Amanda Helms

Post titles, that is. Were authors to stop titling their books, leaving blank spine after blank spine on the shelves of my local Borders, there would be havoc. Geeky, bibliophiliac havoc, which I suppose isn’t as havoc-like as what one might find at an anarchist meeting, but still. Havoc of a sort. So titles are important for some things.

But for this post, eh.

Anyway, I’m somewhat rethinking the direction of this blog/site after reading yet again about folding publishers, closing agencies, and the general decline of the traditionally published word. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those doomsayers who thinks books are dying. Or rather, that the written word is dying. I think there will always be a need for stories. I’m just not so naive as to suspect the medium in which we get our stories is static. Or that the type of stories people want to read is static.

I have no hard plans yet, but I may discontinue my Thursday 300 posts. Or at least decrease the frequency. While I do believe that the “story-medium” is changing, there are still quite a few publishers out there who won’t accept works that have appeared on the Internet, as they consider that “published.” I’m trying to be realistic about what avenues I have of getting my work out there, but being realistic doesn’t mean I have to light a match and toss it on the bridges behind me. Even if they are already decrepit.

Right, that made sense as I was typing it. It may not in the morning.

As for the possible new direction, I’m keeping that to myself for the moment while I decide if it’s actually something I want to do or not. I don’t figure there’s much point in blathering about it here when it’s still a big question mark.

So yeah, not much going on with this post. Now you see why I didn’t have a real title for it.

A confession: My inner bread baker is a sourdough snob. I hesitate to use the term “inner bread baker,” since that implies the baker aspect of my persona is somehow cut off from the rest of me, or that it’s like a rarely worn shirt hanging in the back of my closet, that, when I want to wear it again, I have to pull out of a protective plastic cover and let it air out for a bit to get rid of the smell of mothballs.

Only I think mothballs are used in drawers and not the closet so much. I don’t know. I have never had to employ the use of mothballs. But that’s a tangent, anyhow.

So “inner bread baker” isn’t quite accurate, but nor would the more plebeian “amateur,” which I mean not as some naif of the bread-baking world, entirely ignorant of rising times and shaping and slashing loaves, but as an initiate studying the craft, as it were. That sort of amateur wants to become a master. Don’t get me wrong; I want to be a decent bread baker, and on the whole I think I am, but there are thousands if not millions of people better at it than I am. I enjoy baking, but I only do it as I need it, whether for the end product of the loaf or for the therapy/relaxation inherent with working with the dough. A serious amateur, I think, would bake to get better. Regularly.

So I’m not a true amateur and I don’t like the term “inner bread baker.” But I am definitely a sourdough snob. I do use dry yeast, but I get a greater sense of satisfaction from using my sourdough starter. I baked a loaf of sourdough bread today that was my best riser that I recall. It’s going to become a bread bowl for an artichoke cheese dip so I haven’t tasted it yet. But the rise was impressive enough to make me consider an activity more suited to an amateur bread baker than whatever I am: take pictures. Hey, it would be more interesting than taking pictures of myself writing. I mean, people like food. It has universal appeal. The creative process, however, not so much. Particularly since a great deal of it involves me staring at a blinking cursor.

Anyway. Why I’m a sourdough snob. There are those who argue that the flavor profile of a sourdough loaf is superior to that of an active yeast loaf, due to the slower rise and slower development of the wild yeast of the sourdough. Also, some have extolled the variety of sourdough. My sourdough should have a different taste to it than my mom’s sourdough, or a San Francisco sourdough, since the yeast spores in my kitchen differ from those in my mom’s kitchen and those in San Francisco. So yeah, there’s the flavor thing.

Aside from that, though, I just like the concept of sourdough. It’s almost like alchemy: I mix together water and flour and set it on my counter for a few days. I forget about it, and all on its own it starts getting bubbly and frothy and develop a pleasant, yeasty aroma.*

But it’s not alchemy, of course; it’s nature. Or science, if you start getting technical about the “how” of it. Both/and. But still, in this world where, were technology to be somehow stripped from my life, I would likely die** that making a loaf of bread is so simple does almost feel like magic.

