Well, she was just seventeen

The way she looked was way beyond divine.

catchyname@gmail.com — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 11:38:38 GMT

Let's see. Still working on Nanowrimo, and I have made about 9.3k words. I have lost interest in posting it on LJ for no one to read, but if you're tracking me or anything of the like, I am, in fact, writing.

It may turn out to be utter junk, but oh well. It does reinforce the feeling I got before of 'I have learned what I can from nanowrimo - I know I can crank out 2k words a day if I sit down and force myself.'

If they are 2k of words I am happy with is another matter entirely. I am also rarely pleased with what I write, which is why all of the positive response to Bacon has left me a bit reeling. People are so kind!

Fic Pointer & Author's Notes: We Don't Want the Bacon (What We Want is a Piece of the Divine)

catchyname@gmail.com — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 18:05:19 GMT

Pointer to deancastiel:

Title: We Don't Want the Bacon (What we want is a piece of the divine)
Author: Cog_Nomen
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,089
Warnings: War imagery, blood, very minor language.
Summary: There are some things war leaves behind, but one must trust that there is a greater plan.
Disclaimer: I'm just playing with the characters, and I won't claim WW1 either.

1. The title is taken from the 1918 Hit, We Don't Want the Bacon (What We Want is a Piece of the Rhine). I am slowly becoming familiar with more WW1-era music, and there were a lot of tentative titles for this piece from I Didn't Raise My Son to be a Soldier or Over There, but none stuck like this one. In part, Dean's obsession with bacon made it, in the other part I could make a terrible pun with it. There is some music in this fic, I feel music is important to any SPN themed piece, because it is already so important in the show.

2. The timeline in this is odd and not-exactly-linear, in present tense. With Castiel being the narrative party, I feel I can get away with this. Cass must surely experience time a little differently.

3. In addition, I tried to remember to transfer ownership of a lot of things to Jimmy, instead of Castiel all the time. Obviously the crude workings of a human body are a necessity, but that still does not make one feel ownership. If I should animate a puppet, swinging his arms around via sticks, I do not think of them as my arms. This did not always stick, and I would have liked to fix it, but time did not allow for a through re-editing. It shall have to just be a particular quirk of this piece.

4. Trench life sucked. There is no sex in this piece, which is unusual for me, but I could not in good conscience write it considering the filth, lice, and lack of treatment for STD's. Really, you did not want gonorrhea in the Great War - there were no antibiotics and the treatment was... highly unpleasant

5. The other two songs referenced in this piece are I Didn't Raise My Boy to be a Soldier , and Over There . I proudly own a copy of the sheet music for the latter. I have fudged a tiny bit that Jimmy would know it - assuming it has been heard around at some point while he was 'conscious' within Castiel. It was a hit in 1918.

6. The Angels at Mons.

7. There is a great deal of weapons-geeking, for which I apologize to the gun-illiterate. WW1 weaponry is some of my favourite, as it is so raw and so rapidly developing over the course of the Great War years. If there are any specific questions I will try to clarify for you, just drop me a note.

8. Lastly, First World War.Com is an invaluable resource and an excellent place to start if you are interested in learning more about what was, IMO, the more fascinating of the two World Wars. Also please don't hesitate to drop me a line and I will gladly geek out with you about it. I am lucky enough to have access to the WW1 museum in Kansas City, and the intent to visit it often.

I also apologize for the length of the piece, which I intended to be shorter, then longer, but overall I am happy with the balance I have achieved. These historical crossovers always seem to run away with me.

TV shows and books.

catchyname@gmail.com — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 05:40:14 GMT

I have read a small truckload more books since my previous post, most excitingly Flight of the Renshai, which I have been waiting for for five-some years, since the author's last work in 2004. I am also catching up with a lot of television shows that I either fell off of last year, or never caught - such as Supernatural which stupidly moved into a direct competition slot with LOST.

House 5 was slow in places, excellent in others. The finale was good, and I am excited to see where it goes this year. I am really happy that even if I miss an episode I can now catch it on Hulu without having to fuss over it too badly.

