Expanding Souls

I am now at about 15k / 240k of Shard, and I’m at the point where I can’t go on without some serious planning of the history and all that. I already have many snippets of history of Jack’s world and I more or less know what happens, but I need to organize it. The problem is that in all the previous drafts, he was thousands of years old, as was Elizabeth, and now they’re not, which cuts so much of everything I worked so hard on out of the picture.

Wait. A second.

I kind of feel like hitting myself in the eye right now. Scratch half of what I just said. I have the whole history up to where I am now, more or less, so I just need to fill in the gaps (build bridges and so on), and they are still thousands of years old. Also, maybe I should ramble about this more often on the ‘net, since it apparently helps me to get my horribly scattered thoughts in order. The trilogy idea is working out very well, by the way. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I’m not by any means Tolkien, oh my word, but this is the only analogy I can think of on the spur of the moment, so: imagine trying to shove all of The Lord of the Rings into one, three hundred-page book. It kind of hurts your brain, doesn’t it? Well.

So. On a very different note. Anyone who has been reading my blog or who remotely knows anything about me knows that this is true: I am not perfect. I am fickle, I am often self-centered, and I lack discipline. I make goals and don’t reach them, I say things and don’t do them, I remember all the wrong things and forget the things I should remember. My faith is mediocre, my head is much too big for me, I have several large planks in my eyes but still think I can see well enough to pick out the splinters in others’. I’m pretty sure I’m one of the outside-of-the-glass-is-clean-but-the-inside-is-dirty people. I don’t appreciate my friends the way I should, I’m horrible at replying to messages, and I even forget birthdays. I am not who you want to try to be.

But for all my faults, I do know this: it is not written anywhere that I am, or that any of us are, supposed to be perfect from the get-go, or even when we die. The sooner I realize that for the rest of my life I will be a work in progress, the better. The sooner I make peace with the fact that I am and will always be far from perfect, the sooner I can live in that peace. This is not to let us off the hook, that we don’t have to try anymore; I don’t mean to try and justify my shortcomings. All I’m saying is God does not expect that we will be perfect; He expects us to love Him. And when we can’t do even that, He still loves us.

Another Step Closer

Today I was browsing the Spork boards and I realized something. I am completely terrified of posting my writing in any kind of critique-y setting where I actually care about what is said. This is why I go to random places to post, or post on my blog where it’s kind of a free-for-all, instead of “You. Over there. Critique this.” I know all writers go through this, and I’m not by any means saying this is just me. I know it’s not. But, as all writers know, writing isn’t just words on paper. It’s literally like “sitting down and opening a vein,” as the saying goes. So when someone has something negative to say about what you wrote, it’s so personal and so…uh…agonizing, that you never ever want to pick up a pen again (at least not for the rest of that day). Also, I get that people have to be brutally honest – that’s kind of the point – but why are they sometimes just flat out brutal?

*sigh* So very very soon, I am going to face my #2 fear (#1 being deep water) and post an actual short story or excerpt of something on the Spork boards for actual critique. It’s part of the package, right? I’d rather get used to it now than have some kind of psychotic breakdown when hundreds of people are dissing my first published novel.

In other news, I think I’ve said this before, but I feel I should say it again. It is in fact about the subject of religion, and more specifically, Christianity.

We are one of the most stereotyped groups of people on the planet, and that is not an exaggeration. Just because some Christians do stupid things doesn’t mean all of us do. Also, in spite of what many Christians would like the world to believe, we are not perfect, nor should we ever pretend to be perfect. We’re still human and we make mistakes. That said, the physical church, which is constantly under fire, is not a perfect institution, because it’s a human institution. Churches should never give the impression that they’re perfect, because they aren’t. That also means that the world should not expect churches to be perfect or hate on them when they aren’t.

I say all this because I’m getting a little tired of all the people who, when they hear I’m a Christian, automatically group me and other Christians with the gay-haters, the people who believe women should be seen and not heard, and so on. News flash: we’re not all like that. However, that said, I also say this: I am a Christian. I am a Jesus freak, and even if that sometimes makes me a freak or whatever else in people’s eyes, that’s what I am. I won’t try to “convert” you, but I try and speak the truth and this is the truth whether you believe it or not. There is one God, and he sent His son Jesus to save us from death. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life, and whoever believes in Him has eternal life. Because He loves us, He died for us, conquered death itself, and rose from the dead after defeating it.

