WIP meme - a goat following the flock

[elingregory]

This is all over the place today, posted mostly by proper writers with followings. But I'm posting this as a cautionary tale to anyone who thinks "oh hey, I have a shiny idea, I'll write a book about it!"

Shiny ideas can be evil. Shiny ideas can take over you life and your hard drive. Shiny ideas are truculent and aggressive ratbags who interfere with each other. And the worst thing about them - they travel in herds!

Solitary shiny ideas that can be properly attended to are lovely things but when does that ever happen.

Meme:

Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.



Alike As Two Bees
Anatolios
Applejack
Blighs Ferry
Eleventh Hour
Emrys
A Fierce Reaping
A Gleam of Splendour
Henry Vance
The Imperial Ideal
Keladra
The Language of Flowers
Moonlight Shadow
Norton Wood
Old Stories
On a Lee Shore
Regency Rubbish
Short in the Saddle
Spices to Belhaven
Tears of Heaven
Town Mouse
The Wanderer

Name one of them and I'll give you a snippet from it and/or tell you something about it.

In other news, I find I am required to write a guide book for work, during my normal working hours in addition to my normal tasks, and it needs to be print run ready by the end of January. OMG so much fact checking!!!!

Comments

[yakalskovich]

I'd like to know about 'The Imperial Ideal', please!

And hopefully, they will pay you extra for the guide book and put your name on the cover?

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

No money and it will have the museum's name on it - but hey, it'll be a book that my mother can talk about!

The Imperial Ideal - oh God that's so old. I wrote it in the late 90s. It's a bit like a fantasy version of 'The African Queen' only set in an eastern European milieu with an Imperial army chasing murderous rebels at the direction of sinister 'political' officers. It's also one of the last things I wrote that was het.

Snippet:

If Trooper Krieg was aware of Sisson’s scrutiny, he showed no sign of it. He limped on towards them, halting at a respectful distance and saluting left-handed.
“You wanted me, sir?” he asked.
Sisson had considered his reply carefully.
“I need a reliable man, with a certain combination of skills,” he said, “and you, Krieg, are my only possible choice. I do not expect you to let me down.”
The assignment was soon explained. Krieg leaned on his crutch and glared at Sisson with no trace of his former respect. Sisson merely smiled and continued.
“The medics inform me that your injuries are being exacerbated by the jolting of the transports and that rest should work wonders. The repair to the firing unit in the All Purpose is well within your capabilities, even one handed. Take your time. Take Mistress Yannis home to Koulaibik. Stay there until she is settled then either rendezvous with us at the coordinates marked on the map, it’s a small town called Pecharov or we will come to find you. If there’s a change of plan we’ll get word to you. Use your initiative, Krieg.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Krieg’s salute was perfunctory as he turned and hobbled back to Bledso who was leaning against the damaged ape.
“S’teeth,” Krieg swore and leaned alongside of him. “Why me, why bloody me, eh?”
“Yes, why you?” Bledso wanted to know. “There are plenty of men in this unit who’d be pleased to get off on their own for a day or two. A.P. with full power cells. Food packs, a little female company,” he leered and nudged Krieg, who winced and swore.
“Why didn’t you volunteer, then?” he demanded.
“Not me, mate, I’ve seen her. She's fifty if she’s a day,” Bledso said with a chuckle. “Look, there she is now.”
Krieg watched the bulky figure stomp down through the trees. She was dressed in the usual garb for the region, a heavy scarf or shawl swathing head and shoulders over a thick quilted jacket and voluminous woollen skirts all in shades of mud. Large felt lined boots that looked like they could kick the treads off a tank completed the ensemble and Krieg swore again.
“You’ll be all right there,” Bledso told him. “If the ape strips a tyre, she’ll be able to pick it up with one hand and undo the wheel nuts with the other. And do the same to you if you get fresh.”
Krieg ignored him. He was watching the woman as she spoke to the major. Once she glanced in his direction and, from her gestures, was asking whom the major expected to look after whom. He sighed and glanced across at Bledso.
“Looks like there’s no hope for it, then,” he said. “Give us a hand to get this so and so off the track?”
“Sure,” Bledso grinned at him and held the driver’s door open with a mocking bow.

