Nothing much has happened in the intervening weeks mind you. Writing Book 6 continues to take up most of my time, and while I think I am on pace for a release this year, I have to admit it is really slow going. Readers of The Norothian Cycle may have noticed a preponderance of plotlines unspooling throughout the first five books, and as John the Red is the last installment, all those loose ends have to come together. Also, I feel it would be nice if they came together in a readable fashion – so that takes a bit of doing.
Just as a for instance, here are five ongoing issues from the first five books I’ve already found myself wrestling with, while still on the first part of Book 6. And yes, they all involve characters who might be termed as either “secondary” or even “tertiary.”
Ongoing issues from:
The Sable City – Will Amatesu ever really be able to forgive herself for what she did to Uriako Shikashe’s family?
Death of a Kingdom – Is Karza ever going to get some comeuppance, or is that evil jerk going to keep skating?
The Wind from Miilark – Will Rhianne ever find someone else to love?
Devil Town – Pagette can’t keep popping up working for different governments without somebody finally putting him in front of a firing squad, can he?
The Channel War – Is there really any cap on Claudja Perforce’s ambition?
Not mentioned above of course, is anything directly relating to John (formerly) Deskata, Tilda Lanai, Zeb Baj Nif, Nesha-tari, or to the fate of the world, for that matter. So yes, there are a lot of balls in the air, so to speak, plus some chainsaws and sparrows’ eggs. Getting them all neatly settled by the end of what is going to be a long, long book – without busting a yolk or sawing my foot off, is slow going. But like I say, I’m still on pace. Slow and steady wins the race, or something like that, but only if the turtle doesn’t stop to post a blog too often. 😉
Back to it, and I’ll leave you with a snippet from the WIP that likely relates to more than one of the issues mentioned above.
A door opened and he felt cold air. He sensed that the world beyond the sack over his head was lighter, though the sun shone without much warmth. He yelled demands to be taken before someone with authority, for this was all some terrible mistake. He began naming every official he could think of with any power or wealth in the city, but his captors only carried him bodily across an open stone yard, then spun him around and put his back to a post.
“I have more money than you people have even seen in your lives!” he shouted. “Release me and it is yours!”
His arms were wrenched above his head, and the ropes binding his wrists were looped over a hook on a chain. The presence of the two men beside him withdrew, and he could hear them chuckling.
“I have done nothing against the interests of Ayzantu City!”
Someone across the yard barked some sort of command in a military cadence that made words intelligible only to soldiers who had been drilled for months or years.
“I have information of value!”
“Ready arms!” the voice boomed. The prisoner understood that.
“I can be a boon to this city!”
He did not yell again, could not speak. He was about to die. Him. It was inconceivable. It could not be happening. The story of his life could not possibly end like this, or what had it all been for?