At Least No One Asks Me to Travel with a Crocodile

From DepositPhoto

This week’s topic is writing while travelling and how we accomplish the feat.

I don’t.

For various reasons, travel takes a lot out of me and if I’m required to travel, I’m going to be concentrating on the mechanics of the trip and the accomplishment of whatever I went for. I take a pad of paper with me in case I get a really killer plot idea or want to take note of something, but only once have I ever actually written a few words of prose. It was less than a page, about a character known as The Renegade, and I’ve never done anything else with that particular snippet. I did use the character in a small but pivotal role in Star Survivor. He’s an intriguing guy so he may still get his own book in the future.

So that’s a short and not especially illuminating or useful discussion. I thought about not even posting today, rather than waste your time, but then I thought I could at least give you a passage about travel from one of my books.

Here’s an excerpt from Magic of the Nile where the heroine, High Priestess Tyema, is sent on a journey by the Crocodile God she serves. Tyema and I share a reluctance to travel but at least no one asks me to take along a live crocodile!

Magic was a ‘Hearts Through History Romancing the Novel’ Contest Winner….

The Excerpt:

The journey from her temple to the small port that was Ibis Nome’s only formal access to the Nile took three days by donkey cart. Tyema grew increasingly nauseous and short of breath the longer the journey went on, even though she was surrounded by her kinsmen, her temple workers and her niece Renebti and scribe Jemkhufu. All of them did their utmost to make her comfortable, especially Renebti, who was a gentle soul and obviously distressed to see her aunt in such turmoil. Usually Tyema did a good job of hiding her symptoms but in the close quarters of the cart, and the tent the two women shared at night, she feared her problems were all too obvious.

                Infant Seknehure was well behaved, watching the world go by from the safety of a sling Tyema wore. He was her solace. Taking care of his simple needs, snuggling him, breathing in his sweet baby scent all calmed her and enabled her to shut out the world. Even when he was fussy and she had to walk beside the cart, trying to soothe him, the activity relieved her symptoms as well.

                But her dread of the river voyage ahead came rushing back in a dizzying wave as her small caravan wound its way through the crowded, smelly harbor town. People stared at her since the High Priestess of Sobek was legendary in the province, rarely seen. Tyema held her head high, feeling her blushes staining her cheeks, and tried to smile. It didn’t help that she was wearing a simple traveling dress and cloak, not her ceremonial robes and crown. Nothing to hide behind.

                The nomarch’s private ship, the Swift, was much larger than any other vessel in the choked harbor. Comparing the tiny inlet to the sweeping peninsula she and Sahure had surveyed, Tyema could certainly see why Pharaoh had sent him to investigate the possibility of building a new port for the increased trade he was contemplating.

                Captain Djedefhor was waiting to greet her on the pier, dressed in a simple white shirt, dyed blue kilt and matching nemes. Around his neck he wore two amulets, one of Sobek and the other of Ra, the sun god who sailed the sky and the Underworld. Djedefhor bowed as she dismounted from the cart and shook out her skirts. “It’s my honor and pleasure to convey you to Thebes, Lady Tyema. I hope my poor ship will meet with your approval.”

                “I’m not used to traveling on ships at all, captain,” she answered honestly. “It’s very kind of the nomarch to lend me his vessel for the journey.”

                Djedefhor smiled broadly. “We’ll set a high standard for you to compare all other ships to in the future. The nomarch’s orders were to ensure your every comfort while conveying you to Thebes as fast as possible.” His easy manner toward Tyema bordered on flirtation, his glances at her appreciative. “Are you ready to board?”

                “I must see to the comfort of my crocodile before I can worry about myself,” Tyema answered. “This is my crocodile keeper, Hotepre.”

                As the grizzled older man came forward, the ship’s captain frowned. “Ah yes, the crocodile. I must confess I prefer taking you on as a passenger over inviting one of the Nile beasts onto my deck,” Djedefhor said with disarming honesty. Tyema liked him all the more for his candor. “I don’t suppose we can put it in the hold?”

                “Not before I’ve died and gone to the Afterlife,” Hotepre said, hands on his hips. His two underkeepers crowded behind him, ready to defend their crocodile.

