I'm nearly to the point where I'll be trolling through the handwritten notes to align scenes, revisit existing material and provide supporting information for the upcoming sections. The book will be a bit less than half-way in place, structurally, when I break into all-new drafting (or as close as I will come to all-new on this collaborative project).
Just as with a solo project, the setting is firmly embedded in my mental bookspace now. I can see the place, the people, the action, I am starting to see the subtler connections between things Jeff established (knowingly or not) in his setups, notes and earlier drafts.
Of course, a WIP:
In every life, there is at least one miracle. For some, most perhaps, that is the first breath or the last. Others are blessed to be lifted from the cataracts by an angel, or to find an ancient hoard in their potato patch at time of great need. Some miracles raise up prophets or cast down presbyters.
Dr. Bliss' miracle came to him that night out of a life filled with noise — the tumult of flame and destruction, the pounding of surf, the gnawing of rats, the cry of a newborn child never seen — and that miracle was thus:Silence.
The glass of Greed's cage shattered in a burst of splintered darts silvered in the sudden moonlight. Where the snow had fallen for hours in fat, slow flakes, this shower rained outward in a race of ten thousand tiny knives.
Yet they moved, swifter than the eye, almost swifter than thought, in the eerie, muffled silence of the vanishing snow. Perhaps the long-lasting desert storm had stolen all sound from the world. Perhaps the new-fallen snow was still covering over every ear, stilling every guard and sleepless parent for a moment, so what should have crashed like the falling of a bell tower was barely a whisper on the wind.
|Originally published at jlake.com.|