I meant to finish my novella “The Tales of Sigma City” last week. Things that got in the way include a) germy germ germs and b) Pokémon LeafGreen.

Don’t judge me. I’ll send my Shiny Golbat after you.

Anyway, after a few days of squeezing out a minimum of zero and a maximum of five hundred words a day, I finally managed to kick my flu’s ass and finish the rough draft yesterday. It stands at 21.5k, which I expect to go up a little in revisions–but I have a little wiggle room, so we’ll see how it turns out.

Here’s the required snippet. Our esteemed heroine is sneaking around a place she shouldn’t be, took something she shouldn’t have, and is trying to shake off a handful of guards.

I know what you’re thinking–this calls for Mommy Issues.

Panthress ducks into the alcove—waits for the footsteps to pass—then slips around the corner. This part of the hall is empty. She picks up her pace. The canister presses painfully into her skin, and she’s far too conscious of the weight of it jangling back and forth in her sleeve. More than anything, she’s thinking, I should’ve run while I could.

In her head, her mother’s voice says: For once, you’re right.

And now, time for a few days of sweet, sweet reading.

My goal: to finish this novella a) before I hear back from my CPs on the latest version of Blink, and b) before my germs overtake me to the point where I can’t write at all anymore.

*coughs to illustrate point*

Here’s a snippet of a scene where my heroine–who’s forced to fly solo–sneaks through the local superhero group’s headquarters looking for important information.

But where do they keep the files?

Kitchen. Sitting room, with a color television. Costume room—and here, Panthress pauses for a moment, drawn to the costumes on display behind glass. There’s Hawk’s old costume. When the team started out, she wore a fabric with a feather pattern, but quickly swapped to the all-white one. Panthress never knew they kept the old versions. The current costumes are stored behind glass, too, up to five of of them in a single case. Panthress recognizes Stalwart’s and Captain Sigma’s and the Blue Berserker’s, and what little there is of Ms. Breeze’s. On one side of the room, used costumes are tossed on a pile, and despite everything it makes her want to laugh. Even the Squadron’s costumes get filthy. She wonders what it’d be like—walking in here every day, letting those glass cases slide open and taking your costume. Joking with the others. Walking onto that platform in front of the building together, as a team, belonging.

There are empty cases to one side of the room. Which one would she get?

She needs to move on.

After passing another draft on to betas, I decided to dig back into a novella I worked on last year that ended up falling by the wayside. (It’s my pulpy ’50s lesbian superhero thing, for those who remember it. The idea is such fun! The execution is so tough!)

I’m rewriting it from scratch, and I’m cautiously optimistic about how it’s turning out. Here’s a snippet:

A day and a half later, the place where Blaze died still smells like fire.

The area is cordoned off, but Panthress doesn’t think it’s meant to do anything but keep children from playing in the factory’s burnt-out skeleton. It’s nothing but a silhouette, barely visible against the near-black background. If the smell doesn’t tell people exactly what happened here, that sight will. Half of the roof is gone. The walls jut into the night sky like crumbled teeth.

“This is nothing like how I left it.”

“Anything in specific we’re looking for?” Stalwart asks.

Panthress doesn’t answer. This may not even be about looking for clues, because this shell of a building will have nothing left for them to find. Maybe it’s just about seeing where Blaze died. About saying, I’m sorry for not staying. I’m sorry for what they’re saying about you.

Usually plotting–whether of a new book or revisions to an existing draft–comes in two stages for me.

Stage one exists of a) hardcopy plotting in my notebook, b) keeping random notes on my phone or in my e-mail, or c) any combination of those two.

Hardcopy plotting is the most common. I don’t use charts, doodles, arrows, tables, or anything fancy; at most, I’ll make lists. What it comes down to is that I ramble. At length. I ask questions, tell myself not to be such a dumbass, mock my characters, suggest possible fixes, change directions mid-sentence, underline important parts… You’ll find a lot of question marks, “probably,” “maybe,” “what if,” “possibly,” “OR WHAT ABOUT,” and “does this work?” in these pages.

Stage two consists of making sure it all works using Scrivener’s corkboard function. I’ve currently got three different versions of BLINK’s plot–I duplicate them for each draft. Here’s the latest version, showing my plans for the first part of the book:

The yellow notes are questions to myself, while the blue and purple tell me, respectively, to (re)write a scene from scratch and to significantly edit an existing one–except I just realized there’s a purple one that should be blue, so clearly my system is failing me. (Also, I’ve already incorporated some changes, so I removed the color for those notes. )

Since this book has proven to be very tricky to share in terms of snippets, I thought this might be a better indication of my progress.