The ingredients of my sourdough loaf are bread flour, water, whey (which could account for the nice rise), and salt. Since the yeast spores are from my kitchen and not a little packet, it’s about as close to “homemade” as you can get.  And people have been making bread like this for thousands of years. It is, well, neat. Yes, I am aware of how inadequate that sounds.

Still. That’s why I’m a sourdough snob.

_______________________________________________________

*Well, pleasant to me. Some people don’t like the smell of fermentation.

**I’m not being facetious; it’s currently 10ºF and feels like 0º according to weather.com. Plus, I’m not sure how long I could gather foodstuffs before eating a poisonous berry or mushroom. I’m botanically ignorant.

From Chapter 4. Might as well continue going in order.

__________________________________________________________

Aelis found a secluded corner in the banquet hall and covered Lyra up with one of those ludicrous and pointless curtains while she went to find a servant to bespell into directing her to the dungeons. Since the glamour had affected the servants on the way to the balcony, it must be that the reason her magic didn’t work on Lyra was a defect with the girl herself rather than Aelis’s own powers.

She felt vindicated when the successful spelling of a girl of about fifteen proved that Aelis’s suppositions were correct. She was less pleased to discover the manse had no dungeons.

“No dungeons?” she exclaimed louder than was wise, glamour or no glamour, spell of compulsion or no. “What sort of manse is this, not to have dungeons?” Honestly, where had the lords of old done their torturing? Particularly in what had started out as a fort, by all the celestial spirits?

The servant’s gaze wandered past Aelis constantly, not truly focusing on anything. “No dungeons, Lady,” the girl said in a monotone. “It’s the land, you see. Not stable enough for digging underground. It would cause the building to collapse.”

Aelis chewed her lip as she tapped at her thigh with a finger. “Well then, where are prisoners held?”

If at all possible, the girl’s blank look turned blanker. “Prisoners?”

She clenched her teeth to keep from throttling the bespelled girl. Then she would have two bodies to take care of, instead of just one. “Yes, prisoners! Enemies of the barony to be held for questioning, thieves, you know, prisoners!”

“Yaric doesn’t get prisoners, Lady.”

And the girl went back to sweeping the stairs, as she had been doing when Aelis had placed the spell upon her. Aelis had half a mind to slap the girl into obedience, but instead spat out a spell of forgetting and wheeled about on her heel to reascend the staircase. She wasn’t accustomed to relying upon physical force to induce unconsciousness, so she had no idea when Lyra might start coming to again. And that she couldn’t allow.

Her mind spun as she tried to think of a plan. If Darnett could see her now, he would give her a thorough tongue-lashing. His philosophy was that one should always go into one’s endeavors with a plan, and a backup plan, and another backup plan in case the first failed. And even then, one ought to remain flexible.

Well, she had remained flexible, which was what had gotten her into this spot of bother in the first place.

The girl was still breathing when Aelis returned to her. Drat. She’d half-hoped her blow had been severe enough to kill the girl. But of course if an annihilation spell were to work, that would be far superior, as she would be left with no corpse to contend with. Death by brute force would warrant either hiding the body or coming up with a scapegoat to blame the murder upon.

The things she did for love.

Aelis froze, limbs stiff, but then forced herself to relax.

She would just have to deal with that particular epiphany later. Now, she must focus on what to do with the girl.

Thousands of novelists are, as I write this post, frantically typing away at their novel, hoping their heads don’t explode or their fingers catch fire from the friction of speedy keyboarding. Or at least that their heads kindly delay their explosions and fingers their igniting until after midnight, local time, so that they may verify their novels and claim their winner goodies, and enjoy the satisfaction of writing 50,000 words–or more–in thirty days.

But not me.

….

….

….

Did I hear gasps of shock and horror? Likely not, since I am quite sure that no one reading this is so caught up with my life or my NaNoing that the prospect of my failure kindles in them deep-seated dismay.

But if I am wrong, I implore you: Get your own life. No offense.

