Teaser Tuesday: Magic Under Glass
I have not posted much since I figured out my problem with MUG *and* how to fix it (with a little help from watchmebe). My MCs emotional arc just wasn't quite THERE. It was an improvement over the original and first rewrite, to be sure...but not there. I knew that Nimira does grow over the course of the story, but she kind of grew in random, unconnected ways...some coherence and emotional impact was lacking.

So here is what I did. I printed up the story so far and basically wrote a scene-by-scene synopsis in my notebook, only instead of writing out the plot itself, I just wrote down what Nimira was feeling and thinking in each scene. Forcing myself to articulate this really helped me see how to make this HER story, and how she changes.

I'm back in the thick of some very contented revising now!

Meanwhile, here is a teaser, taking place in the afternoon after Erris has come to life:



Miss Rashten brought us lunch without a word. We looked at her, and she looked at us, and she hurried out, like her mind simply wouldn’t stand for an automaton coming to life. I picked up my fork, but Erris only stared at the food.

“Can you eat?”

He stared at the meat, and a terrible anguish dawned on his face. “I don’t think I can.”

“Are you sure?”

He stood, shoving his chair back, and stood at the window. “You eat. I can’t.”

“All right.” I sliced my beef, and poked it with my fork. I pushed it back and forth in its own bloody juices. I usually loved beef, but just then I couldn’t imagine why I had ever wanted to eat the stuff.

Erris patted his pockets, like he hoped to find something—cigarettes? Snuff? Some fairy vice? He came back empty, and gnawed on his lip.

I had started to forget that he still was, in some ways, an automaton. I remembered that I was supposed to wind him. I had liked to do it before, when he was just a stiff doll. Now I imagined myself sticking a key into living flesh. It seemed a violation.

“Erris, do you know how long it takes before you wind down?” I asked.

“No. I’ll tell you if I feel it coming on.”

“You never stayed wound this long before.”

“Thank goodness, I’d be passing out every half an hour.” He returned to his chair, with a certain reluctance. I raced through a hundred uncomfortable thoughts—would he age? Would his hair grow? Could he have children? If he was hurt, would he heal? If he was cut, what was under his skin?

He must have been thinking the same things, but we didn’t talk about any of it. He watched me poke at my food. I forced down a few bites.

He stopped watching, with a soft sigh. From the tray he selected a pastry dusted with sugar, and licked the top. The sweet sugar melted in his mouth, just as it should—I knew by the flash of yearning satisfaction that crossed his face.

He looked at that pastry like he was wishing a lover farewell, then he dropped it on the plate. “I’ll be in the library,” he said.