In which I distract myself with yarn

Yes, just like a cat.

This week mostly revolved around getting the boiler replaced, less than a month after getting the hot water tank replaced. Turns out it's been dripping for some time and completely soaked the carpet in the room it's in. So now that room is a sauna while we try to dry it out. Sigh.

The trouble with having stuff go wrong around the house is it leaves me anxious right where I should be most able to relax. Every little noise has me convinced that something else is broken. But rather than talk about that, I'm going to focus on the cheerful and share the baby blanket I made for my nephew for Christmas. It's...

SPACE INVADERS!

It's entirely built out of small granny squares in two different colours, as you can see. We've established in the past that I like making geeky things out of granny squares so this was really a no-brainer. I used a blanket I already owned as a size guide, because it's easy to make a blanket that's far too big to be useful for a newborn. Smaller can be better.

And then it was just a matter of churning out the squares and stitching them together. It was originally meant to be done in time for the birth, but he came two weeks early and I missed it entirely. So instead it was finished on Christmas Eve, with me frantically weaving in the loose ends before we could drive off to the family. I hit deadlines. I just don't always hit them with much time to spare.

Next up is the similarly geeky Manic Miner filet crochet, for which I have finished the design and just need to do the actual work. And I've finished the first draft of Liquid Gravity, so I'm going to get started on the second draft of Words of Power later this week. Yay!

In which I remember to come back

Hey! I'm posting again!

Exciting things that happened this week include the boiler breaking less than a month after we had to replace the hot water (I love having no central heating in the middle of winter! It's the best!) and finally getting back out running thanks to a good friend (if we run together then neither of us can back out, because we both have a mortal fear of Letting People Down).

As for the list of goals I made last week, I'm making good progress on the horror novella, Liquid Gravity. I should have that finished by the end of the week, and then I can start looking at Words of Power.

I've also started plotting out the sprites for the Manic Miner filet crochet, having decided that it needs more than just a repeating border of Miner Willy (or a row of Willys, if you will). This shawl will have beautifully crocheted barrels and telephones and toilets(!) because who doesn't want to wear a beautifully crocheted toilet?

And because I never need an excuse to read more books, I thought I'd sign up for this SFF-themed bingo challenge. I'll be starting by reading the books that are already in my TBR pile and seeing which squares I can assign them to. Then, if I ever reach that magical place where I've actually read everything in the pile, I'll look at what I can pick up to specifically hit the squares I haven't already managed. I elected not to count the book I was already reading when I heard about the challenge (Throne of Jade by Naomi Novik, which I absolutely loved) but I finished that last night so everything from here counts. I may even try to post reviews here, at least for the ones I enjoy.

In which I look forward...

*blows away the cobwebs*

Apparently I neglected this place for the whole of 2017. That's quite impressive, even by my standards. Still, this is me attempting to get things going again with a quick spring-clean, a bit of a redesign and a tie across to my Twitter handle so that everything works together in perfect harmony. Or something.

It's not like I did nothing at all last year. I had Iron and Gold rejected by a number of agents, some of whom went so far as to read the whole thing before deciding it wasn't for them. I wrote a couple of new drafts based on their feedback, so it's now officially on version 7. I wrote the first draft of something new in November (currently titled Words of Power) and was quite pleased with how it came out. I started writing a horror novella when I had a couple of spare days at the end of November, though it stalled a little as soon as NaNoWriMo was over. I crocheted a Space Invaders themed blanket for my newborn nephew and finished it just in time for Christmas. All in all, things were pretty busy.

But that was last year. It's time to make some rash declarations for this year and see if I stick to them. So what's on the cards?

• Keep plugging away with Iron and Gold. There are still agents who haven't seen it, and others who maybe need prodding to get it out of the slush pile.
• Finish the horror novella and see about editing it into something worthwhile.
• Edit Words of Power and throw it at beta readers to see what happens.
• Keep collecting short story rejections.
• Pick up the Manic Miner-themed filet crochet that I set down in order to make the baby blanket.
• Finally get around to taking some measurements and having a go at drafting sewing patterns from scratch.
• Remember to update this blog more often (hahaha, yeah, we'll see...)

That seems like enough to be getting on with for the year. There are other things in there that don't need to be rash declarations, like finally going to see Hamilton in the West End next month (so excited!), but from a creative standpoint if I can hit all those goals I'll be happy.

Why not check back here from time to time to find out I've not bothered to update again?

In which I look back

It's December.  It's the sort of time when things get reviewed.  Arbitrary as it may be, there are things to review and it's as good a time as any.

So NaNoWriMo happened.  My final wordcount for the month (and the first draft) came in at just over 104,000 words.  Slightly fewer than last year, but the story ends when it ends.  And first drafts are where we find things, no matter how much we think we planned the story in advance.  I found a Khevelese engineer living in the refugee camp with fire in her heart and a refusal to take any crap despite her situation.  I found the story wants to be more of a mosaic, picking up perspectives from all over the city.  And I found the poisoner wasn't who I thought it was, and now the whole story needs reworking with that in mind.

This is why no one ever gets to see the draft I knock out during NaNo.  I reach the end of the month with so many ideas about how I should have been writing the story that there's no point in sending it to beta readers.  They'll get a later version, when I've fixed all the really obvious stuff.

The other thing I did this year was that big ol' rash declaration about sending a novel out to agents.  I managed that, of course.  The queries went out, and whilst I'm still mostly waiting to hear back (it's a busy time of year) I have now had two (two!) requests for the full manuscript.  And that's set against only one flat rejection, which seems like a damn good hit rate to me.  Even if both of those requests ultimately turn into rejections, it's a positive sign that those opening chapters have something good in them.  I'm feeling quite optimistic about the whole affair at the moment.  We'll see how long that lasts.

It's nice to have something to feel optimistic about at the moment.  I never did get a proper response to the email I sent to my MP.  And the world is probably going to end in nuclear apocalypse before I get a book published.  But, you know, if racing the end of the world is what it takes then I'm lacing up my running shoes.

Oh yeah, running.  Really ought to get back to that...

In which I dive headlong into novel writing once more

It's November!  That means it's National Novel Writing Month, and I'm once again writing a new novel instead of editing an old one.  If nothing else, it's a great way of keeping from obsessing over agents (still very little to report on that front.  Waiting to float to the top of the slush pile, I imagine).

For the past few years, I've managed to arrange to have the first week in November off work to really get cracking on the writing.  This year, it's only four days (because the month had the poor taste to begin on a Tuesday), but I've got the 30th off as well just in case I need a sprint to the finish.  It's actually starting to look more like I'll be spending the 30th playing the new Pokemon game, because after three days I have 17,000 words written.  Enough to be able to take an evening off and write a blog post, if nothing else.

Yes, it's a little over the top.  But this is my 12th year doing NaNo.  If I hadn't learned a few things about how to get a first draft written in that time, there'd be no point in keeping doing it.  So, here are the things that I think have contributed to this most excellent beginning:

1) Experience - 12 years has taught me a lot about how I work best.  I know that I need a plan before I start, because 'pantsing' is too much like hard work and I'm happier knowing where my story is heading.  I also know that I do well with writing sprints - short, focussed bursts of writing followed by 10 or 15 minutes of goofing off and reading Twitter.

2) Bigger targets - The official NaNo target is 50,000 words, and for a long time that's what I aimed for.  And that's what I got, year in and year out.  I wasn't entirely happy with that, though, because I knew that that's actually right at the bottom end of the range of novel sizes.  Most published novels are longer.  Fantasy and sci-fi, in particular, are a lot longer.  But something about having a target for the month of 50,000 meant that my stories never ran much longer than that.  I'd tell myself it could be longer, then I'd hit 50k and the whole thing would wrap itself up in the next five thousand or so.

Then one year I ended up aiming for 100,000, split across two novels (it's a long story).  Writing that much nearly killed me (figuratively speaking), but I made it.  The following year, I decided to set myself a goal of 75,000 in a single novel.  I figured it would allow my story more room to breathe, and encourage me to stretch myself.  It worked.  I've been writing longer stories ever since, but still within that 30 day timeframe for the first draft.

3) Good advice - Pacing was my bugbear for a long time.  My stories always came out badly paced, because it's difficult to tell as you're writing.  Things that feel like they're taking forever to write actually rush by when you read them back.  Then a friend pointed me at the book Save the Cat, and its wonderful Beat Sheet.  Theoretically aimed at screenwriters rather than novelists, the beats are nevertheless a great way of working out when different things should happen in the novel.  I've had much better first drafts since I started using it, and just like the plan it gives me something to aim for.  If I know I need another ten thousand words before I get to the next Important Plot Moment, then I can just knuckle down and get on with those ten thousand words.