Anyway, I am not feverishly working on my novel or stressing about verifying word count since I hit 50k on hmm the 21st, I think it was, and verified over the weekend just in case the server went down or something today (which always happens around midnight). Far better to have a badge and be locked in a with a slightly inaccurate number, methinks, than to not get my badge and certificate at all.* My caution proved unnecessary, though, since I just updated my novel info with my final November word count (though I did include the words written for my aborted idea–hey, it was written during November, so I figure it’s all good). I am officially verified at 82,541 words, which is around 1,000 more than what I wrote last year, and is therefore my new record. So yay!

And now let us bask in my NaNoWriMo Winner badge.

Aww, pretty, isn’t it? *sniffle*

This year marks my sixth year of participation and my sixth win. I’m not done with the story yet, but am close enough that I think I’ll have the first draft finished by mid-December. But to ensure I get it done, I’m giving myself a hard deadline of December 21, which is two days before I head to Austin for Christmas. I’ll likely break entirely from writing during vacation, though I’ll need to think of something to keep myself going while Disenchantment will sits for a month or two so I can gain some distance from it. Then I’ll commence with revising and rewriting.

And two or three drafts later, hopefully it’ll be in a shape I can shop around to agents. Which I would normally pontificate about, but the idea is still too abstract–I’ve never seriously shopped any of my stuff. I tend to have issues with starting long projects and not finishing them, or not wanting to put the work into revising them. New ideas get too bright and shiny.

But of course that’s part of the discipline necessary to become a published writer. First drafts, particularly when written under a system like NaNo, are almost always crap. But underneath the crap there’s some good stuff. And yes, cleaning off the crap is yucky and hard and unpleasant, but necessary if you–well, let’s be honest: if I–don’t want to keep that pile of steaming crap around.

So for now I’ll enjoy my win and commit to finishing the first draft. The rest of it will come.

But in the meantime, I send out my positive vibes to those furiously typing novelists. My your fingers fly swiftly to bring you to your 50k, and may the NaNoWriMo site servers not become overloaded as you log on to verify your word count.

And even if the servers are overloaded, and even if you did not reach 50k, every word you wrote is still an accomplishment. For every Wrimo who fell short of 50k, there are still a hundred more who didn’t even try.

*winces at the corniness*

Um. I’m signing off now before my schmaltz filter fails completely. Good luck, novelists!

* Though I’ve never printed out the certificate. Don’t get me wrong; I love NaNo–November isn’t November without it–but printing out my winner certificate alone in my apartment, signing my name to it, also alone in my apartment, and putting it on my wall where only I will see it strikes me as, well, somewhat sad.

I thought about calling this “The Obligatory Thanksgiving Post,” but decided that had too negative a connotation, like it’s just something I need to check off my list: “Oh, it’s Thanksgiving; time to be thankful,” since of course we ought to always be mindful of the blessings we’ve received. Still, thankfulness is the core of the holiday, and honestly coming up with these Miscellany Monday posts is harder than I thought it’d be. That whole thing about boundaries freeing you, I guess. When you can write about anything, it can actually be harder to come up with ideas. So yeah, I’m not above looking to the season for inspiration.

Here it is, in no particular order.