But just because I believe this does not mean I hate people who don’t, will not speak to people who don’t, or think they’re losers. I have gay friends and I’m crazy about them. I have friends who are atheist, who are agnostic, who are into Eastern religion, and many, many others. The point of being a Christian is not to hate everyone who isn’t. The point is to love everyone no matter who, what, or where they are, and to portray who Jesus actually was, not who we’ve made Him to be, to the world. And the biggest point of all is for those of us who are Christians to love Him with everything we are, with our whole life and heart and soul, and to be utterly and totally devoted to Him.

<3 africanstardust

A Bit of Stuff

Since a) everything to talk about has been talked about, b) I am currently taking a break before doing more school, and b) I’ve been writing in Shard, I thought it was about time to post another excerpt. Note, if you please, that the previous one I posted ages ago has been tweaked [read: forget everything you've already read]. And now, voila.

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The world was still. It was like everything had frozen, everything had just…just stopped, just ceased to be, to breathe, Was I even breathing? Things were happening so quickly, and they had been for months, and now it all had simply…ceased. And I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the crystal glass window with the soft white drapes hanging around it.

My father was dead. My father who had been my last truly close relative was dead. I hadn’t known him, but it felt like bullets ripping through my chest. My last blood, gone.

I was now entirely dependent on Lord Frederick and Lady Georgia, and if they had ever made any pretense that they loved me (which they hadn’t), that was all finished now.

By their decision, by their will, it was arranged that I would be married to a man who was, in my and many others’ opinions, one of the most loathsome humans alive. But he was rich. Lord Edward Wellington was rich and handsome, and would produce children with pretty faces, and my guardians didn’t care about my desires, and so that was that.

Rain was falling on the windows, like the glass was cracking noiselessly and moving like water.
Where I sat on my bed in the seventh black gown I’d worn in seven days, where time had stopped since morning and it was now evening, I felt the beginnings of waking up. First the numbness turned to heat, then to needles, then to pain. I waited. I stopped breathing as I awoke, and I took a deep breath when it was over, a deep gasp, like someone who’d been drowning.

And then I stood and took my black cloak, and I left. There was nothing and no one to stop me, because I was Elizabeth. Elizabeth who never did anything. But now I was doing something, and I felt no fear as I rode Lord Frederick’s black steed towards town.

The fear came later. It came when I reached the outskirts of London and it was early morning – so early that the only people about were rich Lords and Ladies coming back from the theater or from gambling, and night walkers, criminals. Pirates. I did not know any of this first hand, as my guardians had kept me from the city for the ten years since my mother’s death, but I’d heard Lord Frederick and his friends discussing these people like they were stray, rabid dogs.

At the first possible place I dismounted and tied the reigns of Lord Frederick’s horse to a post. I knew he would get it back; the saddle had the man’s crest on it, and everyone knew him. I hid myself and my gown as well as I could with the cloak and large hood, and I hunched over to give the appearance of an old lady. I had no idea whether or not it worked, but I didn’t know what else to do. And that was when the fear came again. I had no idea where to go. It suddenly occurred to me how incredibly idiotic it was to have left my home, however unhomely it might be, with no plan, no weapons, and no street sense.

I counted to ten with my eyes closed and pushed the fear to one side of my mind. From what I’d heard from Lord Frederick, I decided that these people, the strays, might let me join them – or whatever it was called – if I made it clear I wanted to be one of them. With this naive but hopeful assessment, I headed toward the closest dark alley and proceeded to walk through it.

Before long I found myself lost, but I saw that there was a tavern ahead, so I ran through the puddled street and hurried inside. The minute I did, at least twenty pairs of disinterested eyes fixed onto me. I kept my head down and my hood covering my hair, and I walked to the counter, where a dazed old man was drying mugs. I sat down and tried to be nonchalant, but I couldn’t help but notice that as I walked it grew quieter inside the building. The hair on my neck raised as their stares grew more interested and harder. The old man filled a mug with some kind of strong smelling drink and slid it to me across the counter without me asking for it, and I held it tightly with both hands as if it was a anchor that would save me.

