Fallen Jedi - Padawan

Okay, show of hands. How many of you knew there was such a thing as Star Wars Reads Day?

No? Me either. Not until a few days ago, anyway, when I saw it in my Twitter feed. At first I was like, meh, because Revenge of the Sith kind of killed Star Wars for me.

But then I remembered.

You see, I have this bit of fan fiction I've been sitting on for a long time. It's just a short little thing, something I wrote shortly before Revenge of the Sith. Back then I was reading a lot of Star Wars novels and my imagination was churning, dreaming up all the exciting places the franchise could go. I never once considered that Lucas would kill off all the Jedi in one movie.

This little story takes place in a Star Wars universe where Anakin Skywalker turned into Darth Vader and killed many of Jedi, but not all of them. Those who remained were on the run and Darth Vader was tracking them down, one by one.

So, in honor of Star Wars Reads Day, I present Fallen Jedi – Padawan. I've dusted it off and polished it a bit, but it's essentially the same story I wrote all those years ago.

Enjoy…

Fallen Jedi
Padawan

A story by Shawn Enderlin

Kile ran, skimming along the building’s side as fast as his short legs would carry him. Hot ozone and blaster charred duracrete choked the air while the all too familiar sound of colliding lightsabers hissed and spat behind him.

Run, the mocking voice said in his head. While you can.

Heart pounding, Kile rounded the corner and darted into a busy street. He lost himself in the crowd, moving away from the ambush.

Good, the voice said. Run away and hide. You're too young to help her. Too slow. Too clumsy.

Kile pounded his fists against his head. It was true!

Master Marion’s voice echoed in his head. Control, Kile. Remember, the only one who can make you feel inferior is yourself.

Grinding his teeth with frustration, confusion, fear – the dark side! – Kile struggled to bring his emotions under control. Master Marion was right. He couldn’t afford to let fear control him. Not now. Not with death so close.

Give in to your fear, Padawan. Give in to your hatred of your own weakness. Only then will you discover the power you crave.

“Out of the way, boy!”

Kile looked up into the angry eyes of well dressed man who had. The man took in Kile's braid and the lightsaber hanging on the clip at his belt and the man's contempt melted into terror.

“Jedi!” the man blubbered, backpedaling.

The flow of people slowed to drink in what was happening. Kile felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as the thoughts around him bent on that one dreaded word.

The crowd pulled away, their fearful glances searching for clone troopers. Or worse. Kile knew better than to ask for help. Most hurried away, cold with fear, but there are always a few whose shock hardened into calculation, for the bounty on a Jedi could feed most families for a year. Those were the ones to be afraid of.

Kile turned, poised to flee, and nearly ran into an old woman who dragged a reluctant boy along behind. Her crazy gray curls, deeply wrinkled cheeks, and too thick rouge should have been alarming, but something in her sharp green eyes said otherwise.

“Come with me,” the old woman said with an authority Kile was only too glad to obey. Her bony fingers clasped his arm, steering him through the crowd and into a nearby shop. She and pulled both him and the boy away from the windows and behind a large rack of clothes near the counter.

“Can I help you?” asked a distinguished looking man who wore the same fine clothes found on racks.

“Leave and lock the door,” Kile said, motioning only slightly with his hand.

“Of course,” the man said, politely inclining his head and backing away.

“Jedi!” the boy whispered, making the word sound like a curse.

“Not a Jedi,” the old woman said. “A Padawan.”

“Who are you?” Kile asked. She didn’t feel like a Jedi, but her emotions were remarkably calm for a woman who was risking death by the simple act of associating with him.

Her smile intimated a past he could only imagine. “I’m not a Jedi, if that’s what you are thinking. But I’ve known Jedi.”

“Ga’ma!” the boy said, scandalized.

“You don’t understand, grandson,” she said to the boy. “All of you kids, all you know is to fear the Jedi. You never knew the Jedi as I did, as guardians and teachers, masters of lore, compassion, and all that is good.”