I’m thankful…

1. That I’m solvent. Maybe my safety cushion isn’t as big as I’d like, but I’m not living paycheck to paycheck. I do have a buffer. A tiny one, but I have it. And that I still have enough leftover to feed my book edition and buy various baking accessories.
2. That my parents have always supported my dreams. I’m sure it helps that I see the necessity of a day job and not mooching off them while I purse my goal of publication, but still. They’ve always encouraged me to figure out what I want to do, without trying to impart their ideas on me. (Though I’m sure my dad is still somewhat regretful that I didn’t prove to be physics- or math-inclined.)
3. For Christ’s sacrifice.
4. For my senses, which allow me to perceive beauty. Harmony is a lovely thing. Sunsets are lovely things. The smell of cinnamon is a lovely thing. So is the taste of cinnamon, but of course most of what we taste is actually smell. But still. Lovely. Hugs. Hugs can be beautiful, too. *pauses to count* Yup. That’s all five senses. If I had a sixth sense I’d go into that, but no, I don’t see dead people.
5. That I don’t see dead people. It’d freak me out.
6. That I have a job which, even in the midst of a merger, is relatively secure. It’s good to work directly on what makes money for the company.
7. That even if I were to lose my job, I have people I could turn to for help.
8. That even if I were to lose my job, I still know where my meals are coming from for at least a month. I am sure I have that much food in my kitchen, which is not the case for many people in this country and abroad.
9. For my dear college roommates, to whom I know I can say anything and still receive unconditional love. (Well, unless I told one roommate that Batman is the worst superhero ever, she might not forgive me. Luckily I don’t feel that strongly about Batman, so I’m safe.)
10. That I still have a local support system of friends and family, since my dear college roommates have not deigned to move to Colorado. *sniff*
11. That I have the time to indulge in activities that make me happy–writing and baking. (I’d be happier yet if the calories derived from eating what I bake didn’t affect me, but oh well.)
12. For my health. And that I have decent health insurance in case something were to go wrong.
13. That I’m a permanent employee. I have been a temp, and it sucks. A lot.
14. For my family, both immediate and extended. I am blessed to have a family that gets along with everyone.
15. That my uncle’s blocked artery was caught relatively quickly, and that the balloon angioplasty went well. Still praying about the aneurysm they found, and thankful that they did find it while he was still in the hospital.
16. For dogs, even though I don’t have one living with me right now. Dogs are a perfect example of unconditional love.
17. That zombies aren’t real. The idea of having ambulatory, rotting corpses pursuing me to eat my brains does not appeal.*
18. That I live in Colorado. I love our mountains and 300 days of sunshine. I have been without, and did not enjoy it.
19. To have a roof over my head and central heating.
20. For fuzzy socks, a cup of hot chai tea, and a book to read.

Twenty is a nice number, so I’ll leave it at that. Happy Thanksgiving, whatever readers I have!

*And for those who might say that zombies are real, well then fine; I’m thankful I’ve never encountered one.

This bit’s from Chapter 3. I suppose I should mention that I’m not going to post the whole novel as I do have hopes of shopping it around for agenting/publication at some point. Plus (as is to be expected, given the nature of NaNoWriMo, there’s a lot of suckage that I don’t want others to see until it’s been edited into pure awesome.

Yes. I am a big fan of positive thinking.

Anyway, here it is.

***************************************************************************************

RMFW template

The crowd in the banquet hall seemed to press in around Lyra. At least fifty bodies, most of them unknown to her, many of them shooting her calculating glances and then turning back to their own companions to gossip about the baron’s disappearance with the Lady Aelis.

Lyra knew that in situations like this, more of the blame would fall to her than to the baron. She wasn’t in her own home, after all; most of those around her were the baron’s people and therefore more likely to side with him, simply because he was the known entity. And he was prettier than she was, which galled her to admit; that a man was prettier than she, but by the time she hit twelve, she had reconciled herself to being smart rather than beautiful.

And she wouldn’t call herself plain, even, but put her beside a tall, blond man with the smile of a godling, and– Well. It didn’t take much for people to conclude that the persons involved didn’t exactly fit together.

But he was stupid, so he wouldn’t have been her choice for a husband in the first place.

Lyra sighed and fluffed her hair that immediately returned to its straight state. Creams and hot irons had all proved useless in lending her locks even a hint of curl. Cosmetics that applied smoothly to the skin of other women inexplicably clumped around her eyes, nose, and the corners of her lips. Privately, she simply reconciled herself to the statement artifice does not become her, and tried to embrace her features as they were. Or, failing that, to cultivate her other gifts.

A throat cleared at her side, and she turned, pasting a smile on her face, preparing herself to talk of the weather yet again to some busybody hoping to decipher why Lyra’s husband had disappeared with a woman who was most certainly not his betrothed. She had her phrases all set: “How I love that bracing Yaric wind!” (She’d never been all that adept a liar, but this one was becoming second nature to her.) “Oh, my, the sunsets are breathtaking here, aren’t they?” and of course, “Why, yes, I do find it a bit hot for mid-autumn, but I am sure I will get used to it as time goes by.”

It was the last one she still had trouble with, trying to sound sincere.

But the throat-clearer proved to be not yet another Yaric dignitary, but instead the waiter who had seen her in the kitchens, crying over the cake batter.

