When to Revise, When to Relent

I know. I said no more rewrites of Book 1. I promised I would go on with the rest of the series.

And if this series is no good — then let it be. Start something new.

But I’m not rewriting for the sake of rewriting. Or just because I’m depressed my full was returned with a polite “it’s not there yet.” Well, okay maybe it is in response to the agent’s commens on the full, and to the advice I garnered from the Secret Agent Contest, and from meditating on High Concept. If I didn’t have respect for those two agents, I wouldn’t take their advice, but I do respect their opinion, so I’m taking a hard look at my story.

Mostly, however, it’s because I have a great idea how the book can be improved which is still in keeping with my original vision for the story. In fact, I think it captures the heart and soul of the story even better.

Yet, I am still trying to rewrite cautiously. There’s always the temptation to rewrite to the point one is writing an entire new book — in which case, why not just write an entire new book? I will never be completely satified with my book, because it will never be perfect. I have to relent eventually, and just let it be complete rather than perfect.

I’m still excited about the changes I’ve made. *grin*

What Happened to all the Followers?

When I peeked at my blog this morning, I saw that the two sweethearts who had decided to become Followers of my blog had awakened from their temporary insanity and unfriended my blog, or whatever you call it. I was sad.

Two Things I Love About This Cover

Oh my.

I’m jealous of this cover on so many levels.

The artist in me dreams of painting such loveliness; the writer in me longs for a book cover like this to grace my own stories. This is the kind of cover where I know I MUST buy the book, no matter WHAT the story is.  *Moonstruck sigh.*

I haven’t read it yet, only drooled over it, but it looks as though Freda Warrington is fully capable of delivering a story to match the cover.

* * *

When I started writing Dindi, oh, ages past, fae / fey / faeries were rather rare in epic fantasy. Now they are everywhere. Did faeries jump the shark while I dithered in revisions? How depressing….

Here’s the thing. My faeries aren’t really European faeries at all. They’re closer to kachinas or orishas. I made the decision not to call them kachinas, for a variety of reasons, but now I’m questioning my own decision.

If I, as a reader, have noticed a lot of fae, chances are agents and publishers have seen ten times the number. I asked an agent this directly at a conference, “Have fae been overdone?” She said no, not compared to, say, vampires and werewolves, and even for those, a market remains if your idea is fresh.

I still worry about it though, because…well, I guess because I am an writer. That’s how I torture myself.

The Corn Maiden, Chapter 1, part 2

Distance muffled the sound, so Dindi tilted her head to listen. Definitely a woman’s scream, coming from far away and further up, in the wild hills above Lost Swan Clan’s territory. A faery clan, extinct now, had once lived near Swan Rock. Their vengeful hexes haunted many caves and cliffs. More recently, Dindi’s grandmother, Mad Maba, had danced herself to death in those same hills.  A cursed region indeed – which made it the perfect place for Dindi to dance with the fae in secret. She was the only one imprudent enough to go there.

At least, she had been up until now.

The woman screamed again, in pain now. Dindi ran uphill toward the sound. I hope I can reach her in time to help, whoever she is.

Cultivated fields gave way to wild slopes of aspen and pine. Here one found no footpaths, only deer trails. In places, she had to avoid tangles of thorny brush, precipitous ditches, or bald patches of scree.

She reached Swan Rock, an odd boulder as big as a house. The rock seemed to stretch out a long neck and to overlook a cliff, like a swan. A white fir grew out of a crevice between two wing-like extensions on the broad rear of the boulder.

For a moment she hesitated. A windwheel blocked the path. It looked like a giant daisy, with six different colored petals spinning in the breeze. The windwheel marked the spot as taboo. Even Dindi avoided any place marked by a windwheel – she wasn’t obedient, but she wasn’t suicidal either.

Then the woman screamed again, and Dindi ran past the windwheel.

Closer now, Dindi could hear growls and sounds of struggle. She passed a shallow stream, another copse of trees and then –there! –on a barren, windswept hill, a bear mauled a young woman.

Dindi could recognize every member of the three clans in the area on sight; this woman was a stranger. She wore black leather legwals and black breastbands, but both were hemmed in brightly colored beads, and her elaborate necklace of animal canines had also been painted many colors. An odd sort of black feather cape swept behind her. Her skin was paler than bone, her hair darker than obsidian. A quiver of arrows hung from her hips, but though she clutched a bow already notched with a stone-tipped arrow, her weapon was useless to her at such close quarters.

The bear was huge, as tall as one man standing on another man’s shoulders. Instead of brown or black fur, as most of the local bears sported, this bear had shaggy golden blond fur. With a mitt as big as a man’s head, the bear swiped at the woman. The bear’s claw grazed the side of her face. Four parallel gashes sprayed blood as she fell. The loose pebble scree on the hillside did not offer a soft landing, but may have saved her life, for she skidded on the gravel and next swipe of claws missed her. However, she would not be so lucky twice. The bear prepared the throw its full weight on her.

Dindi had no weapon. She threw her clay pot at the bear.

“Fa! Over here, fur face!” Dindi shouted.

The distraction worked. First the bear reared up on its hind legs. Then it lunged at Dindi.

