November 24th, 2011


Don't Forget the Sacrifice of the White Horse

I don't know about other authors, but when I write, there accumulates at the bottom of my file a collection of concepts, drafts and other bits and pieces that grows and grows the longer I work on a project. Mostly, I figure it is the way I write, which involves a lot of rewriting, a lot of twisting, twitching, and tapping into place. By the time a scene is finished, I figure I have rewritten it anywhere between four to ten times, from heavy rewrites, to small ones.

Still, I have all these notes at the bottom, and they're a weird collection of lines, really.

# Don't forget the sacrifice of the white horse.

# Introduction to the general, who has never fought a battle, never lost.

# I thought you were surprised when I first saw you, but now I think you may very well be in the place you want to be.

# For as long as the Bueralan had known him, Heast had limped, walking with the pain of his crude amputation and horrific substitution. When they had first met, soldiers said that their captain was working to buy a new leg, but that notion was quickly ignored. Heast was rich—richer than any ex-mercenary turned captain was. He invested wisely, spent frugally, and had no children. He could afford a new leg, a healer, Cursed or otherwise, yet never had. Yet, a small part of Bueralan had always wondered just how a man born nowhere near the Mireean Mountains could be so suited to their abstinence of the Gods, and the series of events that had driven him there.

# We do not know why the Gods went to war.

And that's it, really, for what is fit to be read. There's something like twenty-five pages of notes and drafts and off scenes, and all that is readable of it is that stuff. Well, you'd probably be okay with how I abuse myself in file, as well, but that kind of abuse is special, between the author and his work, and only the latter gets to call me those things.