4) Confidence - A lot of this is related to the other points.  Years of doing NaNo have taught me that the moments when I'm sure the whole thing sucks are transitory, and will pass if I just push on and keep writing.  Writing longer books has made me more confident of my ability to get words down.  But most notably, the improvement in pacing has really done wonders.

I first used Save the Cat two years ago, for Shadows in the Nursery.  And I got a first draft that was worth editing, for the first time ever.  A first draft that I successfully turned into a complete second draft, and even a complete third draft.  I'm sure that success had a knock-on effect, because last year with Iron and Gold I wrote significantly more in that first week off, and indeed broke the 100k mark in November without it almost killing me (figuratively speaking).  Iron and Gold, as we know, has been through multiple drafts in the intervening year and is now my first novel to be clogging up agents' slush piles.  That feels like an achievement, regardless of any response I might get, and it's pushing me into writing even more this year.

And there we go.  Put that all together and that's how I've written a scary number of words in just three days.  Though ultimately, of course, it all boils down to that simple mantra: Butt in Chair, Fingers on Keyboard.  Everything else is just how you get there, and stay there.

There's still a long way to go.  I think I have, maybe, about 15% of the book written at this point.  Plenty more left to write before I can relax and start playing Pokemon.

In which I have nothing much to report

It's been a month since I sent out my first queries for the novel.  And of the original six queries I sent, I've so far had one rejection (yay, first agent rejection!) and a whole lot of silence.

This is not a complaint, I hasten to add.  For one thing, the agents I queried were pretty much unanimous in claiming a 6 - 8 week response time on queries, and we haven't even reached that milestone yet.  For another thing, last week was Frankfurt Book Fair which will not only have impacted the reading of the slush pile while it was on, but the weeks before it will have been filled with prep work and now they'll be filled with follow-up.  My query won't be getting read and rejected until the dust from all of that has settled.  So we wait, and we have a little freakout every time the email notification appears on our phone, and we find other things to do in the meantime.

I responded to that one rejection by sending out another query to another agent somewhere else.  I also sent another one out today, just because I'd had a microscopic chat with the guy on Twitter the other day and I wanted to query him before I lost the tweets and couldn't remember who he was any more.  I've also finally gone back to sending out my short stories and acquiring more rejections for those too.  The Rejection Collection is coming along beautifully these days.

And it's only a week until NaNoWriMo!  I have pages upon pages of worldbuilding, and character notes, and story beats, and with luck by the end of November I'll have another first draft that's worth polishing up into something more.  That's assuming we haven't all perished in a nuclear war by then, of course...

In which I review the rash declaration made earlier

So at the start of the year I rashly declared that before another January came around I would be in a position to query agents with an actual, bona fide novel of my own.  And then I went quiet, because getting to that position meant focusing on novel drafts rather than blog posts.

The good news is that all of that work has paid off.  Iron and Gold has been through multiple drafts this year, and I finally reached the point where I'm, well, not happy with it because you can never be entirely happy with a story, but as content as I can be that it's as good as I can make it.  And so I've formatted it properly, and written a synopsis, and written a query letter, and sent it out to a few agents.  Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the rejections to come rolling in...

Obviously, I hope somebody likes it.  I hope it gets picked up, because I really like these characters and I want to write the other two books that I have in mind with them.  But just in case, I'm going to crack on with other things instead.

Helpfully, I've got NaNoWriMo looming to help with that.  I have a plot in mind, but there's still a certain amount of worldbuilding to be done.  I've got lizard people, and a matrilinear human society, and two different calendar systems, and a not-quite-murder mystery, and a host of characters, but I still need a few more names and things.  And a title.  I've no idea what this one is going to be called yet, but it'll come.

And if NaNo this year gets derailed by a deluge of responses from agents?  Well, that won't be such a bad thing now, will it?

In which I get started...

I'm watching Labyrinth tonight, because of course I am, but this isn't about the majesty of the Goblin King's trousers.  What could I possibly say that hasn't been said better by someone else already?

I've made a surprisingly good start on the second draft of Iron and Gold.  Reading over the first draft I found I actually quite liked it already.  It's not perfect by any means (because what first draft ever is?) but it's worth working on and polishing.  And so I set off, tweaking and improving, and for a while I was going great guns.  Two chapters a day, clean and tidy, and it was looking like I'd be through it in no time.

And then I hit Chapter Eight.

There's nothing inherently bad about Chapter Eight.  It's just that it's the first chapter that needs major work at this point.  It's like sprinting off the end of a race track and landing in a bog (with or without Eternal Stench).  It's still possible to get where you're going, but it takes a lot more effort.  And it's very easy to give up as soon as that happens.  It's not really your fault, after all.  It's the bog.

But there's only one way to get to the magical city of Complete Second Draft, and that's to slog through the bog until you come out the other side.  So that's where I am.  Slogging through the bog, knowing there's a good story in here somewhere, taking it one step at a time.

And admiring the majesty of the Goblin King's trousers...

In which we arbitrarily mark the completion of another orbit of the sun

New Year, New... Books?  Yeah, let's go with that, I got some very fine books for Christmas.

2015 was the year I finally got a story published.  2016 needs to top that, clearly.  And it's the time of year for making rash declarations, so I have Rashly Declared that I'll do everything I can to have something suitable for querying agents by the end of the year.

There are, essentially, two possible contenders for this.  The first, Shadows in the Nursery, is the gothic horror I wrote for NaNo 2014.  It's already had two further drafts in the intervening time, but there's more work to be done.  I'm currently gathering responses from beta readers for that, though, which leaves me open to do some work on the other option.

Iron and Gold is the fantasy novel I wrote during the most recent NaNo.  It's a number of things already; a complete rework of the story I wrote for NaNo 2010; the first novel of mine to run to over 100,000 words; and hopefully the start of a trilogy.  I intend to write book 2, Truth and Consequences, this coming November and that means I need to get the finer points of book 1 firmly nailed down before that.  I'm quite pleased with the first draft as it stands, but I have a list as long as my arm of things that need doing to improve it.  Everything from simple things like making sure character descriptions remain consistent throughout to bigger things like an entire subplot I want to add in.  No beta readers, as yet, because I have too many changes of my own to deal with.  They'll get the next draft, if they're lucky.

So, two big projects ongoing.  With luck I can alternate between the two, working on a draft of one while the other is percolating.  Plenty to keep me busy, and maybe I'll get around to submitting a few more short stories along the way.

In which I finally see my name in print

Not on my own blog, not in the school magazine I just so happened to be editor of at the time, but in a proper, professionally-produced magazine edited by somebody I have no connection with whatsoever.  My first-and-so-far-only story has been published!

Isn't that a thing of beauty?

For those wanting a copy of their own, it's available in electronic form (and later in a printed version) from Shoreline of Infinity in Issue 1.  I've been reading some of the other stories in this first issue and it looks like I'm in some pretty good company.  Plus there are illustrations, and the one that accompanies my story is absolutely spot on, a beautiful rendition of a pivotal moment in the story.  I couldn't be happier with it.

I'm celebrating this evening with a wee dram of Highland Park whisky, and keeping my fingers crossed that more of my stories will find homes soon.

In which strange things are afoot at the Circle K...

Things are happening at the moment.  Some of them I can't talk about, not least because those are the ones where I don't actually know what's going on myself.  I have my suspicions, but they're so wildly implausible that I'm sure I must be wrong.

But I didn't just come here to be intentionally mysterious.  There are things that I can talk about, like the fact that I'm about to start learning to support some new stuff at work.  We're being given stuff to do with Enterprise Service Bus, TIBCO and XMLM messaging.  It all seems a bit daunting at the moment, but then it's not been that long since I was having to learn COBOL from scratch, so I'm sure I can handle it.  And it all ties in nicely to my team's general conviction that we're the only ones who actually get stuff done.

Also new is the cat that's currently curled up asleep on the sofa next to me.  I'd take a picture, but he's solid black so photographs don't come out well, especially when his eyes are closed.  His name is Garrus, he's about three and a half, and he is the Softest Cat Ever.  Soft as in his fur, but he's also extremely placid and fond of company.  We acquired him from a friend who's about to move to Sweden and can't take him along.

Last but not least, I have multiple stories out acquiring rejections these days.  I've got quite a fine collection that I'm lovingly curating.  So far, only one story has been a disappointment and actually got itself accepted somewhere...

Yes, that's right, I'm having a story properly published.  It will be appearing in the very first issue of Shoreline of Infinity, which is due out next month.  Clearly fame and fortune beckon from here on in.  I'd be up for a Hugo next year if I hadn't foolishly made the protagonist a Japanese woman...

In which I actually get stuff done, for once

I've been writing a lot just lately. My laptop is positively bursting with stories. That's pretty unusual for me, so I've been musing on the reasons in the hope of sustaining it.

