November Writing and December Plans

[osprey_archer]

Did not get much writing done this month. Feeling discouraged about writing in general, to be honest. I’ve been struggling to write (so many of this year’s writing posts are some variation on “didn’t get much writing done this month”!), and my royalties are considerably lower than last year, and it’s all very frustrating.

I have decided that for whatever reason I am simply not Ready to write Sleeping Beauty, so rather than continuing to bang my head against that wall, I’m going to set the project aside for at least a year, probably more, it seems optimistic to imagine that I’ll be able to stand the sight of it after a mere year has passed. I remind myself yet again that Ursula K. Le Guin had to sit on Tehanu for eighteen years before she was ready to write it. Eighteen years!

Have been noodling on a couple of projects but who knows if they will come to anything.

***

Anyway, in years past when I have been struggling to write, I have found prompt memes really helpful. (The Time-Traveling Popcorn Ball originally grew from a prompt meme.) So I thought I would post one!

Tell me a little about a winter story I haven't written, and I'll give you several sentences from that story.

Winter doesn't have to mean holiday (although it certainly can!). Think snow, icicles, hot beverages by toasty fires, sledding and sleigh rides and being trapped by blizzards and unfortunate incidents involving holly dryads.

I will write ficlets for most any fandom I've written before (Captain America, Queen's Thief, various Sutcliffs, American Girl... I haven't actually written a Biggles or Worrals fic before but I've been thinking about trying) or for my own books, or for a completely original story.

Comments

[rachelmanija]

Biggles or Worrals waits out a snowstorm inside their plane. It's okay, they have someone to huddle for warmth with.

[osprey_archer]

I was forced, FORCED I TELL YOU, to read another Biggles book for inspiration, hence the lag on this ficlet.

***

"Bigglesworth."

Von Stalhein's voice is not loud, but it cuts through the howl of the snowstorm, the ringing in Biggles' ears after he crash-landed the aeroplane into a snowdrift. Biggles unclenches his stiff hands from the controls and turns to face his prisoner.

"We ran out of petrol," Biggles informs him.

Von Stalhein dips his head in acknowledgement. His jaw is clenched, as if to keep his teeth from chattering. The temperature is already dropping rapidly.

Biggles blows on his hands. "I'll have to untie you," he tells von Stalhein. "We'll only survive this cold if we huddle for warmth. Do I have your parole you won't try to escape?"

Von Stalhein's brows lift. "Where would I go?" Biggles lifts his brows in return, and von Stalhein lets out a sigh that is almost a snort. "You have my word."

Biggles is already untying von Stalhein's bonds. They round up every scrap of fabric in the aeroplane, including the parachutes, and cocoon themselves, sitting so close together that Biggles can feel von Stalhein's bony hip digging into his own. He considers a joke about whether the Soviets are feeding von Stalhein, only suddenly it doesn't seem funny. He swallows the joke and wonders if there is anything else in the aeroplane that he could feed von Stalhein.

"Don't suppose your people suit up their kites with iron rations," Biggles says.

Von Stalhein snorts again. His breath is warm against Biggles' neck, a surprising warmth in the frigid cabin. Biggles sighs. He ate up all his own food while staking out the arctic research station that is the headquarters of von Stalhein's latest operation.

But then von Stalhein wriggles. He holds out a chocolate bar, which Biggles takes and splits, and they each sit nibbling on their half, trying to make the food last. The snow has piled up around the plane, muffling the howling of the wind to a dull soporific roar.

"Next time I take on a job," Von Stalhein says, "I shall endeavor to make it somewhere tropical."

"Next time you take on a job," Biggles suggests, "you should take it with me."

Von Stalhein shakes his head. But he doesn't snort this time, and that, Biggles thinks, is progress.

[rachelmanija]

I was forced, FORCED I TELL YOU, to read another Biggles book for inspiration, hence the lag on this ficlet.

Haha. Which one did you read?

What a delightful ficlet. Biggles seizes the opportunity to cuddle with and feed his beloved enemy! He starts untying von Stalhein's hands even before he gets his parole!

"We'll only survive this cold if we huddle for warmth."

Sometimes I feel like Biggles senses that he's starring in an epic, tropey, enemies-to-lovers story.

He considers a joke about whether the Soviets are feeding von Stalhein, only suddenly it doesn't seem funny.

OWW MY HEART.

"Next time I take on a job," Von Stalhein says, "I shall endeavor to make it somewhere tropical."

"Next time you take on a job," Biggles suggests, "you should take it with me."

YES. Such a perfectly them exchange.

[sholio]

This is so sweet and lovely! Naturally Biggles's immediate thought is not "oh no, I'm stranded in the middle of nowhere with my prisoner" but "I will untie him immediately so we can work through this problem together."

We'll only survive this cold if we huddle for warmth.

And thus 10,000 fanfics were born.

He swallows the joke and wonders if there is anything else in the aeroplane that he could feed von Stalhein.

AWWWWWWW.

