Category: side projects (Page 1 of 6)

Dolmenwood Solo: TPK

[This play report contains spoilers for Dolmenwood’s Winter’s Daughter adventure module. First part of this solo adventure is HERE.]

The snowstorm only hindered them for a bit. They were so close to Sir Chyde’s burial mound when the storm began that they found it and groped their way to the stone entrance.

Joremey was ready. He wanted to find the Lady, find her ring, be a hero. He led Lady Pouncemouse and Obb through the door, prying it open with a crowbar so they could get out of the snow and cold.

The tomb kept the snow out but not the cold. Obb managed to shake off the frigid air, but Joremey and Lady did not, further adding to their exhaustion (and hindering their ability to fight and do damage). Still, they were glad to be out of the snowstorm as they entered the tomb and descended twenty feet down stairs caked with dust. Everything was deathly silent, and there was a dank smell in the air. Moisture and mold pervaded the space. Lighting one of Joremey’s torches, Lady held it and led the way.

She stopped at a square room made of stone blocks. It was musty and wet, and the first thing she noticed were the four plinths, one in each corner of the room. Atop each plinth was an object covered in mustard-yellow mould. Her eyes lit up at the thought of treasure, but as soon as Lady stepped into the room, the objects floated into the air and screamed at her in shrill voices:

“Heathens! Repent, ye sinners! Godless fairies, godless heathens!”

The objects–a silver chapes, a wooden cherub statue, a holy book, and a thick liturgical candle–launched themselves violently at Lady, trying to strike her dead.

Luckily, my PCs won initiative, so Lady booked it across the room to a doorway on the right side, Obb and Joremey following quickly behind (Joremey’s plate armor clanking noisily). As soon as they fled into the other room, they heard the objects shout, “Serves ye right!”

Huffing for breath, Lady led them all down a ten-foot hallway to another chamber, a circular room that seemed less hostile (at first). This room was also constructed of stone blocks, but there was a chill atmosphere as they entered it. On the southeastern side of the circular room was an empty marble plinth (3′ across, 1′ high) with a full-length mirror behind it on the wall. The mirror was framed in silver and faced a set of stairs on the opposite wall (northwest side of the room).

The stairs were stone-carved with the archway over them also carved of stone to look like tree branches hanging over the entryway. Next to the stairs was another hallway leading out of the room.

Joremey was quite interested in that mirror and went right up to the plinth, faced the mirror, and looked.

Lady, for her part, was interested in the stairs and the beautiful tree motif carved into the stone archway. Obb followed Lady and peeked into the nearby hallway as they went. What they didn’t see was poor Joremey, so transfixed by his glance into the mirror that he turned still as a stone.

In fact, he really WAS frozen in place!

“Joremey, lad! Come see!” Lady called, noticing that on the stairs there wasn’t a hint of dust (unlike the rest of the tomb) and that at the bottom there was a watery shimmer in the light from her torch.

But Joremey said nothing.

“Cat got your tongue?” Lady teased, turning around and seeing immediately that Joremey was now frozen solid.

“Stay back from the mirror!” she warned Obb as they both skirted the wall of the room to reach Joremey without looking directly into the mirror. They pulled at him, but he was utterly frozen. Together, they managed to lift him up and pull him away from the mirror, but it was no use; he was still cursed.

Obb broke out his pan pipes and tried to play a tune, hoping it would break the spell, but it appeared this was holy magic and not fairy…

“Best to head back to Lankshorn,” Obb offered. “Let Fr. Dobey handle it.”

But Joremey was much too heavy for little Lady and Obb to carry. They could try dragging him…

“Let’s strip off all his stuff,” Lady said, “he’ll have to be glad we’re taking him back even if he leaves his gear behind.” They stripped him of everything but his traveling clothes, and heaved him up in their arms. He was heavy, and they couldn’t move very fast… Could they outrun the screeching objects in the first room?

They tried, but this time, initiative was not on their side. They lost and the objects attacked.

“Back for more, eh? Ye heathen fairies!”

