So, just after I decided that I will never write again, waaah, I started writing again.
I’m so predictable.
I’m working on the third hobverse book, just having fun. I was inspired by a writer friend to do this 100 declarative sentences thing he found (Aaand now I dunno what the link was, but the gist is, you write 100 declarative sentences about your character) It was really interesting, and brainstormy, and fun.
ooh and here’s the link: Brainstorms and Tips
And no matter how stupid it might sound, it worked for me, so there’s something I’m going to put in my toolbox.
And now, a brief excerpt.
“What,” Verrel grabbed Gris’s shoulder after the funeral, “exactly are you playing at?”
“My dear, sweet Verrel. I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“This. The red suit, arriving late.” He dropped his hand and took a step back. “It’s as if you were bloody-well making a confession.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I am.” Gris picked at a frayed piece of blood-dark lace at his wrist, seemingly unconcerned. Around them the mourners were drifting off, heading toward their cabs and waiting taji.
Verrel paled. “You didn’t?”
“Kill my brother?” Gris finally looked up and met Verrel’s gaze. His pale eyes were narrowed against the sun, and he wasn’t wearing that strange copper wire and glass contraption about his face – the one he’d had Verrel make to his design. Without it, Verrel knew his eyesight was poor at best. “Why ever would I kill my brother?”
“You hate him – he humiliated you-”
Gris held up one hand. “Hate is a strong word. I reserve it for that thing that rutted between my mother’s thighs, and whose bloodline I must now unfortunately continue. I never hated my brother. I merely disliked him. Intensely.”
“What,” Verrel grabbed Gris’s shoulder after the funeral, “exactly are you playing at?”
“My dear, sweet Verrel. I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“This. The red suit, arriving late.” He dropped his hand and took a step back. “It’s as if you were bloody-well making a confession.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I am.” Gris picked at a frayed piece of blood-dark lace at his wrist, seemingly unconcerned. Around them the mourners were drifting off, heading toward their cabs and waiting taji.
Verrel paled. “You didn’t?”
“Kill my brother?” Gris finally looked up and met Verrel’s gaze. His pale eyes were narrowed against the sun, and he wasn’t wearing that strange copper wire and glass contraption about his face – the one he’d had Verrel make to his design. Without it, Verrel knew his eyesight was poor at best. “Why ever would I kill my brother?”
“You hate him – he humiliated you-”
Gris held up one hand. “Hate is a strong word. I reserve it for that thing that rutted between my mother’s thighs, and whose bloodline I must now unfortunately continue. I never hated my brother. I merely disliked him. Intensely.”
