One thing leads to another. It all began with me trying to find a place to start publishing my Eleven Islands saga. This blog isn’t it. Blogs are structured for journaling and or writing episodic narrative, as everyone I know who writes a blog has told me. Yes, yes. I will knuckle down and blog.
Though it doesn’t mean I will let the other idea go. I started to look at different kinds of platforms. At the same time re-read some of the material I was deciding to rewrite to fit the new parameters.
Synchronicity happened. While I was writing short blurbs for the Eleven Islands Saga … they are still up, see The Eleven Islands page on this blog … I came across a romantic interlude between two of the younger characters. Inquired about its suitability for the next Worldbuilding Magazine … and away I went, rewriting it to suit.
So, writing has been the go all week on a project that took off after an impulse that led to me joining Worldbuildingmagazine.com
This week is the final week, I’ve decided, that I will battle the WordPress platform blog architecture. I’ve given it a month and I’m too old to want to spend more time on trying fruitlessly to get what I want.
I’m still having difficulty trying to put easy things in place. On this platform I have so far not been able to hyperlink either between different posts on the home page or, more importantly, between pages. OK, yes, I’m giving myself five more days to get positive outcomes in that problem.
My second problem I suspect will be due to my own too high expectations. Perhaps a blog is not the right sort of platform to serialize story-instalments set in a fictional world … that of the Eleven Islands; write about the process of worldbuilding involved; and to promote novels and other published material set in that world.
There is all sorts of good advice out there about not writing in strange dialects that I can quote you page and paragraph. But hey, it’s OK to experiment. This is the beginning of a short story. Does it work for you?
Scrim ate the rest of the day’s gleanings standing by the window of his high-up. Blue sky beyond with birds so free as Scrim and every other inside the hell was not. This morning he’d stole a pair of pigeon eggs and gulped them raw at the scene. He couldn’t be found with them on him. Later he found a crust, the whole top of a loaf of bread. What kind of fool drops that?