The Process of Revision (Patreon)

So, as you guys know, I've been working on a new thing, which (for now) is called Curses. I'm working hard on finishing the full draft. Up until last month, I've been writing, revising, and completely rewriting the partial, because my agent is hoping to sell it just on that. What does that mean? Well, a partial is exactly what it sounds like--it's a (usually) large portion of book manuscript, but not the whole thing. In this case, about 140 pages. I don't usually write like this, laboring over the first third before finishing a whole draft. And it's exactly what I tell writing students NOT to do...and for good reason.

Why? It's easier to revise when you know the whole story. I don't really outline. I have to do an exploratory draft so I can figure out the story to being with. The closest thing I do to an outline is leaving myself a few sentences or comments as notes at the end of each day, telling Future Lish where to start, what comes next, and what Past Lish was doing.

Anyway, for various reasons, Curses has not come along easily. Likely, because it is something completely new from what I've been doing. I'm starting from scratch with this world. (Before I get panic emails, no this does not mean I'm done with the Necromancer or Firebug cast.) Other factors include stress, personal life stuff, etc. I think another mistake I made was not listening to my own writing advice--I should have just hammered out the draft to begin with. The flip side is that maybe I was reworking everything so that my brain could figure out where on earth it wanted to take the rest of the story. As my friend, Martha Brockenbrough likes to remind me, we're not making widgets. Each story is different and rough in its own way, which means that the same approach might not work on each book.

I got a lot done on the writing retreat I went to, so I'm closing in on the end, which is exciting. Full draft! I'll finally have a mess to work with and shine up. You guys have all been amazing with your patience--stories will resume soon, promise. For today, I thought I'd give you a little idea how much things can change in revision. I'm attaching the prologue from my last draft of the Curses partial as well as the draft I'm working on now. The basic story is the same, but you can see what difference editing can do. I like this kind of stuff, so I thought you all might like it to. 

Curses Prologue 1 (old draft): 

The docks had always been a colorful place to Florencia Du Mont. The salty tang and sharp cut of the breeze off the ocean was invigorating. The jagged call of the seabirds, the musical blending of languages and the shouts of the deckhands, a symphony. The swarm of humanity was colorful, bright, and a feast to the eyes. 

But not today. Today she smelled only salt and dead fish. The falling rain chilled to the marrow—and the colorful weave of people a mockery. Everyone’s ships had come in. 

Hers had not. 

She’d gone to the weather mage, a rich-voiced Ivani woman. 

“Squalls from the north east had hit the Tirada coast hard,” she said. “We did our best, but it wasn’t enough. The blue swirl of tattoos on her cheeks, temples and neck, eddied like the wind across brown skin. Since weather mages only got tattoos when they reached master status, Florencia had to accept that the mage knew what she was talking about.

Still, there was sympathy in the woman’s eyes. “There is a chance.” She touched her shoulder, a quick press of warmth. “There is always a chance.”

Florencia Du Mont knew better. She went to fetch her carriage, her boot heels a staccato beat on the weathered pier. There would be no staying at an inn tonight. Without the ships, they would need the money to keep their creditors at bay. She sold the carriage and one of her horses to fatten his purse as best she could. 

Night  descended, clouds gathered, and a cold, cutting rain fell, turning the road into ruin. It didn’t let up. And though the woods might offer some cover, it had been a hard winter and a cool spring, and the wolves were feeling desperate. She could not stop.

When Florencia first saw the golden bird, she thought her tired mind had conjured up a fancy. When the bird spoke and offered a warm meal and a dry bed, she knew for sure that was the case. She wanted it too badly. But the bird spoke truth. She was fed, bathed, and tucked into opulent guest quarters. 

