It’s the end of May, and that means one thing around here: Clarion West workshop season is upon us! As the person who manages communications for the organization, this is my busy time of year with the Write-a-thon, the readings, and all sorts of little details that need to be dealt with.
If you’re a writer who has some words to get written this summer and you want to support this amazing workshop, you can sign up and join us! You don’t have to be a Clarion West alumnus, just someone who wants to get some writing done and help support a workshop that’s gotten some of the brightest new writers of speculative fiction a solid start in the field.
You can register here, learn more about the Clarion West Write-a-thon here, or head on over to my profile page to see what it’s all about (and support me if you so desire). This summer, I will be working on a fantasy novel that’s tentatively titled Spindle, Shroud, Thorn, and if you sponsor me for any amount, I’ll send you updates about worldbuilding, dragons, and excerpts of what I’m writing.
Speaking of: yes, I did start a new book, since the book about the doctor stalled hard. As of today, I’m 21,000 words into it.
Here’s a little teaser:
The patrol that Enkede and Anat had been assigned was a long one: four months from beginning to end, from the northeast near the ice fields, curving down around the outside of the Necklace, ending at Mercad to the south. They flew high, Anat’s wide wings effortlessly holding them aloft.
Two days travel, one day resting and hunting. Then again, and again. They avoided the outposts except for brief visits to resupply, preferring their own company to the mutters and stares.
Three hundred years, and it never gets any easier.
The response from Anat was a warmth, her silent voice in Enkede’s head a low, reassuring hum. Anat was worried, Enkede could feel it. The dragon fretted over their human bond as only a dragon could, with an outsized intensity. Enkede shifted in the harness, settled back.
It was today. She’d thought she could avoid knowing the date; patrol was good for losing track of dates and times, and her memory was shoddy at the best of times. She scanned the ground below and ahead of them, seeing nothing but dense conifer forest, a few broad-leaved trees at the base of the mountain flaming with autumn. If she didn’t think about it—
Memory was the foul smell of a battlefield, making her gag. Anat, reacting to her distress, winged higher. Her muscles worked, the membrane of her wings made a snapping sound against the wind.
It was today.
The Battle of Three Rivers. Three centuries ago today.
There were moments when being effectively immortal seemed like an unimaginable cruelty. This was one of them.