Make no secret.

Wednesday, 29 April 2015 13:47
partlyopenbook: Fairy-winged child and gray wolf. (friendship)
 I've been rewriting a short story first completed last year. It's called Kat's Tower. Originally a BDSM kind of tale, I quickly realized that this is a genre that I am not meant to encounter in the writing world — at least not right now! I transformed the story into something more adventurous, romantic, with elements of the gothic. And pirates. Because my writing soul has created some serious catenations with pirates the last fifteen years. 

It's unknown at this point how long Kat's Tower will wind up being. I'm hoping it won't be too long, since I'd decided to rewrite it with the hopes of including it in a new set of short stories.

Kat's Tower is divided into small chapters. Each chapter has possessive noun in it. The Fisherman's Inn... Winter's Garden... Crawley's Books... Kat's Tower... 

Here's the opening paragraph (subject to change):

Once upon a time, in the long past of the world, there lived a young woman, named Kat, who believed, with all her heart, that gratefulness held the key to fulfillment. She knew that if she were truly thankful for all that she had, it would not be taken from her, neither disappearing from her grasp nor falling from her sight. She brandished the winning thought every hour of the day. Nothing could deter her from it. 
The thought of being grateful enough for what you have that it won't be taken from you is lifted from my own life. It isn't true, of course, ergo the fairy-tale opening. We want to believe it's true. 
partlyopenbook: Not me. :) (Default)
The "Summervale" rewrite is... slow. Really slow. But worthwhile, I think. It's growing increasingly difficult for me to concentrate, since I've so many other things to do right now as I prepare to head back home. I start writing, then think of all these other things I should be doing!

But for those of you who read this and might be writers, or just students, or just downright curious, here's a literal side-by-side comparison of Draft 1 and Draft 2.

Draft 1Draft 2

It'd been a long time since Riddien had watched an angry Kwinn storm from a room. The sensations it evoked were far from pleasant. Often enough, Riddien had wished Kwinn had stabbed him with the end of his famous sword rather than abscond with the stillness and silence of a parish monk. Whether he'd said something silly or stupid, Riddien wasn't sure. His companions, still seated at the thick table there at the pub, were quite certain.

"You're really not good at this speaking thing, are you?" Trill, his flat-featured face and watery eyes of his people was certainly cut out for making a guy feel stupid, even without the rhetorical questions.

Already, the back of Riddien's neck burned. He recognized the symbol, left over from his long, difficult relationship with Kwinn. There he was, trying to be the good guy, say the right thing, and it was always Kwinn who got a little too offended, always the one who wandered away and, somehow, worsened Riddien's feelings. As if he had feelings to spare.

"I was just trying to—" he started to say, interrupted by Trill's twin sister.

Ages had passed since Riddien Slance was required to observe Kwinn, at the peak of anger, storm from a smoky pub. Sensations caused by Riddien's heated inspection of Kwinn's departure were far from unfamiliar. Dust, blown from the hurt, gave Riddien a clear view of feelings he'd repressed for three years. More than three bygone years, too, for his warmth toward Kwinn over the last two weeks was difficult to disregard entirely. Their complicated history, full of wonder and magic and mayhem, seemed compressed into the difficult fortnight just behind them, also full of wonder and magic and mayhem.

Across the previous two weeks, moments drifted upon Riddien when he wished Kwinn would stab him with the end of his famous sword rather than flee with the stiffness and silence of a parochial mystic. Riddien had grown more used to one, rather still hoping for the other. If Kwinn had made the slightest motion of showing his anger toward Riddien Slance in the form of physical violence, Riddien would've preferred it. Such action would've provided Riddien with something of Kwinn to grip and squeeze. The Kwinn who ran off without a word, with just a slight curl in his lip and a faint gleam of revenge in his eyes, he was a Kwinn too squirmy and illusory to grip and squeeze.

Whether Riddien had dropped an unwanted phrase, or if he had delivered an unappealing joke, couldn't be immediately decided. Perhaps he'd been speaking a bit unrefined. Sometimes his voice tipped into cadences brutal, intonations unsavory. Yet these were flavors of his character Kwinn had tasted throughout the years, and would not, therefore, be so shocking that he'd need to escape.

Riddien's companions, still seated at the thick table in the center of the pub, were quite sure Riddien had been in the wrong.

"You're really not as good at this speaking thing as you think you are," said Trill. His flat-featured face and his watery, white-blue eyes of his people cut a thorough and mean stare. "There's a lot about you that you think you're good at, and you're not really all that good at. Takes a lot more time to learn these things, it does."

Contents not edited....
partlyopenbook: Not me. :) (Default)

Potential cover art for new ebook release. Cover art background by Dalliann. Text by me.

Looks like Zandry of Bonewood & Other Stories will be about 33,000 words long. It contains four "short" fantasy stories:

Last Time in Summervale
Zandry of Bonewood
The Ribboned Arrow
Colin, Who is Not Quite Dead

Finished formatting the document tonight. Just have to read through the stories for typos and errors!

More soon!


Wednesday, 11 June 2014 14:15
partlyopenbook: (hullo)
Another fine day of work, work, work!

It doesn't look like I'll be releasing The Information Man today. I came across an easy continuity issue, and while I think it's resolved I want to read through the whole thing again.

The artwork and summaries are ready to go! Here's the Short Summary:

It's a normal day for information broker Rex Malin when he's asked to deal with a murder victim, and the missing fiancée of a leading Toronto citizen. But as the hours pass, the stranger and more nebulous these things become. With the help of us his friends, Rex tries to unravel the mystery. It's his memories of the Great War that connect best the eerie present circumstances: the murder, the missing fiancée, and the spectral wolves invading the city.

partlyopenbook: Not me. :) (Default)

The Information Man Cover

Possible cover for The Information Man.
The black border is just to highlight it against the white background of this entry box.
partlyopenbook: (hullo)
A look at the opening of The House that Cain Built, available in an anthology by the New Town Writers.