A memory she had rather forget. The cry had been necessary, she felt, but to be seen at it–

“Would you care for some wine? From what I’ve seen, you’ve had only a single glass, and that strikes me as far too few for one’s betrothal celebration.”

Despite herself, she chuckled and accepted a glass. “Thank you.”

Her eyes drifted from the server to instead scan over the guests. She was simultaneously pleased and chagrined to realize that she could name at least half of them. Then again, her father had always said she had a mind for such details, and a bent for politics. She was wasted as “just a mayor’s daughter,” he had said.

And now she was to be a baron’s wife. Oh, happy day.

“Kendrick of Pirvalle,” she said for no particular reason. She gestured with her wine glass at a man in a green velvet doublet entirely unsuited for the heat of Yaric. The man had a black goatee and spent far too much time staring at the bosom of his companion, a Mistress Yarksdale of– Damn, what was the hamlet again? She was sure it was a hamlet; nothing so very large or important. “Kendrick evidently lost his first wife in childbirth. Rumor is that he wasn’t very upset, as she was horse-faced and prone to complaining of his gambling. Though if he’s seriously thinking of making a match with Mistress Yarksdale, perhaps someone should warn him she’s an even larger gambler than he.”

Though there was no reason for the waiter to stay near her, he lingered a bit, to Lyra’s surprise.

“Is Pirvalle close to your home, then?” he asked. “For you to know a bit of their personalities, I mean.”

Across the room, over the waiter’s shoulder, Lyra caught her mother glaring at her. She withheld a sigh and noted to herself to be prepared for a lecture about speaking at lengths with the servants. Though in their own home they treated the servants more as friends, Corista felt that such behavior wasn’t at all appropriate for an incumbent baron’s wife.

Well, at least after the wedding, her mother would be back in Briggun, and her husband so occupied with using his fingers and toes to count to twenty, Lyra could arrange things as she liked. She ignored her mother’s baleful stare and returned her attention to the waiter. Dark gray eyes, with flecks of blue in them. Unusual. “No, Pirvalle isn’t particularly close to Briggun. But when the . . . match was put forth, I thought it might do me well to research Yaric’s political dealings.”

The waiter’s eyebrows arched. “Wouldn’t that be difficult to achieve from a distance?” And then, seeming to remember his place, he said, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t ask questions.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” Her gaze slipped away from him again, to note that now she was gaining her own set of stares. Gossip about Edmain with Lady Aelis or gossip about her speaking at length with a servant; she didn’t much care which it was. “My father may have been just the mayor, but he did like to keep in place a system of communication so he could keep abreast of the goings-on around the continent. Couriers, heralds, even just friend and relatives sending letters relating the matters at hand in places they lived or visited. He had a knack for it, I suppose you could say.”

When the silence stretched on too long, Lyra shifted on her feet. Her mother’s glare had turned into a glower, and though she spoke at intervals with guests, Lyra noticed that her conversations led her closer and closer to Lyra’s position. “Pardon me, but I think my mother wants me.” She tipped her wine in his direction. “Thank you for the wine.”

She started to turn away to get her mother’s wrath over and done with, but the waiter caught her arm, though he dropped it immediately. “My apologies.” Though he didn’t sound truly apologetic; more like he simply knew the statement was required of him and so he spoke it. “But you said had. Your father ‘had a knack for it.’ I’m sorry for your loss.” And where the sincerity had been absent from the first, it was present for that.

Lyra’s throat tightened. No, no; she was not going to cry in front of him again, particularly not when her audience had increased tenfold, and particularly not for something that had happened more than five years ago. She would not.

But her “Thank you” sounded choked nonetheless, and she had to admit that her leave-taking was closer to fleeing than a simple departure.

She hated to be undone by kindness.

So one of my favorite threads over at the NaNoWriMo site is the NaNoisms thread. “NaNoisms” are the humorous mistakes that come about as a result of sleep deprivation and constant pummelings of one’s Inner Editor and Inner Critic, beings who are banished during the course of NaNo since the idea is to get the novel out first and edit later.

True to the NaNo philosophy, I haven’t gone back and reread much of what I’ve written. But I have found a couple from rereading my previous day’s last paragraph to reorient myself, and also as I’ve written them:

Light from the scones on the walls caught the unshed tears in her eyes and made them shine.

and

She appeared to them as just shadow in the flickering light from the wall-scones, when they bothered to look in her direction at all.

