The revising is happening on a not-sequel to When the Sea is Rising Red with the somewhat lacklustre working title of The Melancholy Raven.

Here’s an excerptish thing.

I’m really glad I don’t write my novels long hand because I can barely read my own handwriting. Thank god someone somewhere invented type.

I’m loving the new place. We’re about a slow twenty minute walk from the beach, and better yet – fifteen from the library. My poor neglected card can see some action again. Yeah, baby.

In the spirit of biblioteekish celebration, I have launched myself on a reread (mostly) of Stephen King’s Dark Tower. King is a total hero to me. Even when he’s off his game he still manages to write engaging crap. I say this having read Tommyknockers three times. No, I don’t know why I did that.

But when he’s on, HE’S ON.

Unf. The Gunslinger is awesome, that is all.

If you disagree with me we can simply never get married and have puppies together.

And more proof of King’s awesome – 30 Pieces of Wisdom from King Novels.

I didn’t take many pics at AB (I hardly ever, and whenever I do, the pics have 1/10 the awesome of the experience and they frustrate me more than anything else.) Fwiw, it was wonderful, and even going with the spawn, while it led to a very different AB experience, was still cool.

I did like this one image though, with the rippling flags of a passing mutant vehicle silhouetted against the setting Karoo sun:

Now we’re in our new house, and the weather has gone grizzly, so I can’t even take you a decent pic of our awesome new view. You can have this one instead, where you get to see cloud-smothered mountains:

And on Monday it is back to the grindstone, and I Have Plans. Real Plans. And I’m excited about working on them.

Whew!

And I haven’t done this in forever, so have an excerpt, first draft and all that means:

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Tanja continued. She was accusatory, and somewhere in the fog of his memories Oliver tried to work out if he deserved it. Was it his fault this time?

He was pretty sure it wasn’t. He set down his almost empty glass, and balanced the crostini on the rim. It took an extraordinarily long time, and seemed particularly important. He thought it should be. Food and glass and stains of red. While he was doing this, Oliver found the words floating up out of his chest. He listened to himself. “She doesn’t own the city,” he said. Which was particularly stupid because it didn’t matter if she did or she didn’t. He still should have known better than to come here, to a place full of her friends.

With a dull surprise he realised that they’d all been her friends, really.

There was nowhere in the city to run to that she hadn’t infected. No place where people wouldn’t look at him with pitied revulsion. It made everything harder than it had to be. Oliver went to get another glass of wine to wash the thought away, obliterate it, drown it black. He needed a place to go where he could be clean of all this, but all he had were art galleries and clubs and alcohol and the night. The wine was helping, it was making him feel less frayed, sticking him into place and time like a housefly on a strip of dirty flypaper. He was spinning. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better, he’d be braver and sober and he could think and he could find a bolt-hole and lick his wounds salty-clean.

“God,” said Tanja, and she took him by his arm. Her eager drunken grip was something he found himself relaxing into. Hard people, people who took control and told him what to do, they made Oliver feel safe. A peculiar safety, yes. Like a rabbit in a hutch, safe from dogs and wolves, but not so much from the dinner table. That’s why things hadn’t worked out with him and Amanda. Two rabbits in an open cage. You can’t do that to people and expect them to make a good go of it. Someone always had to be the hunter.

“You’re a mess.” Tanja pulled him to one of the shadowed corners. There was a couch here. It was rubbery and filled with people he didn’t recognise. They glanced up once, a many eyed beast, then their heads all turned back to conversation, speaking each other’s lines. Above them hung a row of paintings. They were a series of seductions, angular and unsurprising. An occasional soft curve made them feel less empty and rote.

I’m in hell.

“Hey,” Tanja said, and snapped her finger right under his nose with a little firecracker pop that brought him back to a foggy sort of reality. The room smelled of old damp stone and piss and wine and desperate air freshener. “Are you okay?”

Focus. Too many glasses of wine and not enough shitty cheese crostini. Oliver smiled to himself. If he were peeled open now perhaps his liver would be labelled. This is Oliver’s bloated self-pity. “I’m fine.”

