December 16, 2013

And beginning the next lot of lovely forum KES comments



But will all that blood just disappear at dawn the way things just appeared after dark?

Did I ever answer this?  It’s from an earlier page in the thread.  —No.  That’s not to say it might not be altered somehow.  ::standard hellgoddess cackle::


I went back to ep. 1 and started rereading, only stopping when my laptop battery (so very inconsiderately) decided to run out of power. Of course, all I had to do was go downstairs and plug in my computer, but how I wished for a hard-copy! (The obvious problem with this, of course, is that things would probably have to be finished-ish for a printed version to be made, and I don’t want the story to stop anytime soon!) 

Um.  Well, not as most people would count finished-ish.   I’m STILL bearing down—or attempting to bear down—on the end of Part/Volume One.  At which point I will further attempt to bundle the whole thrashing, yelling—vellicating—thing into a single file (keeping the episodic structure intact:  if I’d been writing it straight through it would have a significantly different rhythm and story arc(s), speaking of vellicating) and ship it off to Merrilee.  I will then take several deep breaths and possibly a few weeks off* and . . . start Part Two.

I think I can safely promise that the end of Part One will not tidy things up beautifully.  It won’t be a cliffhanger like the end of PEGASUS is a cliffhanger—or that several of the KES eps are cliffhangers.  But there will be, I hope, a certain sense of WHAT?!  WHAT??? I admit however that when I started the Final Dash to the End—which from my point of view started at around ep 105—I thought I knew where I was going and I . . . was wrong.  The goal posts haven’t merely moved, they’ve done a frelling cotillion.  I’m still assuming the Story Daimons will be kind and not get me into the sort of trouble I can’t get out of:  and the story itself—Kes’ story—is still running hot and strong.  This should be a good sign;  it always has been a good sign with other stories.  But I can’t help feeling a little anxious. . . .


What I keep worrying about is I thought when Kes asks the Hob for help with the pipes, she offers to make chocolate brownies. And then the pipes very dramatically get in line and work. Now, she has provided milk and some eggs, but no brownies yet. I worry about this. Like, the Hob may be hopefully and patiently waiting for brownies that have not yet come.

I’m sure the hob is hopefully and patiently waiting for brownies, but hobs are realists,** and, furthermore, a hob’s purpose is to protect its home.  Rose Manor has been sitting empty for a long time for . . . er . . . a variety of reasons.  The poor hob has got very lonely and hungry.  And now someone is moving in—and chances are the hob already knows the modern world has been taught not to believe in hobs—and she not only remembers the milk, she provides scrambled eggs?  And peppermint tea?  I think the hob is thrilled.  And will do its earnest and magnificent*** best to aid and protect this sympathetic person who will certainly make chocolate brownies at the first viable opportunity.

I also think this particular hob . . . um.  Well, let’s say I suspect that it’s at Rose Manor because it has certain talents and affinities.


Now that pebble…is clearly not a pebble in the garden-variety-found-in-parking-lot-pebble mode. It is a capital P Pebble. I think.

Yep.  The funny thing is that I DIDN’T KNOW THAT when Kes took it away from Sid back at the Friendly Campfire parking lot.  Indeed I almost cut that bit out because I thought I was wasting time.  Find another bridge from point A to point B, McKinley!  But the pebble seemed to want to stay.  And since I have three gravel-chewing dogs that this happens wasn’t a problem.  And since I couldn’t think of another bridge I let it stand.  This is the kind of thing that makes a writer JUST A TRIFLE JITTERY about this live thing—about posting episodes only half a dozen or ten eps from where I am, frelling writing them.  As I just said, the end of part one has taken a gigantic lurch into parts I thought were going to stay semi-unknown for a while longer, but the story is so vigorous I’m not too worried.  But I’m a little worried.

Fiery flashes sound like Caedmon’s armamentarium.

Yes.  But fire is also fighting fire.  We’ve got fire on both sides of this dispute.

Spiky-limbs….the hob? Saluting Kes, of course: she’s the new Lady of the House, and she didn’t (quite) faint away. Or is spiky-limbs another ally, or even an enemy saluting an enemy at the end of an engagement. “You win this time, but it’s not over.” I hope it’s the hob. I really, really hope it’s the hob because a hob can take care of that corpse and any blood that’s soaked into the floor before the next evening’s guest arrives for dinner. (And I’m suddenly worrying about that dinner. After all this…surely something will not fail to happen during that dinner, if we all survive that long.

::Hums a little tune::

Think about something else, E. Quickly.)


Sid, bless you! Seriously, Sid. GOOD dog. Wonderful dog. Whatever you did, however you did it, great dog, you. If I had a chunk of beef handy, you’d get it.