[sheron]

Oh my god I would love to read approximately 50,000 more words of this fic! I love that there's some indeterminate job that they were both on that led them to this situation and the fic just drops us before the fact of Biggles in freezing conditions immediately deciding that they both must survive this.

"Next time you take on a job," Biggles suggests, "you should take it with me."

This is so perfectly in character.

I'm so glad you wrote this! (Here via rec!)

[philomytha]

Perfect! Naturally Biggles goes straight from 'you're my prisoner' to 'come snuggle for warmth with me and maybe I can find you some food' <333. And a fantastic ending! You have the entire essence of their tropey enemyship here and it's great!

[rachelmanija]

PS. Biggles Fest! https://sholio.dreamwidth.org/1461292.html

[oracne]

The nights last most of the day in the winter. What do the people do?

[osprey_archer]

"What did you do in the winter," Jessarat asked, "in the far north on the banks of the Cheresen, where the night lasts most of the day?"

Innis didn't answer, and Jess thought he would not answer, and perhaps it was a waste of breath to talk when there was so much ground to cover, and hard walking as they crunched along through the thin crust that had frozen over the snow. But then Innis said, "We told stories around the fire. The long sagas - those are winter stories - always told when the sky is dark and the flames flickering. We would crack nuts - you always save the nuts to crack in winter; it is something to do with your hands; w would flame dried fruits in brandy, and snatch them out of the pans, and suck our burnt fingers and brag about the grand things we would one day do..."

He paused, gazing over the fields with the snow all blushed red as the red sun sank low. He tossed his head like a restive horse, and said, "What will you do in the winters, when you've conquered the banks of the Cheresen, where the night lasts most of the day?"

"I doubt we'll make it so far."

"You're a diplomat." The growing dusk tinged Innis's face blue. "You're right, though. Winter will save us. If anything can."

[oracne]

This is fabulous. You are such an excellent prose stylist.

[asakiyume]

I'm sorry about the discouragement--I *loved* the things you published this year, but I realize that's not the same as sales.

Prompt: Even when the snow was falling fastest, they could see by the light of the porch lamp wolves circling round and round the cottage. Keeping them prisoner--or protecting them from harm? That was the question.

[kore]

I'm sorry about the discouragement--I *loved* the things you published this year, but I realize that's not the same as sales.

Me too! I LOVED the Green Knight pilot book.

[skygiants]

(as did I!! as you know!!!)

[osprey_archer]

Even when the snow fell fastest, they could see by the light of the porch lamp wolves circling round and round the cottage. Gentian huddled close to her older sister Philomena, who wrapped a fold of her should around Gentian's shoulders as they stood by the frosty window, which seemed to give cold as a fire gives heat.

"I shouldn't have taken the carving," Gentian whispered.

"Shh. They're not here because of that," Philomena said.

"Are you sure? Because if it is - if I give it back to them - " But Gentian shuddered as she said it, for even now she didn't want to give that carving up: the leaping wolf, carved from the lithe graceful curve of an antler.

"No, no," Philomena said. "It's nothing to do with that."

She slipped the warm folds of her shawl around Gentian's shoulders. Gentian, squinting to see through the swirling snow, didn't look up till the hinges squeaked. Then she cried out, and dived after her sister, but the door swung shut with a final gust of snow, and though Gentian tried the handle, Philomena had spelled it shut.

Gentian ran back to the window. Briefly she saw Philomena's dark hair and white blouse, but then both dissolved in the falling snow, which now hid even the wolves.

A wolf howled. Gentian shuddered, clutching her shawl close in fisted hands.

The door opened. A gust of snow blew Philomena into the room. Gentian jumped to her side, and together they pressed the door closed against the powerful wind. \

Then Gentian wound the shawl around her shivering sister, and took her cold hand to lead her to the fire, and set the kettle to boil.

Philomena's shivering eased as she sipped a cup of chamomile. Gentian sat with her cold hands clenched in her heavy wool skirts. "Well?"

Philomena shook her head. "I don't understand it," she said. "They didn't attack. But they won't let me pass."

[asakiyume]

😍Love it!

[kore]

Gennady and Daniel's first Christmas together. I want to see Gennady's reaction to American Xmas consumerism!

(lol yes when I OTP I OTP forever)

[osprey_archer]

I assume you mean first Christmas in the nineties, as we saw Gennady's Christmas at Daniel's house?

[kore]

Yes please!

[skygiants]

I would love several sentences of Kay being reluctantly dragged out to do a winter activity that he isn't very good at!

[osprey_archer]

Do we feeling that "huddling for warmth" or "roasting chestnuts in front of an open fire" might count as winter activities Kay is not very good at? Kay is rushing around trying to Organize things and Percy is all "just sit and roast chestnuts with me! We can be convivial!" and Kay is all "I do not DO conviviality."

[littlerhymes]

Please tell me about Mordred, WWII child sent to the country version.