Supernatural 4 is so far quite good. I am toying with the idea of writing a fic on the premise of Dean only getting to sleep without nightmares when he dreams of Castiel. (Or his dreams are influenced by Castiel directly, however that works.) I'm wondering if I should wait until the end of the season to see how it goes before I do so.

Next week is Fringe 1, and I've started SG: Atlantis 5, and The Unit 3. I think I only have maybe an episode or two of the lattermost left, which is lucky because The Unit 4 comes out on the 29th.

Currently, I'm reading Perelandra at work, and Torsos and War & Peace at home. I took a 24 hour break from all three to tear through the Renshai novel. I have a pile of books 'on deck' as well. We'll see how many I can finish by the end of this year.

Small bits & snippets.

catchyname@gmail.com — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 05:48:06 GMT

I've kind of fallen out of the habit of posting bits of what I'm working on. I suspect because I feel often like I am only talking to myself, and authors usually only do this to see if there's only interest in what they're doing, and what to work on next. Anyway, I am writing, and the proof is here.

Conflict Archaeology - FF7, Veldcentric
“Stop.” She said, jabbing him harshly as she pulled the thread through and he clenched his teeth on the edge of his glass of whiskey. “Or go.”

“I can’t stop. I won’t go.” Both statements came in the same tone, on the same breath. He spoke without looking back, into his glass to mute the sound, directing his voice back at himself with the angle of it.

“I won’t have you.” She tugged the thread, tied a knot. He could feel the press of her rounded belly against his back, gently moving over the curve of his spine. He lowered the glass, cupping the bottom with his free hand.

Untitled Tseng/Elena/Veld - FF7, Turks, Elena POV
“She’s not very good at patience.” Tseng manages to groan, and something in his voice sets her off afresh. Veld’s brows arch, and he looks back down at the other Turk for a moment before his hand falls away. Tseng’s tensed muscles slowly ease, and his breath stutters back into him before Elena thinks he even realizes he’s lost it.

Untitled Scout/various team - Team Fortress 2, BLU, Scout POV
Medic’s mouth turns into this firm line and he starts looking real stressed whenever anyone starts to get too close on the subject of how he and Heavy were too close. Scout can almost count the way his gray hairs were multiplying at his temples. Of course he keeps bringing it up, it’s funny to see Medic blow a gasket.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate what Medic does, just that Scout knows no matter how many buttons he pushes that medic won’t withhold any healing. Demoman had tried to convince Scout, when he’d been new, that Medic was downright insane and ready to amputate at the first sign of a splinter. It wasn’t until later – after weeks of avoiding the Doc’s attention – he realized that it was a joke. The sort that the whole team played on rookies.

Medic was more like a big mother hen than anything else Scout could use to describe him. ‘Clucky’, Sniper called the man. It was pretty right, as far as Scout was concerned. Medic tended to worry about everything, all the time.

Kane & Lynch Untitled
Two guys sharing a dingy beat up hotel room wherever the fuck we could get one where no one would ask us what was in the duffel bag? Yeah, we ate a lot of fucking Chinese take-out.

I mean, I wouldn’t trust Lynch to cook spagetti-ohs or pretty much anything at all anyway, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to clean the microwave after whatever exploded all over the insides of it.

We both got pretty sick of McDonalds after a week or two. Neither of us needed the extra pounds anyway – to bachelors, Chinese is healthy, shut up.

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, Untitled. - Harry/Perry
“What did you do?” Perry’s voice was just behind my ear and I jumped up hard enough so that my shoulder hit his chin and his teeth clacked together. When I turned around, he had one hand on his jaw and he looked about ready to shoot flaming needles from his eyes. You hang around Perry long enough, you’ll see that look too. It’s almost funny.

“I was trying to stop the guy from coming in.”

“Great! Brilliant job. What’s your plan for getting us out before he comes back with a drill and six angry security guards.”

“Well he would have walked in and seen the…” I motioned wildly at the camera and tiny pinhole that it was now recording through. Perry made an exasperated noise.

