As always, I have five or six projects going at once. I’m in the editing process on Mountains of the Moon, a Tower of Bones prequel. I’m getting a sci-fi short-story ready for submission to Analog. If they reject it, I will publish it as a novella.
And now I am doing revisions on Huw The Bard, and writing Billy Ninefingers, I find myself writing a new opening vignette for The Last Good Knight. The revised edition will have several new chapters, one of which was completed only a few days ago. It will not have the prologue, nor will it have the chapter that is a long info-dump. They tell a lot, but they are mistakes made by a new author, and they do the book no good.
I know I’ve said it before, but I’m in love with my characters. And of all my characters, Julian Lackland holds a special place. He was my first real hero, my first slightly-flawed-but-nonetheless-still-perfect hero.
This is the issue: we as authors want readers to see our literary vision with the same clarity as we see it. The problem with that is our readers will NEVER see our vision as we do. They will see it through their own eyes. This means our task is to enable them to visualize the story and the characters in the way that is most pleasing to the reader.
Folks don’t want info–they want action.
So I’m going to give it to them. Heh-heh. Good Luck, Lackland!
Fortunately, I am an indie and I have the ability to unpublish a book that isn’t working as it currently stands, and do it as it should have been done in the first place had I not been so new at this business.
Today I hit the road north again, this time to Seattle. I will be working in a Starbucks in the South Lake Union part of town, in a building that houses Amazon. Afterward I will meet my son there and we’ll go to a vegan restaurant, where he’ll pretend to enjoy the food (because he loves his mother) and we’ll have a good time. All the while, all three tales, Huw the Bard, Billy Ninefingers, and Julian Lackland will be rolling around in my head, and I will attempt to carry a conversation on as if I weren’t a raving lunatic, obsessed with my imaginary friends.
He’s used to it.
Tomorrow, while my son is having oral surgery, I will be in the waiting room, devising new tortures for old friends. If it goes long enough, I might finish another vignette!
Sorry son, Mama’s a writer. Reality isn’t her best thing.