“I wish they were dead,” the boy said.

The old woman grimaced. “I’m sorry that this is all that is left to you, Padawan. A boy your age should have better companions than fear, misunderstanding, and bigotry.” She touched his forehead, pushing back his hair. “How old are you? Ten?” He nodded. “Then you must have been in one of the last classes?”

Kile nodded, but kept to himself the memories her words evoked. He barely remembered his life before the Purge. Sometimes he dreamt of the Jedi Temple and of the web of aircars that flew overhead. Mostly it was Yoda he dreamt of. Kile almost smiled. Once, after practice, Yoda had pulled him aside and told him he would be a great Jedi someday.

Kile stuffed the memory back into its safe place then reached out and took the old woman’s hand in his own. “Thank you, ma'am, but I have to go before they find me.”

The old woman nodded sadly, hiding her face as she brought up a hand to dab at her wet eyes. “Yes,” she said. “You should go, but before you do…” She grabbed her grandson's shoulder, turned him around, and pulled off his jacket.

“Hey!” the boy protested.

Kile was even more surprised than the boy when she put jacket over his shoulders.

“Stop it Ga’ma!” the boy sputtered, reaching to take back his jacket. The old woman slapped his hand, stunning him into silence.

Then, before Kile even realized what she was doing, she grabbed the braid that marked him as a Padawan and cut it off with a tiny laser knife she pulled from her pocket.
He watched the braid fall to the ground.

Should have done that long ago, he thought, without anger.

“Now you can go,” the old woman said.

The urgency in her voice rang true and the weight of the world settled onto Kile’s shoulders. Master Marion would be dead by now. He was on his own.

A sudden wave of fear washed over him and he looked up at the old woman, asking, “What if I’m the last one?”

Sympathy and sorrow rolled off of her, but she kept it from her face and instead smiled encouragement.
“You're not,” she said. “There must be balance in the force.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he looked over to where the boy glared angrily. “Thank you,” he said to the boy.

Eat nerf dung, the boy mouthed.

A feeling of disquiet washed over him.

It had nothing to do with the boy.

“They're coming,” he said at the same moment glass shattered.

“He said they went in here!” a clone trooper’s rough voice said.

“Find the Padawan!” shouted another voice.

“Run!” the old woman fiercely whispered, pushing him behind the counter and pointing him towards the hall before pulling her grandson close and stepping into the open.

“You can't have him” she cried. “He's my boy!”

“What?” the boy shouted. “I’m not a Jedi!”

“Sure you're not,” said one of the clone troopers as he roughly scooped the boy into his arms. “No!” the old woman screamed.

Kile, crouching behind the counter, closed his eyes. “A real Jedi knows no fear,” he whispered, giving voice to Master Marion’s well worn mantra.

Standing, he looked over the counter, to where the sobbing old woman clutched at the armored troopers. He whispered, “A Jedi protects weak, comforts the needy, consoles the distraught.”

Kile stepped around the counter. “A Jedi does not let others die for him.”

The clone trooper with the boy caught sight of him and pointed.

The other clone trooper backhanded the old woman and drew his blaster.

“Another Jedi?” said the first.

“Just some kid.”

“He’s the Jedi!” the boy screamed.

Kile drew his lightsaber from beneath the boy’s coat and thumbed the trigger. It blared to life.

The clone trooper fired. Kile swatted the bolt back into the leg armor on the trooper holding the boy.

Another bolt went wide. Kile leapt across the room, deflecting a third shot back at the shooter and dropping him like a dead dewback. Kile sensed movement and reverse thrusted his lightsaber up into the other trooper's stomach. 

He deactivated his lightsaber and silence filled the room.

For the first time in months his breathing and heart rate were as calm as if he had just woken from a long sleep. Emotionless, he bent down next to the crumpled old woman and turned her bloodied face towards him.

She said, “You should have ran.”
 
Kile shook his head. “A boy would run. A Jedi would never let you die for him.”

A deep, mechanical voice rumbled, “Foolish sentiment, Padawan.”

