1,000 Daily Challenge: Day Three

Today I had the fun of introducing a new character to The Color of the Sky.  Until today, the only people who had put in real appearances in the story (and did not merely show up in fragments under my "Things to be added later" section) were Margot and Fina (the sisters around whom the story revolves), their mother, Philippe (their brother) and Chantal (an elderly maidservant).  But today I was privileged enough to write two scenes that featured Bernard Anthoine.  And the act gave me great pleasure, great pleasure indeed.  Because, you see, Bernard's been formulating in my mind for some time (and I character cast him as soon as I thought of him... see below... cough, cough) but until today I had yet to commit him to Word document.

That's not Ivanhoe.  That's Bernard.
Except that he doesn't wear chain mail. 

Snapping twigs crackled in the bracken, and Margot’s heart had barely enough time to speed up before a dirt-streaked man ducked under a low-hanging branch and was facing them. Running would be futile, she was sure. Besides, he had a bow slung from one shoulder. She wondered how much an arrow would hurt, and how long it would take for them to die.

Beside her, Fina stiffened. The disturbance of the underbrush and Margot’s sudden silence spoke volumes—she knew there was danger. Her hand groped slowly but surely for Margot’s and clasped it. The mild pain of Fina’s fingernails digging into her palm brought Margot to her senses. Whatever might happen, she could not stand here staring into this fellow’s deer-brown eyes all day long. If he killed them, he killed them. So be it. At least they would not have to suffer hunger pangs any longer.

“What is your business here?” She tried to make her voice as authoritative as possible, aping Philippe’s most stentorian tones.

“My business here?” The man stood up straight, pushing swaying leaves away from his face and tugging a stray one from his tousled blond hair, but he touched neither his bow nor the knife at his belt. “My business is to do a bit of hunting for my family—perhaps a better question would be to ask what business two maids have out here, unescorted.” There was no anger or threat in his voice, merely interest.

“And if we are unescorted? What is it to you?” Margot squeezed Fina’s hand so hard she could hear the bones creak, and hastily she loosened her grip.

“Nothing whatsoever,” said the man, smile lines creasing the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Only that I should not like to see you come to any harm. These woods are not the safest place to be out alone, you know.”

Margot narrowed her eyes. His face had a weatherbeaten kindness about it, and he had still not reached for his bow. Perhaps—just perhaps—he did not intend to kill and eat them after all. (Just when her terrified imaginings had expanded to include cannibalism she did not know, but it was at least slight relief to know that he did not intend to do anything of the sort at present.)

~The Color of the Sky, chapter three

Oh, and final count for today is 1,057.  I wasn't aiming for 1500 today.  No, seriously! I wasn't!

1,000 Daily Challenge: Day Two

Today I was not in a writing mood.  Today I was in a sewing mood.  I drafted a bodice pattern, cut out said bodice pattern, pinned the pattern to the cloth and cut out the pieces, sewed the bodice together and discovered it was too small, made notes to enlarge the seam allowance tomorrow... oh, I was supposed to tell you about my writing today, wasn't I?

Pearl S. Buck put it really, really well.  "Your mind must know it has got to get down to work."  Period.  End of story. No, actually, beginning of story.  Stop woolgathering, stop waiting for the right time (or the right pair of socks, the right cup of tea, the right chair to sit in, the right time of day...) and just write.

That's what I did today.  I wrote 1,529 words--most of them in The Color of the Sky--and it was kind of like squeezing blood out of a turnip (although why anyone would want blood from a turnip is beyond me... gross).  They didn't flow freely.  They didn't come easily.  They don't look very good now that I'm rereading them.  They didn't even sound very good when I read them out loud to my sister.

But I wrote them, and that's what counts.  Write now.  Edit later.  EDIT.  LATER.  Willpower, Amy.  WILLPOWER.

