Jay Lake (jaylake) wrote,
Jay Lake
jaylake

[writing] Endurance progriss riport, day 2

2 hours, 3,000 new words to 5,700 words. Spent the first few minutes untangled a tyro error on POV in yesterday's work which calendula_witch pointed out as she scanned the dailies. (Yes, she's reading Endurance as a serial...)

This morning whilst the_child and I dropped calendula_witch at the airport, three of us wandered into the airport Powell's. Green Powell's | Amazon ] was faced but only one book deep on the shelf. I took it to the counter to sign. The bookseller was thrilled to see me, told me how much she enjoyed the book, and that they couldn't keep it on the shelf because it kept selling. That was a nice lift before saying goodbye to my love and putting her on a plane.

Onward I go. Binge writing possible on this draft depending on how pressed for time the cancer makes me feel, but I'm aiming for the 2,500 words/2 hours per day mark for the time being. It's a hell of a deadline to have hanging over one's head.

Some freshly-minted WIP for you all, typos and all.
Very few of the graves were marked to tell who lay within. This struck me as odd — most cemeteries I'd seen or read about seemed to feature little biographies of their inmates, as if knowing the year a baby had died would make the child more real to a passerby of a later generation.

But they were decorated in a manner that had clearly once been lavish. Jewels and metal chasings had vanished uncounted generations past. Carvings remained. Details. Images in tile, or painted underneath a sheltering roof. That a person was buried here at all stated, "I am wealthy" in the ways of this city long before the rise of the Dukes. These graves dated from the time of Kingdoms, and some from the Years of Brass prior to that.

Without words, they told stories. This one featured small batwinged children, like demon messengers, with a hint of torment on each tiny, windworn face that called to mind a life spent on the margins of dark magics and wicked philosophies. That one's pilasters were bundles of sheaves, wrapped in vines, as if the dead had been overlords of some great swathe of farms. So each told its silent story, some worn to threadbare memories, others still shouting from beyond death's veil.


Originally published at jlake.com.

Tags: books, endurance, green, writing
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