“Now he’s going to walk in and see us and the-“ Perry’s mimicry of my gesture was punctuated by extra flailing and a particularly pointed ‘duh’ expression. I didn’t really appreciate the sarcasm, because hey, I was stuck in the damn closet too.

New set of icons

catchyname@gmail.com — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 02:57:57 GMT

Not that Salieri is unloved, just that I've had the same set for so long now. I'm trying out T-Rexes, the problem being that there isn't much variety in the available media. T-Rex is invariably either roaring, chasing things, or chasing things and roaring.

Reading again

catchyname@gmail.com — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 07:13:19 GMT

I have been reading Burndive, which is light science fiction that seems to have very little density of real thought provocation within its covers. I haven't been totally engrossed in it, that is for certain. All in all, I believe I shall probably finish it as quickly as possible and send it merrily along on it's way through paperbackswap.com.

I am also a bit of a crafter and an artist as I've mentioned, and the one thing that plagues me is the inability to use my hands while I read. PBS has failed me in procuring one of the books that I'd been interested in reading, Valis, so I obtained an audio copy to listen to on my Ipod while I've been working. I often keep its company these days, as there are a variety of historical podcasts to listen to.

Without deviating too much from my original topic, Valis is extremely heavy. I'm not sure what I anticipated, but on the whole it is a very interesting (contrasting) viewpoint on the entirety of theological debate presented in a disassociated narrative that is interesting in and of itself. I find myself pausing the flow of words so that I can digest a bit. I'm not sure what I expected from the creator of A Scanner Darkly, but I think it simply did not connect in my mind that the two were related. The narrative and choice of words remind me a bit of Hunter S. Thompson - I suppose the ten years of time between publications could mean that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was inspirational to Dick when he wrote Valis, but I wonder instead if that we aren't getting more of a window into the mind of the drug culture on the whole between the two of them.

I can't think of a more compelling reason to never do drugs. Seriously, the anti-drug advertising campaign could consist of Valis and I'm pretty sure most children would run screaming.

As an aside, if you are an avid reader and you don't use PaperbackSwap.com, I highly recommend it. It's a great alternative to spending $8-12 on a book you're only going to read one time and it helps keep my shelves a bit less... erm, saggy. I feel better about passing a book along (Commander Adama was correct - never lend a book!) than I do throwing one away.

Books, books and more books

catchyname@gmail.com — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 20:25:05 GMT

I will share with you a little secret, my livejournal friends. I define myself as an artist and not as an author. It used to be that the long silences in this journal were times of my life completely dedicated to bettering myself at illustrating. Recently, however, I have slacked at both. I go through creative cycles. It seems that this year will be far more tilted in favor of authoring than artistry.

And how does one author, you ask, when one is not writing at all? My mind is whirling up great piles of words, stacking them one against the other until it finds some combination that will set the whole waterfall in motion - like dropping that last coin into the shover machine at the arcade that sets the whole torrent of stored up tokens over the edge and into the catchbin for you to rake out.

In the meantime, I have been reading. I have conquered several history books, mostly in the order of Napoleonic era France, and I have been reading the Song of Ice and Fire series, which has entertained me greatly. I am roughly a third of the way through War and Peace which I expect is more than most make it through before the extremely dated style drives them off. It is not, in comparison to the other books I have been reading, very interesting. The characters at times drive me up the walls with their idiocy, but it provides a simmilar picture of the era as other period novels do, only with the backdrop of Russia and the war there. I think if Napoleon were not the looming threat and driving plot, I would have given up. I may yet, with five hundred pages under my belt and still a thousand to go.

Yesterday, I began and finished Fahrenheit 451. I must say I have not enjoyed a book as much as that one in quite some time. It feels like something I should have read in high school, it has that literary flavor to it, if you will. I find it more than a little interesting that something fifty years old can still be so relevant to the modern philosophy.