A goodly portion of the credit (blame?) has to go to the folks in the Sort-Of-NaNo-Based-Writing-Group. Having finally succeeded in keeping things going outside of November, it means there are people who want to know what I've written lately, and who keep throwing out writing prompts. Turns out all I ever needed to write a short story was for somebody to give me a title.

Then there's the COBOL factory. No, it's not also stuffed with writers (to the best of my knowledge), but one should never underestimate the power of one's mental state on writing, or of the day job on one's mental state. I'm finally in a job that I love, that challenges me, and that I'm genuinely good at. That feeling spills over into other things. Kicking ass at work makes me want to kick more ass when I get home.

Last but not least, there's the Mighty Power of Procrastination. Writing is a wonderful way of putting off other things. Specifically at the moment there's a jacket I should be sewing together. I'm just putting it off because I foolishly decided to go off-pattern and put proper pockets in it. I don't have a lot of experience of making pockets, so there's a real danger that I'll ruin the whole thing. I'll get around to it eventually, but in the mean time I'm putting it off by writing All the Stories.

Maybe this habit will continue, maybe it won't, but I'll be making the most of it while it lasts. There are stories to write, stories to edit (when my beta-readers get back to me, at least. The trouble with writing more is it leads to demanding more feedback), and if all else fails there's a novel to work on.

*puts on Boots of +3 to Ass-Kicking*

In Which I Get All Serious And Political, Part Two

[I promised I'd write a continuation of my thoughts, wrote it, then failed to actually post it.  But in that intervening time we've had Malorie Blackman getting abused for asking for more diverse characters in children's books, and the latest round of hate for Anita Sarkeesian looking at how women are portrayed in video games.  Clearly this is a conversation that needs to keep happening.  So here, at last, are more thoughts of mine.  But read Part One first, if you haven't already.]

When people aren't arguing that minority characters should be represented in fiction in the same numbers that they exist in real life, they tend to swing the other way. We shouldn't be including characters just to fill some sort of quota, or to make a point. People don't like to be preached at. They should only appear when it's relevant to the plot. Any number of characters could be gay, or trans, but it's just not mentioned because it's not important to the story. Just look at Dumbledore.

It's a seductive argument. Stories whose sole purpose appears to be to deliver a diatribe on a topic dear to the author are tiresome, whether one agrees with the message or not. And characters should always be connected to the plot, because that's the point. We leave out all sorts of things that don't move the story along, like visits to the toilet where nothing out-of-the-ordinary happens. We don't need to see a character peeing – we can just assume that it happens.

But these aren't questions of diversity. These are questions of storytelling. If you can't find a way to reference a character's sexuality without making it a message or an integral part of the plot then you're just not that good a writer. We talk about our lovers and our ex-lovers all the time, because they're important parts of our lives. These are people we willingly spend a lot of time with; why wouldn't they come up in conversation with other people? So unless you're writing a story set somewhere that a gay person would feel the need to hedge and say 'partner', it should be easy to include that information. And even if they are reduced to saying 'partner', the contrast with other people should still signify something to the reader.

I didn't always think like this. There's a tendency to be suspicious of the 'token' character who deviates from the norm set by the rest of the group, and of the 'rainbow' group where every member carefully fits a different demographic like a manufactured pop band. I would tell myself that it was enough for me to know a particular character was gay, without having to put it into the story and risk making them the 'token'. Drawing attention to their sexuality felt like shouting, "Look! I put a gay character in the story! Aren't I inclusive? Give me a biscuit!"

And then people who are much better than me at this sort of thing (I love you guys) pointed out that if you don't make these things clear to the reader, it will be assumed that they're straight. People don't read books and assume that anything unstated is open to any possibility. They assume that it's the default. If you don't mention that a character has a catheter up their hoo-hah, we'll assume that they pee like anyone else.

I've been using sexuality as the example here. Signalling the presence of non-white characters is easier, because it can be in their name, or the physical description when they first walk onto the page. It's not information the character has to volunteer. Sexuality has to be offered, if you're not including a lover in the story. And gender? That, I will agree, is tricky.

Trans characters are unlikely to reveal their status in normal conversation, if the story isn't specifically about their transition. Why would they? Who they used to be, or what's inside their pants, is unimportant. What matters is their own identity. But that doesn't mean we have to entirely ignore the possibility of non-binary gendered characters. Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice has non-gendered characters. Iain M Banks' Culture universe gives us characters that can and do change gender on a whim, and Player of Games includes a species with three genders (in which the female still gets the short end of the stick) Julian May's Galactic Milieu has intersexed aliens, and Iron Council by China Mieville has Qurabin, a monk who can access hidden secrets at the cost of losing something else in the process, and lost their own gender early on. No one knows if Qurabin is male or female, not even Qurabin. There are any number of options out there, if only we think of them.

Thinking is key. If you never come up with a character who deviates from the Cis White Straight Able-Bodied norm, you lack imagination. You shouldn't need 'quotas' for minority characters, because they should be showing up anyway. Especially in speculative fiction, where the world and its peoples can be anything you can think of. Why limit yourself?

In which I get all serious and political and stuff...

I've been thinking a lot about diversity in fiction recently. There's been a lot going on lately, what with Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice giving us non-gendered characters and picking up just about every award going, Ms Marvel getting praised for giving us a well-realised female Muslim teenager, and Thor causing outrage for daring to have a woman lift the hammer. But it was a thunderstorm a few weeks ago that finally started to crystallise my thoughts into an actual idea.

One argument that comes up again and again when the issue of diversity is raised is the question of numbers. If x percent of people are gay (or whatever), they say, then surely only x percent of fictional characters should be gay (or whatever). And if that percentage is particularly small, why then that would mean the majority of fiction wouldn't (and shouldn't) contain any characters who are gay (or whatever) at all! Too much diversity wouldn't be realistic, they argue.

Now clearly, this argument is bollocks. For one thing, the people who argue that, for example, transgendered characters should make up only a tiny percentage of the whole are suspiciously silent when it comes to the question of having more female characters. I mean, women make up half the population, so why aren't they arguing that half of all characters should be female? But there's more to it than that. I finally realised, during the storm, why it is that I'm in favour of a multitude of diverse characters regardless of their frequency in real life.

You see, Small Girl decided that the best response to this particular thunderstorm was to declare herself Storm from the X-Men, and run around pretending that every flash and bang was her fighting the baddies. Until that moment, I hadn't realised she even knew who Storm was. It turns out she's been playing superheroes with the boys at school, and they'd at some point given her the choice between being Storm or being Elsa from Frozen. And apparently she'd been in the mood to try something different, because she went with Storm. Whodathunk?

What struck me was not the fact that she'd been playing with the boys (that's always been pretty normal for Small Girl), nor the fact that she chose to be Storm, unexpected as that was. What really stood out for me was the idea that she'd been offered a choice. An actual, genuine choice between two characters, either of which would have something to offer in the fighting-the-baddies stakes. Not just "you can be Storm because you're a girl."

For me, this is key when it comes to diversity – the provision of choice. For Cis White Straight Male playing Avengers, there's Iron Man and Captain America and Thor and Hulk. For Cis White Straight Female, there's Black Widow and... well, that's it, unless you're happy playing the girlfriend or Maria Hill (who, admittedly, is gradually acquiring more things to do). And for Trans, or Non-White, or LGBTQ Person of Any Gender? Well, Non-White Male has the option of playing Nick Fury, but that's about it unless we expand out from Avengers to the whole of the Marvel Universe. And even that doesn't gain us anything in Trans, LGBTQ or Female characters.

Obviously I'm not suggesting that anyone should be restricted to only playing as characters from their own demographics. I have no issue with Small Girl playing at being Storm, after all, nor did the question of race stop her dressing up to play Doc McStuffins and give all her toys checkups the other day. But I do think there should be more variety out there, more choice for the kids in the playground, or the cosplayers at the conventions. Were I to cosplay, I wouldn't necessarily want to end up dressed as a male character, but neither would I want to be stuck as a leather-clad kung-fu chick, which is frequently the only option for female characters who aren't wives, mothers or girlfriends.

More characters means more choice. All of the "Mane Six" ponies in My Little Pony are female, and all are different. You can choose to be tough, or sporty, or glamorous, or bouncy (that makes them sound like Spice Girls, but the point remains). The ensemble in Agents of SHIELD has the requisite leather-clad kung-fu chick, but also the smart-mouthed hacker and the nervous scientist. The X-Men have a dizzying array of options, though there are still some gaps there, at least in the films.

I want more. Fiction gives us the opportunity to portray anything we can imagine. I want to be shown things I'd never even considered before. I want characters I can identify with, and I want to see what it's like to be somebody different. I want a full-on, glorious rainbow of possibilities to inspire me. Because it's not just about seeing ourselves in the characters on the screen, or between the pages. It's about seeing other people, and all the different things they might be. Like seeing a black teenager as something other than a threat, as just a kid who's walking in the road because the pavement is for squares.