                Djedefhor surveyed the crate on the last donkey cart. It was rocking side to side and much clawing and noise could be heard. The harnessed donkey was wide eyed, sidling nervously while the driver held the bridle tight.

                “I can order the animal to walk onto the ship,” Tyema said. “Our idea was to chain him by the hind leg to the mast, or perhaps the rail at the stern? One of my men will watch the crocodile at all times. We’ll have to catch fish to feed it periodically during the voyage.”

                Djedefhor had apparently not heard anything she said after the part about walking the crocodile onto his vessel. He swallowed hard. “For the sake of my crew, can you bring it aboard in the crate? I’ll agree to let it travel on deck, as long as I’m satisfied with the restraints, but I’d rather not risk having such a dangerous animal walk freely.” He glanced at the massive crate again. “I expected to treat the beast as cargo, not a passenger.”

                “This animal was personally selected by Sobek, to honor Pharaoh. I assure you Sobek has given me the power to command his creatures,” Tyema said. Deciding she didn’t want to push the point and incur the captain’s hostility before the voyage had even begun, she went on in a more positive tone, “But we can certainly load him onto the ship inside the crate and then allow him to have the fresh air. The box is constructed to come apart easily. Hotepre, can you take care of this for me?”

                “Well, then it’s settled,” Seeming pleased, Djedefhor offered her his hand to ascend the wooden gangplank. “It’s a bit tricky for nonsailors. And of course you have the baby to balance as well. “

                Trying to decide if the captain actually was trying to flirt with her, Tyema allowed him to escort her onto the Swift.  Renebti and Jemkhufu brought up the rear. The deck was reassuringly wide but flashes of the day she’d been carried aboard a Hyksos vessel as a terrified prisoner came and went in her mind. Tyema froze, clutching the baby so tightly he cried. Her vision was narrowing and she knew she was going to faint. From a distance she heard Renebti’s voice asking if she was all right and the captain’s deeper tones as he said something, but she couldn’t stop the escalation of her terror. Someone tried to take Seknehure away from her and as she was resisting the attempt, backing away, she tripped.

                There was a flash of pain in the back of her skull and the world went black.

The Story:  She’s a priestess, he’s a proud warrior … is love enough to bridge their differences?

When the high priestess of an Egyptian temple falls in love with a captain of the royal guard, their bond is tested by the intrigue and peril of their duties to the gods and Pharaoh.

Tyema serves Sobek the Crocodile God as High Priestess of his Nile river temple. But despite her beauty, grace, and the power she wields, the shy priestess lives as a recluse in the remote temple grounds. For though Sobek rescued her from a childhood of abuse and neglect, and healed her crippled foot, her dark past haunts her still.

When Sahure, a dashing captain of Pharaoh’s guard, arrives to ask her help for Pharaoh, Tyema’s wounded heart blossoms. The captain is captivated as by her well … until Pharaoh orders him to the dangerous frontier, far from Tyema. He rides away, bound by duty and honor, leaving Tyema with even more secrets to bear.

Heart-broken, Tyema returns to her lonely life … until the Crocodile God reveals other plans for his priestess. For Pharaoh’s life is threatened with black magic, and only one who wields the power of a god can unmask the sorcerer. Tyema must brave court life, and somehow withstand the pressures of swirling gossip, intrigue and danger. And she must hurry, before ancient evils overcome all her efforts.

But when Sahure returns, is he there to help or to hinder? Will love lead them to common ground, and a future together … or will their differences tear them apart forever?

Buy Links:

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Writing on the Go

Word counts while traveling depend entirely upon your ability to arrange for vast wastelands of time and boredom. Sort of like being a kid in the backseat of a car driving from one end of the continent to the other before cars had anything fancier than wheels, engines, and seatbelts. The external scenery, historical markers, triumphs, and tragedies rolling past the car window lull you into boredom. And that boredom encourages you to explore your internal landscape. Yes. I grew up on road trips. Expeditions, maybe. All those hours and all of that country passing - it wrote itself into stories. I doubt I'd be a writer were it not for my family trekking from one Air Force base to the next via a rust bucket of a car pulling a travel trailer. To this day, when I block, I get in the car and start driving. Story problems unravel to the tune of tires on pavement.