The old woman's eyes flashed fear and even though Kile knew who that voice belonged to, her fear couldn't find purchase.

He turned and reignited his light saber.

“Fighting you will be a waste of time,” Darth Vader said, gliding into the room. “Your master was disappointing as well.”

Kile walked forward.

He died a Jedi.

A great Jedi.

You are what you read (The Jon version)

Awhile back, as you long time readers will no doubt remember, my fellow Scribblerati Agent Mark Teats wrote a blog titled: “You are what you read”, listing some of his long time favorite and most personally influential authors. A fun and insightful read, I thought it was a fantastic idea, one I fully intended to copy as soon as it was my turn to blog again.

Then I forgot all about it.

I forgot a couple of times, in fact, but now—thanks Google Calendar!—I have remembered!

Let’s begin:

(And, of course, there are many other authors and books that I love, even though they are not included on this list, which is transient and appears here in no particular order. Mmm-kay?)

Some of My Favorites, a list by Jonathan Hansen

1. On the Road: Kerouac

There are some who have a problem with this book and its style. There are some who have issues with the culture he helped create (issues I share), but still, this book speaks to a part of me, to who I used to be, to who I wanted to be, and I’ll always love going back to read it again. It’s like visiting old friends and good times.

2. In Cold Blood: Capote

This last school photo of poor doomed Nancy Clutter still haunts me, as does the kind of runaway freight train inevitability of this book, the horrible tragedy and sadness of it all. I came to this book late in life and it simply dazzled me. It is fantastic, one of my very favorites. Capote writes the wide open spaces, perfectly realized, perfectly executed, it is brilliant. Brilliant.

3. Catcher in the Rye: Salinger

So much has been said about this book, about this author, about the culture and hype that surrounds it, that there is little that I can add, except: I read this in fourth or fifth grade and Holden Caulfield blew my mind—like out the top of my head, blew my mind. The quote: “People never notice anything.” That was it, man. In my young head… that was it.

4. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: Thompson

I think all young men of my particular ilk have a Thompson phase. I know I did, maybe still do. The trick is, once you can see the other side of it, is to not spend the rest of your life doing a poor imitation of the man’s signature wild man style... most are unable to do this and spend forever wallowing in mediocrity, because no doubt the man was a unique talent, one sorely missed these days. This here: “And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of old and evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look west, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.” Brilliant.

5. Among the Thugs: Buford

Man, let me tell you—if you want crazy... Have you ever wondered what would happen when a man sucked another man’s eyeball out of his socket during a fight? No? Dudes... don’t read this book then. And that is only ONE of the crazy ass things these crazy ass, real life Man U fans actually did... in real life! They practically burned Juventus to the ground! Why? Because they were there! Amazing book! Amazing.

6. Lyonesse: Vance

As a kid, I was... restless... so Mom would ship me off during the summer. Sometimes, I would visit my Aunt in Los Angeles and she lived in a zombie proof fortress, kind of near Little Tokyo, on the corner of Crack Head Street and Staff Infection Avenue... so, I didn’t get to play outside much. It was always a fun visit, the loft was spacious and we did lots of fun stuff, but still, sometimes there was down time and LA had weird TV and I was like...9 and it’s not like I had brought a bunch of my toys and stuff with, so one day in a B Dalton, I wanted to buy a book. I picked one with a Green armored Knight riding a Purple striped Tiger and was like: “Oh hell yes, this one.” (Paraphrased). And my Aunt said: “But that’s number two... Here’s number one.” And she picked up this one:


“You should get the first one in the series.” And I said: “...” There was no denying the logic, so with slumped shoulders and a last longing look at the Tiger riding Knight, I got it (Holden Caulfield hadn’t taught me rebellion yet) and took it back to the Loft. Since then, I’ve probably read it two dozen times. I read my first version to pieces. The story of the slowly sinking Elder Isles, the invading Ska, the Sorcerer Murgen, and young Dhrun, poor Princes Suldrun, evil King Casmir and Prince Alias one day washing up on the beach is simply... Great. High Adventure. High Fantasy. Tons of characters. Jack Vance is a mad genius. It's a fantasy to be swept away in. It may have even been the first "real" book I read as a kid. I Loved it. It was way better than the purple Tiger book...