I have more thoughts, because there are more arguments than just the question of numbers, but I'll marshall those in a separate post in a day or two. This one's gone on quite long enough.

It's been six weeks since I first submitted that story and...

...I now have not one, not two but three (count 'em!) rejection slips to my name. Apparently I'm not having much luck finding a publication that needs a story featuring a wisecracking penguin with a Bronx accent and its eyes scratched out. Go figure.

Still, I shall continue to persevere. There's always a chance that somebody, somewhere, is desperate for more penguin-based fiction. And since the alternative is to post it here, to be read by maybe three people, it's not like I'm missing out on much. (The three of you who would have read it may feel differently, of course...).

In the meantime, when I'm not sending that one back out to be rejected somewhere else, I'm working on other things. The novel continues to be very slowly edited, there's another short story gradually coming together, and I'm currently obsessing over a project that I already know won't go anywhere (as opposed to merely suspecting such things).

The idea in question, unfortunately, is one of those that really needs to be a comic. Prose simply wouldn't do it justice; it needs big, bold visuals to tell the story properly. And I can't do big, bold visuals. If I try really, really hard, I can produce something that's about half-decent, but it's just not worth it for the amount of stress and effort it requires. And while I know one or two people who can draw, I doubt any of them would be interested in taking on a project of this magnitude with no guarantee that it would ever be seen by more than three people (hi, three people! I love you!).

I'll have to work on it regardless, though. I need to get it out of my head and pinned down on a page before I can move on to something else.

And if you know anyone who might fancy drawing 120 pages of quirky, grim superhero stuff just for the lulz, do send them my way.

Inviting Rejection

I'm sitting on the sofa in my living room right now, trying not to hyperventilate.  This is because I just pushed a button on a webpage marked 'Submit'.

I've sent a story out into the wild.  Not just to cosy, friendly beta-readers, or into the rarely-visited walled-garden that is this blog, but actually into the wider world.  I've submitted it for consideration to an actual publishing-type place.  Despite having been writing for years, I've never actually done that before.

There's a very simple reason for this: nothing I've written has ever been good enough, in my head at least.  Everything always needs more work, further polishing, just one last tweak before it can be sent out.  Except the more I tweak things the less I tend to like them, as a rule.

There are two reasons why this story is different.  One is that Friendy Beta-Reader the First told me this story really deserved better than to just be posted on the blog, despite originating in another silly writing prompt like 'Lavendar and the Random Acolyte'.  The other is that Friendly Beta-Reader the Second, despite only really taking up writing for NaNoWriMo last November, is already submitting things out there.  Good things.  And if he gets something published before I've even worked up the courage to submit then I will be, as the cool kids say, 'well jell'.

It may be petty, it may be foolish, but at least it's stirred me to action.  I have a story out there, hoping to make its fortune in the wider world.  And when the inevitable rejection letter comes, I shall bear it proudly and call myself a real writer at last.

Broken Bonds

"Good morning, Your Highness."

Lavendar woke in pain and bondage, and not the good kind.  Her wrists and ankles were held in heavy shackles, and the pain in her head and bile in her throat suggested more than a touch of concussion.

"I apologise for your current accommodation, but we can't have you running off again, can we, Highness?"

It hurt to open her eyes, but she forced herself to look at just how bad her situation was.  Sturdy chains bolted to the wall: check.  No sign of her usual collection of weapons: check.  Middle-aged rich man leering over her: check.  Fancy dress with ruffles and brocade and endless skirts: okay, that was a new one.  She squinted at her captor again.  He seemed too well-dressed to be your average pervert-with-a-princess-fetish, but you never could tell.  Best not to hang around too long here, just in case.

"Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?"  His smile showed neat teeth gleaming out from the dark frame of his carefully-trimmed beard.

Lavendar didn't trust anyone that tidy and polite.  Even if she hadn't been chained to the wall she'd have been on her guard.  "My gun would be a good start," she muttered.

The smile disappeared.  "That was hardly a suitable possession for one of your breeding," he said.  "Neither were the clothes you were wearing, nor the disreputable tavern my men say they found you in."

Tavern?  Dang.  Now it started to filter back.  On the plus side, her concussion was almost certainly just a raging hangover, and she'd survived plenty of those in her time.  On the other hand, she had a feeling the whisky had talked her into doing something incredibly stupid last night.  This could be worse than she'd anticipated.  "How about a glass of water, then?" she asked in her sweetest voice.  Best to let him keep thinking she was a princess for now.

"That can be arranged."  He crossed to the door, well out of reach of Lavendar's chains, and had a brief conversation with someone outside.  Lavendar took the opportunity to look around and figure out what she had to work with.

It wasn't a dungeon, at least.  That suggested they were planning to treat her reasonably well for the moment.  The room was light and airy, and a long way up to judge from the blue that filled the one window.  There was furniture, and books, not that any of it would be much good to her while she was restrained.  It might mean there was a possibility of persuading them to unlock her if she promised to behave, though.

The well-dressed man returned, with the promised water.  "I can't drink it with my arms behind my back," Lavendar said, smiling as though smashing his head against the wall was the furthest thing from her mind right now.

"You'll manage, Your Highness," he said, taking her arm and pulling her upright.  He wasn't rough, but the motion set Lavendar's head swimming and she had to fight not to vomit.  Barfing on her captor probably wouldn't make him any more friendly.

The water helped.  She took small sips as the glass was held to her lips, allowing the cold refreshment to settle her stomach and clear her head.  More snatches of last night were beginning to come back.  She remembered loudly declaiming that she was the missing Princess Aurelia, while the real Aurelia kept her head down and avoided eye contact.  Thank goodness that lesson had stuck, even if Lavendar wasn't good at sticking to it herself.

It shouldn't have worked.  Anyone with a lick of sense would have spotted that she looked nothing like Aurelia.  Her hair was lighter, her skin was lighter (sure, she was fairly grubby from travelling at the moment but that hardly meant she matched Aurelia's honeyed tones) and even her eyes were a different colour.  Claiming her identity was the kind of stupid, last-ditch idea that only came from the bottom of a bottle, and yet it had worked.  So whoever this man was, he clearly wasn't lofty enough to score an invite to meet visiting royalty.  Probably he was hoping that 'saving' the missing princess would help boost him up the ladder a few rungs.  Or he thought he could get away with holding her to ransom.  Either way, she wasn't impressed.

Before Lavendar was done drinking, the well-dressed man took the glass away and got to his feet.  "I'm afraid I have other business to attend to," he said.  "I'll come back when I can.  Don't go anywhere."  He didn't even bother to hide the smirk as he walked out.

"Try and stop me," Lavendar muttered as the door closed.  It wasn't just empty defiance.  As soon as the sound of the key turning in the lock told her she was safe from interruption for the time being, she worked herself up onto her knees and tipped her head back.

They'd taken her clothes and her weapons, but they hadn't touched her hair.  Everybody was terrified of the matted tails that sprang from her head, and they clearly hadn't dared to touch the grotty strings with which she had bound them at regular intervals from the nape of her neck.  A stiff mass of hair hung down her back, and no one ever seemed to think of the possibilities that afforded.

It was awkward, with her arms bound as they were, but by tipping her head as far back as it would go and arching her back she was able to get her fingertips to the lowest of the ties.  Pulling it free released a section of hair and let her access the secrets it concealed.  There wasn't much she could get away with hiding in there, but she'd found a long time ago that a tight roll of lock picks could be slipped in easily enough and was handy in a number of situations.  Doubtless they thought they'd been terribly clever when they'd found the decoy set she kept in her boot.

This wasn't a job she could hurry.  There was nowhere within reach that she could easily hide the picks, so she was just going to have to hope no one disturbed her for a while.  Or that if they did they wouldn't move her, so she could get away with sitting on them.

She never could pick a lock without thinking of the woman she'd learned the skill from.  A well-regarded old rogue whose name she never learned, she'd taken Lavendar on as a 'prentice for a year and taught her plenty about locks and chains.  How to get out of them, sure, but also the kinds of fun you could have while in them.  That had paid off in unexpected ways, when she'd realised at a vital moment how much easier it was to free yourself when there wasn't someone hell-bent on distracting you in any way she could.

Even without distraction, this was painstaking work.  The angle was awkward, for one thing, making it difficult to keep the tools in place.  Her wrists were aching from the weight of the chains, and her head was still throbbing from last night's excesses.  Not that her former mistress would have accepted any of those excuses, especially not when the lock itself was relatively simple.

