Feast or Famine (Patreon)

Writing is one of those "hurry up and wait jobs" where work is also either thin on the ground, or a flood. This week I was getting back to Sam and friends...and it was a flood. I spend the last month or so really head down getting those edits on A Little Too Familiar (adult comedic fantasy romance) done, which wasn't helped by my laptop dying and eating the last 30 pages of changes. I finally, FINALLY finished house and got them off to the copy editor, when I got a message from my agent that he needed a few polished chapters of my new YA project for Penguin (Was called Frontier, is currently called Beasts All Around) and a summary and he needed it now, so we can finally get a new editor. Since not having an editor for the last six months means zero progress on a project--and me not getting paid--I wanted to get this done ASAP.

All of that means that I wrote 6,000 words in two days along with a couple of hours of work on a mentorship project and my brain fried. Like, I couldn't even read. So I just sat on the couch and watched Reacher for four hours. (I have a lot of feelings about this show, but they can mostly be summed up in "Roscoe is the actual hero of this story" and "Harvey Gullién continues to be a gift.")

Despite all of this, I also tried to write another Sam chapter. I got 500 words and realized...I can't remember whether a fairly big thing is cannon or not. As in, did I just plan on this thing or did I actually write it in? I need to reread the old Sam stuff, even though I don't like going back and doing that. Why? I'm always afraid it will be cringe-worthy. Don't get me wrong--I love Sam and friends, but I sold HMC,N in 2008. I hope I'm a better writer by now. Which means when I go back I'll see things I wouldn't do now, or attitudes that have changed. 

I know what you're thinking--how can you not remember a book you worked on for so long? Because of two reasons--one, I rewrite books a lot, cutting and adding things, and sometimes I can't remember what made the cut. And two--as soon as a book is done, my brain jettisons like 80% of it because it thinks we're done. 

So I need to reread. Especially since I wrote a bunch of Sam short stories on here way back in the beginning, and I can't remember all of those, either. What did I forget? I can't remember if Tia, Sam's mom, started dating Nick, Sam's (paternal) uncle. I think I did? But...maybe I'm wrong?

Anyway, I have a post I plan to write tomorrow about the writing process, and I'll get some Sam stuff up soon. Until then, I thought I'd show you how  much things can change in the process. I've posted the beginning of Frontier/Beasts All Around on here before, but I had to rework it for the partial I sent my agent. Here are the first few pages. Faolan isn't as funny as my usual characters, and her situation is terrible to say the least, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

***** Beasts All Around*****

My grandfather always told me there was a sure-fire way to tell if a bureaucrat was lying to you. If their lips were moving, get your shovel ready—because they would be unloading nothing but pucky until they closed their jaws. The mayor stood behind me in the close confines of the church, a hand on my shoulder, his two lawyer buddies at my sides. They were there to support me in my time of need, and every time they opened their mouth, I reckoned I should go get myself a shovel. I was going to be knee-deep in their pucky before long.

My grandfather had been a simple man. Didn’t mean he was wrong. And now he was dead.

They were all dead.

I didn’t remember my parents much, and what I do remember, I don’t mourn. That might be on me. Some people had a knack for mourning and despite all my practice, I didn’t appear to be one of them. I did miss my grandmother, what little I remember. She hummed while she baked and liked a bushel of wildflowers on the table when we could manage them. They’d smelled good, reminding you of warm summer days in tall grass.

The church didn’t smell like flowers at all, and right now I wanted to bolt from it like a rabbit legging it to the safety of the underbrush.

But I couldn’t.

Because my Pops had gone to his maker, and I was left here in a suit too big for my frame. It itched something fierce. The wooden planks under my feet creaked as I fidgeted, and all the incense was making me light headed. The lawyer to each side of me flanking me in, stone faced. Mayor patting dry eyes behind me.

A tidy trap, if ever I saw one.

The preacher seemed like a decent fella, but that didn’t make me want to burn down the church any less as the service dragged on, long and windy. My grandfather would have hated it. Pops didn’t put much stock in the teachings of the church, and I can’t say I’ve strayed far from his thinking on the subject. Life seemed complicated enough with out adding too much churching on top of things.

There was too much jawin’—the holy man sure had a lot to say about a fella he’d barely met. When he wasn’t flapping his gums, there was music. It was awful, the small piano out of tune. I would have liked to play some fiddle for Pops, one of his favorite tunes, like when we’d sit beside the fire in the cold months. But I’d had to sell my fiddle to pay for the doctor.

Pops would have hated that most of all.

Between me and the priest, lay my grandfather’s coffin. They’d left it uncovered. It was a shock, seeing his still frame in a wooden box. Death gave his face a softness it hadn’t had in life. Made him look a stranger, which in someways was a relief.

If it was a stranger in that box, than my grandfather hadn’t abandoned me to this world, leaving me with no one to call my own. I gripped his battered pocket watch in my palm the entire ceremony, just to remind myself of the truth.

He was gone and I was alone.

Once the ceremony was over, the box was nailed shut. I helped a few of the local lads, spit and polished in their finery much as I was, haul the box over to a waiting wagon. I rode in the back with it, along with the my fellow pallbearers. It was customary to pay them, and the mayor assured me they would handle it. As I watched him follow usin his fine buggy, pulled by two shining bay horses, I wondered where that money was really coming from.

You didn’t get that nice of a conveyance by giving your money away.

