Sheila Rambles

I haven't written much here , but I have been writing. I successfully completed National Novel Writing Month this past November, for certain values of "completed." I crossed the 50,000 mark a few days early, and closed out at 54,527 on the 30th. However, the novel itself is not narratively complete, so it ended on " To be continued... " instead. (My outline--which I played with for most of the year--was ridiculously detailed.) I plan to work on finishing it over the next few months (there's not enough material left to merit a sequel out of it, plus I have stuff in mind for the next book in the series) and edit into something rereadable. The revisions on  The Two Kinds of Magic  are progressing nicely, thanks to a writers' group that specializes in genre fiction. (As I've discovered, getting feedback on an urban fantasy from literary types is Not Very Helpful.) I'm already outlining revisions in my head for parts that they haven't even gott...

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.  My last confession was three months ago.  I have committed a mortal sin, but I did it to preserve the life of my apprentice, my friend, the safety of this world and my own life.” From behind the screen there was a sigh.  Sebastian recognized it.  It was Father Harrison, who usually took confession around this time.  It was safe to tell him everything; he had been red cord bound for years after witnessing someone flying. Father Harrison finally spoke.  His voice was weary.  “Tell me, Sebastian, who have you killed this time?”

I just pointed some people to this blog, which I take as a hint that I should update the thing so the last entry isn't over a year ago. My various streams of income have been very demanding and I have been writing actual fictional stuff in the free time in between. And NaNoWriMo pretty much ate my November. But one of my New Year's resolutions was to do twelve posts in my various blogs (in totality--not per blog) and I just finished another resolution of submitting The Two Kinds of Magic  to at least five agents, so I'm feeling like things are possible. I'm working on two things right now. One is a short(ish) story called Vexations  which I was starting in the previous entry here. (It was 7,000 words then; it clocks in at 14,000 words now.) The other is a detailed outline of this coming November's NaNoWriMo effort. (It's a sequel to last year's--I guess I just didn't want the story to end.) I've sniffed out some potential places to submit Vexati...

I knew it had been a while since I'd updated this blog.  I hadn't realized it had been two years . 2013 was the year of The Unpleasantness and after I signed off here I devoted my time to recovering from The Unpleasantness.  My recovery was such that I wasn't able to write much during it but once it was over I was able to devote my time to finishing and revising The Two Kinds of Magic .  It's made the rounds of all the agents I was able to find on AgentQuery.com and gotten either silence or polite refusals.  I've gotten more direct feedback from the writers' groups I attend, as well as a few people who have read the thing all the way though, and it's been overwhelmingly positive.  Even my sister, who didn't like my first novel, had good things to say about it.  So my ego isn't quite as squashed as it might be. I've sent it to a few publishers that take direct submissions and I think I'll be sending it to a few more before I resort to self...

I signed up for the Clarion West Write-A-Thon because my hope was that it would motivate me to get my arse in gear and get a workable draft completed of The Two Kinds of Magic . This did not happen. There are reasons, some that cannot be discussed in public and others that are all too familiar.  (The Ugly Handsome Man was in fine form, I must say.)  In point of fact, I was in a bad enough place that I couldn't even make myself write excuse notes, so there are a lot of unexcused non-writing days to account for. I believe today is the last day to donate.  If you'd like to make a donation on my behalf, despite my miserable failure, the link is thus:  http://clarionwest.org/writeathon/sheilaoshea .  Anybody who does will be sent one of my Ten Thousand Flowers to the address you provide when you make the donation--you will not need to send a SASE to receive it. I am slowly working my way back to regular writing sessions in an effort to complete this beast. ...

A couple of writers I follow on Twitter linked me to the  Clarion West Write-a-Thon  and I decided that this novel I've been poking at for the past couple of years might stand a better chance of being finished if I had a proper deadline instead of some vague sense that I should really work on that thing. So I have signed up.  My profile is visible here:  http://clarionwest.org/writeathon/sheilaoshea .  I am asking for any interested sponsors to front the nice folks at Clarion West a dollar for every day that I successfully sidestep all internal excuses and sit my ass down and write.  I will be posting my progress in a daily Tweet from my @wonderbink account with the hashtag #writeathon. I haven't added it to my profile there yet, but I'll state it here--anybody who sponsors me and gives me a mailing address will get a free  Wishing Star  magnet, suitable for sticking on any ferrous metal surfaces you glance at for inspiration. Sound goo...

“You were right—the job was a good luck charm.” When Delany interviewed for the job, she’d asked the usual question about why the position was open in the first place.  Margie’s answer was that the store had a tendency to raise people’s vibrations so that the next thing you knew, their dream job opened up or they started their own business.  Delany didn’t have the heart to suggest to Margie that maybe people would be less inclined to bolt to other jobs or plunge into the risky waters of entrepreneurship if she paid something closer to a living wage.

“Is that new?” Sebastian asked.  He’d settled into the seat next to Delany. “Had them installed when we put the shelves in.  Stones before spells and all that.  I also had a video projector installed as my plausible explanation.” “How did you explain the curtains over the mirror?”  “If they’d asked, I would have told them I have eccentric but wealthy clients who get nervous around mirrors.  It would have had the added bonus of being absolutely true.  As it turned out, if you pay enough, they don’t ask questions in the first place.  Shall we cast the circle, then?”

“He’s still there,” she said quietly. “Is he?”  Claude turned to look.  “You’d think a magician of his level would have a little more sense than that.” Delany felt that tensing in the air again, like thunderclouds building. Argentine turned and stalked away and the pressure slackened. “ There’s a good boy,” he said.  “Let’s get you back up to Mr. James’ suite, shall we?  You are still staying there, I hope.” “I am.  I was just . . . on my way back.” “We always appreciate returning guests.  Well-behaved ones, at least.  Though you’ve been remarkably troublesome without even making an effort.”

“Oh, he definitely wants you dead—with your throat cut inside of a summoning circle.  Depending on who your father really is, your blood will either bind the demon to his will or unleash it without restraint.  He seems convinced that you are his daughter, or else he is mad enough to believe that summoning an unbound demon is an acceptable risk.  Either way, it would be a catastrophe and I will have no rest until he is stopped.” “Do you ever rest?  When’s the last time you slept?” Sebastian paused to calculate.  “About two and a half years ago.”

“You have abused my hospitality no less than twice, and in ways that count double against you.  There will be no third chances.  You are no longer welcome at the Vaumont, Mister Argentine.  Get out before I seal the wards against you.  Mister Blake is a guest who understands when it is time to leave.  You would do well to follow his example.”  The man turned to Delany and extended his hand.   “Miss Riordan, I presume?  Claude Vaumont, at your service.” Delany tentatively took his hand.  He smiled and placed a light kiss upon her knuckle before leading her inside.

Laney was quiet for a long time.  “What do you mean by that?  Crossing over into magic?” “We often liken it to the banks of a river.  On one bank lives the human race in its usual state.  On the other bank are those who have become magical.  Right now, you might be considered between the banks in the middle of the river.  When you have been made a magician, you will arrive at the far bank.” “Is there a way back to the . . . regular bank?” “The near bank, it’s usually called.  And no, there isn’t.  Not once you’ve crossed.”