In the morning she found her clothes cleaned and pressed, smelling faintly of oranges. She put them on, feeling light with possibility. The bird led her out to her horse, which she found saddled and cared for, it’s eyes bright and ready. Florencia thanked the bird profusely. The bird gave directions back to the main road coupled with a warning to stick to the beaten path. Then he flew away, becoming a golden streak in the green of the trees. Florencia tapped her heels to the horse and set off, making for the road. Other than the bird, she hadn’t seen a single soul the entire time.

As the horse clopped along, she passed orchards, topiaries, and brightly colored flowers she could not name. She was buoyed by their vivid pinks, yellows, and deep vibrant reds. The master of this house, whomever they might be, must surely feel royalty in paradise.

The road turned and she saw a small, delicate shrub tucked away just off the road, behind a roughly hewn fence. Florencia urged her horse closer and inspected the flowers. Long, delicate white petals, freckled with a muted gray. The center and stamen were a gentle, blushing pink. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded and worn piece of paper. Unfolded, it revealed a drawing of the same flower. The flowing script of her son’s hand labeled it as Caen’s Bloom. She didn’t hesitate, but swung down and went for her knife. Florencia cut away a small branch with three of the flowers, wrapping the stem in a dampened handkerchief. A small measure of relief filled her. She would not go home empty handed.

She turned to grab her horse, but never reached the reins. Brambles, their thorns thick and barbed, boiled from the forest floor, trapping her. Up they grew, tangling her in their grip, until her feet left the ground. The horse whinnied and shied away. There Florencia hung, bleeding and shaking, as a roar cut through the forest. Instantly all bird chatter stopped. Insects quieted. Even the sun hid behind a cloud.

A creature materialized from a copse of woods. Florencia’s mind stumbled, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Horns spiraled back from an angry brow. Eyes flashed. Fangs snarled. A scaled tail lashed, and a grinding voice said, “How dare you take what isn’t yours?”

And Florencia trembled, the brambles digging deeper, and for the first time in her life, knew real fear.

Curses Prologue 2 (current draft):

Florencia DuMont spit on the ground and cursed. 

“There is a chance.”  The weather mage, a tall Ivani woman, touched her shoulder, a quick press of warmth. Sympathy or pity? Did it matter? “There is always a chance. Seek the harbormaster—surely they can aid you?”

“My goods were not insured,” Florencia said smoothly. She looked down, feigning shame, letting the mage think she was either too poor to pay the dues, or too foolish. Both reasons grated, but both were legal. Her cargo was not. Oh, she could petition on the behalf of her legitimate goods, but they were cheap baubles. Florencia kicked mud off her boot. The salty tang of the breeze off the ocean usually invigorated her. The swarm of humanity on the pier was colorful, bright, and a feast to the eyes, and to the pockets if your fingers were deft enough, or your tale convincing.  

But not today. Today she smelled only salt and dead fish. Everyone’s ships had come in. 

Hers had not. 

“Squalls from the north east had hit the Tirada coast hard,” the mage said. “There was nothing to be done.” The blue swirl of tattoos on her cheeks, temples and neck, eddied like the wind across her brown skin. Since weather mages only got tattoos when they reached master status, Florencia had to accept that the mage knew what she was talking about, even if she didn’t like the news. Her goods were at the bottom of the see with the fish, and it was impossible to swindle fish. 

Florencia fetched her coach. There would be no staying at an inn tonight. Without the ships, they would need the money to keep their creditors at bay. She sold the carriage, fattening her purse as best she could. Florencia kept her horse—even now she still needed to project the image of wealth. She packed her meager supplies before climbing onto Nettle, and headed home.

Night  descended, clouds gathered, and a cold, cutting rain fell, turning the road into ruin. Though the woods might offer cover, a hard winter and a cool spring made for desperate wolves and other things. She could not stop.

Florencia thought she was dreaming when she spotted the golden bird. Maybe feverish. When the bird spoke and offered a warm meal and a dry bed, she knew for sure that was the case. She wanted it too badly. But the bird spoke truth. She was fed, bathed, and tucked into opulent guest quarters in a sprawling mansion set back from the road.