[yakalskovich]

Oh, it sounds a little steampunk-y!

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

Who is Henry Vance?

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

Henry Vance started off as a role playing character but I decided that he had at least one novella in him.

He was a society portrait painter both sides of the pond in the later 1920s. Opportunistic, a survivor, rarely in funds, charming, kind and not particularly practical.

The novella incarnation would be set in 1925 with PTSD angsty flashbacks to 1915 [when Henry spent a particularly traumatic night trapped in a collapsed bunker under an artillery barrage]. Henry has a commission to paint the debutante daughter of a well connected family, a commission that puts a roof over his head. This is all right as far as it goes but complications arise when Henry discovers that the family chauffeur is the man with whom he shared that bunker back in 1915, a man he's never been able to forget.

The file contains a load of notes on the Great War, scraps from the RPG and what remains of Henry's fake Wikipedia page. Of the story very little that makes sense was written, I have more on paper, but there is a body of art work:





Funny the things one does when one is bored. I'd like to write the story, Henry was a darling.

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

Goodness. These pictures are amazing. Very evocative. Henry Vance sounds fascinating. I'm, glad I asked about him now. I was going to ask about Regency Rubbish but Henry's name suddenly jumped out at me.

Henry Vance started off as a role playing character
Interesting. In what context?

I'd like to write the story, Henry was a darling.
I'd like to read it if you ever wrote it :)

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

:D I'm glad you like the piccies. I was experimenting with indian ink and a scrubby old brush. The effects were surprising but very satisfying.

Many years ago I got co-opted into role playing games. After a couple of years of flailing around I helped to set up a game with a contemporary setting with a strong paranormal element. One of my characters had a considerable family history and I thought it would be fun to give him a family ghost. The family ghost was Harry - a wildly talented artist but a bit of a chancer. He was fun and it was good practice to play around with the speech patterns of another time.

I'll write it one day. It's percolating at the moment. Stories tend to do that until they are ready to pour out :D When I do I'll let you know.

Regency Rubbish is a blatant parody and rip off of Barbara Cartland M&Besque Regency romances. I would have been writing it tongue in cheek if I hadn't been giggling so much. Try it - it's almost impossible.

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

The pictures are beautiful! Dare I ask if there are more?

So Henry started out as a ghost?! Even more intriguing! I know absolutely nothing about role playing games though I stumble across them online and irl all the time. They seem very mysterious to the uninitiated!

It's percolating at the moment. Stories tend to do that until they are ready to pour out :D
That's funny. eglantine_br over at following_sea uses exactly the same metaphor to describe her writing! If Henry is ever ready to pour please do let me know!

Regency Rubbish is a blatant parody and rip off of Barbara Cartland
Alas I have never read Barbara Cartland or M&B for that matter! However I had a friend who worked for Ms Cartland on her Highland estate once and she said she was even more bonkers in real life then she appeared to be in public!

[wulfila.livejournal.com]

Spices to Belhaven, please!

Good luck with the guide book (but it is a shame that they just require you to write it in such a short time during your normal working hours - I guess they want to save money and don't mean to pay you for all the extra work?)

By the way, is the meme only for published writers?

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

I see no reason why any writer can't play with the meme. A WIP is a WIP as far as I am concerned.

Thanks for the good wishes about the guide book. 10k words will do it, but it has to be completely accurate AND reasonably entertaining AND cover 938 years. I'll be doing a lot of editing.

