It’s a lonely journey, writing. When Torvald makes a selfless sacrifice, or Irdessa overpowers her strongest foes against all odds, or Kraus does something disgustingly offensive, I can’t elbow my mate and go, “Would ya look at that?”
I’m tempted to try it, though. I’m tempted to race to public places to post updates on my characters, despite that you don’t know or care who I’m talking about. I’ve already filled up pages of a Compendium with Turesia creatures and characters, despite that they’re all subject to change.
I’m learning to keep it to myself. I’ll probably delete a lot of entries from the Silexare Compendium in the days to come. The porcelain of this story will not be fired in the kiln of completion until the “And everyone still breathing lived happily ever after” is in place. Until then, it’s a raw, scrotum-shaped lump of clay; not to be shown off.
Turesia is at 108,731 words, which is not an impressive leap from April. The last couple of scenes have drained me, so this news report is notably scant. To give my beloved characters blood of their own, I have to bleed. I torture them by torturing myself. I dredge up my darkest memories, pour them into a vat, then hold my characters’ heads under, one by one, until they do as they’re told. My fictional beloveds do not share our Arrow of Time, so for them to truly live, first they must die.
On that note, I need a place and time to offer a disclaimer on Turesia. How about here and now? Turesia is not like A Sawmill’s Hope. The stories are alike in that they both contain magic and monsters and fighting and fantastical worlds. But as ASH was whimsical, hopeful, and adventurous, Turesia is grimy, naked, and battered. It features buckets of swearing, wild varieties of murder, sex, and implied rape… and I’m not finished writing it yet. I’ll go into more detail on the subject of content warnings eventually, on my blog, so we can have a conversation about it. Perhaps there, I’ll tell you why I feel the need to offer such a disclaimer.
One day writing will be my profession and I’ll be able to devote real time to Silexare, not just shreds and scraps of time here and there. If she were my lover she’d have left me by now. She desperately wants to breathe her own breath but she is entombed and it feels like I’m digging away the dirt that imprisons her with a spoon.
I need only to make my living expenses lesser than whatever income I can generate by writing (which is almost nothing right now.) Maybe I’ll have to toil for a corporation for decades first then retire, except then I’ll be toothless and impotent. Maybe I’ll have to sell everything and move underneath the bridge and live off of fish and the drippings from the ceiling, except that could end with a shotgun blast to the face. Maybe I’ll have to interject into Silexare a wizarding school where a vampire and werewolf battle it out to determine who can claim the divergent, hungry, wimpy kid and drag him screaming into their torture dungeon of sex, coated in fifty shades of smurf-blue, except I’m too late for that party.
Next month the news isn’t going to have so much salt. We’ll get back to the low-sodium diet news you’re accustomed to. Until then…