"Keep it together, " Lavendar muttered under her breath as her hand slipped for the fourth time.  There was still no sign of anyone coming to see her, but it couldn't last forever.  She started again, working back through everything she'd cleared before then concentrating to clear the last couple of pins.  When the shackles sprang from her wrists she could have shouted for joy, but instead she very gently laid them down and started working on her ankles.  These were much easier, so it didn't take long before she was free.

Her suspicion had been correct.  It was long way down to the ground, and far too smooth a wall to try climbing down.  If the chains hadn't been so firmly bolted to the wall they would have made a good strong start to an escape rope, but she was simply going to have to improvise.  No sheets on the bed, she found, just a couple of crocheted blankets that wouldn't be much help.  Apparently someone had been thinking this through.

If they'd left her in her own clothes, she might have been stuck, but the dress she was in had layers and layers of underskirts in stiff, sturdy fabrics.  Lavendar set to work, tearing away the skirts until she was left standing in a much shorter outfit before a pile of raw material.  She was about to start working on making a rope when there was a loud clatter from the window.

Turning, Lavendar saw a grappling hook caught on the edge of the sill.  Closer inspection revealed it to have a long rope attached, and a young man at the bottom steeling himself to climb up it.  "Well, ain't that handy?" Lavendar called down, tucking the roll of lock picks safely into her bodice.  "Mind out the way.  No sense in you comin' up just to go straight down again."

She didn't wait to listen to his spluttered protestations, just climbed up on the window ledge, grabbed the rope and lowered herself down hand over hand.  "There," she said as her feet touched the ground.  "All safe and sound.  Thanks for the borrow of the rope."

The young man was staring at her, his mouth half-open.  Lavendar sized him up: fancy clothes, soft hands and a complete inability to form a sentence.  His gaze was fixed on her legs.  "What's the matter?" she asked.  "Ain't you never seen a girl's knees before?  I could hardly be climbin' down that rope with all those skirts on, could I?"

"I-"  He swallowed.  "I was supposed to carry you down."

"You hardly look like you could carry yourself, let alone me.  Some handsome prince you're turnin' out to be."

"You're not exactly what I was expecting either."  He seemed to be getting over the shock in favour of being indignant that she wasn't a proper princess.

"Yeah, well, next time do your research."  Lavendar was about to stride off when a thought struck her and she turned back.  "How did you even know I was in there?" she asked.  "It's hardly been long.  This a regular gig for you?  Or did someone tip you off as to where to come?"

"I-"  And there was that look again, the one that would catch flies.

"Someone organised this whole thing, didn't they?  Pick up the missin' princess, hold her 'captive', then you show up and 'rescue' her and everyone's so grateful, you get to marry yourself a princess and move on up in the world."  She studied him closely.  It could have been her imagination, but there did seem to be a resemblance between him and the rich man upstairs.

"That's-"  He forced a laugh.  "That's ridiculous.  You've got this all wrong."

"I'm hungover," Lavendar snapped, "and I've been chained up, and I'm mighty annoyed.  But if you set this whole thing up," she marched over and thrust her hand into his pocket, "you'll have brought a key for the shackles."  She pulled it out and held it up.  "Yep, this looks like the right sort of key, all right.  You gonna tell me you just happened to think that far ahead?"

"I was rescuing you," he said as she dropped the key on the grass in front of him and walked away.  "I wasn't part of the kidnapping."

"Forgive me if I'm not convinced."  She managed a whole five paces before she heard the sort of click that always made her stop dead and turn around very slowly.

His gun was as fancy-looking as his clothes.  Not really to her taste, but no doubt it shot well enough, certainly at this distance.  "Knowing where my uncle keeps his keys doesn't make me his accomplice," he said.  "I came here to rescue you, and now I'm taking you back to your father."

Lavendar snorted.  "You know somethin' I don't?  I couldn't even tell you who my daddy is, let alone where he is right now.  Could be six feet under for all I know."

"We're going to see the king," he said firmly.  "I'm taking you back, and you're going to tell him I rescued you."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled," she said.  "You rescued a scruffy urchin and you expect to be rewarded.  You'll be askin' for my hand in marriage next, for all the good it'll do you."

"You wouldn't be so scruffy if you hadn't destroyed your dress."

"Still wouldn't make me a princess."  A smile crept over her face.  "You know what?  I think I will go with you.  It'll be worth it to see the look on your face when you try presentin' me to the king."

"Start walking then."  He gestured with the gun, and Lavendar had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.  Clearly this boy wasn't the sharpest blade in the armoury.  If she'd been just a little closer she'd have been holding his gun right now, and no doubt there'd be more opportunities to come.  She'd grab the next one that arose with both hands in preference to seeing the king, since no doubt he'd want to ask awkward questions about how exactly she came to be pretending to be his daughter.  If she were really unlucky he'd already have had word that someone matching her description was accompanying the missing princess, and she didn't have anything else hidden in her hair to get her out of the next dungeon.

"So what's wrong with meetin' a nice girl the usual way?" she asked over her shoulder as she started walking.  "I ain't ever needed to chain a girl up just to make her look at me."

"It wasn't me that chained you up.  I'm not going to keep having this conversation with you."

Lavendar shrugged.  "You might as well.  I'm just tryin' to pass the time while we're marchin' to our doom."

"Well, don't.  I don't need idle chatter from you."

"Now I'm startin' to see why you can't just win a girl's heart.  Courtship usually involves a fair amount of idle chatter, you know."

He didn't reply, but glances over her shoulder told Lavendar that she was on the right track.  His aim was wavering as he walked, and it was taking him longer than it should to correct it.  She slowed her pace by the tiniest amount, hoping to make him draw closer.

They were following a dirt track, but it didn't look like it got much in the way of traffic.  She could cross her fingers for a wandering acolyte or a farm cart, but it could hardly be plan A.  Maybe she could do something when they got closer to the small copse of trees up ahead.  He didn't look the type to be much good at climbing.

"Come on," she said, "just give it a try.  Give up on the kidnappin' and try bein' a bit friendlier.  You can practise on me if you like, though you're really not my type."  Was that just sunlight flashing through the branches, or was there someone in the trees?  Lavendar drifted across to one side of the track to try to work it out, but no sooner had she moved than a shot rang out.

"You missed," Lavendar said, though she stopped walking.  When the only response was a groan she turned and found the young man lying on the ground clutching his shoulder.  "Oh," she said, glancing back at the trees, "I see."

From out of the trees a figure emerged, a familiar face with tanned skin and dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail.  She was holding a gun with rather more conviction than Lavendar's captor had, and kept it firmly trained on him as she approached.

"You're late, your Highness," Lavendar called.  "Even this guy managed to beat you at comin' to the rescue.  You might want to work on that."

"This guy didn't stop to pick up your belongings on the way," said Aurelia.  "I thought you might at least appreciate getting your gun back.  Nice gun, by the way.  Fires beautifully.  I might have to keep it after all."  She didn't take her eyes off the man on the ground, but she smiled as she spoke.

Lavendar stooped and plucked the other gun from the young man's hand.  "I'll swap you for this one," she said.  "You'll do better with it than he ever did, I think."

"I doubt that's difficult."  She held out her free hand to take the gun from Lavendar, then pointed that one at the man while she passed Lavendar's own weapon back.

"Are you going to kill me?" the young man whimpered, looking from one woman to the other.

"I'm thinking about it," said Aurelia without malice.

"He'll only get ideas about takin' you back to your daddy if you don't," said Lavendar.  "Unless he's still convinced that I'm the missin' princess."

"No, no, I won't, I promise," he spluttered.

"I knew it was askin' for trouble to let you tag along with me," Lavendar said to Aurelia, entirely ignoring the protestations from the ground.  "I should never have let you bat those big brown eyes at me."

"You shouldn't have broken into my bedroom in the middle of the night, you mean."  With two weapons pointing at the man, Aurelia took her eyes off him for the briefest moment to grin at Lavendar.  "That was your mistake."

"I was lookin' for valuables, not a companion.  Visitin' royalty just as I'm passin' through town?"  Lavendar shook her head.  "Can't let an opportunity like that go to waste."

"And you stole the most valuable thing my father owned.  I was planning to leave anyway, and I'm not wasting any opportunities either."  Her gaze was trained on the man again.  "Speaking of which, you should get going.  I'll make sure this one doesn't go anywhere for a while longer."

Lavendar nodded and headed for the copse to retrieve the rest of her belongings.  Aurelia, bless her heart, had managed to pick up everything that had been taken.  Within minutes Lavendar was dressed in her own clothes, with her roll of picks safely stowed back in her hair and her gun in its holster where it belonged.  She strolled back to Aurelia and dropped the remains of the dress onto the young man.  "I guess this is goodbye then," she said to Aurelia.

"In a moment," said Aurelia, and she caught hold of Lavendar's collar to pull her forward into a long, lingering kiss.  "Sorry, couldn't let you go without doing that at least once."