7. The Road: McCarthy

Cormac McCarthy is so good, I forgive his lack of quotation marks and dialogue designators. The Road and No Country for Old Man blur by, so spare and yet so richly illustrated, while Blood Meridian is a literary ass kicking. He is brutal and beautiful and his work is staggering. He is so good, it’s intimidating.

8. True Grit: Portis

I’ll make an admission... I’ve never seen this movie. I’ve heard it’s good and once I come across it on DVD, I’ll totally watch it, but yeah... never seen it. So I went into reading this with only a slight image of John Wayne in my head and honestly, this book is amazing. Amazing. It’s one of those books that came flying out of left field and landed in my lap and I was like: “Huh...” Nothing but fun and written like a house a’fire. A total blast. The most amazing part is how aware the book seems, how honest and insightful, all while maintaining the classic tropes of the Western. And now the Cohen Brothers are making it into a film that is supposed to be faithful to the book? Sweet...

9. The Stand: King

So, maybe I’ve mentioned this before, either here or over at my own blog, but I love comics and one of my favorite things to do as a kid was when I would go visit my Grandparents in Boone Iowa, I’d slip away at some point with all of my crumpled bills and handfuls of coins and walk to “downtown” Boone to visit the Hallmark store. In the back they had the biggest shelf of comics my used-to-the-spinner-rack eyes had ever seen. In a time before my first comic shop... this place was heaven and I would carefully count all of my money, so I could buy the most amount of comics available. It took some time, effort, and arithmetic, let me tell you (especially since I was reading all the ones I couldn’t buy), but anyway, after much deliberation, I picked up my stack and started toward the front when a cover stopped me dead... "wha..?":


An extra 400 pages?!?! 400!?!? Now, you need to understand, this book, Star Wars, and the Road Warrior (I still didn’t have the guts, at the time, to watch Night of the Living Dead), they had awaken me to storytelling, opened doors in my head and lit my mind on fire. An extra 400 pages!!! I'd already read the edited version, devoured it, so without pause, without a thought, I left my comics behind and used my money to buy this book. I still have it too. The covers are gone and the first few pages of the front and back, I know it well. This is an end of the world, multi character, Good vs. Evil masterpiece.

10. A Game of Thrones: Martin

Here’s my second admission: I hate fantasy. I love Tolkien, because he’s Tolkien, but all the deformed bastard children he’s whelped in the time since... ugh. Bloodless, sexless, lame half wits, lacking... EVERYTHING that could be considered good...ugh... I had given it up, man. I didn’t want any more. I was done. I mean, I’ve since discovered authors who write kick ass, fantastic fantasy with realistic characters and are good and awesome and well done, like Joe Abercrombie or Richard K. Morgan, for instance, but George here, he was the first one on that road for me with this fat, sprawling monster of a series where powerful houses vie for the throne while an ancient evil grows behind a 300 foot tall wall of ice. The best part of these books is the fear, absolute best part... any character can die in these books, any one of them, and he’s more than proven his willingness to kill, maim, or just generally run through the ringer any character you might think would normally be safe... Let me assure you, they are not. Fantastic books, huge, involving, well-written, they are hardcore. If the idea of what hitting someone with a mace would actually do makes you squeamish, then don’t read these. Seriously brutal. But brilliant. The only (potential) problem is that there’s supposed to be six books and only four are out right now, and it's been awhile, so George is at that tipping point most long term fantasy series authors find themselves at eventually, the point where the story may spiral out of control and never end—fingers are crossed that he is able to land this beast, especially because HBO is doing a series next year. A season per book! WOOOO!

Winter is coming.

I’m so excited.

Anyway, what are you reading?