(language warning yeah)

(Thanks to Charlie Human for the link)

(As I have not read most of the books listed, I am making no judgement calls good or bad. The only books I left off were ones that I felt weren’t secondary world, or skewed too young (or I’m waiting for covers closer to release date))

After another weird day where people called my book a dystopian (and I cried) I thought it might be useful to build a resource for current secondary world fantasy that is marketed to Young Adults.

In many cases, these are trilogies or longer running series. In all cases I’ve linked to the first book only.

If you can think of any more (recentish, I am pretty well-acquainted with classic fantasy for younger readers) titles that you think would suit this list, please leave me a comment and I’ll add it in.

RAE CARSON – THE GIRL OF FIRE AND THORNS

MELINA MARCHETTA – FINNIKIN OF THE ROCK

Finnikin was only a child during the five days of the unspeakable, when the royal family of Lumatere were brutally murdered, and an imposter seized the throne. Now a curse binds all who remain inside Lumatere’s walls, and those who escaped roam the surrounding lands as exiles, persecuted and despairing, dying by the thousands in fever camps. In a narrative crackling with the tension of an imminent storm, Finnikin, now on the cusp of manhood, is compelled to join forces with an arrogant and enigmatic young novice named Evanjalin, who claims that her dark dreams will lead the exiles to a surviving royal child and a way to pierce the cursed barrier and regain the land of Lumatere. But Evanjalin’s unpredictable behavior suggests that she is not what she seems — and the startling truth will test Finnikin’s faith not only in her, but in all he knows to be true about himself and his destiny.

CINDY PON – SILVER PHOENIX

on the day of her first betrothal meeting–and rejection–ai ling discovers a power welling deep within her. she can reach into other people’s spirits, hear their thoughts, see their dreams…and that’s just the beginning.

ai ling has been marked by the immortals; her destiny lies in the emperor’s palace, where a terrible evil has lived, stealing souls, for centuries. she must conquer this enemy and rescue her captive father, while mythical demons track her every step. and then she meets chen yong, a young man with a quest of his own, whose fate is intertwined with hers. here is a heart-stopping, breathtaking tale for fans of action, fantasy, and romance–of anything with the making of legend.

ALISON GOODMAN – EON

Eon has been studying the ancient art of Dragon Magic for four years, hoping he’ll be able to apprentice to one of the twelve energy dragons of good fortune. But he also has a dark secret. He is actually Eona, a sixteen-year-old girl who has been living a dangerous lie for the chance to become a Dragoneye, the human link to an energy dragon’s power. It is forbidden for females to practice the Dragon Magic and, if discovered, Eon faces a terrible death. After a dazzling sword ceremony, Eon’s affinity with the twelve dragons catapults him into the treacherous world of the Imperial court where he makes a powerful enemy, Lord Ido. As tension builds and Eon’s desperate lie comes to light, readers won’t be able to stop turning the pages …

LEAH CYPRESS – MISTWOOD

NO REALLY.

DO NOT SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU.

Okay then.

A long time ago in a galaxy – wait. Once, there was this book, and it had a very different ending to the one it has now. Well, I say different, the core remains the same, but the circumstances around it changed, and one of the things that got snipped for brevity and pacing was a good-bye scene. An aftermath.

Because I still quite like it despite the clunky writing, I’m leaving it here for anyone who ever wanted to know more.

-

Jannik helps me to my feet. All I want to do is get out of here. I’m shaky and weak.

“Wait.” He crouches and slips his arms under Dash’s body, easily lifting him. The Ilven-thing drained Dash well, and he is nothing – an empty husk that she has left behind.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking him back to Whelk Street.”

I’m about to argue, to say something about how the others just left us here alone, about how Esta and Lils never trusted me, then I nod. He’s right. Dash needs to go back to where he belongs.

It takes us a very long time to walk back.

Verrel is standing at the doorway of the Whelk Street house, waiting. Behind him is Esta, her face blank. She just stares at us as we approach, and then when we are close enough to hear her says, “I told you they’d bring him back.”

