Petrarchan sonnet and slow progress
Welcome to the very first edition of The Hell Dispatch, the formal writing report for all things wicked Jamison. In an effort to nurture another kind of voice, approach my craft more mindfully, and hold myself publicly accountable, here lies a dispatch of my progress in Hel(l).
The Progress Report 📰
Currently, I am writing the first draft of a new dark fantasy trilogy with the working title Infernal Heart. It tells the story of three people, in a place, doing things to achieve goals... Yes. Imagine it as Peaky Blinders meets The Divine Comedy, but for youths. And without the racism, antisemitism, and misogyny. The major themes are unlearning one's upbringing, redefining one's future, and the blurred line between justice and vengeance. With a heist in Hell as the backdrop. Unfortunately, I cannot publicly share more details just yet, as it is so early in the process and theft is rampant.
So far, I have reached 35% of the way through both my scene count and word goal in 4 weeks. My totally artificial deadline for 100% is November 15th.
Additionally, there is a manuscript, Song of the Immortal, starring a river of blood and a sexy forest demon, that I am shopping around. There remain a few outstanding decisions that I'm waiting for (a "yes" would be great, just saying), and otherwise, I plan to do some small-scale revisions to it before the next round of querying. Light candles and send bright vibes my way, please. Ya boi would like a literary agent and a book deal and a crown made of bone.
Considerations in Craft 🎨
Two thoughts have been taking enormous amounts of space in my brain this week: (1) the tricky place that is 15-50% mark of a book, and (2) the purpose of a first draft.
I recently watched a video by Olivie Blake where the author talks briefly about the tricky part when a book becomes work. Specifically, the book becomes work after the beginning "snapshot," where we have already met the characters and the main source(s) of conflict has been established. Next comes the work of building the tension and character arcs and plot, and you can no longer (in theory) coast along on vibes. Next, you have to think. Imagine if the Hunger Games was just vibes after Katniss volunteered... Yeah.
My protagonists have been established, their goals communicated, their positions in the world made apparent. And now they have to... actually do the thing. I have a detailed outline, so I know what needs to happen. But how do I craft that into happening? How do I weave Araminta's struggle to be a good person into a scene where she's trying to survive a deadly hurricane? (No seriously, HOW?) There are a dozen story threads that have been prepared in Act 1, and now I have to keep them all folded into the fabric of this book, all the way to 100,000 words. Who's idea was this?
No wonder I've been so tired.
But on the other hand, this is just the first draft. It is the first iteration. The only thing a first draft has to do is exist. It certainly doesn't have to be perfect. Doesn't even have to make much sense. It's not the draft that the world sees. So who cares if the threads don't weave a flawless tapestry? Isn't that what revisions are for?
Weather Forecast 🌙
Next week, I aim to reach the 45-50% mark in Infernal Heart, which means writing another 4-6 scenes, or about 10,000-12,000 words. According to Pacemaker, my word tracker, I'm supposed to be reach 52%, which means entering Act 3 and passing the midpoint...
We'll see about that. I'm experimenting with decaffeinated coffee this month, so all three of my brain cells are working overtime.
For Your Consumption 🎭
Now before I became a prose writer, I was a poet. As a chronic overachiever, I would like to submit for your consumption a poem in each dispatch, preferably something new and not recycled from my university survey of forms catalogue. This week's poem comes in the form of a Petrarchan sonnet, named for great Italian poet Francesco Petrarca. Regretfully, it is not in Italian. Please forgive me for this egregious offense.
"My Ghost and I"
I think the pages here are haunted now
and a ghost lies dormant within my pen.
Full and finished, there is no knowing when.
Forming thoughts, claiming space, I forgot how.
See, the ghost is hungry. We made a vow:
I feed it lies, and it speaks now and then,
words of promise or discontent. I tend
not to take tally, to condone or sough.
We keep healthy distance, my ghost and I.
They shake the clouds, and I collect the rain.
I paint the mural. They hide the bloodstains.
They hold my secrets. I line the paper.
My ghost invokes so I may never die
and all that remains of us is vapor.
And a little Digestif 🧉
And enough about me. Here is a list of other people's work that I enjoy and want to share:
LISTENING TO: "Doomsday" by Architects, from the studio album Holy Hell (2018)
WATCHING: I recently watched The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) and it holds up so well!!
READING: Jade City by Fonda Lee
PLAYING: nothing 😢 though I crave to play Little Nightmares again
Happy weekend! Hyvää viikkonloppua! ❤️