Jon

If it works, it works

I’ve been writing all my life. At the start, my cousin and I filled yellow legal pad after yellow legal pad with a rambling Dungeons and Dragons type Sword and Sorcery story; it went on and on and on. I hesitate to call it a novel, at this point, since it had no real over-arching plot, but hey… at least we were dedicated to it.

What I’m saying is: Writing has always been something that I do. It’s been natural and flowing and carefree, but ever since the four or so years ago when I decided to get serious about my favorite pastime and try to turn it into a career, the idea of a “suggested” word count length has hung over my head like a guillotine ready to drop. In fact, if I had to choose, the “suggested” word count would be the one thing I really worry about.

Everywhere you turn, the numbers shake out about the same:

90,000 to 100,000ish for a first time novel.

120,000 to 130,000ish, maybe, if it’s a genre book.

And what was my final draft before this last batch of edits?

177,823

Huge.

But here’s the problem: I’m just telling the story. Sure, I have since gone back and cut extra words and a few scenes that never really did what they were supposed and a few moments that repeat themselves, yadda, yadda, yadda, but still, even being generous, in the end, let’s guess that I’ll end up cutting about 25,000 words, give or take. That’s a ton, true, but once all of the dust and the hoop-la settles?

Final word count: 152,823

That’s still in the stratosphere as far as the commonly held belief goes. But what options do I have? I consider myself very open to suggestions, critiques, and edits, at least… I try to be. My end goal here is to put out the best product I can, and I recognize that you need outside eyes to accomplish this, but I’ll be honest with you…

After this initial 25,000 is gone, I do not believe there will be a significant number of words left to still cut out. And another 20,000? No way. Not without cutting the story too deep and sacrificing in a “bad” way, in my opinion. At that point, I think I’d be risking the book’s soul, doing more harm than good. It’s a fine line, I know, between being cautious and being obstinate, but really, I’m honestly trying to walk on the side of angels here and I don’t see how it can be done.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it can’t be done. Can Not.

Ballsy? Yes, but that’s me, baby.

Anyway, I’m paranoid enough about this, this goddamn word count thing (and don’t people say it so snooty to? Like it’s fucking gospel? “Oh, it has to be 100,000 words or no one will even look at it, blah, blah-blah…” Ass.) …anyway, I’m so conscious of it that it is consistently the one thing I do not do, despite the fact that the majority of agents request that the word count be included in queries, but fuck that. No way am I just showing my ass like that.

Why would I?

Agents and publishers are very busy, they’re swamped with requests from people who look, walk, talk, and act just like me, and they will straight out admit that the first round of cuts is based off of arbitrary first impressions and what is more arbitrary that the “preferred word count”? So yeah, no way am I going to just hand them a free “Denied” card like that. If they ask, I’ll tell them, but otherwise… Mum’s the word.

Besides, like all how to get published “rules” go, there’s a big old BUT attached at the end and that is, in a nutshell: “If it works, it works.”

And that gives me hope.

Case in point: Joe Abercrombie.

Joe writes fantasy books, dark, bloody and brutal, they are epic tales of well drawn “real” characters in a fantastic world of magic and murder and massive armies. 100% good time. Loved ‘em. I devoured them. And here’s the kicker:

The Blade Itself? 190,000 words.
Before They Are Hanged? 195,000 words.
The Last Argument of Kings? 230,000.
Best Served Cold? 225,000.

Now sure, the later books will usually give an author more leeway word count-wise because they have established themselves, but still… Look at that! First book, 190,000 words, but it reads like a house on fire! Blistering, baby.

But how did that happen? How did that monster manuscript land on someone’s desk (and probably break it due to the weight) and then actually get read despite its size? Short answer? I don’t know. Right day, right time, right person, luck and magic (shrug). The point is, it did get read and it got published.

So here’s hoping…

How do you find your muse? (TMI)

How do you find your muse?

I think that's a question that plagues all artists. I think it's a safe bet to say that we all would like to be able to instantly tap into that creative center that drives our best work.  But, as we all well know, that doesn't usually happen.

