Why? But is that the only question a writer needs to ask?

My story for the book (the one that i am writing slow-er-ly) has an opening scene that sets up the rest of the plot. However the first few paragraphs are more observational than gut punching?

In my case, a small happy boy sits on top of tower and contemplates a day of duty, which doesn’t end the way he expects it too. So far so fantasy trope…. I have an ace up the sleeve in the small boy is not the focus of the story, the men and women that surround him are the focus. ..

Does every story have to start with a battle aftermath or a battle or a dead body?

Or actually are we all churning out the same opening scen

Question Writer

Question Writer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

e? Trying to impress in two hundred words or less?

I am not sure I know the right answer. I know what the advice is…

But what do you think?


Secondish Draft. Same scene….

Campfires and hot salty broth have caused Kenrati’s delicate disposition to want to rid himself of the food in the most expedient way. He’s wandered some way from the camp not wanting the others to hear the noises his arse is sure to be making. He makes his way through the trees.

Damn gypsy talking about the world like he owned it. The teachings of the Chantry are clear. Even the oldest ones in the archives with the original scripts from a thousand years after the cataclysm. Who did that old man think he is? The gypsies were not to be trusted. Possessed by Demons half of them, probably. They wouldn’t submit to giving up their children if they had talent. He is surprised the Chantry tolerates it. Something about laws made when the Elanati had assisted in a war some thousands of years ago. They were left to manage their own when it came to the talents.

The world is changing, he smiles to himself and wonders how long before the Chantry manages to overturn the old laws. It’s said that the Gypsies are spreading some sort of plague because of their contact with demons as the talented have no watchers. He stubs a toe on a branch and curses under his breath. He giggles, now the language he just used wasn’t exactly fit for the Chantry either. He looks up between the branches of the trees’ in the clearing and looks for the constellations he learn’t at Black Rock. Master Briggs, had hit their hands with a birch cane if they’d got even one stars name wrong. His memory hadn’t made him popular with the masters or the other students. He shivered lightly. He’d been eight when his parents had left him there. They’d thought him possessed by a Demon, his memory so good he can remember everything he reads and all that is said with a perfect clarity. It is the headaches and the then the terrible fits he’d experienced that made them fearful. That combined with his unpopularity. His active and firm father had thought is strange that Kenrati preferred to read books in the private library and not play outside with the other children.

He’d been hit with that birch cane across his hands and back a few times too, even though he’d never got a single test wrong. Something about teaching him humility. He’d never really been sure why those monks had hit him. Whatever they’d been trying to teach, he could never remember.

For fates sake, the Easenters may use slaves but at least they gave their children up. Made sure the world remained safe from behind the veil. His thoughts have taken him a little further than he’d like but there is nothing for it. He unlaced his trousers pulling at the string fastening, once loose he pushes the soft moleskin fabric down over his thighs and as he crouches he feels his bowels loosen, not a moment too soon.

Relieving himself and sighing loudly he doesn’t notice the form creeping up on him. He’s never listened Kenrati, not to the masters at Black Rock, not to anyone, knows it all. That’s the problem with remembering everything. There’s no room left for anything else. He moans the relief with an audible sigh. A twig snaps and he feels his buttocks clinch.

“I’m straight in front of you.”

Kenrati, frightened, stumbles backwards his derriere landing in the byproducts of his delicate constitution.

“I’ll not keep you long.” Gadrial the gypsy teller is smiling down in the moonlight. As long as Kenrati lives he’ll never want to see that smile again. His bladder gives out, the stream of water adding to the mess.

“Now there’s no need for that,” Gadrial is stood a few feet away, non-chanantly leaning against the bark of a tree. He appears importantly both unarmed and relaxed. This gypsy could do what he likes and get away with it. He is hundred of metres from camp. No one would hear him scream. The question, is what does the gypsy want?

“You’ll be travelling with us a while yet and I want to get a few things straight with you.” Gadrial folds his arms across his chest, appearing thoughtful.

“What are you going to do to me?” Kenrati, squeaks.


Santa Baby, put a publishing advance and contract under the tree for me…

So the book is still getting written. If a little slowly for my tastes but that’s life or my life. There are only so many hours in each week and to have any work, life, writing balance is very tricky.

I really want the writing to be my main source of income and get frustrated that it is not happening fast enough. I know all I can do is continue to write and tell stories but come’on already Universe! Please….

Half the time I am on a set of scales trying to throw metaphorical weights on the other side to get everything even. You need to live to write and there doesn’t seem enough time for everything else.

Family, friends and fun are what help you to write better but when you couple that with a 60 hour work week, what gives?

But I still dream …..