Airplanes are also prime word count time for me, because what could be more worthy of psychic escape than being held captive in a tin can at 30,000 feet? If writing means butt in chair, airplanes have your number. Might as well do something to take your mind off being smushed between the fuselage and whoever has the middle seat, right? The only issue with planes is that getting to use a laptop isn't guaranteed. If someone in front of you want to recline, you risk your screen. I make sure I have old school tools. What pen and paper lack in flash, they make up with flexibility. I also find them easier on my head. Flying inevitably gives me a migraine and looking at a backlit computer screen is excruciating. Pen and paper are less likely to make me wish I'd died.

If you want word count while traveling, pick your traveling companions well. Most writers have a list of 'safe' people, as well as a list of people they love, but who will never allow them to write. It helps to be really clear and honest with yourself. If your beloved, chatty mother is traveling with you, your choices are to get up an hour before she does to write, or you acknowledge it's not happening this trip. Conferences are the same - because those involve some intense commitments, you either take a break on writing or you commit to a time to write that won't end up subsumed by conference crazy. 

The whole point of travel is to remove you from the ordinary. It's the reason I advocate so strongly for solo writing retreats. It's invaluable for a writer to walk away from responsibility for a few days - delegate the care and feeding of the family so the writer can be responsible for and to nothing but herself and the page for a few days. Modern life is full of noise to the point that most of us start having trouble hearing the voices of our stories. Solo travel clears that racket away. Besides. When you're by yourself there's no one to tell you to stop writing that nonsense and get some sleep. There's no one to tell you not to have another glass of wine while you sit scribbling or typing madly away.

Traveling in any capacity flips a switch on my imagination. I get kicked into Beginner Mind, I think. In that space, I see everything as new. Including my stories. Stories and characters I've never seen before rise up in the middle of the night to wake me and demand I write them down when I'm traveling, especially if I'm traveling alone and don't have to worry about waking anyone else when I flip on the bedside lamp at 2am. So yes. Traveling means writing.

BTW. The results after last week's maudlin post. A feeding tube and a cat who's feeling much better.

Perils of the Writer: Writing on the Road

Let me put this out there: I kind of love writing while on trips or on vacation.  Mostly because "vacation", for me, means I don't have to do household-y things, so I can relax, and relaxing for me is actually being able to get my work done.

Now, I've been blessed that my "regular" job ("day job" would be inaccurate) has given me the ability to go to Mexico several times in the past few years, and those vacations were also incredibly productive, writingwise.

Also, for road trips, now my son is driving (and he loves driving), so I don't have to drive.  A few weeks ago we went out to Big Bend, and I could sit in the back with a laptop and write as the long miles of Texas passed by.

BLISS.

For me, a "vacation" is a writing retreat, plan and simple.  It's a way to recharge and activate that creative energy.

Now, writing while at cons?  Nope.  Almost never happens.  Sometimes I get a bit done (especially if I end up staying at a different hotel from the con proper), but most of the time: that weekend is a wash.  Well, maybe not on the flights (if there are flights involved).   I can write on planes pretty well, also.  I'm pretty sure I finished the rough draft of The Holver Alley Crew (way back when) on a plane.

On that note: next weekend is kind of writing-retreat-staycation.  I'm hoping to get a lot done.  Fingers crossed.

On the Road Writing

I won't pretend for a moment that I'm getting any work done while traveling. Whether the trip is for pleasure or for business, there is zero word count happening. There may be a bit of note taking, if inspiration strikes, but I do not take a trip with the intention of accomplishing writing goals.

In fact, quite the opposite.

Being away from home is an opportunity.

I used to be the woman who'd hide in the hotel room at conventions, terrified at the thought of being surrounded by strangers. Some minimal word count was accomplished in those days. My laptop, however, is not travelling with me anymore. It proved to be a waste of space. A paper notebook goes with me instead because I decided: 

a.) I will stop lying to myself about 'how much I'm going to write'

b.) I will remove the 'run away to the room to write a while' excuse 

c.) I will be open to meeting new people and exploring this new place

d.) I will allow myself the freedom to learn/see/do something new

Granted, I might return to the room for a while if anxiety is getting the best of me, but mostly my efforts are put into meeting new people, developing those friendships already sprouting with my peers, and catching up with old friends.

Writing is a solitary activity. 