Good thing you said that ‘if’.  Or I wouldn’t put it past her to show up on your doorstep.  I’m getting very nervous about the whole ‘reality’ thing, with what’s happening to Kes.  She WRITES FANTASY, you know?  She’s been under the impression that most of what she writes stories about stays in BOOKS.  Oops.  ::Looks around uneasily::



Thank you, thank you.  A writer likes being appreciated.†

I just finished rereading Pegasus and I feel much the same way about the ending there (no wait, I lied, I feel much more like sobbing in a corner about that particular cliffhanger).

Well . . . yes.  It’s a little like what happens in OUTLAWS with Guy of Gisbourne.  I didn’t like it either.  It stressed me out lots.  It made me miserable.  And ending PEG there frelling hurt.  Not least because I know IT’S A LONG TIME before Sylvi and Ebon get back together.  And that’s not a spoiler, this is another of those moments when I say, This is a McKinley story.  There’s a limit to what a reteller can do with, say, Robin Hood, but do you REALLY THINK I’m going to send Sylvi and Ebon to opposite ends of the universe forever?††  But it makes the beginning of PEG II very hard going for me, because Sylvi is very, very wretched.  Oh, you’ll get glimpses of Ebon too, but . . .

But still. I too will be buying this when it comes out in bound-book form.

Oh good.  Oh excellent.†††

And then I might not have to scream about the cliff-hangers so much. I hope…..

Well, see above.  I don’t think the end of KES Part One is going to have anything on the end of PEG Part One, but it’s not going to be exactly an end, with pink ribbons and champagne and so on.


All I could do after reading tonight’s episode of Kes was chuckle maniacally for several minutes.

Oh splendid.  A reader after my own heart.  Nothing better than a story that makes you chuckle maniacally.


Kes is the last thing I’m reading tonight before I go back to try to sleep in my chair on night nine of Horrible Epic Virus #3 Since the Beginning of November. Oddly, I’m pretty sure she is going to help. I am going to imagine that lovely, shadowy crew fighting off my own personal viral monsters. THANK YOU.

Oh, poor you.  Vitamin C?  More green vegetables?  Less stress?  Sorry I can’t offer to provide you extra-strength KES episodes.  I hope you are totally recovered and have stabbed multiple metaphorical poltroons with your vorpal blade by now.

It is that season, winter solstice, the birth of the Son of God if you’re a Christian . . . and Horrible Epic Viral Season.  I am having more rheumatic whatsit than usual or than I am enjoying even the least little bit but I remain mostly clear of the standard flu things.  So far.  ::Makes placatory gestures::  But last night at the monks’‡ I COUGHED.  I never cough at the monks’.  I WAS ALSO THE ONLY ONE IN THE CONGREGATION.  It’s not unusual for there only to be two or three of us‡‡ but it’s rarely only me.  It was only me last night.  AND I COUGHED.  I briefly expected them all to rise in a body and throw me out . . . but of course they’re too holy.

I also considered putting on my invisibility cloak and creeping up on their dais thing—whatever you call it:  they do their chanting antiphonally, so there are two rows of monk-seats facing each other and at right angles to the congregation seats—and crouching in front of one of the ELECTRIC FIRES.‡‡‡  But the prior might have tripped over me carrying the goldburst contemplative item back to the tabernacle or what-have-you§.  And I suspect an insubstantiation cloak would make me even colder. . . .

I think I’m raving.  Maybe I’d better go to bed.§§

* * *

* Please don’t hit me

** Okay, it varies with who you read.  But this is the McKinley version

*** And perhaps slightly whimsical.  It is, after all, a hob.

† A writer adores being appreciated.  It’s very nearly as good as having enough money to go on eating.  I’m not having one of those moments right now when eating is under threat but I have had them.

†† Besides, if I did that, it would probably be even LONGER than a trilogy.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

††† See:  keep eating.

‡ Where it was SOOOOOO COOOOOOLD.  But this week I was wearing not only my Street Pastors’ battery-operated heated socks, but my fleece lined sheepskin boots.  They don’t fit well enough for serious walking—which is why they will never come Street Pastoring with me—but they are great for sitting at your computer hour after frelling hour where the only activity is mental and fingery^ and the rest of you risks slowly congealing into an ice floe.

^ I know.  Apparently the only adjectival form of ‘finger’ is ‘digital’, but unless you can nail your antecedents to the mast ‘digital’ has been a trifle overtaken by technology.  You don’t nail stuff to masts any more either.

‡‡ Most people, like, you know, go out on Saturday nights.  Even Christians.

‡‡‡ Maybe next week I’ll wear my battery-operated heated waistcoat as well.

§ This actually worries me.  It is a very beautiful gold starburst thing and I would be sad if it’s shut up in a dark cupboard all its life except an hour every Saturday night when it’s dark outside too.

§§ Where, just by the way, it’s warm.


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