Today, I finished Howl's Moving Castle, at the urging of a close friend. I wonder why that novel has not been such a children's classic as Narnia, or the Dark is Rising, or any of the other novels I read in my (extreme, as I was always an advanced reader) youth. I found myself thinking that I would have liked to have it read to me, or perhaps I would enjoy reading it to my own never-to-exist children. It was quite different from Studio Ghibli's film in overall flavor and plot, but I enjoyed both in the way that I can enjoy L. Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz and also like Sci-Fi's original Tin Man.

I have two new books on deck, Burndive by an author I was not previously familiar with, and the first of Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover novels. In combination with that I have War and Peace in progress as well as Napoleon's Pyramids which is historical fiction dated in my most beloved era and about which I am decidedly uncertain (historical details are at points off, and it is much like watching modern action movies or television series with any working knowledge of how a handgun actually functions - you see things that are incorrect that you would never have noticed before and then you cannot stop looking!). I have also been slogged down in the middle of the fourth book of Stephen King's Gunslinger series for nearing two years now. I suppose I should be more interested in Roland's past - which I have been subjected to several hundred pages of at this point - but I find in fact that I am rather not interested in him as a boy at all, when I have already seen and conjectured about what sort of character developments he must have made to get to the point where he is at in the current timeline of events in the story. It is like seeing the pieces of the puzzle as individuals after having already completed it, or perhaps tasting the individual ingredients to a cake. Eggs and flour are not terribly interesting on their own.

...And as this went on much longer than I intended (as is so often my excuse!), I shall here draw to a close, with the shortest note possible to the effect of the fact that I am also playing Final Fantasy IV: The After, and considering writing some addendum to Castle on the Sand, in which Veld and Vincent's relationship is further explored.

Fic Pointer & Author's Notes

catchyname@gmail.com — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 05:55:35 GMT

Castle on the Sand
1920’s era FF7 AU. Various pairings, mostly ShinRa oriented.
Rating: M

Part 1
Part 2

Author’s notes:
1. The title of this piece is a reference, of course to The Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, Second Fig:
‘Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!’
Of course this poem itself is a reference to the 20’s on the whole, as is this fic.

2. There is a lot of history geekage in this fic, and for that I apologize. As I apparently did not learn my lesson about AU’s with The Many Adventures of Walking Man, I came back for a second beating (absolutely free). I do love history, and I think about the only period I could have gone on at longer length about would have been the Napoleonic Era. As no one will ever ask for an AU fic set during that period (and this is not a challenge, trust me the fic would be of an obscene length), I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with this.

3. I know that removing the bullet from a wound is a film-ism, in regards to current-day medical technology. Since a bullet gets hot enough to self-sterilize, and modern antibiotics are what they are, it is no longer as vital to dig a bullet out of a wound. However, antibiotics were not widely used until Prontosil in 1932 – and this fic is set mostly in mid 1929. It was still medical practice to remove a bullet from a wound as quickly as possible at that point, and especially worrisome if the slug carried in other foreign objects such as cloth from one’s shirt or pieces of anything else it passed through before entering the body. With no available treatment for infection, often an untreated wound would result in amputation if it became infected. Amputation of course being preferable to death.

4. There are large amounts of 20’s era slang. Hopefully everything is easy to figure out in the context it’s presented in, but if there are any questions I’ll gladly clarify. Period slang is a particular weakness of mine.

5. Reno’s anecdote about the umbrellas is an unabashed reference to The Untouchables. If you haven’t seen this film and enjoy the 20’s and 30’s era I highly recommend it.

6. The Cocoanuts did indeed come out in 1929, on May 3rd. It was the first Marx Brothers stage show to be transferred to film, once the technology of sound recording came to exist. It made an astronomical amount of money for the day, close to 2 million dollars and was hugely popular. It doesn’t hurt that I love the movie (and the Marx Brothers) in general, and so I felt I had to include it.

7. Entirely out of order. Reno’s family disaster is the Boston Molasses Disaster, a real historical event that happened on January 15th, 1919.

8. The popularization of wristwatches is in fact largely due to WW1, though they were worn by women as early as 1850 when advances in clockwork made accuracy possible in something smaller than a pocket watch.