The House That Cain Built
by Lore Lippincott


Since her childhood years in the greenish haze of Ireland, Flair McLaglen had penned stories to relieve an inner conflict. The trick had been taught to young Flair by her grandmother. Though she'd forgotten whether Nanna's eyes were blue like the sky or blue like the sea, Flair remembered fat pencils against paper scraps, notebooks full of silly stories and mad characters. Years removed from idyllic days, and Irish haze replaced with American fog, the 1960s lost to the 1980s, Flair still relieved an inner conflict through stories.

In college, she'd finished a whole novel that had achieved acclaim. In her head remained a contradictory argument: "Write a sequel! No, don't write a sequel!" and "One book was good enough for Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell. Why not for you?" She had a crowded box of ideas, however, that would not be silenced. The more her personal frustrations deepened, stronger now and more realistic than a child's perspective of prosaic betrayals, the longer she sat before the vintage typewriter at nights. The more Josie gave her tea and fed her small, cold meals on a tray. The more Flair ripped out sheet after sheet, crumpled them, threw them into the fireplace.

Another ignominious ball of gibberish landed among soot and flames. A cool night in late September had warranted a fire. Rain dripped sonorously, unhurriedly, from leaves and whispered through gutters of that house paid for by hard work, by a novel without a sequel and a character Flair couldn't erase from her brain.

Flair huffed and slumped. Her office was a drey of sorts set upon the floor, between sofa and coffee table, partly in her real world but mostly in another. Josie looped behind her: the sofa springs rustled with the shift of weight. Warm hands nestled upon Flair's shoulders, left to massage away tension there.

"If Agent Bernadine calls," Josie kept a lace of acrimony in her voice strictly applied to Flair's literary business pro, "I'll say that you've gone out. I usually say you've gone out and it won't be a big deal to do it again."

A gurgle of dread escaped from the back of Flair's throat. Josie closed the noisy maw. The playfulness sent them into erratic laughter, hair-pulling, accidental caresses of forbidden zones. Flair pushed Josie, breaking their tender wrestling match.

"I'll always be out when Bernadine calls," said Flair, feeling hopeless against the onslaught of commercial success. She was a speech therapist, a linguist, a part-time philologist—she wrote only to trample into submission those sensations her mind was consciously too weak to handle. The writing had stopped when she ran into Josie, literally, on the college campus three years before. They'd studied and lived together. Their friendship roamed into the boundaries of psychic phenomenon. It forced them to talk about the relevance, power and likelihood of soul mates. For two years their peace was inexplicable. Every happiness obeyed them.

Then there came upon their paradisal scene a shadow: irregular, problematic, male-shaped. Its name was Josh. He wanted Josie. She became tinted by his penumbra. She wore a ring from him on an important finger and her rosiness darkened.

Josie's eyes danced. Their pixie-green hue and iridescent risibility contained the depth of her unusual love for Flair. She swung their united hands between them. "Josh will be here later. He wants to take me to dinner at that new restaurant close to where he works. Maybe if I explain—"

In an instant, Flair was riled and away. "Oh, no, I won't have your pity wrecking my nice quite Friday evening at home! Thanks," she threw another paper on the fire, "but I'll stay right here. You go and have fun with Josh."

At the sound of his approaching car, the linguist, like a frightened hare, turned and ran upstairs. From a window, Flair watched him stride the sidewalk's length. What did he want with Josie? Flair sunk back to her bed, heart in a vice at the voices downstairs, and imagined a more romantic tableau there than those she'd painted in her head for three years—that Josie had helped hew.


Continued in the book....

Purchase anthology at
(Supports the good works of the New Town Writers)

partlyopenbook: Not me. :) (Default)
Meet Steve. Stephano Mornay, to be precise. He's one-half the dynamic duo of the book I'm working on, called, appropriately, After Dan & Steve Saved the World. It's exactly what it sounds like. Dan and Steve save the world from a villainous villainy, live to tell about it (to their surprise), and have to go through the trials that follow. Steve, the slightly-younger and wittier half of Dan & Steve (who saved the world), is a character that I rely on to amuse and entertain me. He's also insightful. Here are some of Steve's best epigrams over the first quarter of the book.


Only with men whose ass hairs I've actually caressed.

-- when being asked if he always flirts so much

She was evil, and she knew it, and she was going to make everyone believe she was a gift to the universe.

-- on his former boss

Hey, Al, can you have the kitchens send up some soup—I don't care what it is—and a plate of cookies? I don't care what kind of cookies, but when you save the world, one of the first things you want to do is have a cookie.

It's a nice place, Benji. Decorate it yourself? It's pretty, but it has a monkish air to it that made me think of you.

Is there a computer around here? I mean, something more than a damn tablet. I want to type up some stuff, but not with my forefingers or thumbs. I took two years of computer classes, and I can type a hundred words a minute, and I'll be damned if I'm going to type with my forefingers and thumbs!

Sometime, you'll have to tell me exactly how many books you've read and how many thousands of years you were at university. People don't expect that from their superheroes, you know.

-- to Dan, an English teacher

You taste like tea. Minty tea. Now I want some tea.

No one wants a sick and grouchy Agent Cochrane around. Or are you one of those men who gets sick and turns into a macho, 'I can do anything you can do even if I puke while doing it' kind of guy? No, don't answer that. We'll all be surprised.

We're pretty healed, though, and some of us are just pretty.

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