I wrote the original “outline” for Kor some time ago, maybe two years ago, after a breathtaking dream. In the dream, we discovered a galaxy that was no more than a column of purple gas in space, and a barren planet with hidden beauty—underground oases that feel like something from “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” There was epic love: the kind that has no physical manifestation in the traditional sense, but forms through a genuine kinship of spirit.
I’ve reached the 20,000 word mark. I expect this to be only one book but a LONG one, so
mething like Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind. I hope Kor will become a story of that magnitude. It’s breached 1/5 of its total volume.
At 15,000 words, I found a sort of magical equilibrium where I can still loosely use my original outline, but have boatloads of opportunity to develop my characters and their world. (Hint: THE BEST PART!) It’s time to start plotting Act II and how to weave the plot along to its final destination.
How do Leila and the Commander learn to communicate? Where is the capital city of the native culture? What does it look and feel and smell like? This is why I write. This is why storytelling is just so darn fun.
Let’s end this post with a blurb, hmm?
The mountain caves stretch on for as far as we can see. The natives built their village against a cave wall, clinging to colonies of fuzzy pink moss and bulb-tipped tendrils of red ivy. In some places the buildings are four or five stories high, built of vines that grow straight from the wall and creep upwards with the alien plants and trees—if you can really use terms like ‘plant’ or ‘tree’ to describe them. The closer I peer at the dwellings, the more I notice the windows of the houses are made of the natural curls of tree branches, and doors are flaps of animal skins hanging in the open archways.
Families of natives sleep inside. Their faces are hidden under their spiny hoods.
The sparkling matter embedded in the floor and walls of the mountain glows weakly. More glittering speckles dim and disappear as the hours pass. The immense vine-trees wilt, and their flowers curl back into cold buds.