Not feeling well tonight. Left church early and have spent the whole day in bed. My brain is fog. Can’t read. Can’t write. So tired, but I can’t sleep.
Anyway, other than that, I’m swell. I’ve got two big projects I’ve been working on: a fantasy novel (I hope to start querying agents soon), and a collection of short stories I hope to release this year (probably KDP). In all, a very exciting time.
We’re in the last week of January. This first month has gone by quickly, but maybe, before the year ends, I might end up getting published.
Something I wrote for The Story Club:
So, I’ve been editing my book, and I just went through one of my favorite chapters. In it, nothing happens. Nothing happens on purpose. The characters are traveling, and we just take a little pause while we sit around the campfire and sing songs. The chapter is, shamelessly, an excuse to shove in the bits of lore that don’t fit into the rest of the narrative (save for thematic relevance). For all I know, everyone is going to hate this chapter and a wise editor will demand that I cut it. I will, in all probability, defer to such a judgement.
However, I remember reading the first novel of Shad Brooks, a youtuber, and thinking the book was enjoyable but not great. But there was one chapter which popped out as gold, and it was a scene like my own. It was a pause, a break, a chance for the character to sit at dinner and talk with a family. It was worldbuilding done right, as that little glimpse into one particular home and one particular evening brought a believability to that fantasy world.
So, maybe, a little pause in the narrative, a little worldbuilding, a chance for characters to simply be, might be more than this author’s self-indulgent whim. Maybe, someone will read my first book and find it wholly forgettable but for this one chapter I loved.
Excerpt from the chapter in question:
“I met a man, a fiddler, who’d dance as he played. Met him only once, the only man I ever met taller than myself. So I remember because I’ve only ever seen one man taller than me. He wanted my medicine for an aching back, but he didn’t have any cash. We haggled some, and I agreed to take his take at the next town if I gave him the medicine now. Oh, how he danced with that fiddle. He leapt about that main street, writhing in ecstasy, his fiddle singing madly. It was a poor town we came to, and though they danced with him, they would not pay him more than a meal and, he haggled for this, a clean bed. He offered these to me, but I didn’t want them.”
* What’s the balance between writing for yourself and for your audience?
* How do you like narrative pauses in stories?
* Did you ever write something you loved but feared you should cut it?
Tale Told 
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