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Posts Tagged ‘my stuff’

I’m off to my compulsory Welsh class shortly – aka dosbarth Cymraeg gorfodol – but first I’m going to allow myself a bit of a squee. The Bones of Our Fathers [contemp m/m] is finally finished bar the annoying whizz through to insert missing commas and work out why Scrivener has exported it with all my italics as underscores instead. It’s a shade under 80k words and will probably be 80k when I’ve looked it over and added the inevitable “OMG they never mentioned that again” bits.

And because that is nearly done, I thought I’d mention some of the other things in the pipeline.

Calon Lan – only with the proper little ^ over the A – is with Manifold Press and will be published later this year. I think maybe August 1st but making no promises. This is the historical Great War m/m story told from the point of view of the sister of one of the protagonists.

Manifold Press has a call out for submissions for a WW2 themed anthology called Call to Arms. I’ve got a story almost ready to go to submission for that.

I’m a couple of thousand words into Eleventh Hour #2 – I’ve missed Miles and Briers – but I still have no title. I sort of fancy Midnight Departure because that happens. I think it will be shorter than EH#1 but who knows.

Close Shave – sequel to Bones is around 35k words and I have bits and pieces and plans and plots for at least 4 more books and a couple of short stories.

A Fierce Reaping [hist m/m set in post-Roman Britannia] is still at 65k words and needs 30k of those editing out and another 70k adding to tell the whole thing. Not sure what to do with that one. I’ve also got plots and plans and resources for The Hounds of the North [hist m/m 1st century Rome and Britannia] and The Shepherd’s Hut [hist m/m WW2 set near Eastbourne].

Now I just need to get my head down and write.

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Sunday Snippets

Another bit of my, as yet, untitled YA western written all in diary entries. Since the next ones were a bit short I’ve posted two days worth.

Monday Jan 4th 1869

Pa says I have to do my chores first and then I can write my diary. He doesn’t understand that the thoughts in my head need to come out when I think them. I won’t remember what I wanted to say by the time it’s the evening, and then I have to sit with everyone else and Pa wants to know what I’ve written. But I’ve got private things to say here, things I might not want to share.
It’s still very cold at night and last night there was rain.

Tuesday Jan 5th

I’ve been coughing again so Pa said I could stay home and I asked Ma to teach me to cook. Jacob and Isaac said it was girls work but Ma shouted at them and said that she hasn’t got a girl and Pa said that when we go on the round up having someone along who can cook something that won’t kill us would be mighty handy. That is assuming I can learn.
Ma has a book she got from her Ma with recipes. She said I should write down the things I make in my journal so I can find them again. So today I made buttermilk biscuits. They were horrible and we fed them to the hens. When the hens wouldn’t eat them we fed them to the hogs.

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Sunday Snippets

Here’s the next bit of my western written as a series of diary entries [which will be m/m in the fullness of time].

Part 1 is here and here’s Part 2

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Sunday Jan 3rd 1869
Pa thinks writing a diary is for women and sissies. I told him that James Buchanan wrote one and he said “women, sissies and Yankees” and sent me to feed the hogs.

We did the usual chores before church and after Jacob asked me to drive Mary over to see her Ma. Ma Lewis thinks diaries are good. She says I’ll be able to show my sons when I have them about what life was like here. I don’t think life will be much different – hogs and steers, mesquite and sagebrush – but she said she’d heard that the cities back east have lights all along the streets so you can see all night and they never have to stop work. I can’t see any fun in that but she makes good cookies.

Mary was sick on the way home because, she said, I drove the buckboard too fast over the bumps. Having babies makes girls sick. It also makes their ankles swell up. I guess I should be more grateful to Ma for having me. I guess.

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Continuing this little experiment – a western written as a series of diary entries.

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Saturday Jan 2nd, 1869

I said yesterday this is the ass-end of Texas but I’ve reconsidered. That wasn’t quite fair. This is more like a pimple on the ass-end of Texas. A very big ass, very small pimple.