Yes. I did indeed make that mistake twice. Several pages apart.

Then there was also this:

One of the cookies looked up and jutted a thumb at the table toward the back of the kitchens.

As I wrote for that particular post to the NaNoisms thread, I haven’t included anthropomorphic baked goods in my novel–yet. But yeah, my NaNoisms do reveal a deep-seated love of bakery goods. I am caught out.

The first scene of this year’s NaNo. The one I’m writing after my change on Day 3, I mean. Not horrible, but I’m sure I can edit it into something better. But editing is sacrilege for NaNoWriMo, so that’ll have to wait.
Anyway.
____________________________________________________________

1.

The charm lay heavy in Gavin’s pocket, a ball of heat that bounced against his upper thigh with every step he took. So far it seemed no one at the baron’s bethrothal party recognized him as the newly arrived charm-seller who set up shop in the Yaric marketplace each day. But then, he didn’t expect them to find him out; he did know a thing or two about setting a glamour, after all.

What did surprise him was that Aelis hadn’t caught him out. She had always been the superior illusionist, and he doubted anything had changed in the fifty years since they’d last spoken directly to one another.

“What are you doing, man?”

Gavin startled and backed away from the curtain, where he’d been peering at the curious group of people evidently deemed worthy enough to attend the baron’s bethrothal party. He turned to face the chief cook, whose name Gavin couldn’t be bothered to remember just now. So he smiled and prepared to talk his way out of trouble.

But before he could get out a single syllable, the chief cook, beefy hands placed on ample sides, lumbered into a beratement. “You’re the new serving boy, aren’t you?”

For a moment, Gavin could only stare at the rotund and sweating cook before he remembered that in his current guise, boy was an accurate term. He nodded at the cook after a considerable delay.

The cook threw his hands up in the air. “Just my luck, the new serving boy is an idiot.” He leaned close to Gavin and pointed back toward the kitchens. “You . . . go . . . to . . . kitchens. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“He speaks! He comprehends!” The cook grabbed Gavin’s arm and pulled him away from the curtain blocking the dining hall from the serving staff. “Since you do understand me after all, quit mooning after whatever spotty-faced cow you found and get back to the kitchens. Have Gerard tell you what to do.”

Evidently Gavin hadn’t mastered masking blank looks in this guise, because the head cook spluttered and slapped at him, which might have been more effective if he weren’t nearly a full foot shorter than Gavin. “Gerard, boy! The head cupbearer. The man ostensibly responsible for directing you. Though he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.” The cook relinquished Gavin’s arm, evidently trusting him to follow behind. “By Elestra the Basket Weaver—may she be blessed forever—I’ve got more than enough to handle, what with the spit boy overcooking the roast, and the new baker’s girl sobbing into the cake batter. I haven’t got time to be watching over wayward serving boys as well when it’s Gerard’s job–

“Gerard!”

The cook laid hold of Gavin’s arm again and wheeled him about to face a dark-haired man with the legs of a stork and the face of a leprous pig. Pushing Gavin forward, the cook said, “Caught your new serving boy shirking his duties, staring at the worthies in the banquet hall. Probably mooning over some unattainable mayor’s daughter. Do something with him, will you? I have to go see whether that wretched girl’s tears are making the cake batter too salty. So help me, if she’s ruined that batter….” The cook bustled off.

Gerard, who did have some height on Gavin, but only a bit, looked him up and down. “I do not recognize you.”

And now Gavin remembered his story and spouted it off accordingly. “I’m new. Last-minute substitute. My cousin Adam, he come down with some wretched sickness—got blotchy marks all over his face and he’s been puking since dawn. His mother reckons it might be croup–”

Gerard lifted a forestalling hand. “Whatever his ailment, I don’t care to hear it.” He turned on his heel. “Follow.”

Gavin trailed after the lanky man to the kitchens, where the chief cook haranged a hapless-looking spit boy but left the sobbing baker’s girl to herself.