On a happier note, I've found Fina!  Fina, in case I haven't made this clear already (can't remember...) is Margot's younger sister, and originally she was supposed to look kind of like Buttercup in The Princess Bride... but I wasn't altogether pleased with that.  Then today I was looking through some medieval-style paintings on Google Images (I collect pictures for inspiration) and bang, there she was, looking at me.  Well, not actually at me.  She was kind of looking off to the side; the middle distance, as my sister calls it.  

It's her face that counts, not the Roman-maiden clothing and the wild hair.  Fina's hair is about that color, only not quite so floating and mermaid-ish.  I'm vastly pleased with this picture on the whole, though.  Now for snippets.

They sat quietly together as the sun dappled through the thicket and revealed the grass stains and streaks of mud on their clothing, silent testimony to the terrible race through the night.

Father had always said that Jacques should save money on scythes and use Chantal’s tongue for harvesting instead. Mother, in her turn, had always shaken her head and hushed Father, for fear that Chantal might hear. She had been Mother’s maidservant since Mother was a child, and to offend her was easier than tripping on the loose brick in the stairway to the kitchen. Philippe had once said (quietly, of course) that if Chantal hadn’t been bound to Mother’s service for life, she would have left the manor before Fina was born. Margot had somehow managed to receive a congenital talent for angering Chantal, a talent that had manifested itself from the time she was two years old and had told Chantal that her nose looked like a snake’s nose. (Chantal’s nose did bear serpentine attributes, but Chantal had not taken kindly to the comparison.)

The anger she had heard in Philippe’s tones earlier had faded a bit, but it was still crouched and ready to spring at any moment.

Dewdrops melted on the web, so very slowly but steadily just the same. The owner of the web uncoiled himself from his wispy little nugget of a bed in the corner and set out for his morning walk across his tiny kingdom. Margot briefly wondered if she ought to be repulsed by the fuzzy black body, but somehow she seemed like the intruder in this peaceful place, with the spider as the proud and condescending host.

So how'd you do today?  Are you blogging your progress?  Care to share a snippet or four?  Leave me a link in the comments!

1,000 Daily Challenge: Day One

This is not me, but I rather wish it was.

I made it!... for today at least.  One thousand, one hundred and twenty words have been added to The Rochesters, and today's theme was "write now, edit later."  I'm not tremendously pleased with what I've written, but I keep reminding myself to just keep swimming and wait to revise 'til it's all finished.

We'll have to wait and see how well THAT goes.  They don't call me "Miss Compulsive Tweaker" for nothing.  Oh, wait, they don't call me that at all...

...well, they should.

I didn't get up early to write today, nor did I do anything special.  I just sat down at the computer at three different intervals throughout the day and pecked out a few hundred words.  It wasn't really that hard... which is why I'm going to make myself do 1500 tomorrow.  I'm still calling this the 1,000 Daily Challenge for two reasons: a) because I don't like changing the names of things unless I have to (it tends to confuse people) and b) because just in case I don't make 1500 tomorrow, I'll still have the 1,000 to fall back on and won't feel quite as guilty.

Ahem moving on.  Snippets from today's work, here we come!  (All of these hail from The Rochesters.)

“Actually, Lemmins is spelled with two M’s and an I. L-e-m-m-i-n-s.”

“Really?” The girl at the counter wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard it spelled that way… are you sure?”

Sylvia was tempted to say, “Oh, yes of course. It’s actually Lemons. How silly of me, not to be able to spell my own name,” but she reflected that this might be considered rude and decided not to make remarks.

Alice reached out a dreamy hand for a butter knife, slit the envelope, and ever-so-slowly pulled the letter out. She was evidently enjoying the drama of the moment.

Francie appeared in the doorway. “Why’d it get so quiet down here all of a sudden? Is anyone dead?”

“It’s a letter from Aunt Maria,” said Celia in hollow tones.

“Oooooh.” Francie flew across the scratched linoleum to peer over Alice’s shoulder.

Alice read very fast, mouthing words to herself occasionally as the others waited with held breath. Sylvia still had only a vague idea of what was going on, but the melodramatic excitement in the air was contagious. She was going to start sneezing with the jitters in a minute, she just knew it.