Two objects (the candle and the book) hit Lady, and one (the chapes) hit Obb. Lady went down (taking five damage, more than her total), and Obb couldn’t help but drop Joremey without Lady’s help. Terrified, he simply fled for his life, but lost initiative again, meaning two objects hit him (the chapes was joined by the cherub). He took five points of damage and fell to a crumpled heap. Poor Joremey was frozen like a statue on the floor, while his two comrades lay dead on either end of him. The holy objects–satisfied that they’d destroyed the heathen interlopers–returned to their podiums.

Now Joremey must rest here, frozen seemingly forever in the tomb of Sir Chyde unless some other adventurer should find their way into the tomb and rescue him…


Yikes. That was an ugly defeat. I suppose if initiative had gone differently, my party might have made it out alive, but as it was, they did not. I thought fleeing the first time was the right call (four objects vs. three PCs didn’t seem like good odds), but once Joremey was frozen from the mirror’s magic, things got much dicier. OSR-style gaming is not for the faint of heart!

I do really like how simple the mechanics are. Combat (though deadly) is quick, and my characters were able to explore and make choices without too many rules or fiddly skill rolls getting in the way. Exploration means describing character actions and seeing what the modules says they see/hear/smell/etc. It’s very narrative in that way, very immersive.

For group play, if one of my players investigated the plinth and mirror, and I knew looking into the mirror caused paralysis, I would telegraph that danger. I might say that he gets an ominous feeling as he approaches the plinth and looks around. Maybe say that he feels especially cold as he comes nearer the mirror, “freezing cold,” or something similar.

But for solo play, I wasn’t sure how to handle that since I can’t really “telegraph” danger to myself. Perhaps I should have rolled dice and used my oracle to determine whether Joremey approached cautiously and avoided getting frozen. Having him simply “be cautious” while knowing (as the player) that the mirror is magical feels like cheating. This might be a case where letting the randomness of dice determine a PC’s fate should’ve been the way to go. As this is only my second “solo play” session, I can’t be too hard on myself. I’m learning as I go.

Now that my trio of adventurers is dead/paralyzed in an ancient tomb, I have two choices: send some of Joremey’s cousins off to find out what happened to him OR start with a totally new adventure and character(s).

I’m somewhat inclined to go with the second option… I’m already envisioning a human thief who meets a human or breggle fighter in a tavern and together they go adventuring… Fafhrd and Gray Mouser, Dolmenwood-style!

Till next time!

Open Substack

Alan Jacobs is right to defend the open web (despite the likely poverty that attends it), but I don’t think being on Substack is antithetical to the open web.

For instance, my Substack is entirely free, and since Substack can still be read on a browser and not exclusively through an app, it is free and searchable to anyone with an internet connection. I don’t paywall anything except the links to my ebooks for patrons who are paying subscribers. But my writing, as such, is totally free and open to all. Being on Substack is just an easy way for me to manage a newsletter—mostly because it’s free. When my previous newsletter service raised prices and then went defunct, I figured I needed to switch things up. Substack was still relatively new, so I made the switch.

My intention was never to monetize the newsletter. I see it as a way to write essays while keeping in touch with people who read my books. I still maintain a wordpress blog (this one) where I post more often than on Substack (intentionally, by the way; I want my own real estate to be where the action is), and I keep my Substack free. If folks want to subscribe with money, they do so knowing it is a patron-model, and their payment is really because they like my work and want to support it; they get free access to any new ebooks I publish, but as that’s (at the moment) rather infrequent, they aren’t getting much for their money other than my eternal gratitude. I do not use Notes or try to gain followers on Substack in any way. I simply write my missives, send them out, and read and reply to those writers whose work is of interest to me. I barely even look at the Notes feature because it does indeed feel too much like social media/Twitter/Instagram/blah. I’ve never once done a chat or whatever they offer as add-ons. Not interested. I write a newsletter. It gets delivered to peoples’ emails. It’s readable on the web via html. Here is an example: https://jmbaldwinwriter.substack.com/p/in-which-i-weigh-in-on-adventure