"I told you you weren't my type," Lavendar said to the young man, who was staring up at them.  "Next time you decide to go rescuin' a girl, try makin' sure she wants you to first."  She shouldered her bag and nodded to Aurelia.  "I won't tell you you stay out of trouble, 'cause I know you ain't goin' to.  Just make sure it's the right kind of trouble, okay?"

As she walked away down the track she wondered if she was doing the right thing.  Sure, continuing to travel together would only attract attention that neither of them needed right now, but Aurelia had been pleasant enough company these past few weeks.  And that kiss, while a little too polite for Lavendar's usual tastes, had promised interesting things.

She pulled a worn old coin from her pocket, rubbing her thumb over its familiar faces for a moment before tossing it into the air and catching it on the back of her hand without breaking her stride.  Smiling to herself, she dropped it back into her pocket and kept on walking.  There was always another princess out there to save.

Jewel of the Heart

The hesitant flutter of the saloon doors was barely audible amidst the noise of the bar, but it made every head turn to look.  Patrons of The Desiccated Husk usually entered boldly, pushing the doors aside and leaving them to flap and clatter behind them, but this visitor seemed to be struggling to get through.  The men inside watched with idle curiosity, but no one moved to help.

At last one door swung forward just enough to admit a woman in a lilac dress that was buttoned up to her throat and swept the floor.  She was gripping her handbag in both hands, knuckles turning white above the brass clasp, and her elbows were tucked tight against her waist.  It seemed she lacked the strength to keep the door from closing on her, or perhaps she was just reluctant to do anything as un-ladylike as barge her way through.

When she finally made it through she turned to watch the door closing, standing transfixed as it swung back and forth.  Then she picked her way towards the bar, keeping her head down with the brim of her hat obscuring most of her face.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" the barman asked amiably enough, his bushy moustache curving up into a smile as she stopped three feet from the bar.

"I'm looking for Ms del Rio," she said in a small voice.  "I was told she works here?"

"Roxie?" the barman asked, leaning forward and putting a hand to his ear.  "Did I hear you right?  You're looking for Roxie?"

Her eyes stayed fixed on the wooden boards of the floor, but her hat twitched in the tiniest of nods.

"She's not here right now."  He stood up straight, plucked a glass from the shelf behind him and started polishing it.  "Not due on for another hour, you see.  Why don't you take a seat while you wait?  Would you like a drink?"

"I don't touch alcohol," she said, her voice suddenly a little stronger.

"How about coffee?"  He swapped the glass for a porcelain mug which he gave a perfunctory wipe before filling it with steaming hot coffee and pushing it across the bar.  "There you are, ma'am.  On the house."

The rest of the bar continued to watch as she tiptoed forward to take the coffee, then seated herself at an empty table.  Her bag went into her lap, still gripped tightly with both hands except for the rare moment when she reached forward to take a sip.  She sat like that, her whole body tense, keeping her eyes fixed on the drink in front of her and not acknowledging anyone in the room.

Before long most of the patrons had grown bored of watching her and returned to their conversations, but a group around one table continued to cast glances her way and mutter to each other.  At last one, a burly man whose thinning hair was balanced by a thick beard, got to his feet and swaggered across to her table, looking back at his friends as he went.

"What's a lady like you doing looking for a girl like Roxie?" he asked, leaning on the back of the chair next to hers.

"She's an old friend of mine," the woman said in a tiny voice, cringing away from him as he loomed over her.  "I'm just here to catch up with her."

"A friend of Roxie's, eh?" he asked, loud enough for the whole bar to hear.  "Dressed for your day off, are you?"  He winked at his friends, all of whom were grinning broadly.

"I don't know what you mean," she whispered, her grip tightening on her bag.  "I always dress like this."

"Sure you do."  Now he was leaning on the back of her chair, talking down to her hat.  "Come on, darling, give us a look at the goods.  Maybe you could replace Roxie here, hey?"  One large, calloused hand landed on her shoulder.

"Please don't touch me," she whimpered.

"Come on, Charlie," the barman said, though he didn't move from his spot.  "Knock it off."

"I only want a look," he protested.  "If she's a friend of  Roxie she must let men look all the time.  What harm could it do to give me a peep?"  His hand reached round towards the buttons at her throat.

****

"That's the last time I suggest you come and see me at work."  Roxie stood in the doorway and surveyed the carnage, one corner of her mouth twitching and ruining her otherwise stern pose.  Her friend still sat primly at her table, sipping coffee and clutching her bag, and Eddie was still behind the bar, polishing the glasses for all the good it would do.  Charlie, on the other hand, was out cold on the floor.  This was a man she had seen down a full bottle of Eddie's 'special' hooch with nary a wobble, but it didn't look like he'd be getting up any time soon.  There were a fair few others nursing injuries, and none of them seemed willing to look at her or her friend.  "What the devil happened here?"

"Some people needed to learn some manners," said her friend, still in the same soft register.

Roxie sighed.  "All right, well, I think they've all learned their lesson.  Come on out back with me and stop terrorising these folks with your coffee drinking."

The woman rose gracefully to her feet and followed Roxie out through a door behind the bar.  The men at the tables she passed cringed away from her, but she did nothing more than favour them with a winning smile.

****

"All right, Lavendar," said Roxie once the door was firmly closed.  "Start from the beginning.  What's with the old lady getup?  That hat really doesn't suit you, you know."

"You told me to be subtle," said Lavendar with a shrug, finally talking with her own brash voice.  "Can't go attractin' too much attention when you've got a job for me.  And you know my hair is my most distinctive feature."  She took off the hat and let the matted, dirty blonde mess fall around her shoulders.  There hadn't been a brush anywhere near her hair since the day she'd left Momma's house.  The tangles always came back so quickly it had never seemed worth the effort, and now there was no one who could tell her otherwise.  As soon as she was free she'd twisted it into a series of rat tails that could be as scruffy as they liked.

"It's certainly unusual," said Roxie, gathering together her working clothes and starting to unfasten her dress.  "But don't you think laying Charlie out like that kinda goes against the whole subtle thing?"

"He thinks any friend of yours is a stripper who doesn't mind givin' people a free look.  I couldn't just let that stand.  Maybe now he'll think about keepin' his hands to himself."

"And the others?"

Another shrug.  "They didn't seem to appreciate me teachin' Charlie a lesson.  There was quite a rumpus there for a while."

Roxie pinched the bridge of her nose as she shimmied her dress off her hips.  "I knew I shouldn't have asked you to come here.  I wouldn't have, but this was the only place I could be sure we could talk.  At least you left Eddie standing so he can watch the door for us."

"I'd have left them all standin' if they hadn't started it."  Lavendar flumped down into a chair, no longer bothering with the ladylike facade.  "Now, what's all this about?  What's so important you needed a secret meetin'?"

"It's Theodore," said Roxie, the bright sequins of her working outfit shimmering as she pulled it on over her head.  "Things ended with him recently, and it wasn't exactly the friendliest of endings."  She pulled her head free of the dress and looked directly at Lavendar, pain written all over her face.  "He took my Jewel, Lavendar.  My one treasure in this rotten old world."

"And you'd be wantin' me to effect a retrieval, I suppose?"  Her face brightened at the mere thought of it.

"Is that okay?"  Roxie's hands were trembling as she fastened the ties on her dress and it took her several attempts to perfect the combination of concealment and the promise of later revelation.  "I know this is the kind of thing you do, but still I wouldn't ask if it weren't so important."

"Of course it's okay," said Lavendar, springing to her feet to envelop Roxie in a bone-crushing hug.  "I was expectin' a whole lot of showin' off from you on this visit.  Can't be leavin' again without so much as a peep."

"Thank you," Roxie mumbled into her shoulder, and Lavendar pretended not to notice how she was shaking.

****

Lavendar eased her way through the open window, silently giving thanks for the warm weather that made breaking and entering so easy.  Not quite as easy as it could have been, since Theodore apparently wasn't so dumb as to leave ground-floor windows open at night, but Lavendar had always been good at climbing.  The upper floor had a choice of open windows and it had been easy enough to locate one that didn't have snoring floating out to betray its occupancy.  Fingers crossed none of the help were quiet sleepers.

The dreadful lilac dress had been discarded, replaced by Lavendar's customary attire of a sturdy pair of trousers and a dark shirt that concealed layers of padding and protection.  She wore soft boots for silent running, and gloves with artfully roughened fingertips for an enhanced grip.  A handgun was holstered at her hip, though it was mostly for show.  A shooting match here would cause more trouble than it would solve.  Better to rely on her wits and whatever luck she could make.

She dropped into the room with the lightest of thuds and paused for a moment to check that no one had been disturbed.  When all stayed quiet she allowed herself to breathe again, and gently pulled the curtain across to enter the room.  There was very little light from outside to help with her search, but as her eyes adjusted to the dark she realised she had chosen the perfect window.  Roxie's Jewel was right here.