9. October 28th-29th, ‘Black Monday’ and ‘Black Tuesday’, the dates of the most felt effects of the 1929 stock market crash, and I felt they were pretty much this AU’s version of Meteor.

10. This is more of a personal pet peeve, but I can hardly ever understand why everyone seems to think that Tseng is so deeply tied to being wutaiian when he gives zero evidence of even being interested in Wutai or any of its culture in the game. Instead I feel that he’s not a nationality but instead much more loyal to his job. I apologize for working out some of my frustrations with a back story that isn’t so flowery and complicated as most give him, but I liked ‘I’m from San Francisco.’ I probably couldn’t have lived with myself if he was Chinese mafia come over from the mainland after some horrible scandal and spoke seven languages and knew kung-fu. He’s a guy with long hair and an asian name.

TL;DR: Oh god I am so sorry. This fic is actually shorter than I originally intended because I refused to let it get past 20k.

Fic Pointer

catchyname@gmail.com — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:18:06 GMT

Summer Occupation
L/R fic. Rowe/Jack. Summer themed PWP.
Rating: M

Fic at Springkink.

catchyname@gmail.com — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 05:34:50 GMT

Another update:
Castle on the Sand (FF7, Various ShinRa related pairings) has been finished with a whopping 19,025 wordcount. I am likely going to have to post it to springkink in three pieces. I am somewhat ashamed of myself.

The L/R fic that is due this Saturday is still unstarted. However, I have some of tomorrow and all of friday to get it done and I think if it's much longer than 1.5 k, springkink will throw me out for overuse of the english language.

Tseng/Elena/Veld fic now has eight handwritten pages that need to be typed in, in addition to the previous parts.

I haven't written in so long that apparently when I look at paper words just happen onto it. They aren't necessarily any good, but it feels strange to pick up the pen again and be unable to stop the forward momentum. I know, unfortunately, it can't last.

catchyname@gmail.com — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 17:18:58 GMT

R.I.P David Carradine.
1936-2009

I don't usually react with such shock to an actor's death, but in this case I just felt I couldn't understand it. He always seemed to be someone who was so at peace with himself.

Thank you for the entertainment and everything else, Mr. Carradine.

Progress:

catchyname@gmail.com — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 07:48:45 GMT

Fic due the 13th (L/R - Rowe/Jack) - unstarted, unconcepted. I am awful, but this one is a gimme for me that I believe I can finish in a short period of time when I finally get the inspiration

Castle on the Sand (FF7, Tseng/Elena, Angeal/Zack, Reno/Rude, probably some combination involving Rufus) - due the 19th, currently 6,622 words and only a portion done. This is shaping up to be another monster of an AU that I really didn't want to be so big, only I have a hard-on for history and I keep adding large passages of setting and period research.

Untitled non-springkink fic (FF7:AC, Tseng/Veld/Elena) - I should not even be working on this and yet this monster keeps coming back and exploding out of my closet while I try to get inspiration for Castle on the Sand. I'm pretty sure no one will even like this combination of Turks. I have about 1k words actually typed in, the rest to be copied from various notes at some point. Hopefully some point after I've finished the stuff I have a deadline for.

catchyname@gmail.com — Tue, 12 May 2009 19:16:37 GMT

I hardly ever use this thing for anything but author-work, but today I encountered a metaphor for life that I figured I would talk about a little. Feel free to skip.

Being the standard american mix of races, I have eaten a lot of pasta in my life. I rarely if ever have time to make my own sauce, and so for the longest time I used jarred sauce. My favourite, if anyone else remembers this, was Five Brothers. That was some of the best pasta sauce I've ever had. Several years ago - probably longer than that but I only felt the lack in about 2005 - Five Brothers disappeared off the shelves.

I felt the loss keenly and I have been making my own substandard pasta sauce since then, stubbornly refusing to switch over to another brand because I had a loyalty to Five Brothers.

This week, I just did not have time to make pasta sauce. So I bought some Bertolli, because the commercial jingles catch in my head. (They are sung to the tune of Opera, I can't help it.) To my surprise, it was quite acceptable, and eerily familiar.

