- Addison Horner
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- đź–Š Day 5 of the Great Writing Sprint
Last night at 7:22 pm, I received an email from my developmental editor. My manuscript – the story I’d poured the last two years of my life into – was ready for revision. I’d never felt such a mixture of apprehension and joy for something that wasn’t my own wedding.
Nine hours later, something else eclipsed that feeling. More on that later.
How It’s Going
20,000 words in a week is a new record for me.
What if they’re horrible?
I don’t think they’re horrible, though. They’re a first draft. With two finished first drafts under my belt (and a series of upcoming editorial calls), I know that things will change. Moments, beats, and scenes will grow or shift or disappear.
The journey lives on. I started this manuscript last week, ten days ago, and it’s almost 30% complete. More importantly, I believe in the story and the characters.
Thank you for following along with me on the The Great Writing Sprint. A single day of drafting remains; next week, I’ll talk about the final results.
Sneak Peeks
Unbidden, Enneas’s words float across her mind.
Matter is sparse, yielding, and open. Your soul can pierce the space between.
Safran touches an iron bar. It doesn’t feel very open to her. Rather closed, in fact. But Enneas’s wisdom has already opened her mind to abilities she never believed possible. It’s time to test another one.
She closes her eyes because it’s supposed to help. As her breathing calms and her heartbeat slows, she pictures herself melting through the bars, her physical form drifting past the barrier.
Pierce the space between.
In the pauses between heartbeats, the rests in the music, Safran feels nothing. Her skin has gone numb, her ears have stopped working, and her feet feel as though they’re dangling in midair.
She steps forward, then opens her eyes.
She’s on the palace lawn. When she turns around, the iron bars sit untouched, as though nothing happened.
“This,” Safran whispers, her heart pounding, “changes everything.”
Enneas stops at the door to his office. “Open it,” he tells Safran.
She tries, but the handle doesn’t budge. “It’s locked.”
When she looks to Enneas, the old priest smiles, then grips the handle. It turns easily at his touch. “Sometimes,” he says, “the solution lies at our fingertips, just out of sight.”
His office hasn’t changed in the weeks since she last saw it. Floor-to-ceiling shelves cover one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes and glass baubles. Those books look as old and worn as the austere wooden desk in the center of the room. A soft lamp burns beside the desk, casting flickers of yellow and orange across the mess of papers that lingers on the desktop, forever waiting to be resolved.
Enneas gestures for Safran to sit in the chair opposite his own.
“Ask,” he says.
“How’d you do it?” Safran asks. “That was a neat trick.”
“A minuscule switch set behind the handle.” Enneas holds up a finger and makes a flicking motion. “With the right amount of pressure, it dislodges the tumbler. Too much, and it jams the door shut.”
“And, let me guess, the room bursts into flame? Something like that?”
Enneas looks aghast. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never do that to my books.”
Follow the Journey
I post Instagram stories throughout the day, and I’ll put a summary of the results up early next week. Make sure you’re following @addisonhornerauthor!
