Adventures Ahead

Well, hello!

It’s been a while. Sorry about that. Life gets busy sometimes, as I’m sure all of you are well aware. Time seems to gurgle past in odd fits and starts and the next thing you know, it’s been months and you’re not entirely sure where it all went.

For me, life has been busy because of some rather good news. I am lucky enough to have snagged myself a place at Cambridge University for one of their Creative Writing courses. Starting from this October, I’m officially going to be a student on the Undergraduate Diploma in Advanced Fiction and Writing For Performance. Fancy!

Truth be told, I’m terrified. First, because like every writer out there, I am firmly haunted by the spectre of my own doubts and fears. I know this spectre as Charlie the Eldritch Octopus and he has his tentacles over my shoulder as I write, reminding me that no one is going to give even the slightest hoot about anything I have to say. He’s also pointed out that my writing is abysmal at best and perhaps I would be better off just calling the whole thing off and going back to hiding under the duvet with a tub of ice cream. That is my genuine talent, apparently.

Second, studying at either Oxford or Cambridge has been a dream I’ve harboured since I was about 14 years old. That it will happen, even at a later point in life than I originally hoped, is something full of wonder, joy, and equal intimidation. Am I going to be smart enough to keep up? Will I be able to produce some writing worthy of the glowing buttercream stone halls? What if I’m so bad at this they have to take me aside and ask me to leave because, frankly, my stories about Francoise the Plucky Moray Eel are just an embarrassment?

Alright, so there are no stories about Francoise the Plucky Moray Eel yet (maybe there should be?), but the fear is real. Add to this the burning and lifelong trauma of having previously applied to study at Oxford when I was 17 and getting the rejection hammer all over my hopes and dreams, and there’s a lot of baggage there - mostly with glittering silver tags that read ‘anxiety’ in offensively technicolour, happy font. Papyrus font. It’s always Papyrus…

Ahem…

So, why am I busy if this course doesn’t start until October? Well, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I decided that the best way to prepare to take one course was to take another course. (There is some logic to that decision somewhere, but don’t ask me where.) After dawdling about finishing the draft of The Sunless Citadel (Yes! It’s done! But it’s nearly 300,000 words and needs ALL the editing, so the victory is lessened a little) I know I need a new project. I’ve decided that the time has come to pick up my Singing Stones project and prise it out into the open - somehow. I’m hoping that I can get at least a draft of it started before October, so I can then refine and improve it as I learn more on the course.

What better way to start writing a new novel than to join a course called ‘Starting to Write Your Novel.’ I know, right? Genius level thinking here (*cough*). I’ve signed up for exactly that course with Curtis Brown Creative.

So far, it has been like most of these online courses. A week of orientation and awkward introductions (why are these always so hard to write?). Now we’re getting into the nitty gritty of things, thinking about inspiration and how to come up with powerful ideas for a novel. I’m lucky in the sense that the world-building for the Singing Stones series is something that has been percolating in the back of my brain for nigh on twenty-five years. There’s a lot in there. It’s my characters that have been the problem. Mostly, I just don’t like them. However, with the help of this course and some long hours spent bashing my head against my notebook and physically willing the creativity to spawn, I’ve come up with new versions of the characters I need and, hopefully, a plot hook that will lure you in to give a damn about them.

The task on my course this week was to take an opening line from a list provided and to use it to free-write for around 500 words. I didn’t originally intend to bring in my Singing Stones world or characters for this exercise, but they emerged into the piece almost immediately. And they also formed something that reads a lot like a prologue.

I have no idea if this will end up in my final draft of the novel, but it helped me to learn a lot more about the world I’m writing in and especially about my main character. Her name is Rufia. And I’m falling a little bit in love with Rufia. With no further ado, here’s some much overdue writing to be shared, and a glimpse into the world I’m hoping to share with you on a much wider scale in the future.

***

It was so small that I almost didn’t notice it at all.

The green shard glittered among the heaps of broken glass, screeching and sliding beneath my toes. Demir stone. It was a beautiful green, the same as Father’s stone. Father would never be so careless as to break his. But what could shatter a Demir stone? I was nearly seven, and I had never heard of one breaking before.

There were a lot of broken things in the Spelltower now. I felt a dull shiver of doubt. I wasn’t supposed to be here. It had never stopped me sneaking in before, but I had always done that through a side window on the third floor. I’d never been through the front doors… Not that there were any doors left now.

I reached towards the chip of crystalline magic by my toe, but stopped short. Sticky redness was seeping into the blue silk of my slippers like a rising tide. I knew what blood looked and smelled like. That was the iron tang in the air, not the scent of magic. Someone was hurt.

My eyes followed the syrupy red trail to the shattered chunks of column framing the Crafthall. White feathers and pink fingers poked out from beneath the stone. My heart pounded, a whimper of fear escaping as my feet teetered unsteadily on the wet crunch of glass and blood.

One of the Winged Mages is dead and if one of the Winged Mages is dead, then that’s a very bad thing. They are the finest spellcrafters in the world. At least that’s what the grownups had all smugly agreed at yet another of the court dinners last week. Winged Mages of Ximarroth are special. They can do things with magic that people only dream of. I probably knew that better than the stupid courtiers. I hadn’t spent hours hiding in the rafters of this tower for nothing. I wanted to learn. Magic was important. Mother craved it. Father wielded it. I needed to know how to do it, or I was no use at all.

Maybe this was my chance?

I snatched up the tiny fragment of Demir stone. The shard sparked in my hand and I gasped in pain, the blood in my veins warping and bubbling in response. My hand turned white as the blood retreated, leaving only pallid flesh and a glitter of green.

“Never touch someone else’s stone, Rufia.” The memory of Father’s stern warning echoed suddenly in my mind. “Touching someone else’s stone could kill you.”

I dropped the shard quickly back by my feet, pins and needles piercing through my palm as blood returned. But not before I noticed the same humming ringing note that had hovered in the air every time Father cast a spell. It was his stone… but that meant…

“Father?” I called softly in to the fractured shadows, scrambling forwards into the darkness of the Crafthall.

My foot nudged something heavy and far too still.