In an effort to find Lady Muse, we end up doing all sorts of crazy things. We develop routines in the hope that repetition will entice her. We play tricks on ourselves. We pull out that one song that worked last time. We read something inspiring. 

And we hope that Lady Muse shows up.

So what do you do when she doesn't? Do you grind it out? Do you get frustrated and walk away?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, look no further. I'm here to tell you that I have found the magic formula for unlocking Lady Muse.

Now, if I were smart, I would hold on to this secret and use it to my advantage.  If I were smart, Lady Muse and I could go all the way to the big time. I could finish my never ending first novel, dive into the sequels, find myself on Oprah, host Iron Chef, and wind up the celebrity guest at a formal White House dinner.  (Yes, you are cute, Sasha.)

But I'm not smart. Well, I'm kinda smart, but mostly I'm just a Midwestern guy who’s too nice for his own good.

Yeah, I can hear your hearts pounding with anticipation. But I won't make you wait anymore. Here goes. My secret formula for unlocking Lady muse.

Step one: bang your head against your desk
Step two: walk away
Step three: repeat step one
Step four: eat, drink, be merry
And the magic ingredient: take a shower

A shower?

Yep, I'm serious folks. I don't know what it is about a shower, but Lady Muse sure does like it. And I know that's the magic ingredient because I've tried all the others by themselves and they don't work. For instance, I can't just walk away and come back, because I've tried that doesn’t do it. And it isn't the food or the drink because I really can't write well after an evening of debauchery. But the shower on top of all the rest? That's the ticket.

But here's what's weird. I can't just get in the shower, rinse off, and call it a day. No, the room has to be hot, and the hot water’s gotta be flowing, and – wait for it – I have to be washing my hair.  Yes, it seems that Lady Muse loves her some shampoo and I don't have the faintest idea why. Maybe she's a big Aveda fan. Or maybe, maybe she just likes those hot suds running down my neck and - TMI!

Whatever the reason, I'm just glad that I found the key to unlock Lady Muse because let me tell you, I come up with the coolest things when I'm washing my hair.

Back in the saddle again

As many of you will most likely recall from my last post, I am currently in the middle of the Query process for my manuscript Gunslingers of the Apocalypse, and while it is going pretty well for me at the moment (fingers crossed), it is a process that, once started, pretty much runs on its own. So that means that my day to day involvement is: Not-a-whole-lotta. This is an upside, for the most part, as it allows me ample free time... The downside, of course, is that allows me AMPLE free time.

With nothing to do, it’s important to try to keep busy.

In effort to do so, I’ve been working on Book numero dous, dig? Bastard out of Minnesota, it’s called, and it is the second in what will hopefully some day be a wildly successful four book series. Unfortunately, currently, by “working” I actually mean only getting two things done: Jack and Shit.

And apparently Jack has left town.

“So, what’s the problem, my man?” you’re probably asking, you jive-turkey.

Well, the main difficulty I’ve encountered is that after what has to have been at least a year, if not more, of pretty much only doing edits and rewrites, re-igniting the spark of everyday, nose to the grindstone type writing is somewhat difficult. I mean, I can still do it when I sit down, and the pages I’ve ended up hammering out recently (around 70-ish so far with a total count of about 20,000 some odd words) are ones that I’m generally pretty happy with, but that old consistent dedication?

Gone.

Yes, work and life can get in the way occasionally, but whatever, that’s normal, a truism for everyone. I can deal with that. In fact, I still live a lifestyle where I can make time for writing, if I have to, but honestly, it’s not really too big of a problem. Even with the daily demands on my time that the cubicle-prison imposes upon me, regular writing time is still available pretty much on a regular basis, and without much effort on my part either.

But getting started again? After a day or two of inactivity? Getting back into the chair, and even more so, getting back into that frame of mind? Then slogging it out through the roughest, swampiest first drafts of linking scenes set midway through an introductory chapter? That is hard, hard work, peeps. Pounding it out at the keyboard, rain or shine, day in and day out… it is not such an easy thing to fall back into.

