It’s official: The Baby is growing up.
It’s creeping towards 20,000 words, now, and nearing the end of what has only turned out to be Part One. (When, at first, I had been roughly estimating that 20,000 words could hold the story in its entirety…ahem.) I’m still not sure how many parts there will be altogether, but I’m going to guess at least three or four, and that they’ll all probably be more or less this same size.
I suppose I may just be writing an accidental novel now, at that.
It even, finally, has a proper title!
I think that I am calling it The Clockwork Coloratura.
(I do love alliteration, and ‘coloratura’ is one of my favourite words, as well as a painfully-apt musical term. At the very least, it should serve as a working title!)
I don’t know, yet, what all this story is going to entail, or where it’s going to go. (For me, being a writer isn’t about controlling stories; it’s about giving yourself up to them as freely as you hope your readers will. It isn’t creating something new; it’s unearthing and polishing relics that already exist, putting them back together and cleaning them up until they are finally whole again and shine.) I don’t know how it’s going to end.
I do know that this story is a lot of things — it’s a clockpunk retelling of the Pied Piper fairytale, obviously; it’s a dystopian, post-apocalyptic story; it’s the start to a series of clockpunk retellings of other fairytales set in this same world.
But mostly, it’s a story about two lonely children, and the desperate way that loneliness can make you cling.
And now that the announcements are out of the way, have this week’s Six Sentences of The Clockwork Coloratura itself. :)
Outside the door were flakes of skin.
His first thought was of snakes, of molting, of little girls being swallowed alive and somehow managing to claw their way free, and these were the images that stuck with him even as he shook his head and forced himself to reexamine the scene. On second glance, it was obvious that his first impressions had been quite wrong; far too little skin remained to signify such a thing. The flakes left behind were small, no bigger than a bitten-down nail, and barely big enough for him to recognised them at all. They may as easily have been dust, may have been ancient paint flaking free from the walls, might even have been fragments of paper left behind to crumble and curl.
They might have been any number of things, and yet somehow he knew that they were hers.