“Is he -?” asks Verrel, although it’s plain on his face that he knows the answer.

I nod, too weary to speak.

The thunder of feet comes from the battered wooden stairs, and Lils appears, and Verrel and Esta step aside so that she can pass. There’s something different about her, and it takes my exhaustion-addled mind a few heartbeats to realise that her hair is loose, fluttering around her like a darkly malevolent cloud. Instinctively, I draw back, but there is no horror scraping against my skin, no dreadful memories.

She sees the look on my face, smiles beauteously. “It’s all gone,” she says, and as the words reach me, so do the first faint stirrings of calm, of peace, and visions of a future untainted by nightmares. It’s slightly melancholy, like waking up from a perfect dream without remembering the details, wishing that you could fall back asleep just to recapture what was lost.

“After Pelimburg, and after Lambs Island, this is all that’s left,” Lils says. She steps forward, and places her hand against Dash’s cheek. “And this is what’s left of his Flashness.” She says it softly, but there is only the slightest touch of remorse, as if she knew all along what was going to happen. Lils looks up at me, her eyes deep and dark. “You can’t bring him here.”

“What?”

Another patter of feet on the stairs, and Lils turns around. “Nala,” she says, as the pale girl limps out into the sunshine. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I came to say goodbye, properly this time.” Nala draws closer. She still looks washed out, but her hair is regaining its flaming orange hue, and her cheeks are faintly flushed. She brushes a lock of colourless hair back from Dash’s forehead and leans in to whisper against his skin. When she stands straight again her eyes are glassy. “Lils is right,” she says to me. “This isn’t his place any more. No more than it is yours.”

I was always scared it was coming, but the reality of being turned out of Whelk Street hits me so hard that I feel like I can’t draw breath.

“See here,” says Lils, her voice kind and soft. “You only stayed here because Dash needed someone like you, someone who could twist magic to his ideals.”

I don’t believe it, don’t want to. I stare at her dumbly.

“We liked you well enough,” she carries on. “But you need to go back to your own now.”

I want to tell her that I have no own, that there is nowhere for me to go, but Jannik nudges my elbow, and I turn away, wordless.

We walk along the street, until we are out of sight of the Whelk Street squat, and with every step I feel more adrift, lost and useless.

“Where to now?” I sit down on the low promenade wall, and Jannik takes a seat next to me, cradling Dash against him. My feet ache in my sea-swollen boots. My ankles are rubbed raw and I can feel blisters growing steady as puffballs on my heel and under my toes. I never want to rise again.

“Stilt City.”

“What – why?”

Jannik stares at me, his mouth in a thin angry line. “Do you not think that he has parents – family – who would want him back?”

Dear Gris. I hadn’t even thought of that. The only thing I know of his family is that his sister died at my brother’s hand. “Where – how will we find them?”

He gives me a funny look. “I know where they are.”

“Stilt City’s miles from here.” And even then – when we reach it – how are we supposed to find our way through that tangle of shanties and bridges?

He nods. “Best we not sit here wasting time.”

#

Stilt City is a river-Hob township on the western outskirts of Pelimburg – a muddle of wooden buildings that perch precariously on long stilts in the wetlands. The houses are linked to one another by a complex system of tiny narrow bridges and open platforms.

River-Hoblings stop their games of catch-the-cat or spin-my-love to watch us pass. A few tag along after us, and by the time we reach the cloistered, sweltering, midge-infested heart of the vlei, we are a procession. A funerary march.

The shack that Jannik leads us to is indistinguishable from all the others – built from the flotsam and jetsam of the ocean and the city, a ragtag lean-to.

He stops on the little platform just outside the door, and waits. A small boy sits with his legs dangling over the edge, one grimy thumb in his mouth. He has Dash’s sharp face, and the same dark hair and wide eyes. He looks at the body that Jannik holds and scrambles to his feet. Wordlessly, he disappears into the shack.

A thin woman emerges with the child clinging to her apron. She stares at Jannik, then looks down at Dash.

“You’d best come in.” Her voice is tired and soft. It is a voice that has seen the deaths of children before. In my own way, I have brought down another.