"Hello, beautiful," she breathed as she crossed the room and leaned over to make sure she was right.  In the crib, the baby girl stirred gently and opened large eyes to look at Lavendar.  "Hey, Jewel," Lavendar whispered, breaking into a smile.  "Your momma sent me to get you.  Are you ready to go?"  She reached down and lifted Jewel out of the crib, putting her against her shoulder and wrapping the blankets around her.  "You just go back to sleep if you like.  You'll be back with your momma before you know it."

There was no question of going back out the window.  The climb had been tricky enough with both hands free, but there was no way she could get back down while holding a baby, even one as willing to nuzzle peacefully against her as Jewel apparently was.  Breaking out of buildings was generally easier than breaking in, at least.

She opened the bedroom door and eased out onto the landing, holding Jewel close.  All was quiet, the other doors all closed as far as she could make out in the darkness.  One hand on the wall, lightly brushing along, helped to guide her towards the stairs and she slipped down without a sound.  Jewel had gone back to sleep, the front door lay ahead and there was nothing between her and freedom.

As Lavendar reached for the door it suddenly swung inwards towards her, bringing with it a man who smelt of cheap whisky and was hanging onto the doorknob.  He looked up at her, his eyes unfocused and watery.  "You're not the nanny," he slurred.

"She had an... emergency?" Lavendar ventured, thinking on her feet.  "I said I'd look after this little bundle while she took care of it.  I just got her back to sleep, so be careful."

"Why were you taking her outside?  Were you stealing my baby?"

"Well, who wouldn't want to steal such an adorable little thing?" she beamed.  "I guess you must be Theodore, then."

His eyes narrowed and he straightened up to look at her properly.  "That's Mr Anderson to you," he said.  "How did you even know my first name?"  Suspicion spread across his face.  "Roxie sent you, didn't she?  She sent you to take my child.  I won't have my girl living with a cheap tart, you know.  Not a chance."

"Oh, because havin' her live with a ragin' drunk is so much better?" Lavendar hissed back, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Jewel.  "Roxie ain't never been cheap, as long as I've known her.  She makes more money than you, for one thing.  I never did understand what she saw in you, though I always figured I just wasn't well placed to judge these things."

"You won't take her," Theodore said again, and he spread his arms wide to block the doorway.

Lavendar wondered for a moment about finding another door, but she didn't dare turn her back on him.  There was really only one thing for it.  Sighing, she pulled her gun from the holster and pointed it straight at his heart.  "You'll let us through," she said, "or I'll make you wish you had."

They stood, caught in an impasse.  Lavendar was closer to him than she would have liked, but backing up would take her further from the door and make her look scared.  With Jewel asleep on her shoulder her options were limited, and so everything depended on convincing Theodore that it would be better to get out of the way.

Theodore was too drunk to blanch in the face of a weapon.  "Shoot me and you'll have the law on your tail," he slurred.

Lavendar shrugged.  "You think that's somethin' new for me?  Ain't never met a lawman could give me a run for my money."  She held the gun rock steady.

Without warning, Theodore lunged forward.  For a moment Lavendar thought he'd lost his balance, but he was grabbing for the gun.  She made no effort to hold onto it, concentrating instead on not being pulled over or dropping Jewel.

"That's better," said Theodore, pulling himself upright and pointing the gun back at Lavendar.  His hand wasn't as steady as hers and the barrel waved erratically, sometimes pointing at her head, sometimes at her feet, sometimes at the baby.  "You're going to give me my daughter," he said, "and then we'll see what we're going to do with you."

"Or what?" Lavendar snorted.  "You'd risk shootin' your own baby?"

"There'll be no shooting if you give me the baby," said Theodore.

"There'll be no shootin' if you let me through," she retorted.  Tired of trying to reason with a drunkard, she stepped forward and prepared to push him out of the way.

Theodore pulled the trigger.

There was a click, but nothing more.  He stared in disbelief at the gun as Lavendar barged through with Jewel.

Once Lavendar was safely out of the house she turned to look at him.  "Nice goin'," she said.  "Firin' a gun when you're too drunk to hold it straight?  Riskin' your daughter's life?  You're lucky one of us has the sense not to bring a loaded gun near a baby."  She reached out and lifted the empty gun from his unresisting hand, dropping it back into its holster.  "You know, the sensible thing would have been to let me take her and then work it out as a legal matter later.  The really sensible thing would have been to work out custody as a legal matter in the first place, instead of just stealin' her from her mother."

"Her mother's a whore," Theodore said, but there was no real conviction in his voice.  His shoulders had slumped and he didn't look inclined to stop them leaving.

"You and I both know that ain't true.  Roxie ain't never let the punters do more than look at what she's got."  Not that it would have mattered to Lavendar if she had, of course.  It seemed to her that were plenty of worse ways to earn a living.  "If you had such a problem with what she does then why did you ever take up with her in the first place?  Seems to me you were just put out 'cause she wouldn't give up her job and become your cosy little housewife.  Well, you've lost it now.  Ain't no judge that'll give you this girl after what you did tonight."  And with that, Lavendar turned and walked into the night.

****

"You ready to go?"  Lavendar had taken Jewel straight to Roxie's house, where her friend had been packing a few necessary items and preparing to get out of town.  They'd both known that retrieving Jewel would mean heading for a new life somewhere else; Theodore wouldn't let them leave peacefully if he knew where they were.  Not once he sobered up and got over his shock, anyway.

Roxie gave a cry as she saw her daughter nestled on Lavendar's shoulder, and came over to take her.  She held her close, burying her face in the baby's soft golden curls.  "How can I ever thank you enough?" she mumbled.

"Don't thank me till you're safely out of here," said Lavendar.  "And even then, do it by looking after the little one.  She's been good as gold the whole way.  Clearly doesn't take after her father."  As Roxie wrapped Jewel up in extra blankets, Lavendar shouldered the bags that had been packed.

Before they left, Lavendar took one last look at the sleeping girl.  "Never could resist rescuin' a princess," she said with a smile.


[If you missed Lavendar's previous escapade, you can find it here.]

Out of Focus

I seem to have a lot of stuff on the go at the moment.  There's an enormous crochet project, which is probably going to take about three months and an awful lot of wool.  There's the novel to edit, of course, which currently stands at twenty thousand words of second draft.  There's Lavendar, who keeps poking me and insisting that I write more stories about what she did when she grew up.  There are all the other people who keep sending me stories and asking me for feedback (I love you all, guys, honestly!).  And of course there's work and family and the all-important Twitter to keep track of.  And, just occasionally, this blog.

I envy anyone with the focus to do one thing really well, rather than my usual trick of doing lots of things in a half-arsed, mediocre manner.  I have to have deadlines to get stuff done, and even then I can't devote too much time to something before my brain begins to itch and I need to do something else.  Writing every day in November is wonderful, but by the 1st of December I'm desperate to get back to other things.  There's simply no way I can sustain that kind of pace outside of November.  Not when there are things to crochet and giant squids to make and jackets to sew and...

Lavendar and the Random Acolyte

[This story was written in response to a challenge from a Chap in my writing group, to write something with the above title.]

Lavendar hefted the sword, taking a moment to assess the weight and perfect the grip before lunging forward on the attack.  The enchanted blade made swift work of the slavering monsters that guarded the tower, dispatching them to whatever afterlife they considered worthy without a moment's hesitation.  There could be no hesitation when there was a beautiful princess to save.

And yet, Lavendar hesitated.  The monsters were slain, the door to the tower stood ahead, but there was an old man in some kind of robe walking up the road.  Lavendar regarded him warily, holding the sword ready just in case.  One more fight wouldn't make much difference, not in the long run.  The princess would be safe.

The old man stopped some distance away, holding up his hands to show he wasn't a threat.  He looked Lavendar up and down, one corner of his mouth twitching into half a smile.  "My, that's a big sword for such a little lady," he said gently.

Lavendar looked down at the blade in her hand.  "It's just a stick," she said at last, wondering how on earth the man could have thought it was a real sword.  "I'm only pretendin'."

"Slaying fearsome monsters, no doubt," the man said, coming a little closer.

"And rescuin' princesses."  Lavendar's chest puffed up with pride.  "I'm the mightiest hero in all the land."  The sorry-looking bushes on the edge of the property were a testament to that.  Not one of them had put up a real fight when faced with her and her magic sword.

"Well, Mighty Hero," said the man, "I'm just a humble acolyte, so I hope you'll let me pass unmolested.  I'm not hiding any princesses, I promise."

Lavendar screwed up her face in confusion.  "What's an ag... aglyte?"  She kept the stick gripped firmly in her hand, just in case.  Momma said you never could tell when some nice old man would turn out to be a horrible monster, and that tatty brown robe of his could have held any number of tentacles.