Travelling is an opportunity to explore and absorb, 

to experience new settings, dialogue, characters, 

new moods, tone, and sounds, 

essentially to delve into new ideas 

so that when I am once again 

in front of that blank page, 

I have more to offer than ever before.

Beware the Seat Snorer (or How Travel Sabotages Word Count Goals)

How do I maintain word-count when traveling?

I...don't.

Anything less than two weeks away from the writing cave is a grand excuse to Febreeze the creative closet. That TBR pile isn't going to shrink itself.

Any trip longer than two weeks and I try to write during the afternoons/heat of the day since I'm a bit vampiric. I tend to focus on the many aspects of being an author that don't involve crafting the actual story. Those aspects tend to be more forgiving of interruptions. Also, I don't try to write during any actual movement parts of travel. Why?

I am the seat snorer.

This Pavlovian puppy was trained to sleep during all modes of transportation. Plane? Sleep. Car? Sleep. Train? Sound asleep. Ship? No sleep. Find your sea legs first, then the buffet. ~oink~

Travel, definitely not a time when I get work done.

Getting that Word Count While Traveling - How Do You Do It?

I'm delighted to announce that THE SHIFT OF THE TIDE is up for preorder!! A few others will be coming soon, but - as with many things - Amazon is fast and efficient, making us both love and loathe them. Smashwords wants me to promise to upload the final doc ten days before release and I ... just can't. Ten days is forever in my world, regrettable as that may be. But, hey! The book is coming along really well, and I'm tentatively thrilled with it.

~knocks on wood~

~tosses salt over shoulder~

~pets black cat and gives it extra treats~

Want to see a little snippet? Okay! (It's a teensy bit spoilery of THE EDGE OF THE BLADE, if you haven't read that yet. Fair Warning. Just skip down to the next *** to avoid.)


***

We reached the ship, a rope ladder thrown down for us. Marskal treaded water with apparent ease, helping me grab ahold and steadying it as I climbed. Hands reached down from above, helping me over the rail. Then Jepp had me in a fierce hug, her compact, vital body hard against me. She was laughing and cursing, rocking me from side to side, then pulled back and kissed me hard on the mouth.

A man’s big hand tugged her back. “None of that now.” Kral, fully outfitted in his shining black Dasnarian armor, though with the faceplate up, winked at me. “I have to watch her every second.”

Jepp made a face at him. “You liked the idea well enough when we invited—”

“Shut up, Jepp,” Kral cut her off pleasantly and she grinned at him, then snapped to attention, giving Marskal the Hawks’ salute.

Lieutenant!”

A dripping Marskal shook his head at her with a wry smile. “You don’t report to me any longer, remember?”

Jepp dropped her fist with an abashed grin. “Old habits, don’t you know.” She looked between us. “So that’s how you knew the signal. I recognized your sparkly blue magic globe thingy, but couldn’t figure out the rest.” She eyed Marskal. “You’re going to have to kill her now, you know.”

He returned her sally with a very serious nod. “So I’ve already informed her.”

“Just make me a Hawk already then,” I told them.

Jepp got a speculative expression and Marskal looked me up and down as if guessing my weight. “We don’t have any Tala. A shapeshifter and sorceress could come in handy.”

“She’s a terrible soldier, though,” Jepp pointed out. “Never follows orders. Might as well conscript a cat.”

“True.” Marskal rubbed his chin. “Plus she’d never make it through the initiation.”

“Guess it’s death then,” Jepp agreed cheerfully, making to draw her big bladed knife. She’d tied a scarf to the end of it, crimson ends fluttering in the breeze that matched the rest of her silk and leather outfit. With her short hair, dark skin and the exotic clothing, she looked even more a pirate now than when we found her fleeing the Dasnarians on the stolen Hákyrling.

“Not on the deck,” Kral cautioned. “You’ll stain the wood.”

***

Our topic this week at the SFF Seven is Writing On The Road: How to stay on task while traveling.

And, boy howdy, is this a hard one.

I have to tell you all: when I was traveling for the day job all the time (by "all the time," I mean 1-2 weeks out of every month), it was super hard for me to maintain any kind of writing schedule or productivity. I would have solid goals and determination, planning to get up early and write before we left the hotel, to write in the evenings when we were done for the day, to write on the airplane. Most of those things never happened. Jet lag and time zone differences would nix the getting up early. Having that much-desired cocktail with clients would sabotage the evening writing plans. Plain old being tired and having my brain eaten by the day job took care of the rest.