In the morning she found her trousers, shirt and other clothing clean and pressed, smelling faintly of oranges. She put them on, feeling light with possibility, and if a few small, priceless objects found her way into her pockets, who was there to see? No one. She hand’t seen a soul besides the bird. Once Nettle was saddled, the bird gave directions back to the main road coupled with a warning to stick to the path. Then he flew away, becoming a golden streak in the green of the trees. 

Florencia kept her eyes to the sides of the path as she rode. In Florencia’s experience, not every warning was to protect the traveler—sometimes it was to steer them away from something precious. As Nettle clopped along, they passed orchards, topiaries, and brightly colored flowers she could not name. She was entranced by their vivid pinks, yellows, and deep vibrant reds. The road turned and she saw a small, shrub tucked away just off the road. Florencia urged Nettle closer and inspected the flowers. Long, delicate white petals, freckled with a muted gray. The center and stamen were a gentle, blushing pink. She was no botanist, but even she recognized Caen’s Bloom. She didn’t hesitate, but swung down, drawing her bowie knife from her boot. Florencia cut away a small branch with three of the flowers, wrapping the stem in a dampened handkerchief. A small measure of relief filled her. The cutting was meager, looking nothing like the priceless object that it was. People could live without gold, silver, even spices—but the people that needed Caen’s bloom? It was as necessary as food and shelter. She could name her price. 

Florencia turned to grab her horse, but never reached the reins. Brambles, their thorns thick and barbed, boiled from the forest floor, trapping her. Up they grew, tangling her in their grip, until her feet left the ground. Nettle shied away, the reigns wrapped tightly around the post the only thing keeping the horse steady. There Florencia hung, bleeding and fuming, as a roar cut through the forest. All bird chatter stopped. Insects quieted. Even the sun hid behind a cloud. Florencia reached for her pistol, her fingers barely grazing the grip. Her knife lay on the grass at her feet.

Florencia’s mind tried to make sense of the creature materializing from a copse of woods. Horns spiraled back from an angry brow. Eyes flashed. Fangs snarled. A scaled tail lashed, and a grinding voice of nightmares said, “How dare you take what’s mine?”

Florencia trembled, the brambles digging deeper, and for the first time in her life, knew real fear.

“You will pay,” the creature snarled. “With your life if need be.” The creature moved then, all sinuous grace and predatory glide.

“I have no money,” Florencia said. Her words were calm and even, though her mind spun, looking for an out. There had never, not once, been a situation she couldn’t spin, or a deal gone south that she couldn’t talk her way out of.

“Money? You think I want money?” A chuckle escaped the beast, low and mean.

Florencia ignored the voice, the tail, the snarling teeth. Those would only frighten and she needed her wits. So she looked into it’s eyes and calmed almost immediately. This beast may snarl and growl, but the eyes told her it was smart. She could reason with it.

“No,” the beast said. “I think our trade should be like for like, don’t you think? You took several blooms, likely damaging the plant in the meantime. Blooms that could mean someone’s life.” The creature was closer to her now. She could feel its hot breath on the back of her neck.

“You want my life?” Florencia asked.

“I’m not sure it would be worth the trade,” the beast said. “The bloom is worth more than the life of a pathetic thief.”

“You are right, of course,” Florencia said quickly. “I am hardly worth the trade. What use would I be?”

The beast stopped, eyes narrowing.

Florencia licked her lips, the idea barely forming before she spoke it. “I have nothing, am nothing. The only thing I have worth a bean would be my son.”

The beast crept around her now, staring her in the face. “You wish to trade your son for your freedom?”

“Yes,” Florencia said. “As you have pointed out, I have no value. But Tevin? The light of my life? The jewel of the DuMont house? You will find no one more charming or handsome. He would cover my debt, I am certain.” 

And so Florencia DuMont sung the praises of Tevin to the beast, feeling no guilt whatsoever about trading away her youngest child. He’d only ever caused her problems, after all.