If at any time I find Substack to be not-so-easy, or not-so-free, then I’ll switch it up again and move to a different newsletter provider. I don’t intend for Substack to be my income source. It’s a nice-to-have, but I don’t base my career around it. And that’s partly because I don’t think paying for substacks is a sustainable model for nonfiction writing (or fiction writing either). Maybe if several writers got together and turned their individual substacks into a magazine, then paying for subscriptions makes sense. But I simply cannot afford to pay for all the different substacks I enjoy reading. I’m nearly always a free subscriber, even to those whose work I value. I do pay for Kleon’s newsletter, but he is the only one, and that is truly my limit. It’s ludicrous to pay for multiple writers on Substack (for $5 a month!). Even if I only subscribed to four people, that’s $20 per month! More than the cover price of a monthly magazine! I can get a yearly subscription to Commonweal or similar for $25, and I’ll get an actual physical magazine to go with my subscription. The Substack paying model is ridiculously overpriced, and utterly unsustainable in the long run.

So I don’t plan my writing career around something so unsustainable. If people want to pay for my writing online, they can patronize me through Buy Me a Coffee or Substack, but they don’t have to. I believe in the open web. Substack is merely a website (like wordpress) that lets me host my writing, but I’m not wedded to it, and I can easily take my wares to another piece of real estate if I wanted to.

This isn’t me shilling for Substack; I just want to respond to Jacobs’s point because his characterization makes it sound like it’s not freely available to anyone with a browser. It is. If writers want to make their writing paywalled, that’s their affair, but Substack doesn’t mandate that we do. If they ever do mandate it, I’ll leave the site in a hot minute. If there’s something you want to read on Substack and it’s not freely available on the web, that’s because the writer–not Substack–has put it behind a paywall.

Like Jacobs, though, I don’t rely on my writing to put food on the table. I work as a teacher; that is my main source of income. And I don’t plan on hustling my way to a “side gig” any time soon. Teaching is enough of a gig to keep me busy, I don’t need to hustle on top of it!

Writing is my way of engaging and processing the world, of living my life. Language and story are how I think and how I communicate. They are my modes of play. I could no more stop writing as stop breathing. I hope folks enjoy my writing enough to pay for it, but I don’t expect it nor do I need it to be monetized. Frankly, I’m sick of the ways in which our economic system forces creative people, journalists and artists alike, to be hustling all the time, busking all the time, and submitting to tech overlords’ demands and systems. I know artists have always had to scrounge for money and struggle, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. We could—we should—have a system in which people can make art and at the same time not feel economically precarious for most of their lives. We should have a system in which people can live while working less than forty hours per week so they have time and energy to make their art, to volunteer at church, to take up worthwhile hobbies. Especially in two-income households. The fact that both spouses need to work full-time just to eek out a living is the real problem here.

But I’m a bit of an anarchist too, so I don’t see why anyone’s life should be precarious when we could all support one another in mutual aid…

“The Length of a Season”

So Stephen King said about how long it should take to write a rough draft for a novel.

I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve failed at this. I always take too long.

Before anyone starts in and says, “The story takes as long as it needs to take,” let me explain that while this may be a helpful maxim for other people, it is not for me.

I know because I’ve let novels take longer than the length of a season and always–always–it has hurt the project. I lose the heat. I lose the thread. I’m at a different place as a writer and my voice has subtly shifted.

Speaking with one of my students today, she had the exact same experience. She started a draft a few months ago but never wrote a proper ending. She added the ending recently, and she and I both agreed it lacked that certain oomph the earlier portions had. It didn’t have the same voice, the same energy. She’d taken “longer than a season.”

This happens to me constantly. I’m not saying this happens to everyone, nor that it necessarily happens to me all the time (I’ve had a few short stories where the break/pause ended up helping me work out something that was missing). But it happens to me often enough that I’ve got to actively fight against the fear and blockage that keeps me from riding the momentum of a project to its completion. Especially for novels. Both my interest and my ability to conceptualize the story dissipate the longer it takes me.

I want to get better at riding the wave. I have too many stories I want to write for things to linger on like this.

And thus my pact. My commitment. I will finish my next book in a season.

The Backstory:

I started writing a novel for my children earlier in the spring. They had brought home a book about dragons from the Scholastic book fair and it left me cold. Generic. Trite. Also, a bit too mature for my first and second graders.