I promise not to link to every nice thing people say about me, but look! Or… listen, rather! People said nice things about “Eight” on StarShipSofa!

*feels special*

So, I’d been tinkering with BLINK for a while. You know, streamlining info-dumps, fixing a misstep here and there, correcting some continuity, those sorts of things.

Then I sat down and went, “I should probably actually edit.”

So on Saturday, nine thousand words of new material exploded from my fingers, and I’ve spent the rest of the week knitting it into the actual book and making sure everything works smoothly. It’s amazing how many things you notice each and every draft. (HOW did that huge plot hole make it into this book? Tsk.)

As usual, this book is nigh impossible to quote from without context, so here’s a bit from one of the early chapters:

Amara didn’t know how long she sat on the stairs, ignoring other inn customers heading to and from their rooms. She traced Dit letters on her leg for lack of paper. She wished Maart would wake up. That he’d tell her stories of the palace he’d served at like he used to.

Then—one moment to the next—Cilla stalked up the stairs, gripping the banisters on both sides.

Amara jerked back, pulling her hand away from half-traced letters like Cilla might notice and tell on her. She scrambled onto the landing to stand upright. Did it look like she’d been eavesdropping? Or like she’d been slacking? She’d done all the tasks Jorn had demanded of her. Maybe she’d missed one.

Cilla reached the top of the stairs. Normally her eyes were narrowed, hidden in shade, but now they were wide enough for Amara to catch a glint of brown even in the dark.

Amara’s heart sped up, a thump-thump-thump with no pauses in-between—no longer because Cilla might tell on her, but because under her wrappings, Cilla’s chest still heaved from exertion or panic or both. Cilla never rushed unless it was important.

That meant one thing. Cilla was hurt.

That time when I actually need to show someone else this book is getting awfully close. I’m scared. Hold me.

In the meantime, here’s a snippet from an early chapter.

“I should’ve done something to help you,” Maart signed then.

“Like what?” Amara asked. “What’s your great plan? Look at me: I’m okay. Whatever you do, you wouldn’t be.” Maart standing up for her would’ve just made Jorn angrier, anyway. He might not punish Amara this badly again—he hadn’t in years—but she didn’t want to find out.

Maart’s skinny eyebrows sank lower and knitted together. “We can run.”

“Jorn would find us.” Jorn would kill them.

“We can run fast.”

“That’s not a plan,” she scoffed.

… or I am. One or the other.

Or both.

I officially started editing BLINK today, which is at once exciting and scary. This is the sixth book I’ve written, but it’ll only be the second book I’m properly editing, and we all know that’s where the real work is done.

I made a file listing edits I need to make, organized by topic, and I’m tackling it from the top down.

First: Writing new scenes and threading the consequences through the rest of the book.
Next: Add some observations here and here to aid characterization and world-building.
Next: Trickier edits, like changes to someone’s personality or voice.
Last: Line edits, which includes tightening scenes and marking parts that still need rewriting.

We’ll see what happens to this grand plan, yeah?

Here’s a snippet from a new scene:

Amara heated the bathwater obediently, crouching by the lit coals with Cilla hovering over her.

“Do you need other help?” Amara said, signing mechanically.

“No. What I want is—” Cilla’s lips pressed together. “I’m afraid to say what I want because you might give it to me.”

“I didn’t kiss you because you wanted me to.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Amara stayed silent.

Yup.

Last night, I wrote those magic two words: The End. My final word count is an almost-round 75k, which is a fantastic word count for most YAs but a bit too short for this particular book — which means I can spend my vacation brainstorming ways to spread out the plot a bit more. In addition to, you know, lounging by the side of the pool, walking o the beach, admiring the Mediterranean sea, eating in cute Greek taverns, climbing ruins…

Don’t be jealous.

(I would be jealous.)

Anyway, given that I started this book on the fourth of September, it means I finished it in exactly a month’s time, which is pretty cool. I’m also incredibly relieved I managed to finish it so early, because it means not having to put drafting on hold while I’m gone (it takes forever to get back into things), and because it means I can prepare for my vacation without undue writing-related stress. I’m leaving tomorrow, which means it’s time to get some work done.

Right now, I love this book. I hate the thought of that love and energy fading as I dig deep into its flaws, but that’s good, too, because I love it enough to know that it deserves to be better.

Here’s a snippet of Amara and Cilla on an island market:

A boy showed up by their side, baring a wide smile. “Rootstocks?” he asked, raising a rattan basket stacked with roots and leaves and seeds, a heady mix of sweet and mint and sharp. “I’ve got kalisse, ginger—or aniseeds if you prefer? Cinnamon sticks? Mint leaves—” The disinterest in their faces had him switching rapidly from one to the other, but Amara didn’t let him continue. He stood too close to Cilla for safety. Amara stepped forward, squared what little shoulders she had, and gave a tug of her head—a simultaneous no and scram!

