The Year (or Two) of the Novel

Photo by Michael Marais on Unsplash

The last couple years have brought a lot of big ideas, and a lot of introspection. Unintentionally. I've thought a lot about careers and hobbies, and as I crossed the threshold of 20 years out of high school, I started to circle back to some of those “where do you see yourself in X years" questions. Probably because I missed the mark on all of them. 18-year-old me would be disappointed that I haven't published a novel. 22-year-old me would be bummed to learn that I haven't sold a screenplay. Hell, 32-year-old me would hate to hear that my basement is still unfinished.

There's a lot that I haven't done, and there's a lot that I've started but never finished. That's probably worse. It's a little bit disheartening to churn out a thousand big ideas and leave them scattered across the floor in varying stages of incomplete—especially when some of those have more than a few attempts piled up.

I'm starting to realize that the main problem is that I try to do too much. This isn't a sob story, nor is it an attempt to fish up some sympathy. It's just an observation. I constantly bite off more than I can chew, and I do that in nearly all areas of my life. I get an idea in my head, and my imagination runs with it—hyper fixation style. Before long, it turns into this monolith, and I get so distracted by the disparity between the current state and end goal that I can't see the steps needed to reach the finish line. Eventually, I get burnt out or distracted and wander off to find the next big idea so I can feel the rush of creativity again. The thing is, I can see the finished product in my head every time. I know what everything will look like when it's done, but I can't break off pieces small enough to get me there.

I did it with The Mark of Shar, this substack, and now I'm doing it again with JAMR and Stellar Empire. So, as someone who thinks that New Year's resolutions are incredibly silly, here I am about to make one. (Un)Fashionably late. As usual.

I'm setting a goal for myself. 100-200 words a day. Minimum. I know it's a small number, but It's doable. I can chew it, but most importantly, I can chew it consistently. It might take 400 days to even hit low-end novel numbers, but I'm OK with that. I need to start somewhere if I ever want to finish.

And now, I'll leave you with a little taste of the opening chapter, but before you go, consider taking a second to share this post.

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The Little Brushwood

This particular story begins somewhere in the middle because I have a flair for the dramatic, and the nerve to believe that even factual accounts can be entertaining when presented in the right order. It is for that reason, that we open with a relatively ordinary human girl. A perfectly plain and unassuming child by the name of Erika Alcaste. Yes. That Erika.

Let's be honest, if Erika heard herself described as “plain,” she'd drag me into a dark alley and stick me full of arrows. No. Plain is, perhaps, the last word anyone would ever use to describe Thoranee’s Little Brushwood. She was a force of nature. Recklessly bold, tough as nails, and unfathomably lucky to boot.

Plain is what her father, Victor Alcaste wanted her to be. Plain and safe. Mind you, not because he thought her incapable. Quite the opposite, in fact. Victor Alaste was no fool. He knew his daughter was likely to make a name for herself. She was very much like her parents in that regard. All the same, that blind courage was the very thing that got her mother killed, and he was determined to spare Erika from a similar fate—even if it meant perpetuating some rather archaic stereotypes.

At this particular point in her life, Erika was exceedingly arrogant, and, some might say, a bit of a busybody with a rather rigid view of right and wrong. She had no problem drawing a line in the sand, and was just as likely to challenge you to cross it—a personality trait inherited from her mother.

Most historians would present Erika as a stunningly attractive young woman, but then most historians are lonely old men with uncomfortable obsessions. The real Erika was not the paragon of beauty so often depicted in the history books. She was short, a tad stocky, and there was always something about her that seemed…unkempt. Hair out of place, clothes that were wrinkled or torn, and a touch of dirt on her hands and face. To say that she was rough around the edges would be both a cliché and an understatement.

She was a positively wild youth with an insatiable thirst for adventure. At seven-years-old, Erika had suffered a broken arm after leaping out of a window to chase a squirrel across the roof of her cottage, or perhaps, more accurately: After attempting to follow the terrified creature from the roof onto a nearby tree. A year later, she broke her arm again attempting to make the same jump. There was no squirrel this time, though. She simply wanted to prove that she could do it—and lost her footing while celebrating the accomplishment.

On her tenth birthday, in a rather fruitless attempt to keep her feet on the ground, Victor gave his daughter the longbow that had belonged to his late wife. It was a magnificent weapon crafted from dark oak with ornate, silvery swirls of leaves and vines carved along its length, and it was decidedly too large for Erika to draw. It did, however, pique her interest. In exchange for her half-hearted commitment to, in her father's words, “settle down,” Victor agreed to give her archery lessons and a bow that was more her size.

As you might expect, Erika was a natural, and while Victor knew how to hit a target, he learned rather quickly that Erika would need more than a toy and a painted bundle of straw hung from a tree. In truth, there was nothing he could teach her that Erika didn't already know by pure instinct. It was as though she was brought into the world with a singular purpose: To become the greatest human marksman the world had ever known, and to do so as rapidly as possible.

Over the next four years, Erika conquered every major tournament in the kingdom, toppling their champions with ease—and no small amount of heckling. Other children loved Erika, but their parents—and the competition—were less enthusiastic. Still, despite the abrasive character flaws, no one could deny her talent—talent which earned her the nickname of “Little Brushwood.” She was 14-years-old, and all of Thoranee agreed that it would take a Brushwood elf to end her win streak. Moreover, much to Victor's dismay, it seemed that the hobby he'd hoped would settle his daughter's thrill seeking ways had become the very thing that drove them. Erika had mastered the bow and was ready to flaunt—or rather pledge—her skills in service to the Royal Guard.

“Absolutely not. There is no place for you in the Royal Guard, and as long as I'm still breathing, there never will be.”

It was soul crushing. Coming from anyone else, it would have been an empty threat. Erika was, after all, an only child, and therefore the first born in her family. By law she was fully entitled to enlist in the Guard. It was only an unspoken tradition that young women passed their birthright on to younger siblings. Thoranee’s military had seen its share of women throughout the kingdom's history, and more than a few had rather historic careers. Of course, none of them had Victor Alcaste for a father.

Victor had the unfortunate pedigree of being both the king's brother and former High Commander of the Royal Guard, and though his days of active service were long behind him, Victor still held sway over the direction of Thoranee’s military development. Even if she did flex her legal right and enroll in the Academy, it would only take a stern look from Victor to have Erika assigned to his personal security detail instead of the ramparts of Northwatch or the Stonespyre Citadel as she so desperately desired.

And so began Erika's unwavering obsession with Furling's spring tournament. That was the key to achieving her goals. Victor clearly didn't think she was good enough. In her mind, that was the only plausible explanation. All she needed to do was prove it to him, and what better way than to beat the elves at their own game? If she could win an archery competition in Furling, that would cement her reputation for all time. The Guard would no doubt beg Victor to let Erika in. Talent like that should never be sidelined.

The only problem with that plan, however, was that Victor refused to let her compete, and, in fact, took direct action to prevent it. Visits to Furling were not uncommon, but the moment Erika expressed an interest in the tournament, schedules miraculously shifted, and those visits began to happen in the summer. Her father insisted that it was simply a better time of year as he had fewer responsibilities at home, and the forests surrounding Furling would be in full bloom. Neither of those claims were entirely untrue, of course, but Erika knew that was not why plans changed.

It seemed she'd never be able to pursue her dreams. That is, until one positively miraculous winter morning when Erika answered a knock at the door to find Grathdor Vahn'iir, the king of Furling, standing on the other side.

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