The woman in black scrambled to her feet and loosed a black-fletched arrow. The bear turned on her, but too late. The arrow thwacked the beast’s flank. The bear screamed in agony, sounding human not animal, and Dindi recognized the scream she had heard.

It was the bear I heard screaming – not the woman in black? But…

The woman in black, deadly and graceful, unleashed a second arrow into the bear. Another strangely human scream ripped from the muzzle of the bear. The bear rushed her again, but the woman in black spread her cape – no cape at all, but black swan wings – and lifted into the air.

“Not even your sisters can cure my poison,” the Black Lady said with a mocking smile to her victim. “Even if they wouldhelp you, which I doubt. Even now, your seaborn sister prepares to war against you.”

“Curse-bringer!” the bear shouted, sounding exactly like a woman. Black poison dripped from arrow wound. Staggering, full of anguish, the bear begged of Dindi, “Why have you helped Lady Death? Don’t you know who you are? She is your enemy as much as ours!”

The bear transformed into a golden, glowing lady, with butterfly wings – a faery. Even in her true form, however, her wings were torn, and her leg bled black ooze from the wound of the poisoned arrow. She flew away, crookedly, and Lady Death did not stop her. Instead, Lady Death turned on Dindi.

 “And now for you,” Lady Death said.

What have I done? Dindi had already thrown her clay pot. She had nothing left to defend herself, if one even could defend oneself against Death incarnate. What have I done?

The Corn Maiden, Chapter 1, part 1

Six Moons Earlier, Seven times Seven Days Walk to the East

It was not the kind of day one expected to meet death.

The fae scrambled to greet Dindi as she skipped through the terraced fields of ripening corn. The rolling green hills stretched out in every direction under a perfect blue sky marked only with the V of migrating swans. The ripening corn smelled sweet and fresh. Innumerable clouds of tiny willawisps hazed the fields like sparkling mists. Maize sprites clambered nimbly to the tips of the straight-backed stalks to wave at Dindi when she brushed by them. Pixies of every color fluttered on luminous wings around her head, making her dizzy.

“Come dance with us! Come dance with us!” they urged in a babble of flute voices.

“Not today!” She waved them away.

I could be taken for Initiation rites any day now, Dindi thought. And all omens indicate I’ll fail miserably. Like my mother. And my grandmother. And every single person in my whole clan since the days of the Lost Swan Clan’s great-mother.

She wore a basket strapped to her back, she carried a clay pot and her ears still buzzed with a tiresome list of chores from her great aunt. Great Aunt Sullana had also added a number of shrill warnings, Don’t cavort with the fae, don’t dilly-dally, don’t forget to prepare for Barter Day, all of which Dindi intended to ignore. Oh, she would do her chores, eventually, and she wouldn’t dream of missing Barter Day – the Tavaedi Troop would dance, she mustn’t miss that – but she needed to practice. She had told no one of her ambition to be invited to become a Tavaedi warrior-dancer, but she practiced alone every day.

Why does no one in my clan have any magic? I have to make myself different.

The first scream she heard was so distant and faint, she didn’t recognize it as human. She dismissed it. It must be a bird hunting – perhaps an eagle. Slight unease nagged her, so she went so far as to look up, and indeed, saw something large and winged circling higher up in the hills. Maybe a condor?

Another scream curdled the air. Startled, the pixies and willawisps scattered.

That’s no bird.

The Corn Maiden, Prologue

He wove through the forest to spy on her, though he told himself he should not. Perhaps she had come to the woods to practice alone, as he had. The possibility intrigued him – who else besides he had no need of the guidance of the troop? Who else besides he would dare?

She must have had magic, for she was human and not fae. Humans without magic danced only to hex, and would be killed in turn, if caught. Yet never had he seen a style quite like hers. She wore no ritual costume – neither wooden mask, nor cornhusk cape – only white doeskin hemmed with a maze of rainbow beads. Her hair flew about her, unbraided and wild. Though her aura showed no light, he had the odd sense she shimmered with power which warmed the cool December wood with hint of hidden Mays.

She circled the stump of a fir tree, as if it were her partner in a fertility dance. He knew the dance of course – it was meant for two, not one.

Kavio debated himself. His mischief won.

He crept up behind her. Stealth he had honed in hunting and battle served him well, and the broad trunks of sequoias and pines provided ample cover. The dance soon called for her partner to lift her, and she leaned toward the tree stump. He made his move.

In rhythm with her sways, he placed his hands about her waist and lifted her into the spin, above his head and down again. She responded as if she had expected him, and followed his lead into the next exultant sequence, toss and twirl, shimmy and turn. Fancy foot work followed on, sweetly easy. In this sequence of the fertility dance, both partners faced forward, so he could not see her face. The top of her head just reached his chin. Her hair smelled of flowers.

They flowed together like partners who had practiced days in each other’s arms. She amazed him.

He dipped her back, and only then met her gaze.

“Dindi!” He choked on his dismay.

Dindi had been tested during Initiation, he knew, and proven without magic. For her to dance was taboo – so decreed the ancient ways. The law left him no choice.

He must kill her.