Maybe it's the harp stuff, or my comment that I really wanted to write something new this year, or maybe something else entirely, but I keep seeing this character in my mind, and I'm not sure if he fits into any of my current 'worlds' quite yet. Or if he will fit into them at all. This could become completely new.
He's a musician, of course, a wandering minstrel, and I don't think he's related to the minstrel in The Twa Sisters, but I can't be sure. All I can see of him so far is that he's riding a white horse, that he's rather young, with black or dark brown hair and pale skin, that this is a sort-of medieval setting, and that he's numb. Completely and utterly numb. Far beyond exhaustion numb.
Why? Because he's clutching the pieces of his Lady--his harp--against his chest, his fingers tangled and cut by broken wire strings, the arch of her neck--the only piece unbroken--lying against his chest. The rest of her he has wrapped into a bundle on the back of his horse. It rather looks like a corpse, wrapped like that, except in this case, the corpse is wooden, and probably forever silenced.
He is on his way to a city, where he intends to ask around to see if his Lady can be repaired--he calls her that, his harp; a musical instrument, yes, made by human hands (or perhaps not; I'm not sure) and carved and worked out of mundane wood like the trees he rides past.
He doesn't think beyond the fact that he will find someone in the city who will be able to help; someone more learned than he is who knows how to coax the chunks and pieces back together--if such a thing is possible. His chest spasms and he grows faint when anything but the small thread of hope that keeps him sane worms his way into his mind.
I think his name is Alfred.
In this place, musicians are bound to their instruments; it would be something akin to blasphemy to pick up someone's flute, say, and play it. Either the instrument is passed down from father to son or mother to daughter, or the musician has to make his or her own, or find someone who still practices the ancient arts to bind them to another one.
I am thinking that musicians are seen as witches; their instruments sometimes as a second pair of eyes and ears. And for those who are threatened by this, destroying a musician's instrument is akin to destroying the musician. And there has been a backlash against musicians of late, for whatever reason.
I think I need to do a lot of research about playing various instruments before I can write this book, if it is to be a book. But we'll see.
I think Alfred gets into trouble, of course, and meets a girl who plays the accordion, which is a rather unusual instrument, and not one that Alfred has seen before. I think that she helps him, befriends him, shows him the ropes, so to speak, and that they end up--what? I don't know yet, of course. If I knew, I'd never want to write the book.
I'm still writing Full Moon, of course. And I think it's starting to go well again. I have no idea what happens next, but it's moving somewhere, and I'm just along for the ride.
But maybe I have something else to write after Full Moon. At the very least, I can find out who crushed Alfred's harp, why, and whether or not he finds someone to repair his Lady--and if he decides on a path of revenge to avenge her, or if he--well, you get the idea, I'm sure. It does sound like it would be an interesting story to write.
He's a musician, of course, a wandering minstrel, and I don't think he's related to the minstrel in The Twa Sisters, but I can't be sure. All I can see of him so far is that he's riding a white horse, that he's rather young, with black or dark brown hair and pale skin, that this is a sort-of medieval setting, and that he's numb. Completely and utterly numb. Far beyond exhaustion numb.
Why? Because he's clutching the pieces of his Lady--his harp--against his chest, his fingers tangled and cut by broken wire strings, the arch of her neck--the only piece unbroken--lying against his chest. The rest of her he has wrapped into a bundle on the back of his horse. It rather looks like a corpse, wrapped like that, except in this case, the corpse is wooden, and probably forever silenced.
He is on his way to a city, where he intends to ask around to see if his Lady can be repaired--he calls her that, his harp; a musical instrument, yes, made by human hands (or perhaps not; I'm not sure) and carved and worked out of mundane wood like the trees he rides past.
He doesn't think beyond the fact that he will find someone in the city who will be able to help; someone more learned than he is who knows how to coax the chunks and pieces back together--if such a thing is possible. His chest spasms and he grows faint when anything but the small thread of hope that keeps him sane worms his way into his mind.
I think his name is Alfred.
In this place, musicians are bound to their instruments; it would be something akin to blasphemy to pick up someone's flute, say, and play it. Either the instrument is passed down from father to son or mother to daughter, or the musician has to make his or her own, or find someone who still practices the ancient arts to bind them to another one.
I am thinking that musicians are seen as witches; their instruments sometimes as a second pair of eyes and ears. And for those who are threatened by this, destroying a musician's instrument is akin to destroying the musician. And there has been a backlash against musicians of late, for whatever reason.
I think I need to do a lot of research about playing various instruments before I can write this book, if it is to be a book. But we'll see.
I think Alfred gets into trouble, of course, and meets a girl who plays the accordion, which is a rather unusual instrument, and not one that Alfred has seen before. I think that she helps him, befriends him, shows him the ropes, so to speak, and that they end up--what? I don't know yet, of course. If I knew, I'd never want to write the book.
I'm still writing Full Moon, of course. And I think it's starting to go well again. I have no idea what happens next, but it's moving somewhere, and I'm just along for the ride.
But maybe I have something else to write after Full Moon. At the very least, I can find out who crushed Alfred's harp, why, and whether or not he finds someone to repair his Lady--and if he decides on a path of revenge to avenge her, or if he--well, you get the idea, I'm sure. It does sound like it would be an interesting story to write.
Comments
I know what you mean about pens, though... I have a soft spot for pens.