I came very close to finishing the re-write on The Legend of Shallal on the weekend. I spent most of Sunday at the keyboard, leftover Halloween sucker in my mouth, madly revising, rewriting, and making it somewhat better.
Two chapters remain. I had every intention of getting them done today, but I needed to go out for a few things and then I needed my glasses adjusted. Twice.
Instead of working on the end I realized I needed a scene added earlier. The manscript has gone from about 53,000, to about 40,000, and is now around 47,000. It may not ever get to novel length, but if the story is told as a novella, then novella it'll stay.
I wanted it wrapped up so it can sit a spell. And because late last week I got another idea that is currently attempting to kick its way out of my head.
I've tried to mollify it by making notes. It's calmed the kicks a bit, but it'll break its way out soon.
Here are two from the The Legend of Shallal:
"She felt her guts ripped out as the land splintered. Her body twitched on the chamber floor and then all was black to her as the island disappeared under the waves and the waves gave way to a calm sea that twinkled in innocence in the sunlight."
Our current bedtime story is Taras Bulba, by Nikolai Gogol (The Complete Tales of Nikolai Gogol, Vol. 2, The University of Chicago Press (1985).
I've wanted to read this since I first heard about it some 30 years ago.
Bulba is a fine figure of a Cossack. Passionate and intense. A true fighter. And frankly, the man is a complete butt. I'm glad we're reading it, and I hope by the end I can find some way to sympathize with him.
"The pretty little hand of a Polish lady, smiling and sparkling, lay white as sugar on the railing. Illustrious nobles, rather stout, gazed at the scene with a dignified air."
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