And then there was none.
The tale of Rue’s haunt of Tammond Dale is no more. It’s over, damn you, and done. The tale describing an undead lagomorph intent on rending Kyle’s soul has been concluded, and I can only hope I avoided being obvious. Now I must combine the hundreds of separate entries into one giant thing and format it as expected by publishers. I need to print, edit, and refine.
And so Chapter 19 of my first book is starting. Another three, maybe four chapters remain until everything is finished, for good or ill. I’ve entered the endgame, and done terrible, unconscionable things to my characters at this stage, and it’s only going to get worse. It’s necessary, and for the trilogy to continue, absolutely essential I do these things now. I hate foreshadowing for events that won’t happen for two books yet, but I’m not writing this, so much as I’m experiencing each confusing morsel.
“Hit it again!” they jeered.
Crowded around an ancient willow, the godlings pointed and sneered. “Eww! Gross. Look at it!”
When the man approached, he wondered what they stood over; why they slapped a dusty old plank against the tree. Bored maybe, or curious; children always were.
“What is that?” one asked him, pointing. He couldn’t tell: it was mostly crushed, bulbous and oozing–all but destroyed.
“I don’t know…” said the man, squinting, humoring them.
I’ve always wondered just how many “words” makes an average printed page, so I looked it up. Apparently that number is roughly 250, with about thirty lines per page. Assuming the average six-by-nine inch book format and a one inch margin, that seems about right. Unfortunately it also means my page count estimates have been the product of pure fantasy.
I took chapter one and formatted it according to what’s normally expected by publishers.
Sometimes I catch a sliver of a phrase that contains within it a shard of true insight both innocent and intentional. It could be from a book, A song, an animated film, a graphic novel, someone on the street, or an unexpected observation from my rapidly unraveling mind.
Regardless of the source, with each fragment a tiny piece of an infinitely overwhelming puzzle becomes imperceptibly clearer. It is melancholy of the purest sort, consuming and unapologetic in demanding my remaining attention.
