Looks Like Progress
My Friday the 13th good luck streak continues: I found out on Friday that The City Beyond Play has been nominated in the Best Novella category for the British Fantasy Awards. Woot! Some heavy hitting authors there (including one story I would've voted for had my own not been in the list), but I'm just happy to be there.
In the meantime, don't forget to look at the moon this evening. And who needs a calculator when you have crop circles?
PROGRESS REPORT FOR 6/14 AND 6/17/08
New Words: 4550 (3100/1450).
Total Words: 27200.
Reasons For Stopping: Stuff. 6/14 because I was helping get the house ready for
mauzybroadway and yesterday because I was going somewhere.
Mammalian Assistance: Not too much now that the animals have realized they won't get much attention while my mind is buried in the early 18th century.
Exercise: Not much to speak of.
Stimulants: None / Dr. Pepper on the rocks.
Today's Opening Passage(s): Saturday: The horse had been Natty Burwell’s idea. Andrew himself never took to the creatures well, and though he wasn’t a poor rider he preferred his feet and a solid pair of boots. He might still have insisted on walking the entire way until Natty asked if Andrew was willing to carry one or two hundred pounds’ worth of furs on his back all the two hundred miles from the Shenandoah to Williamsburg. Andrew took the horse, and a polished English saddle too.
Yesterday: Schenk shook Andrew awake before dawn and for a moment the Scotsman groggily thought he was back on the Spotswood expedition about to be told that Natty Burwell had gone missing. “Get up, MacEvan,” the ranger captain said. “We should leave before the Indians start coming through the pass and asking for their gifts. Be certain you’ve got enough for a week’s travel, plus some trade goods maybe.”
Darling(s) Du Jour: Just a couple of bits I'm fond of...
The man tapped his chest. “Tsalagi,” he said, then, “Cherokee. You, English?”
“Scot!” Andrew corrected angrily. The Cherokee seemed to consider the name while chewing his turkey, then shrugged as if the difference meant nothing.
and
“Lost Wind says your name must be Red Buffalo,” White Fox continued, “because you fight like a buffalo. He said they have to be elsewhere today but someday wants you to come to his town and teach them how to fight like that. He says you can keep your gun.”
“I’ve never seen a red buffalo,” Andrew admitted.
“Neither had he, until today.”
Books In Progress: The Winter King.
In the meantime, don't forget to look at the moon this evening. And who needs a calculator when you have crop circles?
New Words: 4550 (3100/1450).
Total Words: 27200.
Reasons For Stopping: Stuff. 6/14 because I was helping get the house ready for
mauzybroadway and yesterday because I was going somewhere.Mammalian Assistance: Not too much now that the animals have realized they won't get much attention while my mind is buried in the early 18th century.
Exercise: Not much to speak of.
Stimulants: None / Dr. Pepper on the rocks.
Today's Opening Passage(s): Saturday: The horse had been Natty Burwell’s idea. Andrew himself never took to the creatures well, and though he wasn’t a poor rider he preferred his feet and a solid pair of boots. He might still have insisted on walking the entire way until Natty asked if Andrew was willing to carry one or two hundred pounds’ worth of furs on his back all the two hundred miles from the Shenandoah to Williamsburg. Andrew took the horse, and a polished English saddle too.
Yesterday: Schenk shook Andrew awake before dawn and for a moment the Scotsman groggily thought he was back on the Spotswood expedition about to be told that Natty Burwell had gone missing. “Get up, MacEvan,” the ranger captain said. “We should leave before the Indians start coming through the pass and asking for their gifts. Be certain you’ve got enough for a week’s travel, plus some trade goods maybe.”
Darling(s) Du Jour: Just a couple of bits I'm fond of...
The man tapped his chest. “Tsalagi,” he said, then, “Cherokee. You, English?”
“Scot!” Andrew corrected angrily. The Cherokee seemed to consider the name while chewing his turkey, then shrugged as if the difference meant nothing.
and
“Lost Wind says your name must be Red Buffalo,” White Fox continued, “because you fight like a buffalo. He said they have to be elsewhere today but someday wants you to come to his town and teach them how to fight like that. He says you can keep your gun.”
“I’ve never seen a red buffalo,” Andrew admitted.
“Neither had he, until today.”
Books In Progress: The Winter King.