I’ll share my usual writing update, but first I wanted to share some very fun author news. Guardian of the Opera: Nocturne will be published in hardback, and the first copy of the hardback arrived at my house yesterday. You’ll be able to buy it in June, but you can see it in the video below!
That arrival was a nice boost to a very strange week…I hope you all are staying well and safe in the coronavirus strangeness! I expect to be home a lot in the coming weeks, and of course I thought about how to use this time for more writing. I thought at first I might try another week of writing a short story a day, as I did in February 2019. I tried it for two days and couldn’t get inspired for anything, so maybe not right now after all. Maybe in a week or two – we’ll see. For now, I’m turning my focus to another Phantom side-project. After the trilogy is out, I want to release a companion book of shorter pieces, and I’ve been meaning to make time to work on the scattered draft bits I have for that.
So for the next few days at least I plan to work on a shortish story (it may yet expand to a novellette) telling the story in my trilogy from Christine’s point of view. I wrote it several years ago, partially just so I could nail down in my mind how she’s viewing events. I’ve done something unusual with Christine’s character, so I hope readers of the trilogy will be interested to get her perspective. But that means I need to edit the short story, and make sure it actually lines up with the books in their final form.
Here are the opening paragraphs; I can’t share much else without spoilers!
My father was poor—terribly poor. And it didn’t matter that he was a genius on the violin. All anyone saw when they looked at him were the patches on his sleeves, and the ragged cuffs of his trousers.
Father had been a famous, respected violinist once, but he gave it all up when my mother died. He took me on the road and we traveled about, sleeping in barns and earning mere centimes by standing on a corner, he with his violin, I singing.
Once when I was eight, a woman didn’t give us coins. She gave me a red scarf instead, remarking on how sad and cold I looked. No doubt she congratulated herself on her kindness. I was already old enough to understand about pity, and about charity, and about dependence. That scarf always felt heavy around my neck. It was a yoke, weighing me down, reminding me that I was helpless, forced to live on the mercy of others, dependent on the kindness of strangers. I only wore it on the coldest of days, when I couldn’t do without.
Except once. Just once I wore my red scarf in early spring, one day when Father and I went to perform at the beach.