Finally, I have my kitchen sink back! I celebrated by having a bath... forgetting that the bath sealant hadn't fully cured yet, having been done later. Ooops ;-p

Well, I'm not nearly so sploshy in my bathing as I am in my washing up...

The first chapter of "The Writing on the Wall" went down like what felt like the proverbial lead balloon, struggling to reach 30 page views in total and getting no reviews in 24 hours other than 'is this all or will there be more?' But now I've got a couple of reviews from Raoul-friendly people and am feeling happier about it :-) ( Read more... )

Ch2: Words in the Dark

At the end of a few minutes’ frenzied excavation, the candle set well back out of danger, Raoul had in his possession the rotted remains of what had once been a wooden sabot, several lumps of stone large enough to serve as a weapon or a hammer, and — the ultimate prize, clawed out at the farthest stretch of the chain from between two slabs too heavy for him to shift — a blunted and broken chisel-blade. It would not do for carving out caryatids or smoothing off the bannisters of a marble balustrade, but at this precise moment it meant hope, and perhaps life. Perhaps freedom for Christine. Beyond that prospect he dared not let himself think.

( Read more... )

Current Mood: busy

Right, I've at last finished checking back and tweaking at Chapter 1 of 'The Writing on the Wall' (and transcribing all the changes back into the original), so unless I spot anything else to be altered by the light of day tomorrow, it should be ready to upload to fanfiction.net. Theoretically.

I'm still not terribly happy with the summary, and I'd like a pair of titles for the chapters -- along the lines of l'inspecteur Javert and le père Valjean for A Child of the Law -- but that's a luxury that really isn't worth delay.

Current Mood: exhausted

I have finally finished typing up "The Writing on the Wall". So here, to celebrate ~~(and completely un-corrected, so everything up to and including the summary is subject to change)~~, is the first half of what came out as a two-chapter story.

The Writing on the Wall

Chained and alone in the cells of the Communards, Raoul reaches into the past for a final act of defiance.

Ch1: Imprisonment

Raoul choked on blackness, gulped again for air he could not find, and knew in some fast-shrinking core of awareness that this was the end. The battering waters, the iron tree, his own drowning struggles had all become — in one final mercy — very distant. He was twenty years old. He could not die...

Christine. A lightning-bolt of memory through the dark, in one last agonized convulsion. And then the flicker was swallowed, and went out.

( Read more... )

The last pint or so of my bargain six pints turned in the fridge overnight (not at all to my surprise, given that it was date-expired when I got it several days ago), despite my having made spiced chicken in milk, pork in milk, and two pints of yoghurt, plus a mug of hot 'milk with spices' inspired by reading "Maskerade" at that point!
So I used it as a substitute for sour cream in a leek pie -- which turned into a leek, cheese and swede pie, since I also had a soggy swede as well as an elderly leek to dispose of! ( Read more... )

"The Writing on the Wall" is sort-of-very-nearly ready to type up at circa 6500 words, though I'm not all that happy with it. ( Read more... )

And I did more gratuitous rewriting of other people's work. The author was complaining about what a strain it was to write in this style 'where the writing and vivid descriptions really sell it' -- I can well imagine that it's a strain, but don't think the result will be what's hoped for :-(( Read more... )

Just discovered a massive canon discrepancy in "The Writing on the Wall" (which I did think was struggling to an end; I just need to get Raoul convinced that Erik really is going to bestow his hand upon Christine instead of murdering him quietly in the dark en route, which isn't all that easy for him to credit under the circumstances).

I've written the whole thing, from the moment that Raoul awakes from drowning, depicting Erik as unmasked and hideous. But looking back at the relevant chapters of the novel makes it clear that, contrary to musical-canon, Leroux-Erik retains his mask throughout the climax, removing it only when Christine's tears fall upon his masked face after she allows him to kiss her forehead. ( Read more... )

Current Mood: depressed

Still working my way very, very slowly through the typing up of Arctic Raoul — I've reached Christine's arrival at the cabin, which turns out to be Chapter Seven (and about 20,000 words in) and now have to tweak her rant to Erik for consistency with his final speech that "I knew you loved that boy, though you denied it"; she shouldn't actually admit here in so many words that "I loved Raoul, and you killed him". (Currently amended to "I set Raoul free, and for sheer spite you killed him".)

"The Writing on the Wall" is not doing well; I allowed myself not to work on it at all for four or five days in a row, which is always a bad idea, and now of course it has gone off the boil. Raoul's feelings are, as usual, all over the place in terms of consistency (does he have a deathwish or is he clawing for survival?), which is partly just Leroux-Raoul for you and partly the author writing different scenes weeks apart.

I've finally got Raoul chained to the wall and now have to write the bit that is supposed to be the actual point of the story, and make it read like the focal element too...

It's pretty heavy going, but I think I can probably safely say now that I've definitely started the oneshot story prompted by

erimia about an alternative explanation for 'the initials RC' -- one scene complete, even if Raoul hasn't met the relevant dungeon yet :-)
(Well, two scenes, but the first one is only about a hundred words long and is a bit confused, as the protagonist is busy drowning at the time!)

And I've just set my bowl of Yottam Ottolenghi's elderflower and rose cordial to steep, having acquired a red rose and a mass of creamy elderflower heads from the cemetery. Not from a grave; from an old neglected bush that was growing up by the railway line with a load of hedge clippings dumped on top of it. ( Read more... )

Current Mood: pleased

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