Alice let out a huff. “Okay, well, [Mark] says he won’t be a groomsman. Period.”

“Then don’t make him be one,” said Celia. “Let him sit unnoticed in one of the pews with a paper bag over his head if he wants to. Case closed. I’m going back to—”

Alice caught the hem of Celia’s skirt and dragged her back to the bed. “It’s not that simple.”

It sounded simple enough to Sylvia. Besides which, permitting Mark to sit in church with a paper bag over his head sounded entertaining, but she was keeping her mouth shut.

The Challenge

I love this quote... but find it difficult to look at this piece of inspiration
without cringing at the omitted apostrophe.  ARGHHHHH.

I read inspirational writing blogs.  I write a few inspirational posts of my own.  I read lots of books.  I drink tea.  I read more books.  I collect writing quotes.  I scribble ideas in a notebook.  I stick my nose back into my books.  

And I get, oh, maybe a thousand words written.

Per week.

Ouch.

And that's why I'm challenging myself next week.  On Monday, August 13th, I will write one thousand words.  Or more, if possible.  On Tuesday, August 14th, I will write one thousand words.  Or more.  On Wednesday I will do the same.  You get the idea.  I'll continue through Saturday, and each day I'll blog about my progress and share a couple of snippets.  It's motivating, you know.  Motivating to know that thirty of you will be holding me accountable.  (You ladies are amazing, by the way.)

Writer's block, prepare to meet thy doom on the sword of Sabrina Starr.

P.S. Does anyone want to join me?  Leave a link in the comments? Six thousand words next week--will you do it?

Beautiful People {Archive Edition}: Philippe

 Every time I write a story, I tell myself that I'm not going to play favorites on this go-round.  And every time, I find myself inexpressibly drawn to a certain character (or two).  Rodney and Lavinia tied in Only a Novel, Francie is becoming my new best friend in The Rochesters, Deirdre fascinates me no end in The Butterwick Boardinghouse Detectives, and now I'm beginning to favor Philippe over any other character in The Color of the Sky.  So I've fished another Beautiful People questionnaire out of the archives, and you're all probably tired of hearing me gush about how helpful these are, so I'll skip the advertisement and get to the Real Thing.

How old is he?

Philippe's about twenty-two or twenty-three.  I'm not exactly sure.

What does he do with his spare time?

This question bugs me.  I'm not quite sure Philippe has what you'd call spare time.  The fact is that at the beginning he's trying his hardest to fill his deceased father's shoes by running the manor house and bossing the laborers and arranging his sisters' futures.  Then SOMETHING happens and he's notably absent for a good part of the book, and while he's missing in action (cough, cough-- literally--cough) he's basically trying to stay alive.  So yeah... spare time?  What's that?

Does he see the big picture or live in the moment?

Philippe wants desperately to see the big picture, but he's not yet sure what that is.  He's stuck in the moment right now and though he'd never admit it to anyone, he has a gnawing fear that there's nothing beyond the moment. (Pardon my speaking in riddles... all will be revealed in good time.)

Is he a perfectionist?

You better believe it.


What does his handwriting look like? (round, slanted, curly, skinny, sloppy, neat, decorative, etc.)

Philippe doesn't write much.  I'm not sure if he even knows how.  I have to do a little more research about 13th-century literacy levels.

Ignore the suit, okay? It's hard finding medieval-
style photos that don't include armor, people.

Favorite animal?

Sometimes he's convinced all men are merely animals.

Does he/she have any pets?

Um, he has a horse.  Which he pets.  Occasionally.

Does he have any siblings? How many? Where does he fit in?

Philippe has two younger sisters, Margot and Fina.  He had three brothers and another sister, as well, but three of them died as infants and one as a toddler.  As for fitting in-- he doesn't.  Margot and Fina have a special relationship into which he's not invited, and just between you and me, that hurts him a little.  Not that he has time for that kind of nonsense of course, but still... he'd probably kill me if he knew I was telling you this, so I'll stop.  And I realize that I probably interpreted the last question a little differently than I was supposed to, but what are rules for if you can't bend them occasionally?  (Don't let Philippe hear me say that either, or I'd be the one getting booted off to a convent.)