We follow her into the shade. She closes the door flap behind us, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom.

“You can set him out here.” She indicates a wide wooden cot, with a straw-stuffed mattress. It is the only bed in the little one-room house. An old man sits on a chair near the entrance, smoking a pipe. Black tobacco stench fills the air, competing with the smell of cooking fish. A small girl – perhaps eight years old – with a bush of tangled hair pulled back into a plaited uni-tail stands at a table, washing dishes in a wooden bucket. She’s wearing a pink sundress. Mud and time have turned it pale, ripped its seams. She doesn’t appear to notice.

Over everything is the sour smell of must and damp, sweat and poverty. This is where Dash grew up. I find it hard to imagine him in his silks and dandified tat, fitting in with these dull dirt-grey people.

“Where did you find him?” The mother sits down on the bed, next to the corpse of her son, and touches his face. She frowns. “Sea witch did this?” She says it as if it were no more than his lot – another common-place death.

“Not a sea witch.” Jannik shakes his head. “A boggert. We found him on the island.” He goes quiet, then says softly. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Are you?” She looks up at us, alive, taking up space in her world. “You taught him letters, and made him want more than his lot. You should be sorry.”

Jannik swallows. “I taught him to read, but his ideas were all his own.”

She looks again at Dash, turning her back on us. “That’s fair,” she says. “Go away, bat.” She cannot even muster anger. Weariness has eaten her from the inside. She is just a shell who must mourn her children’s death in a way that will not shake the lashed frame of her wooden house.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but she is no longer listening. I touch his sleeve and call him away.

The Hoblings follow us out of Stilt City, all the way to the crumbling end of the promenade where their land ends and ours begins.

I’m tired. So very tired. I curl up on the promenade. Kirren nudges at my hand with his cold nose, licking my fingers warm.

At first I was all grrrr I hate happy endings, gimme gimme gimme bittersweet or I will cut you. The more I thought about it, I realised that it’s not happy endings I dislike. In fact, I like quite a few. It’s just that character had to have earned that ending.

(This is my idea of a good happy ending, also, incidentally a favourite film of mine. It made me squidgy on the inside.)

For a happy ending to work for me, the characters have to suffer for it, they have to lose things, learn things, they have to change. The happy ending they envisioned for themselves at the beginning of the book must be different to the happy ending they finally get.

And I think that maybe that’s what I really mean when I say bittersweet.

Talk to me – tell me about endings you loved – upper, downer, or inbetween. I want to hear your thoughts. (Also, yanno, I love book & film recs so…. *grin*)

It hurt me right down at the bottom of my tiny soul. Teenagers are not this stupid, I screamed. Surely? I’ve always preferred to give my readers loads of credit and assume they’re bright and can work out complex, subtle things. As a reader, I hate being talked down to by the writer, and I never wanted to do that when I started writing.

So when I read books that spell everything out as if I were a dull-brained sub-human barely capable of making my own breakfast, I am insulted. If I were a teenager I would be doubly insulted, because that’s the time in your life you’re trying hardest to prove you’re not some naive little kid. That you get it.

I vaguely remember being a teen. I’m sure I obsessed about more than Really Hot Boys. A quick glance at my high school diary confirms that I actually obsessed about Really Pretty Boys In Dresses, so I guess that’s okay, but there were other things. I wrote shitty poetry and I played guitar and I wanted to be in a band and I read lots of Herman Hesse because I was the very opposite of cool, and I rode horses and knew every record label every UK indie band was on (because I was a little…trainspottery about crap like that)  and yeah, there was more to me than chasing around boys, basically.

So back to my YA despair. Please, Book Gods, I said as I wept, and tore my hair and rent my sackcloth etc, restore my faith in YA, let it be about MORE. Let something interesting smack me in the face.

And indeed, something did.

Slice of Cherry

You know when you finish a book and go, damn, I wish I’d written that? Yep. pretty much. It’s like the author decided to gather almost all the things that make Cat happy and put them in one book. And I really appreciate her thinking of me like that.

Ta, ever so.