It turns out that in 2002, Five Brothers changed their name to Bertolli. I've had the internet at my disposal all that time and I never thought to look up what had happened to my favourite brand of pasta sauce.

I suppose the moral of this story is that sometimes the answers are there if you look for them.

Nanowrimo, Day 9

catchyname@gmail.com — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 00:44:30 GMT

Today's Word Count:
18,022/50,000

Yet again, I wrote all out of order and mostly wrote stuff from the end today. Hopefully more in sequence tomorrow.

Nanowrimo, day one:

catchyname@gmail.com — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 02:30:22 GMT

I'm not terribly pleased with it so far, but it is indeed a start.

2,056/50,000

I write all out of order, so my whole wordcount probably won't be included in every post.

As with most things, Rothschild was the first to know of the king’s death. The Immortal woke him in the dead of night, his confused expression and sad demeanor almost enough for the spymaster to guess at what was wrong. Rothschild sat straight up from his sheets without a word having to be said, his eyes meeting the unnaturally colored ones of the Immortal.

“The king,” He started, and his odd triangular animal-ears drooped in clear distress. He reached out to touch the spymaster’s hand for comfort, and Rothschild moved away from the contact. The Immortal shifted his eyes up again to meet Rothschild’s, continuing.

“The king has passed away.”

The news was not entirely surprising – the king had fallen ill some months prior, and while his physician had done his best to preserve the monarch’s dignity and quality of life, he had never lied that the cough which had taken the King wouldn’t be terminal.

Rothschild threw back his sheets, causing the Immortal to retreat a few steps. He was a strange creature, the favored ‘pet’ of the royal family from a time unknown. He had long served as a faithful guard, sleeping in their bedchambers or in the hearth-room adjacent and ever wary for danger. He had served countless generations of the family, so long now that no one remembered how he had come into servitude save him, and he was fairly withdrawn and secretive around anyone who was not of royal blood.

The Immortal had an animal’s eyes and triangular almost wolfish ears set high on his head, in addition to a long serpentine tail covered in a soft, downy fur and tipped with a silken tuft of longer length. Had Rothschild encountered him anywhere else, he would have been considered magic-touched, cursed by the Silver Winds, and likely put to the sword. However, the Immortal was really some sort of ancient creature in the guise of humanity, and he was protected from common superstition by his loyalty to the house royal within the Kingdom of Thorns.

It was chilly in his room, despite the fire. The Immortal turned, wordless and miserable, to coax the embers in the hearth with an iron poker while Rothschild dressed. He hurried into his robe, ignoring the wet tinge to the Immortal’s breathing while the creature sat crouched. Let him cry if he must, better that he do it here and not where the Princess would have to see.

Rothschild passed back through the hallway, and the sleepy guard at the entrance to the royal chambers seemed more than a little surprised to see him. The Immortal knew all of the secret passages in the castle and how to pass soundlessly through them whenever it was needed. The Spymaster forwent them, because it would be improper for him to emerge suddenly from the King’s bedchamber with news that His Majesty was dead when none had seen him pass into the chambers in the first place.

He didn’t say a word, simply admitted himself. The guard peered after him, and he didn’t close the door behind him to block the man’s view. He moved straight through the chambers, and the lack of coughing tearing the silence confirmed for him what news the Immortal had brought. The blankets on one side of the bed were hurriedly turned and dislodged, and on the other side lay the King, clutching one hand deep into the plush covers he had taken comfort in these long months.

The open, staring eyes told Rothschild – who knew much of death – that the man had passed beyond this world and into the whims of the Silver Wind. He reached out to be sure, his hand over the King’s cold wrist and detecting no pulse beneath the pads of his index and pointer fingers.

It was a great loss for the kingdom, but Rothschild did not betray emotion – if he felt any at all. He turned to the guard, the young man still craning his neck around the corner, and shook his head solemnly. The guard blanched, lifted a hand to his mouth in shock – and Rothschild here suspected the man was considering how much blame could be laid on him for not noticing that his charge had passed beyond.