"An acolyte," said the man, pronouncing the word carefully.  "It means I've devoted my life to following my god.  You've probably seen people like me in the temples in town."

Momma didn't take Lavendar into the town very often.  She didn't like the hustle and the bustle, she said, and it always brought on one of her bad heads.  But when they did go in for something, Lavendar always liked to look at the temples with their fancy statues and to wonder about the lives of the people inside.  There were the High Priests of Glor, reciting the 1,667 words of power before images of their insatiable god in his squidly form, his mechanical form and his rotten form.  There were the Servants of the Hidden Eye, who covered themselves from head to foot and who Momma said liked to eat little girls who didn't behave themselves.  Lavendar's favourites were the Sisters of Glamour, who wore shiny, colourful clothes that she could only dream of.  Momma said they were no better than they should be, but Lavendar figured that meant they must be very good indeed.  She was never as good as she was supposed to be.

"How come you ain't in a temple, then?" she asked the acolyte.  "You don't look like none of the ones I've seen."

"You won't see many of my order," he replied.  He sat down on the grass at the edge of the property, basking in the sunlight and making Lavendar hold her sword a little bit tighter.  "We don't keep to a temple, as a rule.  We follow the path laid out for us by our god."

"This path?"  Lavendar scuffed at the dirt with her bare feet.  "Never thought this path would be chosen by a god for anythin', 'cept maybe gettin' rid of someone they didn't like."  She cocked her head to one side as she looked back at the man, curiosity overriding her nerves.  "Does your god not like you?"

He laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched laugh for such a big man.  "I don't mean a literal path, necessarily.  I just let my god decide where I go and what I do.  I follow His will in everything."

"He talks to you?"  She knew a lot of people in the temples claimed to talk to their gods, but she'd never once heard one actually reply.

"Not in the way you're thinking."  The man pulled a small leather pouch out from under his robe, where it had been hanging from a string around his neck.  "He uses these."  He gestured for her to hold out her hand, so she offered him the one that wasn't holding her sword.  He tipped the contents of the pouch into her hand.

"He talks to you with these?  But they don't look holy or nothin'."  She was holding a set of gaming dice of various sizes, plus a well-worn old silver coin.

Another high-pitched laugh.  Lavendar decided she didn't like the way he laughed.  It made something itch between her shoulders and she took a small step backwards, still holding out the dice in one hand and her sword in the other.

"They don't have to be holy," said the man.  "They're just tools.  Say I reach a junction, where I could go left or right.  I flip that coin, and the way it lands tells me which way to go."

"That ain't god," Lavendar snorted.  "That's just luck."

"Some call it that, yes," the man nodded.  "I prefer to think of it as my god guiding me down the path He has chosen."

"And you do that for everything?"

"Everything," said the man.  "Where to go, when to sleep, who to ask for food or shelter.  He guides me well."

"You ask folks for food?  Don't you have money?"  Lavendar knew some grown-ups had more money than others, and most had more money than Momma, but she didn't know it was possible to have no money and walk around like nothing was wrong, instead of begging on the streets or going to one of the poor houses.

"None but that coin you're holding there," he said, smiling like it was the finest thing in the world to be so poor.  "And I need that one, so I can't just spend it on bread."

"So you just walk up to people and ask them for somethin' to eat?"

"When He tells me to, yes."

"What if he tells you not to?"  This was a major stumbling block with any religion, as far as Lavendar was concerned.  Momma was always telling her not to do stuff, and she hated it.

"Then I go hungry."  The man sat up straight, abandoning his sunbathing in favour of addressing her in a more serious manner.  "If He says no, it's usually because the folks in question don't really have much to spare.  Or because asking would get me more trouble than an empty belly.  I just have to trust that He knows the best course of action."

"Are you gonna ask me for some food?"  The dice were getting heavy in her hand and she wanted to give them back to him, but he seemed in no hurry to ask her for them and she didn't want to just drop them in his lap if they were special to him.

His eyes flicked over to her house.  Lavendar followed his gaze to the peeling paint, the straggly clematis that grew by the door and tangled worse than her hair did, and the shuttered blinds behind which Momma was sleeping off one of her bad heads.  She held her breath as she waited for him to comment.  People always commented as they went by the house.  Often they didn't even bother trying not to be heard.

"Let's see what He says, shall we?" was all the man said.  He plucked the coin from her outstretched palm and in one fluid motion flicked it up into the air and caught it on the back of his hand.  Lavendar didn't manage to see which way it landed before he dropped it back into her hand, saying, "Looks like I won't be asking you for anything.  Good job I had a hearty breakfast this morning."  He patted his belly cheerfully.

"That's it?"  Lavendar used the question to hide her relief at not having to try sneaking food out of the house.  There'd be hell to pay if Momma thought she'd been stealing, holy man or no holy man.  "He says no so you don't do it?  What if he keeps sayin' it, over and over, till you starve to death?"

"That's the chance I take, following this path."

"Has it ever happened?  Not starvin' to death, but goin' for days and days without food?"

"Once or twice."  The man shrugged.  "Not as often as you might think, though.  He takes good care of me."

"But it's just luck," Lavendar burst out.  "You're just tossin' a coin.  What if it always comes down the wrong way?"

"It never has yet.  That's why I keep following this path.  It works out surprisingly well.  All you need is a little faith to see it through."

"Show me some more."  Lavendar finally crouched in front of him, putting the sword down on the ground at her feet and gently dropping the dice into the pool of his robe that covered his lap.  "Make another choice."

"You want me to ask Him to perform for you, like a circus entertainer?"  The man's eyebrows disappeared up into the fringe of his dark hair.

"Show me somethin' else," Lavendar insisted.  "I want to see how it works."

"Far be it from me to cross the will of a fearsome hero like yourself," he said.  "What would like me to show you?"

A world of possibilities opened up before her, and at first she was unable to think of anything to ask for.  "Where are you goin' next?" she asked at last.  "I know which way you came from, but there's a few places you could be goin' to from here.  Did you already decide which one you're goin' to?"

"I hadn't made a final choice, so let's find out together, shall we?"  He poked through the dice until he found the one he was looking for, then held it out to Lavendar.  "Here.  You throw it for me."

Tentatively, Lavendar took the die from him and inspected it.  It was just like the ones she'd seen used for games, with the same sorts of spots on each side in different patterns.  She rolled it around her hand, feeling the edges tickling her palm as it flipped over, then she tipped it out onto the dirt.

The man looked down at the top face.  "Looks like I'm going to Harbourtown.  Maybe I'll end up on a ship sailing to some foreign shore."

"All that's in Harbourtown is fishin' boats and a bad smell.  You should roll it again till you get some place nicer."  Lavendar picked up the die and looked at that one face more closely.  "How do you know it's Harbourtown?  I don't see no letters.  It could be anywhere."

"Yes, it could," the man agreed.  "That's the point.  I could hardly have a special die for every occasion.  One for right now with just the places I could go from here?  And then another for the next choice?  I'd never manage to carry them all around."

"Then how do you know which side is which when you do it?"

"I let Him tell me that when it falls."  There was a look in his eye that she'd seen once or twice from teachers when they really wanted her to figure something out.

"You decide which is which before you throw it?"  She turned it over in her fingertips.  "Like, this is Harbourtown?  And this is the redwood forest?"

"Not before I throw it," he said, still giving her that look.  "After it lands."

"After it lands?  You mean..."  She stared at him, and at the triumphant smile on his face as he saw that she'd figured it out at last.  "You're cheatin'?"

"Not cheating," he said mildly as he took the die back from her.  "We make our own luck in this world, little hero."  He scooped up all of the dice and dropped them back into the pouch, but the coin he held onto and looked at for a moment.  Then he tossed it into the air and caught it like before.

"What did that tell you to do?" Lavendar asked, rising up to try to see how the coin had landed even though she knew now that it didn't matter.

"Here," said the man, holding out his hand with the coin balanced on top of it.

At first Lavendar thought he was just holding it out for her to see, but then he gestured and told her to take it.  She stared at him in confusion until he repeated his offer.  "All good heroes need a lucky charm.  You can have this one."

Long after the man had disappeared out of sight down the road, Lavendar was still crouched in the dirt staring at the coin hidden in her hands.  It was old and worn, so much so that the two faces were nearly indistinguishable, but it was still a good coin.  She should probably give it to Momma, or use it to buy some nice white bread for them both, but it was her lucky charm.

Tossing it into the air was easy, but Lavendar lacked the grace and practice to catch it on her hand.  She looked at it as it glinted up from the dirt where it had landed.  We make our own luck in this world.

Lavendar smiled and picked up her sword.  There was still a princess to save, and you should never keep a girl waiting.