Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Before and After

I've been moving on, which often means re-reading old writing, sorting it with the new, making a whole out of all the parts. Sometimes it's rather discouraging! Much of my old writing, I am, honestly, not proud of. Shall I show you? I'd like to hear your take on it. Here are two of the same segments, the original piece, and the new and improved one.

The Original grammar left as is...

“Elena! Elena! Wake up!” An elderly fairy with soft, silvery white hair and clear gray eyes, bent over the dreaming younger fairy, shaking her gently.
“Mother.” Elena smiled up at her mother.
She stepped lightly from her bed of soft crimson rose petals. Her bed seemed to float on a wide daisy. She gazed round her at the world. It was all she’d ever known; this meadow of sweet scented blooms.
“Mother,” she repeated, “Thank you for waking me so early.”
She kissed her mother sweetly on her fair, pink cheek, and flew quickly to the ground.

Years Later... that is, the newer piece of writing

Morning had lifted the golden sun high in the sky, where its golden rays dispersed the last feeble light of the moon and scattered yellow brightness over the blue vault. Beneath its glorious awakening, the meadows of Fleure glittered with lingering dew, sending sparks of moisture, laughing, into the air. A slight breeze sent the heads of the flowers dancing like bright headed children, and the faerie folk of Fleure began to wake.

The sun bent her golden head over a young faerie girl whose own bright head reflected the sun’s beauty. There was a voice murmuring in the morning air. The sleeper’s name seemed to drift towards her with the breeze. “Elina. Elina.”
Someone was bending over her, someone whose own face showed the mirror of the girl’s, someone, a woman, the queen of faeries and the lady of Fleure, Lilac Elinora Innis.

She stood over her daughter, her stately shoulders bent in weariness. Queen’s shoulders they were, bent with weight, yet firm beneath it, and a thin gold band lay nestled in the soft drifts of misty brown hair piled upon her head. Her eyes were a clear gray, like an unbroken dawn, with soft little glints of blue that flew in them. But their sparkle burned dimly, masked by the white paleness of her countenance.
Elina lifted her head, brushing her yellow hair away from her eyes.
“Good morning, Mother.”

“Did you sleep well darling?” Her voice was soft, but strong; strong with a gentle strength.

The new one goes for much longer, as I enlarged upon the plot quite a bit, but this gives you an idea of what I do all day. :)


P.S. Erghh... the new one's a trifle old as well, and I honestly don't like it! *growls petulantly*

Friday, July 24, 2009

Lilac Innis, Queen of Faeries

Thinking... longing... aching...
Wanting to write, ever so.

So I shall, and someday soon I shall share more of the story that captures my heart night and day. For now, here is a little piece of the book that expresses the character of the queen of faeries.

Lilac bent over a book bound in brown bark, tracing the gold letters on its smooth surface as she had done so many times before. They stood, smooth and stern, against their background, telling what lay between the pages of the book they rested on. “Words”, and then their author, Boran Innis. She lifted the cover, her eyes darting, without forethought, to the last words on the first page.

“We whisper of love but we cannot find it.

We whisper of hope, but it never comes.

Age is stalking us, we who are so young,

And death waits at the door, ignoring the slowness of time,

Ignoring our youth, determined to bring darkness.

And so, someone else must fill the places we leave empty.

Someone else must defeat the darkness that we cannot.”

They were her bîndan’s words, the knowledge that came to him in his despair, he whom she had bound herself too, he whose sapphire bînd she still wore. He had feared the darkness coming, the attack of the lizards they knew would come, and he had known they were not to end it.

He had gone out, with the bravest of the faerie warriors, to fight the black lizards on the borders of the desert. And he had died there, her dear Boran. He whom his people had loved, he who gave himself for the future of those only just birthed into the world.

But now they too were dying. The young wandrian, departing their homeland to search out the truths that lay waiting for them, were torn from their mission by cruel death. All their hopes, and all the hopes of their people taken with them, were crushed beneath the blows of the enemy. Tragin… He had been such a handsome boy, his father’s pride. Now he was dead. She could not bear it. And her dearest Eline, would she too die so horribly?

The queen bent her silver-brown head, her thin eyelids closing over her troubled eyes. She was a weary woman. Her body felt the strain of the growing years. Though her heart still bloomed with new strength, she could not bear all of this weight. She must do as Boran would have done. Someone else must fill the places we leave empty.

It was time then. She must choose a ducissa. She was not old, barely into her middle seasons, but the time would come soon when her mind could no longer bear the strain of two crowns. There must be someone to care for the people of Fleure when that day should dawn, a girl to inspire and unite them, to bless them with her wisdom, and stir them with her love for her people.

Queen Lilac rose and slipped from the room.


Wednesday, July 22, 2009

What My World Looks Like

Charting out the plotline... confusing, heavy brainwork. Fun? Yes! When everything flows, that is.



FayaLyn awakes, readying herself for the meeting, whilst Finfaree does the same.

The girls are spoken to, and FayaLyn comes last, evening

Aldwin, painting as dusk falls, and Ision approaches

Ision reaches Esallan and meets Aldwin

Elina tells her mother that she will soon depart

Ision lies awake in the Esallan paleis, thinking of his future, and of Elin

When walls suddenly rise up in the way, it is otherwise. All in all, it is, despite the strain of brain muscles, ever so rewarding. I'd share more, only this table is very revealing. Move forward just a little bit, and the story will show itself, much too much.

Until we meet again,


Thursday, July 2, 2009

Moving On

It is uplifting
But at the same time

It is crammed with breathless joy
But at the same time

Moving forward in revising
Touches my hope for the future
But confuses me with the
largeness of the task.