[writing] Yes, a post about writing!

Ok, so, not much going on on the writing front recently. I've been poking my almost-finished second attempt at a novel in a deslutory way since I got back from the Great Road Trip of 2006, but nothing has poked me back. Until this morning, when Miss Snark and something that Stephen King said in the intro to one of his short story collection collided in my brain and I said to myself, Start in the middle. Which means, start the story while something exciting is going on. Action! Action!

So I rewrote (for the, let's see, sixth time) the beginning of my book. Three pages in a blazing fifteen minute frenzy. Behold.

Chapter One

Swift peered around the corner, trying to slow her breathing, trying by power of will to stop the trembling in her legs. No fat man in blue came charging down the street.

“We got away,” she told her brother, and let herself collapse against the filthy brick wall.

Steady slid down onto the cobbles, and unwrapped his shirt. One loaf of bread and three sticky buns tumbled into his lap. The sugar glaze had made a mess of the front of his shirt, but Swift had no energy to worry about it. She seized a bun and tore a chunk off with her teeth. The sweetness seemed to fill her entire head, and she made a small moaning noise.

Steady grinned at her around his own mouthful. “I told you,” he said indistinctly, “the carts are the best. They don’t dare leave their carts.”

“You’re very smart,” she told him. “Gimme another bun.”

He ripped the remaining bun in two and gave her the larger half with sweet, unstinting generosity.

Swift looked down at the crumbling pastry and felt tears well up. How was she going to take care of them? How were they ever going to get to Daren’s Ford? They’d been here in Marrit for four days, their money gone, their clothes getting steadily dirtier, the looks that the town guard gave them getting steadily more disapproving. This was their third theft, and Swift was frightened at how quickly hunger had overridden morals.

The first time had been almost instinctual – the fruit seller had turned to display a melon to a customer, and Swift had just reached out and taken an orange. Lightheaded and calm, she’d slipped it into her pocket and walked away. Steady followed, whispering her name in a frantic hiss. They’d eaten the fruit in a nearby alley, right down to the rind, and Steady hadn’t said anything about what their father would have said, what their mother would have done, if they’d seen their daughter act in such a manner.

What would have been the point? Their parents were dead. Three weeks dead, along with everyone else in their village.

It had all been alleys since then. Alleys, and the back of shops, and the undersides of bridges and the dubious damp shelter of the massive stone storm drains. Once a man had leaned into the drain and put a hand on Steady’s shoulder. Steady had cried out, and Swift had pulled her knife and showed the man the blade. She hadn’t said anything, and neither had the man. He’d just let go and backed away, slowly. Swift put Steady behind her and spent the rest of the night watching the drain entrance, gripping the knife until her fingers hurt.

She was only sixteen summers, she hadn’t even got her adult name yet, and she was all they had. She was all that Steady had. They’d only got each other, and it wasn’t going to be enough, she could see that now. She sat against the dirty alley bricks and she cried, as she hadn’t done since that first terrible night on the road.

“Swift,” said Steady. “Don’t. Don’t.” He crawled over to her, the loaf of bread clutched under one arm. “Don’t,” he said again, his voice wavering.

She bit her lips, hard. Stupid! She raged at herself. Not in front of him!

“Sorry,” she said, and tried to smile. “I’m just – tired.”

“We should go to the west road,” said Steady. “Someone would be willing to take us. Someone with a wagon.”

“We can’t,” she said, anger chasing away her tears. “Don’t you remember what happened last time? We might not be so lucky this time around.” The heavy body pinning hers to the ground, the hand on her breast, the terror, and then Steady rising up behind the merchant, kettle in hand… she banished the memory with a shake of her head. “We have to be more careful.”

Steady looked at her, his eyes sad and ancient in his twelve year old face. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “Eventually they’ll catch us. Someone will catch us. And then what?”

“I’ll think of something,” she told him. “It’ll be alright.” She took his face between her hands. “I promise,” she said, and found a smile somewhere to give him.

He smiled back, though his brow stayed knitted up with worry.

Swift pulled him against her, tucked him under her left arm, and held him close. All they had was each other. All he had was her. She had to make it be enough. Somehow.