Another man, smelling like old ale and a very great quantity of new rum, came and sat by my elbow. He was not so old, but there was a hardness about him that made him seem seventy. I ignored him but my heart was pounding so hard and fast that I was sure he must hear it.

“Are ye dressed in mourning garb because ye lost a lover?” he asked with fake sympathy.

I said nothing. He pounded his fist on the counter and I jumped before I could help myself. He chuckled, as did several others in the room.

“We can help ye with the mourning,” he said ruggedly, his voice rasping through a hungry throat.

My insides shuddered, and adrenaline – the small amount I had – glided into the spaces of my body it could fill before it ran out. But it was enough to hold me together, and I took a large gulp of whatever mix of grog was in the mug to show him I was not afraid.

Hacking Words

So I’ve started editing my book, Shard, again. I can’t seem to be able to leave this thing alone. Here’s hoping this is the final draft, so that I can send it off to be published. I comfort myself with the fact that it took Pasternak 10 years to write Doctor Zhivago. Not that this is anywhere near as good, but still. Anywho, that said, here’s an excerpt.
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She was beautiful. She was so beautiful that I felt as if I’d had the breath knocked out of me, and I could do nothing but stare, clutching at the wood with my dirty, jagged fingernails. It took all of my effort to keep my breathing quiet so that they would not notice my presence. Shard’s face was grim, his eyes like flames, and the veins in his neck stood out as a show of just how much he had to concentrate to restrain himself.

“What is it you want?” he asked evenly. The firelight, the only glow in the room, played with their features and made Shard’s eyes seem even more fiery. Her own eyes – beautiful and grotesque all at once, burning and sulfurous, as yellow as a cat’s – watched him almost with amusement, almost mockingly. Although his frame was twice as large as hers and he loomed over her, there was some cold strength in her pale face, some steely invincibility in the way she carried herself.

“Jack,” she said in a whispery, smoky voice that somehow filled the room even though she spoke fairly quietly. “I haven’t come for a confrontation. After all, until the warrior who is to kill me is found, there isn’t anything to discuss.” She gave him a deep smile and walked to his desk, where a crystal decanter and two goblets waited.

Shard, I could see, was utterly in shock about what she had said. He whirled around, his frame becoming even larger as his chest heaved with breathlessness, and in a blur he had unsheathed a dagger and held it against the tight, pale skin of her neck, his other arm around her waist. Instead of panicking, she chuckled softly and put the decanter back on the desk.

“How did you find out?” he demanded, pressing the blade harder against her neck. I winced as a trickle of dark blood ran down the knife and dripped off the edge, landing in a sticky pool on the wooden floorboards. “How?”

“You did not think I would sit and wait to be destroyed,” she replied, and now there was an edge of hatred, of sulfur, to her voice. My skin felt cold at the sound of it and chills ran up and down my spine, raising goosebumps and tickling my scalp. “You cannot seriously think me so naive. Of course I know about him.”

Shard pressed the blade even harder against her neck, and now he drew out a faint gasp from her as more blood trickled to the floor. “Perhaps you are more prepared, then,” he growled, his lips close to her ear, his teeth clenched. “But you will be destroyed, and if your own conscience fails to do the job, the warrior will certainly step in. Do not overestimate yourself, Morgala. You are not as powerful as you think.” With that he released her, shoving her forward with such force that anyone, especially someone so slender as she, would have fallen over onto the desk. But she whipped around and steadied herself with surprising grace, her back to the desk and her palms on its edge.

“We shall see, Jack.” She took one finger and wiped the blood from her neck, then smeared it over her palm, looking at it with a somewhat fascinated expression. “But I did not come here for this.” She raised her gaze to his face again. “I came to tell you, if your sisters have not, that I have taken the last free city. Cristalia is all that remains. And it is not too late, Jack, to change your mind. Even now I will offer you freedom and riches – I will even spare your sisters – if you stop your search for the man and return with me. But,” she said, her eyes flickering fiercely, “if you do not come now, there will be no more chances. I will destroy you and all that you love.”