Spices to Belhaven was written as a gift for a friend, a local vicar's wife, :D It's an antidote to all that appallingly wet Legolas fan fic that was on the net in the late 90s. I thought it might be fun to write an elf who was a long way from being wise and benign. So my 'hero' [he thinks he's a hero] is a 'fixer' for hire with a very nasty sense of humour and some anger management issues. I borrowed his name from Guy Gavriel Kay - what he won't know won't hurt him. The story is complete, but OMG does it need editing!

Snippet:

“And when has the cold ever bothered one of your sort?” Dravix asked and that was when he got out the strongbox and began to make the brightly gleaming piles of gold.
Gavriel had broken after the fifth pile of coins had been completed and Dravix Meek, equally slowly, had begun to put them back.
“Oh, all right then, you’ve convinced me,” Gavriel said and sat up reaching for the gold but Dravix leaned forward, too, his hands hovering protectively.
“Cash on delivery,” he warned. “When the stock is in my storeroom you get your money plus a nice bonus if everything is to my satisfaction.”
“Expenses? Give in, Dravix, I can still walk.”
“The usual.”
“And the room? The room plus, for a week?”
“And the room with all the usual perks.”
“The redhead, I think,” Gavriel said slowly. “Yes, you know the one, the thin, nervy girl with the frightened eyes.”
“I’ve never noticed that’s she’s frightened.”
“She is around me.”
Dravix sighed shaking his head. “You drive a hard bargain, you ice-hearted bastard.”
“Why so surprised? My sort is renowned for it.” Gavriel smiled, smoothing his long white hair back neatly over his pointed ears. He listened carefully to his instructions then left with a comfortably heavy purse at his hip.
“I’ll want a full report, mind,” Dravix said by way of farewell.
“Naturally.” Gavriel blew him a kiss as he drew the door closed behind him and it wasn’t until he had left the yard and was on his way to the stables, Meek’s chickens scattering hysterically before him, that his sweet smile turned into a scowl of discontent.

[wulfila.livejournal.com]

Definitely edit the story - the snippet with the very unheroic hero sounds great, and I like the basic idea (and the scattering chickens - details like that are what make your writing such fun). Thank you for posting it!

[alex-beecroft.livejournal.com]

I love "Alike as two Bees." What's that about?

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

Ah, that's the one I submitted to Carina back in August. @_@

It's set in Greece, approx 380BC, in a sculptors's workshop. Philon, one of the apprentices, is carving Castor and Pollux, the demi-god twins [who are alike as two bees] and has picked out a horse to act as a model. The horse is perfect - the rider far from it, but he has a cheerful and admiring grin that Philon finds appealing.

Snippet:

The man on the chestnut laughed too, then trotted the mare back and pulled her up a pace or two away from Philon. He smiled. "Hello, sculptor. A fine day for swimming.”
"Hello, rider," Philon said. The man was fine boned and lightweight, but well-muscled in his chest and shoulders. On his left thigh, pale pink, curving like a smile against the brown skin, was a long scar – a sword cut? - suggesting his horsemanship had been gained on the battlefield rather than just the riding square. The brief exomis he was wearing was frayed at the edges where the embroidered braid, once expensive, was threadbare and it had fallen from his shoulder to gather in sodden folds in his lap. The sparse hairs on his chest looked like fine wires of gold.
"A good day for a gallop," Philon said. "Your mare is beautiful.”
"She is," the man agreed and gave her a little nudge so she arched her neck, sidling closer. Philon raised his hand to place it on the mare's glossy hide and stroked down her neck to her shoulder, until his hand was an inch or two from the rider's sweat-sheened thigh.
"Her name is Charis," the rider said, reaching forward to tug one of her ears.
"Charis," Philon said. He grinned as the mare turned her head to lip at his chest.
"She won't bite. She just likes the salt," the rider assured him. "I know your name, too. I asked about the sculptor's apprentice. I said, ‘No, not the boy. I want to know the name of the youth '.”
The warmth in Philon's face was suddenly not just due to the sun. "I don't know who to ask to find out your name," he admitted.
"You won't need to ask if I tell you. I'm Hilarion." Hilarion's smile was very white apart from at the left side where he had a missing tooth corresponding with a pale scar on his lip. He didn't seem at all self-conscious about either. Philon returned the smile and patted the mare's neck again in lieu of thinking of something to say.