We put my grandfather in the earth, next to my grandma. The ground was cold, but no longer frozen, winter almost giving way to spring. The priest said more words, but I hardly listened. As soon as he finished droning on, Igrabbed a shovel, digging it into the upturned earth next to the grave and scattering it onto the coffin. It thudded against the wood, and I said a silent goodbye to the best man I knew.

I had assumed that I would do my fair share of the shoveling, but the mayor and his cronies were impatientand I was pressed into the buggy. I admit I stopped paying attention for awhile, thinking instead upon my evening.Boots off, feet by the fire. Kettle whistling in my

empty cabin. Our place wasn’t much, but it was mine.

When I snapped back to attention, I was in the mayor’s stuffy parlor, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. Someone had shoved a hot mug of dandelion tea into my hand. I didn’t care for the stuff, but I heldonto the mug anyway. The room had a feminine touch to it— doilies on the small table to my left, stitched samplers on the wall—the furniture redolent with beeswax.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

I missed my threadbare hearth rug, the quilt my grandmother had made folded neatly in her old, woodenrocking chair, the one that squeaked. I was suddenly desperate for it.

I set down my tea, harder than I meant, the noise startling in the room.

The mayor braided his fingers over his rounded belly. The two lawyers stayed standing, flanking him, though there were plenty of places to sit. “Master Faolan, we’re in a bit of a pickle.”

I turned my eyes on him, unblinking. He didn’t like it. Most didn’t.

His tongue flicked out, licking his lips, half-hidden by his abundant mustaches. “The thing is, you’ve got littlein the way of kin, and you’re not of age yet yourself.”

“I have nothing in the way of kin,” I said, “and I’ll be seventeen in a few months.” “Eight is hardly a few.” Themayor’s mustaches twitched as he talked. “And according to

Ms. Regina, you’ve got an aunt. Madigan Kelly.”

Ms. Regina was the local midwife. She kept track of such things. Still. “Mayor—” “Please,” he said,flashing crooked teeth. “Call me Mr. Clarke.”

I could hardly see how that was any better, but I was smart enough to give him the

concession. “Mr. Clarke, I don’t wish to argue with Ms. Regina, but if I had an aunt, I’ve never laid eyes on her.”

The lawyers clucked in sympathy. Mr. Clarke’s brow knotted in concern, his mouth turning down, but I caughthis eyes. They had the look of a hen sitting on her nest—roosting and pleased with herself. “Well, Master Faolan, thenwe’ve got ourselves a right pickle. Wouldn’t be right, leaving you alone on your grandfather’s land, rest his soul.” The two lawyers made noises of affirmation. I had yet to hear them say anything with actual meaning.

I wished I’d kept the tea in my hands so I could slam the mug down again. “Speak plainly, sir, I’ve no patience left in me.”

His gaze narrowed. The hen was gone, replaced by the stoat, ready to filch the eggs from the nest. “A young man such as yourself can’t be left with such overwhelming responsibilities. Why, it’s not right.” He placed a hand across hischest. “How would we sleep at night?”

Just fine, by my reckoning. And I’d been handling my share of the work for years. I could handle enough of mygrandfather’s to get by.

“Now, Madigan Kelly may be a woman, but she’s of age at least. We need time to find her is all.”

Ghostly fingers ran down my spine, chilling me. If that’s how the mayor felt about my supposed aunt, how would he feel about me about me if he knew the truth? I crossed my arms over my chest, grateful for my too-big suit.“What would help you sleep at night, Mr. Clarke?”

“Normally, in a case like this,” Mr. Clarke hedged, “we’d ask a neighbor to step in.

Provide charity.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. I would spend the next eight months milking other

people’s goats and cows, cleaning chicken coops, digging privies, hauling wood, and any other unfavorable job. If I was lucky, I would get to sleep in a hayloft. To be honest, I would prefer that or sleeping under the stars, despite the chill temperatures. You sleep in someone else’s house, you better trust that person an awful lot. A house could be a trapjust as easily as it could be a home.

Charity. Free labor, more like. I bit my tongue. Pop’s always said I had a smart mouth. Sometimes I’m even smart enough to keep it shut.

Mr. Clarke sighed. “In this case, no one had room.”

Ah. Now I was catching on. People in these parts didn’t like the look of the Kelly’s—it’s the red hair, I reckon. Folks get superstitious about it, like we’re changelings or the spit of evil spirits. You can try to tell them it’s just hair and you didn’t have much say in it, but they won’t listen.

Stubborn as mules and half as useful, some people. That’s what Pop’s used to say.

Though I’d left it off for the funeral, usually I wore a hat with a wide, flat rim, as it covers my hair, which I kept short. Even better, the hat shaded my eyes. Red hair makes most people frown. One look at my eyes and they run theirfingers over their heart, like they’re tracing a rainbow. It’s supposed to ward off evil. It does precious little to me except tell me we won’t be friends. It’s a handy shortcut to be honest, and a nice way to weed out the ignorant.

And there sure was a lot of ignorant going around.

With no family forthcoming, and my looks in mind, I was officially more trouble than I was worth. “Well, Ihate to trouble my neighbors. What say we tell them we tried and we all go about our business?”

Mr. Clarke was shaking his head, those clasped hands back on his belly. “Now, Master Faolan, that will not do.”He smiled. “As it happens, we’ve made other arrangements.”

I wiped my sweaty palms onto my suit trousers. I didn’t like that smile.