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Well, I have been very good today. Yesterday I got about 600 words before I had to stop due to shoulder pain. Today the shoulders are much better, I finished the chapter that would not end, and I got 2215 words. Jehan is planning for tomorrow, while Qiaqia is remembering and wandering and wondering.
One of the weird aspects of this book is that chunks of it are in Qiaqia's point of view, and she's dead. It's not like writing Valdarrien-as-ghost in Living With Ghosts: he didn't accept his death and was bound and determined he could do something about it -- and sure he could. She's not like that. She's been dead a very long time, she's a part of death, in a way, an aspect. It's a very strange v/p to write. But interesting. Here's a snippet.
"The Brass City stretched out around her on all sides, clotted with human life. Standing on the cobbles, she could almost breathe it in, the rich sour weightiness of it, all those separate lives yearning and struggling, eating, sleeping, breeding, needing, dying…. The voices of the dying spoke sharpest in her ears, bright and desperate in their very last moments. I didn’t mean… I only thought… I shouldn’t have…. Oh no, oh, no, oh, no…
Her people, her kind, or so it once had been. She had thought it would be easy, once she was in WorldAbove, to remember, to reclaim her ancient humanity. She had thought it must be part of her, written in her every line, to be read and woken.
It had not been so. The world – this world which had borne her – knew her no more. It resisted her, its fabric thick and heavy to her touch, holding her back, holding her down, holding her away from itself. She did not belong, not now, not here, not anymore."
Skirt of the day: denim.
One of the weird aspects of this book is that chunks of it are in Qiaqia's point of view, and she's dead. It's not like writing Valdarrien-as-ghost in Living With Ghosts: he didn't accept his death and was bound and determined he could do something about it -- and sure he could. She's not like that. She's been dead a very long time, she's a part of death, in a way, an aspect. It's a very strange v/p to write. But interesting. Here's a snippet.
"The Brass City stretched out around her on all sides, clotted with human life. Standing on the cobbles, she could almost breathe it in, the rich sour weightiness of it, all those separate lives yearning and struggling, eating, sleeping, breeding, needing, dying…. The voices of the dying spoke sharpest in her ears, bright and desperate in their very last moments. I didn’t mean… I only thought… I shouldn’t have…. Oh no, oh, no, oh, no…
Her people, her kind, or so it once had been. She had thought it would be easy, once she was in WorldAbove, to remember, to reclaim her ancient humanity. She had thought it must be part of her, written in her every line, to be read and woken.
It had not been so. The world – this world which had borne her – knew her no more. It resisted her, its fabric thick and heavy to her touch, holding her back, holding her down, holding her away from itself. She did not belong, not now, not here, not anymore."
Skirt of the day: denim.