It was fun to write - I really enjoyed my mental images of sundrenched young men romping on the beach and eyeing each other with [I hope] period appropriate UST - so it has earned its keep already even if it doesn't find a home.

[alex-beecroft.livejournal.com]

Oh, how cool! I hope you get a good reply soon :)

[mcgonagalls-cat.livejournal.com]

* cough * The Signs That Command * cough *


Language of Flowers * evil grin *

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

*blush* The Signs That Command - I re-read some it of a month or so back and chatted to Judy about doing a bit more of it. It's her turn, you see. But she's been ambushed by real life. Maybe when Gabe goes to school?

You know about the Language of Flowers. Earnest young farmer gets led astray by angsty Cold War warrior in the early 1970s. Um - snippet, and because it's been such a very long time, it's a long one:

As he opened the front door, Merrick paused and nodded, “Gwyn will do his very best for you,” he said. “You’ll find him eager to please in fact,” he hesitated a moment then said, “perhaps a little too eager? I hope he doesn’t give offence – I – er – take a purely avuncular interest in him, you see.” He hesitated a moment more then smiled. “Thank you for your hospitality, David.”
“My pleasure, Major Merrick,” David said, smiling politely. “Please come again.”
They took their leave of each other with the utmost affability and David watched Merrick scrunch away down the drive, waved as he turned the corner out of sight then shut the door carefully and swore.
“You old bugger,” he growled and went straight to the study and picked up the phone. He listened to the purr of the dialling tone for any tell tale interruptions, and began to dial.
There was always someone on duty on that particular number and he didn’t have to wait long before someone picked up. “Hello, George,” he said. “David Thorn here. I wonder if you could do me a little favour … No, only medium urgent today.” He laughed as George grumbled then said, “Can you check if we have a file on one Major Rodney Merrick? May have retired approximately twenty years ago. Royal Signals, according to his lapel pin and a member of the Army and Navy Club unless he’s enough of a cad to wear their tie anyway. About five feet eight, fourteen stone, stockily built. Grey hair, moustache, pale blue eyes.” He paused while he opened his desk diary and rattled off Merrick’s address. “Until about eight years ago he shared the place with someone called Hugo – yes, like that. Can I have the usual? Yes, past postings, known associates, the lot.” He smiled. “If you could … Thanks, George. Speak to you later.”
He put the phone down and sat back in his seat with a scowl then went and poured himself a Scotch. Merrick’s interest in Gwyn’s welfare didn’t bother him – it was no more than a good officer’s duty – but there had been something in his manner that said very clearly that he not only knew all that was necessary to know about David’s private life but possibly even about his job as well. Before signing the contract to purchase Old Court David had checked for potential security breaches and had been assured that there was nobody in the area to cause him any disquiet. Apparently Major Rodney Merrick had slipped through the net.
He roamed the house uneasily, knowing that George would get back to him as soon as he could so staying within earshot of the phone though he badly wanted to get out into the air, to soothe himself by walking around the garden.
He was just contemplating another Scotch when the phone rang and he snatched up the receiver. “George?” he said, then, “Yes I have a pen.” He listened, writing busily, then said ‘Hah! Yes, so that’s how – sorry George, please carry on,” and scribbled for another few minutes. At the end George asked a question and David laughed. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe he’s a threat. He’s old school. Defence of the Realm and all that. Oh good grief no, leave the old chap be. I’ll have a word with him myself. Thanks George. Yes, you too. Goodbye.”