As he and Gerard passed the crying girl who stood over a vat of batter, Gavin did a double-take. Since when did baker’s girls wear silk underneath their aprons? He opened his mouth to say something—whether to her or to Gerard or the chief cook he didn’t know—but then she lifted her eyes from the batter and met his gaze. Light from the sconces on the walls caught the unshed tears in her eyes and made them shine. She shook her head in a clear plea for silence.

Gavin closed his mouth. The girl gave him a small smile. An unfortunately long nose kept her from being truly pretty, but Gavin rather thought that when her eyes weren’t puffy and her skin not blotchy from crying, she’d manage striking.

“Boy.”

Gavin turned to face Gerard again just in time to avoid a collision. The other man had stopped at a table whose top was covered with decanters of wine. Gerard frowned. “I believe I see what Kaven meant about you mooning about. You’re to take this wine and serve it in the banquet hall to whoever asks for it. Think you can manage that without staring at girls, crying or otherwise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Gerard pressed a bottle into Gavin’s hand. “No staring at the worthies. Baron Edmain would likely pay no mind, but we have a lot of visitors, and you never know if one of them might. Now get to it, boy.” Gerard shoved Gavin forward as if he meant to propel Gavin all the way back to the banquet hall.

Boy. Gavin mouthed the word. It’d be some time before he readjusted to not looking old anymore.

Well, as old. The last twenty years of Aelis’ curse were proving stubborn. Gavin just hoped that tonight’s bit of illusion wouldn’t set him back in his progress.

But he’d found the harpy. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to exact his revenge.

Even with that happy thought, he slowed a bit to see whether he could confirm his supposition about the silk-wearing baker’s girl, but her station by the cauldron of cake batter was empty. Pity. She had certainly been worth a second look.

Behind Gavin’s back, Gerard cleared his throat. Gavin increased his stride.

No matter about the girl; he had a charm to cast, justice to mete, and acting the part of serving boy would make his task all the easier.

This is for making me old, you harpy.

By the time he returned to the banquet hall, he suspected his grin was too broad for that of a mere serving boy, but he found he didn’t much care.

1. Getting in over 9000 words (and not even including the 843 I lost when my computer crashed during a Write or Die session) during the weekend means I’m caught up on NaNoWriMo after switching ideas on Day 3 last week. And if I get in approximately 2650 each day, I’ll hit 75k by the end of the month. Not a record for me (which was last year at 81k-some-odd), but still pretty good, I think, considering the idea switch and that I’m not taking the full week of Thanksgiving off of work, like I did last year.

2. My FREE KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer arrived today, just six days after I ordered it last week. Charging groceries and the like to my credit card and paying it off each month can be a good thing. Baking of some sort will have to figure into my weekend so I can test it out. Right now I’m thinking a basic chocolate chip cookie dough recipe, but with dark-chocolate covered goji berries replacing the chips. That way I will get at least some of them out of my kitchen, as they’ve proven to be a snacking food.

That is all. I have a write-in to get to.

Okay, I’ve had a change in NaNo plans. Or a recantation, if you will, in NaNo plans, as I am now back to the story idea I’d planned on doing back in February of this year. Which then changed to another idea I never posted on this blog, which then changed to the siren and werewolves urban fantasy with a Stradivarius thrown in.

The change, however, means that I’m behind in my word count, so I’m here just taking the easy route and plopping in my short teaser synopsis I cobbled together for my profile on the NaNo site.

Plus, I still have few enough words that I’m not sure I’ve come up with anything I’m yet willing to share.

And so, the synopsis for NaNo ’09, which is a rewrite of my ’05 NaNo, Disenchantment.

When a charm-maker attempts to exact revenge upon an old flame, a sorceress, he sets in motion a chain of events that causes the sorceress to fall in love with the local  baron (who’s not the sharpest sword in the smithy) and therefore turn the baron’s betrothed into a dog. Which wasn’t at all what the sorceress intended.

Feeling somewhat responsible, the charm-maker attempts to turn the dog back into her human self, but a difficult task becomes even more complicated with the arrival of the charm-maker’s and sorceress’s old master, who has ideas about tearing apart the barony for its black gold, which he wants to send to a far-off  (read: transdimensional) place called Amreeka…

Can’t post anymore. Must write.