I sprung into action and started writing a dragon fantasy novel using some of their ideas. I wanted it to be more in the tradition of books I remember loving as a kid. Something similar to the Prydain Chronicles, or Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.

This, remember, was in the spring. And now it’s late autumn and I’m on chapter seven. About ten thousand words in. Not very far. And much longer than King’s “season.”

Nevertheless, I will persist, and in the spirit of King’s advice (and my own inkling about how my creative process works), I intend to finish the novel before the end of this season (this season meaning November/December).

To do so means writing 50-60k in a month (so, sorta like the NaNoWriMos of old), which comes to roughly 1600 words per day. I’m not going to hold myself to a strict word count quota (another quirk of my creative process: as soon as word counts come into view, I get the hives); instead, I’m setting a time quota: sixty minutes per day in the writing studio. A bit more on weekends to make up for slow days.

I’ve already built up a tiny bit of momentum because I’ve been working on the book for the past week or so, but I need a more formal commitment to really push myself and write with more urgency and gusto. Not urgency in the panicked sense, but urgency in the sense that this story will be best served if I get it out into the world without delay. In delay there is doubt. There is that changing of voice and squandering of energy. Like my student realized: taking “time off” from the writing didn’t help it; it just made it flatten, like a tire leaking air.

Why do we take that time off? Is it really to make the piece “better”? Or is it fear, resistance, tension, doubt? It’s worry and perfectionism. It’s a defense mechanism. If we keep going, we might end up somewhere “bad.” We might flub it. We might not know where to go next and make a “wrong turn.”

But I would say the more harmful thing, from an emotional and intellectual standpoint, is to let a story idea taper off, to let a novel die on the vine, to never finish the piece. Losing the energy, wiping out from the wave: these are the bigger troubles. A tough, wild wave is easier to ride if you don’t intentionally jump out of it. Better to stay on and ride it out than to jump off and tread water, hoping for a new wave to come along.

I’m going to keep riding the wave. I’m excited, in fact. There’s a thrill here. A high-wire act (okay, now I’m mixing metaphors). But the idea that I can build my own momentum, that I can accelerate myself to the end of a novel: it’s exhilarating. It’s fun to think that in six weeks’ time I’ll have a rough draft novel to share with my children. I’m hoping this experiment shows me a new way of working, of approaching my creative projects. In the length of a season, I’ll have something new and complete.

DCC Middle-Earth: Too Much Noodling?

I know I JUST posted something about my ideas for a homebrewed DCC-based Middle Earth role-playing game, but now I’m starting to doubt all my noodling and tinkering. Why use DCC’s rules and characters if I’m going to change so many mechanics? (Like combat/damage rules, etc.)

Better to stick with the DCC rules-set and add on a few things (still looking at a Pendragon-style Hope/Despair trait) but keeping the general mechanics as-is. Even though I like Cairn and Nimble 2e’s roll for damage and not to-hit mechanic, it just messes up too many other aspects of DCC that I DO like (like the Deed Die, Turning Evil, etc.).

The real alterations need to be in terms of setting-specific things, like patrons, spells, etc. And using another game’s overland travel rules to capture how important traveling is to the Middle-Earth experience.

But whether we roll to hit or just roll for damage or whatever feels less important. What matters in a Middle-Earth-specific DCC game is making it suited to MIDDLE-EARTH through flavor details, magic, etc., and not worrying about which OSR or NuSR-style mechanic I’ll be using for combat or ability checks.

I need to work on world-building for a Middle-Earth setting and stop trying to Frankenstein all my favorite mechanics into one game.

More Middle-Earth RPG Noodling

Making my Middle-Earth role-playing game heartbreaker using DCC RPG as the chassis and adding in various other elements from games like The One Ring, Nimble 2e, Dolmenwood, Shadowdark, MERP, Pendragon, and others has been both exhilarating and dispiriting, often in equal measures.

As I got deep into the weeds of character stats, magic systems, Luck/Hope/Despair mechanics, I was suddenly left wondering if maybe I should just learn The One Ring after all and call it a day. Why fight the system that everyone seems to agree “gets” Tolkien the best?