Continued in next comment here (http://elin-gregory.livejournal.com/11677.html?thread=64925#t64925)

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

Continued:

He put down the phone with a sigh of relief.
Hugo – Merrick’s constant companion. Hugo Braithwaite, solicitor, with two loving siblings, one of whom had a bright daughter called Betty, who was very close to Uncle Rodney, who had probably influenced her decision to join the diplomatic service.
“Betty Braithwaite,” David murmured. She had been one of the jollier clerks in the embassy in Tokyo and David hadn’t meant to blight her hopes in the slightest. It had just ended up that way when she had finally realised that they wouldn’t go beyond friendship. At some point she must have poured out her heart to Uncle Rodney, adding a name and enough of a description for Merrick to have recognised him. Possibly that jab about ‘intelligence’ had just been a comment from one military man to another.
Either way it didn’t seem to be something to worry about, so David put it from his mind as he removed his papers from the safe and began to go over them again. He concentrated hard and by eleven o’ clock, had the beginnings of a theory that he hoped to test over the next few weeks.
He had just cleaned his teeth and was putting on his pyjamas when it occurred to him to wonder just what exactly Merrick had meant by Gwyn being too eager to please. There were a number of possibilities, any one of which would be acceptable and David amused himself during the ten minutes before he fell asleep by reviewing them in detail.
He slept very well, soundly and deeply, with no dreams of jeeps, and awoke to the gentle sound of rain and the distant whistle and clang of Gwyn doing something in the yard. He sat up and got out of bed, and was bathed and dressed and downstairs in twenty minutes to switch the kettle on and make toast.
He had a sudden vision of asking Gwyn in for breakfast but dismissed it. If they ever breakfasted together, which was unlikely, he’d prefer it to be under other circumstances. However, tea wasn’t out of the question so he went to the back door to call.
There on the mat by the boot scraper lay some sprigs of greenery and he stopped and looked at them, then slowly sank to his haunches and picked them up one by one.
Blackthorn. Elm. Sycamore. And a curling frond of fern.
Difficulty. Dignity. Curiosity. Fascination.
David stared at the leaves in his hand then looked up across the yard. Gwyn was standing in the shadows by the old wash house, his face, open as ever, totally terrified.
David met his eyes and very slowly nodded and Gwyn must have let out the breath he was holding because he sagged, face looking pale under his tan. Then he walked across the yard and David went to meet him.

[kayberrisford.livejournal.com]

I'd love to know more about Regency Rubbish!!

(also, long time no see!! That might well be me being slow with my f-list and missing your posts, but I hope the shiny ideas start shining in a good way as well as taking over your life. I'm sure they will :))

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

You've been a very busy lady! And with good reason. Getting a new book out there and talked about looks like incredibly hard work.

I started writing my Regency story over 25 years ago. Someone had given me the guidelines for Mills and Boon and I was convulsed by them - they were so regimented - meeting by page w, a kiss by page x, break up by page y. I started to write my own Barbara Cartland parody and it almost immediately turned into Georgette Heyer on crack. So stupid, such fun.

Snippet:

Lord Patrick FitzRoy levered himself up into a sitting position. Far from being the handsome devil that Aubrey had described, he looked exactly as a man would who has been dragged home, dead drunk, by a crossing sweeper. He was still dressed in the tattered and stained remnants of evening dress, but his shirt had been partially torn from his body and a raw graze on one shoulder had bled freely. He looked down at himself in bewilderment.
“Disgusting, aren’t you?” Phelim commented. “Yacoub Khan is shocked to the core. You know how Mohammedans feel about drunkenness.”
“I’ve seen him high as a kite,” Pat muttered defensively.
“But that wasn’t alcohol, as you well know, shame to you.”
Pat growled then, as his eyes began to focus, he peered at the wreckage around him.
“Why is my room such a mess?”
“Because you, my lord and master, woke up and took a little walk earlier. We could hear you banging about but we could also hear what you were saying and what you were doing so we decided not to interfere.” Phelim winced as his master hiccupped. “Don’t start that again. Why don’t you go down to the stable yard and stand under the pump? Almost anyone would be pleased to work the handle for you. Honest to God, it’s more than a body can bear. It’ll all have to stop when you’re married!”
“What are you wittering on about, Phelim?”
“Ha! It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve forgotten. Read this. It’s the reason for all your celebrations.”
Lord Patrick picked up the newssheet that Phelim tossed onto his lap and his eyes opened fully for the first time. A moment later he was cursing and scrabbling through his pockets. He found Aubrey’s note of hand and cursed even louder.
“I’ll kill Poulson,” he raged. “He must have crawled out from under the table and straight round to his office. The Post is going to need a new editor. They’ll never hold me to it, you know. I’ll be damned before I marry some jumped up baronets sister.”
“And there was me thinking you’d done rather well for yourself,” said Phelim, shaking his head. Pat stopped in mid-snarl and glared at him.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because she’s a beauty, that’s why, and an heiress. The Stanton-Riverses have no need of your ill-gotten cash. The only reason she hasn’t been snapped up long before is because she’s a bit of a blue-stocking but at least she’ll be able to occupy herself while you’re out throwing up in a gutter somewhere. Her father died the best part of two years ago and every fortune hunter in Town has been licking his chops and prowling around her. One almost won her a month or so back but she was too sharp for him.” Phelim considered his master for a moment then sighed. “You know, I always thought it would take someone special to tempt Lady Cicely down from her shelf and instead you’ve taken a broomstick and knocked her down. Look, before you do anything stupid, see the girl. I promise you, you’ll be pleasantly surprised, though what she will think is anybody’s guess.”
Pat re-read the announcement in the paper then gingerly rose from his bed. He was very tall with the build of a prizefighter, an impression accentuated by his slightly crooked nose and the scar tissue on his knuckles. He swayed as he walked towards the door.
“I’ll look her over,” he promised. “Pump in the stable yard, you said?”
Phelim watched him go with a grin. “I was only joking,” he said quietly to the closing door.

[melanietushmore.livejournal.com]

wow lady! alot of ideas on the go! (if it helps, now i dont feel so bad for having a big list myself? hope you find WIP happiness asap)

A Fierce Reaping

sounds amazing XD

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

They accumulate, don't they? I have to be careful because I get at least one idea a day. Most of them are fleeting but some stick, some of which just float around in the back of my mind but others are very demanding and demand attention.

A Fierce Reaping is the working title for the story I'm planning for this years Nanowrimo. It will be based on Y Gododdin - which is the Welsh version of '300' written about 650AD. The king of Edinburgh feasted 300 warriors for a year while they honed their fighting skills then unleashed them against the Saxons who were pushing up into Northumberland. They rode south, engaging all comers, and ended up beseiged in the old Roman fort at Catterick. It's planned but none of it is actually written yet. I'm winnowing through the various versions of the poem to extract little nuggets about the named warriors - Morien who enjoyed playing with fire, Buddfan who died in Tudfwlch's arms - and working out how to fit them into the story.

It's a poem I've loved for many years but there's one bit in particular that just begs a m/m novel to be written about it:

Never will there be
Bitterness between us:
Rather I will make of you
A song that will praise you.

I hope, fingers crossed, that by December I'll have 50K words about Cadfan Clust [One Ear], a broken down warrior, and Gwydion Distaw [Silent], a poet who has no voice, and enough of a story arc to work up into a proper novel.

[melanietushmore.livejournal.com]

whooo! does indeed sound very fun!
'Buddfan who died in Tudfwlch's arms' - sob, noooo! but sounds like it would be a fab story

i hope you can get done what you wanted! yes deffo easy to accumulate ideas :o.
xx

[elin-gregory.livejournal.com]

sob, noooo!

I'll be doing a LOT of that! Technically, only one man escaped - just like '300' - but since Cadfan is a nobody and there are other reasons why Gwydion can't be acknowledged I'm going to let them get away too.

Yep, I'm a softy.

[melanietushmore.livejournal.com]

hooray!

no thats ok we need a bit of soft sometimes ;p