“The princess,” Rothschild said, and his voice was deep and disused from sleep. “Fetch her.”

The guard disappeared to do his bidding, and Rothschild dragged a chair around to the side of the bed, before he smoothed the blankets to erase the Immortal’s presence, and he gently worked the King’s fingers free of the blanket. He had managed to lay the arms straight at the King’s side under the covers, and drawn those up to his shoulders when the Princess arrived in a great rush of emotion, running to be there sooner and deny the news before she must be forced to accept it by reality.

She gave the spymaster a hateful glare and he gave ground, backed away from the bed when she threw herself at it, her hands touching her father’s face. It was like this that he left them, though with a stern order to the guard at the door to keep an eye on her. There were a thousand preparations to be made, but none of them could go forward until the Princess was ready for them.

He retired back to his quarters, and found the Immortal had disappeared to be alone with his grief. The fire had been tended to roaring, lending the inside of his chambers a comfortable temperature in which to change. He supposed, indeed, that change there would be.

In the weeks leading up to this, with the physician ever more certain that the time was coming, the King had begun to groom his daughter – hardly ideal, but there was no son, indeed no other siblings at all. She had not reacted well when the King had revealed to her that Rothschild was more than an advisor – he was a master of spies, an assassin, the shadowy hand that the King could extend when he must not seem to be extending a hand at all.

She was protected and naïve, and had at first been quite outraged to find that such a thing was necessary and hidden. The Princess had then insisted she would need no such thing, and had begged her father to dismiss him immediately. Her heart was too kind, and it was well known through the kingdom that she took pity on strays and the unwanted.

Rothschild tightened his sword belt at his waist, and smoothed his hands over his chest to be sure the greatcoat hung straight. He must, at least, appear composed. He was always composed – he had long ago learned to dampen any external reaction to tragedy. If there were no strong faces at all in imperial court at a time of tragedy, it made the whole thing seem weak, fragile. Vulnerable.

Nano, Night 21

catchyname@gmail.com — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 06:49:33 GMT

Word Count: 41,024

The novel is complete. This is a major problem. I have a couple of beta readers looking it over for possible parts that need expanding upon, but even then I doubt I can wrangle more than 2-3,000 more words into it without seriously destroying my pacing.

What this may call for is a second short story to be written that fills the remaining word count. I'm not sure exactly what I would want to do yet, but I'm considering something in the same universe to keep with the spirit of the Nanowrimo project.

This is the first time I've ever run into this problem! My previous two nano's just petered out around 30,000 or so words with a whole ton of stuff left to write. Hmm. Dillemas.

Nano, Night 20

catchyname@gmail.com — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 06:15:34 GMT

Word Count: 40,003

Dillema! The story is more or less complete, and I am 10,000 words shy of my goal! There are a few scenes to be written here or there, but certainly not that many words worth! This may be tricky to overcome.

Nano, Night 19

catchyname@gmail.com — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 07:07:52 GMT

Final Wordcount:38,006
Writing Excerpt:
Ahead of them, light began to filter through the trees in brilliant sheets. The soft snowfall had coated the ground here much more thickly, creeping past the loosely tangled branches above to crunch beneath their feet. For the first time in what seemed like an age, Althea saw an end to the trees.

“We must not leave its sight.” Althea said, suddenly. At the last tree she stared out at the open land before her, white with thinly spread snow and shining in the unfiltered sunlight. It hurt her eyes, the brightness after all the time spent in the soft muted light of the wood.

Nano, Night 19

catchyname@gmail.com — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 21:39:13 GMT

Not really a night, but a successful day, I'd say.
Word Count: 36,126

The ending is completely written, all the way to 'the end'. I now have roughly 10,000 words with which to craft a whole lot of the middle into a story that leads from here to there. I may be able to do it, but I suspect this story will need to surpass 50,000 words when I go back an edit it into a final form sometime later.

All in all, I am in love with it, and I still don't feel sick of writing as I often did at this point in each previous year. I will probably work some more on it today, because now it's all the downhill slide.