“I told you before, witch. I don’t negotiate with evil.”

Her smile returned. “Very well. For the sake of your mother I extend you these graces, but if you wish to spurn them, there is nothing I can do.”

“My mother!” He took a step towards her and his hand went to the hilt of his sword; his shoulders became stooped and every spring in his body seemed coiled and ready to release; instinctively I hunched my shoulders in a protective posture. “You destroyed my mother,” he bellowed, his voice rasping. “That you even dare to keep her appearance is utter cruelty. You caged her and reduced her to a whimpering mess, and now you say you extend me graces for her sake? No. No, I will not be coming with you.”

She shrugged, apparently unruffled by his outburst. “Very well. You have made your choice. In that case, I give you one final warning.” A grin spread on her lips, and it carried so much mockery, so much seething evil, that I suddenly thought she couldn’t be human. No human face could contort in this way and still be so strikingly, perfectly beautiful. “If you find the man, and he kills me, I won’t be going alone.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you understand?”

Shard did not reply, but realization washed over his features, followed by a flicker of fear in his dark eyes.

“Good.” She began walking towards the door and I backed away from the frame, pressing myself tightly against the wall in the shadows beside his bookcase. If she saw me, or if he saw me, one of them would kill me. I was sure of that. I watched her as she moved gracefully across the little entryway and opened the door, then exited into the cool night. I only had a moment to wonder how she would get off the ship – for that matter, how she had gotten onto it – when a bright flash of light accompanied a forceful gust of wind; then darkness but for the firelight.

I remained in my place, my eyes on the frame where I had been listening. After a moment Shard came out, walking slowly, wearily. He shut the door quietly and turned to go back to the room – but his dark, fierce gaze landed on me, and a malicious, wild expression bled into his features as he walked haggardly towards me. My heart raced and I cowered against the wall.

“No, no, I’m sorry! Wait, please-”


“Silence, you bloody nuisance!” he growled, clutching my shirt and pulling me out of the corner. “How long have you been here?” he demanded.

“I-”

“How much did you hear?”

“Not…I…”

Without waiting for me to gather enough courage to answer him, he dragged me out of the room, kicking open the door. I clutched at his arm as he pulled me across the deck to the railing and pressed me against it, threatening to push me over.

“Wait, please!” I shouted desperately. “I’m sorry. I heard everything, but I swear I won’t tell a soul,” I pleaded. “Please, I’m sorry!”

He seemed about to shout at me again, but slowly the wildness left his face and his expression softened a little. Abruptly he let go of me and stepped back, breathing heavily, his eyes on his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He looked up at me. “Did I hurt you?”

I shook my head a little, my hand on my chest. “No.” But he had frightened me.

He nodded and walked towards the railing again. I put a little more distance between us as he placed both hands on the railing and looked out at the black sea, but I was fairly certain he wouldn’t do anything more. Little flecks of diamond dotted the black expanse where light from the slender, crescent moon was reflected. I was unsure whether he wanted me to leave, but as he hadn’t said anything I decided to stay. There was no chance I would be able to sleep now, anyway.

“Elizabeth,” he said after several long, quiet moments, using my name for once. “Since you have heard this, there are some things I should explain to you. I normally wouldn’t, but you’re quite clever, and I’d rather tell you the truth myself than have you find out some twisted version of it on your own.” He turned to face me, sliding one of his hands closer, and leaned towards me in an earnest gesture. “But you must swear,” he said, his voice suddenly grave, “that you will never, as long as you live, tell another soul what I am about to say. No one else on the ship knows; no other human on Earth knows.” He exhaled. “Can I trust you?”

The question hung in the air, floated in a mass of resounding, sudden silence. Even the ocean seemed to be holding its breath. I stared at him, unnerved by the change in his demeanor, suddenly feeling as though I was not speaking to a pirate captain at all, but to some sort of ambassador or general. I had never seen him like this before; even his face looked different. And what choice did I have? What would he say if I replied that he could not trust me? I closed my eyes for a brief moment and inhaled, then breathed out, “Yes. Yes, you can trust me.” I opened my eyes.

“I know,” he said, then straightened. “Come with me.”