Pa and Granpa built the house on a slope not far from Aransa creek but high enough not to be caught by the floods. There were better places but Granpa’s brother got those for his family. He and Granpa had a flaming quarrel about a month before and they still weren’t talking so when great-uncle grabbed all the soft land north of the Aransa, Granpa crossed back over the creek and found this little patch to the south. There’s good grazing, plenty of timber and he dug a good well that don’t run dry even when it’s hot enough to fry an egg on your hat. It’s a nice place, though small in comparison with some of the others.

Our house is like all the others – logs chinked with moss and mud under a board roof with a dirt floor, but because we was close to the creek we keep a barrel of sand to spread over the dirt. I don’t remember the old house as it was, because by the time I came along Pa had built more rooms. We have three now. One for living, one for Pa and Ma and one where Isaac and I sleep.

In our big room Ma’s favourite thing is a iron stove Pa found by the creek when he was collecting strays. It was with other scraps, a broken chair, bits of cloth, and he reckoned it must have come from a wagon. Maybe they ditched it because the wagon was broke or too heavy. Ma says some poor woman must have cried her eyes out over leaving it. It’s odd to think of that woman as we warm by her stove at night and Ma makes our food and we’ll never know who she was and she’ll never know how her loss makes our lives so much better. Where she is I hope she’s happy.

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More next week – incidentally I’m sort of making this up as I go along, as you do, and just dipping into the history books/google when it occurs to me, so apologies in advance for any horrible anachronisms.

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Sunday Snippets

A while back I joined a group called Rainbow Snippets which was a delightful Facebook based group where people posted links to their posts of approx six sentences from LGBT themed stories, either published or works in progress.

It was great hopping from post to post and reading/commenting neatly filled up part of my Sunday evenings, but then it was the whole evening, then Monday evening too and then bits of Tuesday and I decided that unless I could participate properly it wasn’t really fair to join in. I haven’t posted anything for a few weeks but I miss it so I thought I’d try something a bit different.

I’m going to post a story here on my blog, in it’s raw and rough state [feel free to bitch about errors if you spot any]. I don’t have a title yet but it’s a historical Western written all in diary entries. Yeah, your guess is as good as mine if it’ll work, but here we go

January 1st 1869
A new year and a new diary – a kind gift from Aunt Adela who lives in a place called New Jersey. I’ve always wondered if there’s a place called Old Jersey but nobody here can tell me.

Which is beside the point. The point is that since this is a new diary and a proper journal form one, I’ve decided that this year I’ll keep it properly and make a full account of my thoughts and circumstances so that others may benefit from them. Who knows, in years that come some poor fool might find it in an old shop somewhere and read it and think “by Cracky this boy is just like me”. Or, since the paper is good absorbent stuff it might end up in the outhouse. Either way I’m good. I’m really writing this for me so I can tell my parents and brothers “I’m going off to write my diary” and they won’t ask too many questions about how long I take and jump to uncomfortable conclusions. But I’ve gotten off the point again.

The first thing you need to know about me is that I never wanted to be a cowboy. There was something about riding the range that never appealed, and I hate cows. But if you’re born in a place like so for from anywhere in the ass end of Texas that it doesn’t have a proper name there aren’t very many alternative job choices if you know what I mean. Also Pa would’ve been pissed and Pa is not someone you want to be at odds with. In my family there’s Pa, of course, he’s named Evan. Ma, is Hepsibah but everyone calls her Betty and my two brothers are Jacob and Isaac. I’m Joseph. Jacob is married to Mary and they have a baby on the way. We all got together , us and Mary’s Ma and Pa Lewis and her brothers, to build them a little house of their own on the South side of the yard close to the well and with its own little garden. Isaac is courting. And when the time comes Pa says we’ll build him his house on the north side of the yard. I think Pa’s already picked out the plot to the west where he wants me and my family to live but Ma says that a man should be allowed to choose his own life, and I agree with her, don’t you?

That’s enough for today. I’ll have a think about what I want to say tomorrow.

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January 2nd, 1869

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