I’m getting to Chapter Two of the book I’m writing.
And I’m getting a bit emotional. I’ve always wanted to be a fiction author. I’ve always wanted to create fantastical worlds and go beyond what I could dream up in my mind. But I’ve never had something I wanted to write about until a few months ago.
To sum up this post, in four words: I have a story. I have a story about a young woman who goes through trial after trial, breaking point after breaking point that also blends elements of love, lore, war, and magic. It’s not a land here on earth — it’s a land beyond our grasp.
I am learning, more and more, about myself through this novel. About how much of myself I have lost over the years. About the people I wish could still be a part of my life. About intersections of my life where I had to make tough calls.
The worst part about it? I wish I could have kept you all. Every single one of you, who for some reason on some plane of life had to leave, I wish I could have kept you. Instead, you’re locked safe away in this story. A part of each and every one of you appears in this novel, for better or for worse. If you look hard enough — maybe I describe your eyes. Maybe I describe your laugh. Maybe I call you out by a name I used to know you by. I promise you, you are there somehow. I am learning that yes, I miss you. Friends, family, lost loved ones.
Much like dreams, I am of the opinion that novels draw from the experiences we have had in life. How else do we know how to talk about certain topics prevalent in the world? How else do we calibrate our own world in comparison to another?
I am hoping — through this novel writing experience — I grieve through all the loss entirely. In a short amount of time in my life, there are a lot of characters and places I have lost while traipsing through the world. I never got a chance to grieve for those losses.
I grieve now, in my process writing DTR (that’s all I am calling it by until the title is finalized). I’ll give you a snipet, mostly because I am nervous about putting this endeavor out there.
In the midsts of my daydreams while riding, a blunt black object swiftly overcame me.
“And just where do you think you are going this morning, Greyla Stonnhen?”
some voice far off had said. Someone had knocked me from my horse, and I landed flat on my back.
“Home,” I coughed, wind knocked from me. I only got to my hands and knees before I was kicked in my side, and rolled over onto my back again. I found myself staring up at a face that was covered by chainmaille.
“Home is a quarter mile from where you came. Have you forgotten where your cousin lives, Lady Grentheon?” the Hauksman underneath his mask chuckled, and his fellow hunters tried to sustain their laughter.
No, I thought. No. Who told them? How?
I turned my head to the cackling group to find that from behind the pack of Hauksmen, my cousin Greyla was thrown forward into the ring of conversation.
“Very convincing, miss Judienne Grentheon. However, this sweet peach happens to actually be the miss Greyla Stohnnen.”
Greyla and I locked eyes. She was bruised and clammy, skin screaming for help with each frightened quake of her body.
“Cous-s-in…” she stammered.
I stood weakly, since I was allowed to it seemed, and turned to the hunters.
“What have you done with her?” I cried.
“That’s none of your business now that you have committed high treason against your king.”
As if cued, two Hauksmen picked me up by my arms and dragged me to the one who seemed to be leading the hunt. They grabbed a clump of my hair and pulled my head back to make me stare into his eyes.
“What a catch we have here, gentlemen,” he said softly, and dragged a black gloved finger against my cheek. “A lady, a bootlegger, and now a felon. You are under arrest, Lady Judienne Grentheon of Crawford Hills.”
