In a world created and fueled by myth, a tortured mage and an enslaved tree spirit must choose to fight the evil they know...or the evil that will destroy everything they know.
I bought books today to start doing some serious research on different mythologies for that one. I want to use a scattering of well-known and lesser known deities and place it in a mythical land -- though it will be adapted to my book's needs. I was amazed to realize I had no general books on mythology. Lots of stuff in various books on different lands, but nothing that I could just pick up and go through as a reference.
Oh, and there is the YA outline for I'm Not Who You Think that I wrote a while back. I also have the outline for the second book to Written in the Sand.
I have found the story for my Double Dog Novel (Yard Dog Press two-in-one, like the old Ace Doubles. The problem is that I need to edit, cut and rewrite it a great deal. It's Farstep Station.
Edits for Glory and Ada Nish Pura -- I'll start the second one on Monday. Doing notes right now, trying to get my brain around some of the changes.
And the two I'm working on, Kinship and Serendipity Blues. Kinship is going to take a back burner -- not abandoned, but I think I'm not going to worry about doing more than a chapter a week on it. That means about 26 more weeks to get it done. I don't mind. It gives me something to work on that is not a problem (it's a rewrite of a 20+ year old novel, so I know the characters and the basic plot).
So much that I want to get done, and so little time. The writing is just a small fraction of everything else.
And here is an odd scene from Serendipity Blues:
"I have never missed Sunday church in my entire life," Carmina said with the passion of a fanatic and the stare of a zealot. Sixteen year olds with convictions that strong ought to be locked away until they came to their senses. "I need a scarf to cover my hair. We have to find a good Catholic Church, and we'd better hurry. You'll have to wear that dress."
"We are not --"
"You can't keep me from Church!" she shouted, startling Patricia who hadn't expected the panic she suddenly saw in the girl's face. "I made a promise to St. Joseph himself that I would never miss church if he--" She stopped and took a gulping breath. "I have to go!"
Patricia wondered what kind of deal the child had made with God and her saints, but by the panic she could see in Carmina's face, she took it very seriously. She still wanted to say no. She started to frame the word and saw Carmina's back straighten as she prepared to argue.
But it wasn't the worry about that argument that stopped Patricia. She had almost told Carmina that it was too dangerous -- but she remembered her grandfather talking about being a missionary in China, about the dangers -- and about never missing a Sunday service.
Patricia pulled a phone book off the counter by the phone and shoved it into the girl's hands. "Find a church. I'm getting dressed." Carmina smiled, but as Patricia went past she put a hand on Carmina's arm, startling her. "Don't even think about Confession."
Patricia dressed quickly, thinking that she was likely crazy to go along with this. On the other hand, church had always helped her in times when she was troubled, and she would not deny that to Carmina. The girl had gone to a Catholic School all her life, and never missed a Sunday at church. The fact that her life had been turned upside down by people using her as a pawn shouldn't be a reason to deny her the right to worship.
Having been raised in a family rife with missionaries (including one of her own brothers) had probably skewed her thinking. Her father, and the rest of her brothers, were in the military. She had followed in their footsteps, despite her mother's disapproval at her decision. Good Christian women did not become soldiers.
The military side of her said this was not a good idea.
By the time she came out of the bedroom again, Carmina had the phone book open and looked from page to page with growing dismay. "I don't know where we are!" she said. "There are a lot of churches, but I don't know which one would be the closest!"
"Don't worry. We'll find one," Patricia said. She hadn't expected panic from Carmina now, after everything else the girl had been through. Obviously the idea to go along with this had been the best; she would not have wanted to be here alone with Carmina if she had said no.
And that didn't say much about her military background or the fact that she'd trained for the FBI. She remembered tackling Sammy Wilkes -- and then buried that thought again, because she didn't want to think about that report. She'd managed to keep it out of her mind from the moment she found Carmina Cosenza in her hands.
From bad to worse. Glorified babysitter.