Does he have a 'life verse' and if so what is it?

That.  Would be telling.  So I won't.


Favorite writing utensil?

Can we change this to "favorite eating utensil" so that I can respond with "his fingers"?  Yay for medieval table manners.

I Can't Become a Writer...

... by character casting on Pinterest.

... by listening to inspiring music.

... by reading lots of great literature.

... by having late-night chats with Sister Dear about troublesome plot holes.

... by doing Beautiful People.

... by reading and re-reading On Writing Well.

... by reading writing blogs.

... by collecting writerly quotes.

... by complaining about writers' block.

I can become a writer in just one way... by writing.

*closes Internet and opens Microsoft Word*

Are you still alive, Philippe?

I'm linking up with Rosamund Gregory's character letters for the very first time.  Oddly enough, I've chosen a character who can't read or write for this first letter, but I chose her because I want to get to know her better (and what better way than to get directly inside her head?).  So though this letter will never be written down, never sent, never read by Philippe, here is the letter Margot composes in her head to her older brother.  Even in her thoughts, Margot frequently rearranges what she wants to say, which will account for the multitude of strike-throughs in this letter.  The fact that Margot and Philippe's relationship is rocky at best will account for the rearranging of Margot's thoughts.

Margot's handwriting is nonexistent (as I said, she doesn't even know how to write), as is her stationery, and she doesn't doodle in the margins because she has no paper on which to doodle.  Even if she did have paper, she wouldn't waste it in doodling, though.  I'm not sure what she'd do with it.  Maybe she'd give it to Philippe, just as she wishes she could give this letter, but of course there's no way to do that.  

Dear Phillipe
Hello, Philippe
Philippe,

Are you still alive?

Are you coming to find us?

If I say nothing else here, I must say that at least.  Fina and I are safe-- I hope I'm sure you'll be glad to know that.  We're in a village I've never seen, a place I'd never even heard of... but of course I know so little of the surrounding villages.  I don't know how far we are from home.  We walked for so long that horrible night, but I have no idea how much distance we covered.

The people who found us are good, I think.  They are gentle and kind, and one young woman especially has become attached to Fina.  They have told us we may stay with them, but I do not know what to do, nor indeed what to think of them.  I do not know who they are, exactly-- their manner of living is like the gypsies that came to the manor last year, but these people do not steal as the gypsies did.  They make their living, so far as I can see, as tinkers, traveling from village to village with no fixed destination.

All this is not really so strange, I suppose, but the oddest of it all is their religion.  I'd never met a real live heretic before, and I always imagined them to be great brute beasts with horns, but these travelers look just like you and me.  Yet their beliefs--though neither pagan nor occult--are in direct disobedience to the holy Church, and I fear that Fina and I may be tainted if we stay with them.  Of course we do not listen to their heresies, and we try our best to shut our ears when they recite their prayers around the fire each night.  But might we, too, be condemned (as they will surely be) from association with them?  Why am I even asking you?  You are the one constantly searching for answers.  You are the one who went on a pilgrimage.  But I do not think you came back with any more answers than when you left, now did you?  

I do not know what to think.  All I know is that we must get away.

I miss you terribly I should like to see you again.  Each night as I lie awake I think over the last words I spoke to you, and I wish so much that I could take them back I would like to apologize for what I said.  I know you only want what is best for me  Perhaps you did not mean to be so autocratic.

I know you'll come for us, Philippe-- you wouldn't abandon your sisters, would you, if you could possibly avoid it?  Please still be alive I'm sure you must be all right.  They wouldn't dare to capture you or harm you in any way, would they?

Please come, please come, as soon as you can I look forward to seeing you again.
We need you. 
I need some answers.
I miss you.  Fina misses you.

With love,
Your sister,
Margot