan grimaced. “This…disagreement between Nizam and I has gone on too long. I’ve lost too much ground to keep fighting it.”