[osprey_archer]

Gwen arrived at the station late, her red hair falling out of its pins, a smudge of grease on her cheek, close to tears with vexation, because she could see at at glance that the station waiting room was empty. All the London evacuee children had already found homes, then.

"I'm so sorry," she told Mrs. Bickerstaff, the organizer. "The car broke down, and-"

"No need to apologize, Mrs. Pendragon." Mrs. Bickerstaff's voice was warm, her smile kind, and as always Gwen felt like a schoolgirl standing before an indulgent headmistress. "There's still one left."

Gwen looked around the waiting room, as if the child might be hiding under a chair, and Mrs. Bickerstaff laughed. "No, he's waiting on the platform, dearie. He insisted."

And so Gwen followed Mrs. Bickerstaff onto the platform to see this boy who insisted on waiting in the cold.

He was perhaps eleven years old, a thin sharp-faced boy with straight heavy dark hair and knees red with cold. He looked up when the door opened, and Gwen had the brief impression of dark wary eyes, like a stray dog's.

"Didn't I tell you someone would come, Medraut?" Mrs. Bickerstaff said.

The dark eyes flashed toward her. Flatly, offended, he said, "I knew someone would come."

Mrs. Bickerstaff laughed. "This is Mrs. Pendragon, dearie," she told the boy called Medraut, and he got to his feet and came over and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Mrs. Pendragon?"

Gwen shook his cold hand. "Very well, thank you - Medraut, is it?"

Medraut nodded. He looked like he wasn't going to say anything, and then his mouth opened as if he might - and then Mrs. Bickerstaff put an arm round his shoulders, and his whole body stiffened and his mouth clamped shut.

"Ah, he's a quiet one, our Medraut," Mrs. Bickerstaff said, squeezing her arm round him. Medraut's shoulders drew in, hunched and taut. "You'll like him, Mrs. Pendragon. He'll be no trouble at all."

[threeplusfire]

Writing motivation is hard! (I recently introduced a friend to Honeytrap and we've been capslock yelling at each other about it a lot.)

Thinking of a winter story about the long nights and short days, the ever present cold and the uncertainty of waiting for someone to arrive. Frost on stone, the comfort of a fire.

[osprey_archer]

Oh, yay! I'm glad to hear that you've been enjoying Honeytrap together.

This prompt ties in with a story idea that's been floating in my head about a woman whose lover is a winter spirit who only arrives with the snow... will see if this bursts forth as a fully-fledged story.

[osprey_archer]

The snow is late this year.

Charlotte has raked her leaves and planted her daffodil bulbs and stocked her woodpile. In the evenings she lights a fire in the fireplace, and wakes in the morning to find that the fire has died back to embers, and on the cold windows the frost has grown like ferns.

Frost. But no snow.

She picks the sloes, softened by frost, and infuses them in gin. She makes hot cocoa and stands on her porching holding the mug in mittened hands, looking through the bare trees to the dark lake, where the mist rises in a thick spectral cloud in the morning.

Mist. But no snow.

It rains one day, the thick stinging rain that falls when it not quite cold enough to freeze. The temperature plunges that night, and the next morning Charlotte stays home and bakes cinnamon rolls, because her steps are slick with ice.

Ice. But no snow.

And it is only the snow that brings the Snow Maiden.

But at last, at last, the gray clouds gather. All day they hang low over the bare brown trees and the barren land. The air tastes wet, and the time hangs heavy, and Charlotte wanders around the cabin, touching this thing and that, as if this will work some witchery that will summon the Snow Maiden.

The crocheted stars on the Christmas tree, for it fascinates the Snow Maiden to see Charlotte make anything: crochet, or candles, or cookies.

The tea set that held the cookies and cocoa when they feasted beneath the pine tree, after the ice storm, and the ice-coated needles tinkled together like chimes.

The mittens she crocheted the Snow Maiden, oh, many years ago, that she found in a puddle after all the snow melted, for the Maiden can take nothing with her when she goes.

Nor can she leave anything behind. There are no photographs, no recordings of her voice, the songs that remind Charlotte sometimes of silver bells, and sometimes of the desolate wind across the snow, and sometimes (and these are the saddest times) of the birds in spring.

The sky turns peach with sunset; turns blue with approaching night. And at last, at last, like moths in the porch light, Charlotte sees the first flakes of snow.

Charlotte rushes to the door. She throws it open and stands in the doorway, arms wide to the night sky, and cries, “Come!”

There is no one outside. The cold wind brushes Charlotte’s ankles, her throat, and Charlotte turns, and the Snow Maiden stands already by the fire.

She looks as she always does, standing there in her ice blue coat, with her long fair hair and her hands outstretched. “Charlotte,” she says, and Charlotte is already crossing the room to her, the door still open, the snowflakes settling on the floor.

“You’re here.” Charlotte takes the Snow Maiden’s slim cool hands.

“Till the snow melts.” The Snow Maiden is smiling, her eyes blue as the snow at night.

“You’re here now,” Charlotte says. “That’s all that matters to me.”