After a while, I pretty much didn't even try. I figured day job travel meant no word count and I took it out of the equation, figuring I'd write when I was actually at home. Which pretty much worked.

But, my productivity and quality of work absolutely increased tenfold when I stopped having to travel for that project.

Those of you who travel regularly for the day job and still manage to write? I have mad respect for you.

These days, my main challenge is being at conferences. Most of the time, I figure on writing on the plane on the way to the conference. I'm in the groove still, and - if the flights - are long enough, I can often get a regular day's worth of writing in.

(Yes, your seat mate will totally read over your shoulder. I figure they get what they get.)

Once at the conference, on the first day, maybe the second, I can get in *some* words. I get up, exercise, find a latte and something to eat, then bring it back to my room. At that point, any words are good words, just to keep my fingers on the reins.

After that - and, depending on the con, sometimes for the whole time - I get nothing written and I try to be okay with that. I look on it as well refilling. Same with vacations.

We talked about that last week, taking some breaks and time between works. If I can manage it - and I'm getting better at this - I try to figure in conferences and vacations as breaks between projects. Rather than feeling frustrated or anxious about not getting my word count in, I figure those days into my schedule as non-work days. Anything I do get is gravy.

But, I realize this is a luxury on my part, something I can do because I no longer have the day job. Before I wrote full time, I absolutely could not have afforded that time.

So those of you who do write on the road - how do you do it???

The Time Between Novels

Is there an ideal time to take between writing novels?

 Look, as an author, all I can do is be me and follow the process that works for me. You have to be you.

When I finish the first draft of a novel, I immediately turn around and go through the manuscript again, editing. (No, I don’t type “The End.” To my knowledge I’ve never bothered to type that and I’m always a bit bemused by people doing the full blown Joan Wilder thing…I have my Joan Wilder moments but typing 'The End' isn't one of them...but enough snark on that!) After that I do my pass for finding and eliminating my particular set of “lazy words”. I had a list of twenty five originally, topped by the word ‘that’, which is my own nemesis. I’ve added a few more words in the last five years, including ‘half’, when my beta reader pointed out I liked to have characters do things in a ‘half’ way – half turning, half smiling, etc. Some of the lazy or bad words I used to sprinkle on the WIP like confetti, I’ve managed to train myself to NOT use, so it doesn’t take as long to clean them out as it used to. But still probably two full days…

Then I send the book off to my developmental editor. Her process invariably takes a month. No matter what she does or I do, it takes her a month.

During that month, I turn to my next book and dive in. Now I have found that I seem to need about three days in between sending the WIP off to the editor and starting words on the new story. Even if I’m eager to write it and have the plot pretty much in my head, my Muse seems to need 72 hours to really clear the decks and want to write. Then I work on this new book for the time until the editor returns the previous one, at which time I put aside the newer story to make the fixes and changes, and get the book to the copy editor.

Ideal? Shrug. Eighteen or so published books into this career, I’d say the process is working. One lovely aspect of being an independently published author is that there’s no one way to do things that works for everyone. Do your own thing!

A small plug here, as June is Audiobook Month, I do have five audiobooks out there! Plus two of my Egyptian paranormal romances that Carina Press did as audiobooks. Here’s the link to the page on my blog with sound samples and buy links: https://veronicascott.wordpress.com/audiobooks/

Book Interval

Two weeks and an eternity ago, Autolycus died. Tonight, Hatshepsut is in the hospital. I'm binge eating ice cream bars, listening to the Gayatri Mantra - all 108 recitations of it. There may be eye leakage while we wait for word on the youngest girl.

This is how long it takes between books. This is how long it takes books in general. Because life and death and illness and joy and pain don't stop just because a book is due. The stories never stop. They don't die until you do. So it doesn't matter how much time one takes between books. What matters is that you keep going. Keep trying. Keep taking refuge in the stories in your blood and bones. How fast versus how slowly you do that is meaningless. Your heart beats in its own time. So do your stories.

Just don't let anyone or anything suppress them. Not even you.