If you're Nano-ing too this year, keep it up. If I can make it, you can. Just keep writing, just keep pressing on. The finish line is more fun when lots of people make it there!

Nano, Night 18

catchyname@gmail.com — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 06:25:21 GMT

Word Count: 34,046

Tonight I can't offer a writing sample, as I devoted most of my time to writing the ending. :) Sorry! I only made 1,000 words yesterday, so I didn't post the wordcount update here, but tonight I made up for the missed words from yesterday and achieved today's wordcount as well, so I am back on track.

Nano, Night 16

catchyname@gmail.com — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 05:35:15 GMT

It's getting harder and harder to have samples that aren't full of spoilers!

Word Count: 30,008
Writing Sample:
Albreicht’s style was unique – he employed the full length of his sword and kept it close to his body, using moves that caught the other’s blade on the flat of his sword, then spun to deflect the momentum of his attacker for longer than they had originally dedicated. He used the proximity of his body to the other’s to keep track of where exactly his strikes would land, free hand seizing the other’s sword wrist if it could be had.

It was a risky style – a misplaced deflection or a devilishly employed offhand weapon would have ruined it, but he seemed to judge perfectly where each strike from Mosni would land. Albreicht’s strikes were mostly reactive, using momentum already expended to carry himself out of the way of a committed attack. Mosni learned to attack with reserve, and then they finally began to have more even matches.

catchyname@gmail.com — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 05:12:06 GMT

Word Count: 28,013
Writing sample:

Albreicht and Mosni circled, smiling, each ready for the other. Mosni’s hand rested on his hilt, Albreicht’s simply pushed his cloak back so that he could draw unhindered. First, they measured each other with their eyes – as much a part of their game now as the actual swordplay. They waited, sought weakness in the other’s attention or gait.

Neither were ever distracted, neither ever faltered. Albreicht was patient, skilled. He could wait forever for the strike, ever alert. Mosni had the advantage of size and strength, and dedicated himself when he decided to move at last, tenaciously pushing until he found or made an opening. So far, Albreicht had not been bested.

Nanowrimo, Night 14

catchyname@gmail.com — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 06:51:11 GMT

Word Count: 26,231
Writing Sample:

Without thinking, she stooped to get on her boots. As she sat down, her contact with the forest floor increased, and she remembered why she had come down, sleep hazed and tired. Forgetting her shoes, she closed her eyes and focused – and when that brought little more than the usual rustlings she felt, she let go of focus. Allowed herself to drowse a little, her thoughts on the cool grass below her, the firm tree trunk behind her, her companions’ soft breaths as they slept uninterrupted above.

There was a rhythm here, in all of the forest. Each being left a ripple of motion where it touched, distinct from the stirrings of tree limbs in the wind. She let her breath slow, felt her own ripples in the flow of the place around her, and then felt where they crossed with the tides of others. She realized that distantly, she could feel the faintest touches of those besides hers and her companions.

Nanowrimo, Night 13

catchyname@gmail.com — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 04:38:56 GMT

Wordcount: 24,010
Writing Sample:

“The only thing that can kill her is something of her world.” The queen said, turning the weapon this way and that to inspect it. It was a thin blade, tipped for piercing, and the pommel was shaped as a rose, it’s petals only beginning to open. The blade shone dulled silver, as if it were of great age, and under the queen’s gaze, it met approval. “This will do.”

Nano, Night 12

catchyname@gmail.com — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 06:31:28 GMT

Word Count: 22,041
Sample Writing:

“I once tracked a hind as white as the snow,” Albreicht began, making a little gesture with his hands that Althea had only recently learned the meaning of – it was an oath, a swear, a signal of telling the truth. “And as silent.”

“’Tis a tall tale,” Mosni turned to explain to Althea, rolling his eyes a little at the brag. Over his shoulder, Albreicht caught her gaze and winked. “White harts, white hinds – they are not of this world. ‘Tis said they can pass beyond this plane, but hunters desire them more than aught other. Unluck falls upon those who chase them, doomed to chase forever but never catch – though tales promise untold riches if you can.”