I used to have that discipline, you know.

In fact, I had it in spades, I remember it and the late night writing sessions very well. I was a monster then, a page pounding machine hell-bent on decimating my manuscript’s incomplete status… but after wandering a bit far afield for awhile, I have now returned home to begin the process anew and… where has it gone?

Maybe it’s just a case similar to when you return to a work-out schedule after a long time off. Certain muscles won’t be as tight they used to be, or as used to being utilized at all, for that matter, and it takes a little bit of time and dedication to get them pumping at a good pace again, right?

Or maybe, this is just a reflection of the first book and the inherent differences in their creation process…

Gunslingers of the Apocalypse was created in a vacuum, you see. In a time when I was ultra-poor and therefore home-bound, it was just me, a kitchen table, a possibly stolen laptop, and a writing exercise for David Housewright’s Loft class that was tackled the night before it was due, after a particularly depressing late-winter bus ride. The book grew out of that four page blurt of writing. The ending formed once I started to think about the beginning, and the middle just kind of appeared like a natural bridge between the two. But the project itself wasn’t even a real project, not until 3 or 4 chapters in, at the earliest, and it certainly wasn’t seen by any eyes other than mine until the completion of the First Act, some 200 pages into it and several months later, give or take.

But Bastard out of Minnesota? That has been BOOK TWO in one form or another since somewhere around halfway through Book One’s initial draft. Its story pieces had begun to coalesce in the back of my head well before the first draft of Gunslingers was even close to being completed. In fact, Book Three and Book Four have done a similar thing, currently they’re just a couple of paragraphs moldering on dusty Word Documents in the back of my hard-drive, after finally and officially being pulled from my head, tossed together, and then left to fester in the dark sometime around the middle of Gunslinger’s third draft. The point is… They’re all INTENDED, get it?

This story has long been A BOOK, you know? Which is a really weird feeling while I tackle it. The pressure of completion, the awareness of WHERE IS THIS GOING has been there from the very first word. There was no secret maturation process this time. There was no: “Hey, surprise! You made a Novel!” moment. It was all just there, half formed and always, readily on display, the bits and pieces crying out for attention instead of just quietly simmering away on the back burner until fully cooked, or at least, until I was within a few chapters of their plot twists and was forced to start paying attention. My fellow Scribblerati Agents have already seen Bastard’s Prologue and Chapter One on multiple occasions (Slightly different versions, of course, and their responses were extremely helpful, as always) and they will be reading (hopefully) Chapter Two for the first time this weekend. So not only is it a different book, but it’s been a completely different process right from the start.

It’s like starting all over again, with a slightly similar puzzle, but in a different language, and that is an intimidating realization.

But the good news? The good news is that last night, I had to sit down and wrap some stuff up. I had to, because I needed to submit it to the group in time for them to read it for Monday, and work and life and the long white of those waiting spaces… they were stubborn, conspiring to keep me from finishing on time.

But I didn’t have an option, so in the end, I just did it. No whining, no distractions, just tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap, and then… done. And it turned out not half bad too. So that’s good news. I can still do it, now I just need to make myself do it regularly again. My hope is: Now that Gunslingers is completely “done,” meaning: I am no longer making any edits or changes until someone new, i.e. an Agent or Editor (ever hopeful), suggests them, that I will now be freed up to focus on Bastard. I intend to do so regularly, even if it means forcing myself to return to a strict adherence to that old writer's saw:

“A writer writes everyday.”

Sometimes discipline and consistency can only come through intensive, oppressive scheduling.

At least… here’s hoping.

(Fun fact: The scene originally written for Housewright’s Loft class? The one that eventually grew into Gunslingers of the Apocalypse? It doesn’t actually appear in Gunslingers, at all, ultimately, the evolution of the book cut it loose. However, an altered version does appear in Bastard out of Minnesota.)