They found a suitable church located in Burbank -- a ways from where they were in the upper San Fernando Valley, but that suited Patricia who didn't want to be seen too close to the safe house anyway. She had found a map in the car, and a call to the church had given them basic directions. Even as she headed for the freeway, Patricia had the growing feeling this was not a good idea.
"Oh! This is the Golden State Freeway!" Carmina suddenly leaned forward, peering out the front window. To Patricia it just looked like any other freeway, except with too much traffic and a strange haze in the air that reminded her that LA was the smog capital of the country. She had the window down and considered rolling it back up, already tasting the diesel and hot tar. But Carmina looked out as though they had found the road to El Dorado, and everything she ever wished for lay ahead.
"My cousin and I used to sit with maps and trace out the trips we'd take. Hollywood. Beverly Hills." She looked out the window and sighed. "I miss her sometimes."
"She the one who ran away?"
"Yes. She's the only cousin my age -- well, at least of the family that's still speaking to each other. Feuds, you know. And they get serious sometimes. Someone shot Johnny B. a couple years ago. That really scared me." She looked at Patricia. "I promised God and the Saints that I would go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life if they just let him live. He's my best friend."
"I'll get you there," Patricia said, glancing at the girl. "Don't you have friends in school?"
She shrugged. "The rich ones play stupid games, proving who's better. The poor ones are afraid of me and my family. And none of them seem to take the nuns very seriously. I hope I don't miss too much of school. I don't want to get held back."
New panic showed in her eyes. Poor child -- worried about her uncle being shot dead and missing school. It had to be a hell of a life.
"I doubt we'll be here for more than a couple days," Patricia said.
"Do you think we can see the ocean? I've never seen the Pacific Ocean. My father travels all over, usually with Sammy."
"Sammy?" she said, trying to recall if she knew that name.
"His private secretary," Carmina said, and then fell silent.
Without a doubt the sixteen year old knew what her father was up to on those trips. And there she hit that wall again -- the devout little Catholic girl, and her philandering father. And her mother who used her as a pawn. Oh, and not to forget the enigmatic Johnny B. who, despite being shot a couple years back, had stayed out of any kind of Family related trouble.
Though she did seem to remember that he once decked a drunk who tried -- ah hell. Who tried to get too friendly with his fifteen year old niece. Well, she sure as hell hoped she didn't meet up with Johnny B.
Carmina had fallen silent, still staring out at the road, and Patricia wondered what she saw there, past the convertibles and the semis. Excitement? Freedom? An Adventure? Or did she see the way back home if she could just fine the right exit?
They drove through one long stretch of humanity -- miles and miles of city, without a break. It didn't feel the same as places like DC or New York -- large though they were. This was unrelenting buildings from the moment they got on the freeway until Patricia took the off ramp and drove them straight to the St. Francis Xavier Church.
There were several structures on the church ground, the oldest looking a stucco and red roofed building that reminded Patricia again that they were not on the East Coast. Here the Spaniards had been the first immigrants, and their influence fell on the buildings, names, and even the looks of the people.
"I don't have a scarf!" Carmina said, suddenly dismayed.
"I have one," Patricia said and found a spot to park the car about a block away.
She rummaged through her purse as she glanced at the people heading into the church, especial a group of women who could have been living in the Old World a hundred years ago, except for the shortness of their dresses. They walked up the steps, black shawls draped up over their heads and shoulders, gathering in groups and moving on. But others moved up with them -- black, white, oriental. She saw two nuns and a priest at the door, greeting people.
"Will this do?" Patricia asked, finally pulling a white scarf from her purse. Though wrinkled and with a lipstick smudge on the edge, Carmina took it with a nod of thanks and deftly tied her hair up under it.
"Yes, thank you." Carmina looked at her and then gave a little shrug. "Thank you for bringing me here. Are you Catholic?"
"No, but my grandfather was a missionary in China, and my brother is one in South America. We better get going."
"That's neat about the missionaries. That must be -- so fulfilling." Carmina opened the car door and started to slip back. "I'm sorry for all the trouble,"
"It's alright," Patricia answered, surprised and pleased by the change.
Except she didn't realize then that Carmina meant for the trouble she was going to cause, not for what had already happened....
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