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It occurred to me yesterday that I've reached the spot in the current draft where, when I first conceived of The Slow Palace, I thought the story was actually going to start. (This being on page 78.) Sure, there were a few things I was going to have to squeeze in first, but this was where the plot was going to kick into gear; everything beforehand was prelude, maybe ten or twenty pages' worth. "Ha ha!" I say now. It's not a problem—there's a lot of story in those first 78 pages, and I discovered the little things I had to "squeeze in" were actually pretty important. But it's amusing to see how little of my plan has survived contact with the enemy, so to speak. I hope this doesn't mean the book will be 8000 pages long.
This is also about as far as I'd gotten in the previous draft. I'd written two more chapters beyond this point, but none of that stuff is going to happen in this one—no side trip to the cathedral, no ancient pagan carving uncovered in the library, no sudden attack in the marsh. And it was in the marsh where the last draft got stuck, fittingly enough. From here on, it's an undiscovered country.
I'm debating with myself about chapter titles. It's a pleasant debate to have, because it won't matter for months and months. Why do some books have chapter titles, and some not? Is it as arbitrary as it seems? On the one hand, they're an artificiality, an authorial imposition, sapping a manuscript of directness. (Gene Wolfe solves this tidily in his Soldier books—each chapter title is also the first phrase of each chapter, and the chapters can be read either way. The first sentence of the chapter Beside the Beached Ships is "This little tent seems small indeed." You see? It works with or without. I am not so clever.) On the other hand, chapter titles keep suggesting themselves: The Unburned Man. An Involuntary Pilgrimage. Rhino Attack! (One of those is a joke.)
Things are moving more easily in this chapter—2.5 pages in the last two nights, plus some editing. It's refreshing.
To add some entertainment value to this post, here's a video you should really really watch: Alanis and her jagged little humps. Who knew it was possible to make such a silk purse from a sow's rear? (Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rigel!)
This is also about as far as I'd gotten in the previous draft. I'd written two more chapters beyond this point, but none of that stuff is going to happen in this one—no side trip to the cathedral, no ancient pagan carving uncovered in the library, no sudden attack in the marsh. And it was in the marsh where the last draft got stuck, fittingly enough. From here on, it's an undiscovered country.
I'm debating with myself about chapter titles. It's a pleasant debate to have, because it won't matter for months and months. Why do some books have chapter titles, and some not? Is it as arbitrary as it seems? On the one hand, they're an artificiality, an authorial imposition, sapping a manuscript of directness. (Gene Wolfe solves this tidily in his Soldier books—each chapter title is also the first phrase of each chapter, and the chapters can be read either way. The first sentence of the chapter Beside the Beached Ships is "This little tent seems small indeed." You see? It works with or without. I am not so clever.) On the other hand, chapter titles keep suggesting themselves: The Unburned Man. An Involuntary Pilgrimage. Rhino Attack! (One of those is a joke.)
Things are moving more easily in this chapter—2.5 pages in the last two nights, plus some editing. It's refreshing.
To add some entertainment value to this post, here's a video you should really really watch: Alanis and her jagged little humps. Who knew it was possible to make such a silk purse from a sow's rear? (Thanks to
rigel!)