If he didn’t move, she’d shove him, but he got the hint. Bother people too much and the market overseers banned you. If there was one thing the Alinean founders valued, it was good business.

Bonus points if you can figure out what I mean by ‘kalisse.’ I wish could share something more exciting, but almost everything past a certain point is just one giant spoiler.

… oh man. I can’t believe I’m done!

Well, if this were November, I’d just have won.

As it is, uh, I hit another milestone. Yay!! Those of you following me on Twitter must be getting tired of my word count obsession, but it’s a big deal to me. Gotta track progress somehow, right?

50500 / 85000 words. 59% done!

Finding snippets to share is getting harder and harder. Here’s one that might work:

[The sun] slipped slowly up the sky from behind the mainland, tinting the air a gray that hovered between yellow and blue, and painting the clouds colors Amara couldn’t even find a name for. The cold still pricked at her arms, but she didn’t mind.

Maybe this was why Cilla had called her up to the deck. From inside the cabin, or from in the water, the view wasn’t nearly as beautiful.

“Look!” Cilla said.

Amara nodded distractedly. Her eyes stayed fixed on the clouds. “I haven’t seen a sunset from the sea in years.” When they sailed, it was usually during the day, and the distances between the islands and the mainland were minimal.

“No,” Cilla said. She touched Amara’s shoulder, turning her around. “Look.”

At first, Amara thought Cilla meant for her to see the harbor in the distance, maybe the ship headed their way. Were those the sub-Schoutte? Had they figured out where she’d gone?

Then she spotted the stretch of gray beach that made up [the island's] tail, curling at the horizon.

Amara’s eyes took a second to focus on the shapes scampering over the sand. From this distance she could barely see details, not the way their stick-thin legs practically danced over the sand, or the way their pointed snouts swung left and right in an endless search for bugs, or how they’d slide from the sea into the water and their legs went wide, but she didn’t need to. She remembered. And besides, she did see the round bodies and the way they moved over the sand in fits and starts. She didn’t even need to think before signing, “Diggers!”

Her record was seeing three in one time, and one of those she hadn’t even been sure of. Now—oh, she couldn’t even begin to count the gray shapes dotting the sand. The more she looked, the more diggers she saw, some partly in the water, others scurrying through the dunegrass, visible only by the way the grass swung counter to the wind.

“Apparently morning is the time to go digger-watching.” Cilla beamed.

I mean, what’s the use of having a secondary-world fantasy if you can’t make up funny-lookin’ creatures?

And oh, it feels so good. There’s nothing like making progress. I feel like I’m flying.

28200 / 85000 words. 33% done!

That means I’ve written almost 5k today. Whoa.

As usual, trying to find a spoiler-free snippet is freaking hard. There’s a part I really want to share — um, mainly because I just finished it and I’m still crying from how intense that was — but yeah, spoilers abound.

So, er, here’s an earlier bit. (Context: Cilla’s cursed. Even one drop of blood will lead to Bad Things.)

“Your ankle?”

Amara closed the distance between her and Cilla, walking past shut doors. She heard one patient’s sticky coughs even through the old-brick walls. She crouched by Cilla’s feet.

“I bent it going up the stairs,” Cilla said. “It’s fine. It’s all internal.”

Amara undid the elastic that bound Cilla’s boot, then tapped the back of her leg, indicating for her to lift it. Amara slid off the boot, ignoring Cilla’s stifled grunt of pain. They needed to be sure. She slid up the leg of Cilla’s wear.

Cilla’s skin was the dark brown of soaked wood, which made contusions harder to pick out, though blood stood out just as much. The skin looked unbroken. Amara’s fingers felt the back of Cilla’s ankle and shin, ignoring course hair and old scarring, and the stink of sweat-drained horse-fuzz that drifted up from the boot lying on its side beside her. Cilla wore her boots all hours of the day, taking them off only for sleep. Otherwise, her toes might stub, or her nails might tear. Splinters, rocks or grass might prick or cut her open. Bugs could sting her too easily. For the same reason, Cilla’s wear was thicker than other people’s, and they’d sewn pads to the inside of her knees and made Cilla wrap her topscarf around her elbows, no matter how bizarre it looked.

And those were just the clothes-related precautions.

They kept her safe, though. Relieved, Amara leaned away.

“See?” Cilla said. When Amara glanced up, Cilla was looking sideways out the window, a feeble smile on her face despite the tension in her jaw. “It’s fine.”