Writer's Blog (megancrewe) wrote,
Writer's Blog

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Progress and Teaser Tuesday

Things have settled down a little here, and I am writing regularly again. Yay!

Just finished chapter five of the LOKI'S BOY revision. Am slightly concerned because somehow I've already managed to add some 7000 words over what I had in the previous draft at this point in the story. Which is an increase of more than 50%. Which, y'know, is fine as long as that trend doesn't continue through the whole story...

I suspect I'm going to have some trimming to do when this draft is finished.

But it's all for good! I am making my main character more active and increasing tension and fun things like that, which seems to require more words than, um, not having that stuff, strangely enough. ;)

And since it is Tuesday, and I haven't teased in a while:

(Context: Leif is searching for trade-worthy valuables, in order to by medicine his mother desperately needs, in a chest in his family's longhouse. Geira is his sister.)

Tentatively, he lifted the cracked lid. One by one, he took out each folded garment and set it aside. Beneath them he found only rags. Nothing then. Desolate, he stirred them with his fingers, and his thumb caught on something hard.

Behind him, the blankets shifted, and his mother rolled over. "Leif, what are you..."

He bent down. Whatever he'd felt was completely swathed in rags. He tugged them away, slowly uncovering the shape of it. Long and narrow, the gleam of metal, a clunk as he dislodged it. He paused for a moment, just looking at it, then wound his fingers around the grip and lifted it from the bottom of the chest, pulling it from its sheath in the same moment. The blade reflected his startled eyes.

He held his father's sword.

Geira drew in a breath. He glanced back, and saw his mother had gone even paler than before.

Leif straightened up. He adjusted his hand on the grip and turned the sword one way and then the other. It had been nearly two years since he'd held it, since those last lessons with his father--who had always said, when you're old enough, this will be yours, as if Leif wasn't lame, as if he would be just as great a fighter as any man... The weight felt comfortable, familiar.

To think this sword had drawn the first blood in the fight that had, in the end of things, stranded the three of them here.

"You were hiding it," he said.

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