Progress Report and a Free Sample of my Wares
Well, work on my latest novel continues slowly but surely. Last week I had to throw out some 500 pages or so: this is the disadvantage of writing without an outline. Young writers, learn a lesson from me and avoid my time-consuming mistakes.
In any case, I am restarting at about page 100, keeping the beginning of the tale the same, but jazzing up the middle and end. Of the 500 thrown out pages, I should be able to rework and reuse most of it. A thrifty cobbler never throws away good leather.
Anyway, here is part of what I wrote this week. To set the scene--naw, never mind. You'll pick up what's happening as you read.
Menelaus Montrose woke to a sensation of floating serenity. His thoughts seemed focused and sharp, but his head ached liked it had been filled with helium. Had he been drugged?
He sat up in bed. That was the first surprise: because it was a bed, an old-fashioned four-poster, big enough to hold a family of bounders, their first cousins and their dogs, hung with heavy drapes, with sheets and coverlets around him like a snowfield, and a real down pillow where his head had lain.
Menelaus felt the back of his head. There had been some sort of appliance there, stuck to his skull, implanted halfway into his skull, right at he top of his spine. The pillow from the previous room—a white, empty place with padded walls—had plugged into the skull-jack, no doubt feeding him brain-chemicals.
No, there had been two places. The second place had been clean but lacked that smell of blood and antiseptic Montrose always associated with infirmary tents. It looked more like a room in a fancy Japanese motorist-hotel, with mirrors instead of windows to make the small room look large. Montrose had been blurry-headed for those days, his memory stuttering like a bent datastick, complaining at the nurses who helped him through the physical therapy sessions, demanding to see a phone, a lawyer, a gunsmith, a doctor, in that order. ( Collapse )