But my Middle-Earth RPG isn’t trying to capture TOLKIEN’s Middle-Earth; it’s trying to capture MY Middle-Earth: the one that I created as a kid via various versions including the Tolkien books, and cartoon movies, and other fantasy-related games, books, and media, and the aforementioned MERP, and my own ten-year-old imagination.

I want a Middle-Earth RPG that’s more 1960s “Frodo Lives” counter-culture and 1970s and 80s American fantasy publishing and Angus McBride MERP illustrations. That’s why I settled on DCC RPG as the main rule-set for my homebrew. DCC gives the right vibes of loose-goosey, pre-codified Dungeons and Dragons generic fantasy that feels right for how I imagine my own head-cannon Middle-Earth.

The One Ring, for all its virtues, is very much in line with the aesthetics and interpretation of Tolkien’s legendarium post-Jackson’s film trilogy. It’s got that WETA Workshop feeling–and listen, I love that WETA Workshop feeling! But I want something different for my homebrew game. I want something that takes me back to my kid days, when Middle-Earth wasn’t so “fixed” in everybody’s minds (including my own). It’s hard to describe this “kid-version” of Middle-Earth, but it was somehow more fluid, more malleable. My imagined Middle-Earth was more of a hodge-podge, and as good as the Peter Jackson films are, and as beautiful as Alan Lee’s and Ted Nasmith’s illustrations are, they aren’t my head-version of Middle-Earth.

Anyway, despite my frustrations, I don’t want to abandon my attempts. I’m a bit stuck on the Hope/Despair mechanic and how it will work. I want it to be similar to the Luck mechanic in DCC, but I’ve been toying with using Pendragon’s personality traits mechanic, where Hope and Despair are two opposed scores that add up to 20. If Hope is 10, Despair is 10; if Hope is 13, Despair is 7; etc.

But then what happens if a player spends Hope? Hope goes down, Despair goes up. This might disincentivize players from using Hope (a la Luck), which is one of my favorite DCC mechanics.

No. The Despair score needs to be something else.

This is where I thought maybe Despair might replace the DCC mechanic of Disapproval. Players start with Disapproval of 1, and it goes up by one point each time a character…what? Fails a Hope check? Falls unconscious? Hmm.

That’s the sticking point. In normal DCC, Disapproval goes up if a Cleric fails a spell check. But in my Middle-Earth homebrew, I’m considering getting rid of spell checks and using a mana point system for magic instead. So when does Disapproval/Despair go up?

This has led me back to Pendragon’s personality traits. Perhaps I keep DCC’s Luck mechanic as-is. Players can spend Luck and it works the same as the rules as written in DCC.

But in addition to Luck, there’s now a Hope/Despair trait. Players start with a base of 12 for Hope and 8 for Despair. They can make a Hope check right from the get-go in character creation, and if they roll under 12, they can add +1 to their Hope score.

Mechanically, players can ask for a Hope check at any time to help them on their journey. Maybe they need something really good to happen that can’t be covered by any other rule or mechanic, like they are in a tricky spot against an overwhelming number of goblins. They can ask to make a Hope check, and if it succeeds, then something good does happen–maybe a tunnel gets spotted that allows the party to escape the goblins, or one of the goblins gets too cocky and accidentally trips himself and several of his comrades. Maybe everyone in the party gets +2 to armor class or something during the fight. The player making the Hope check can decide in conversation with the GM. Later, after the session, they make a Hope check again, and a success means Hope goes up by one point (and Despair down by one).

But if the Hope roll during the game fails, then the player must put a check mark next to Despair, and at the end of the session, they make a Despair check, and success makes Despair go up (and Hope go down).

When Despair is higher than Hope, the player falls under the Shadow… not sure how this will work yet. Maybe I make this more of a role-playing thing and less mechanical. As Despair increases, the player must play their character as falling further and further under the sway of the Shadow, and that means they become more Denethor-like, or even Saruman-like. At some point, the PC might even reach a Despair of 19 or 20, in which case they might cease to be playable because they are too under the sway of the Dark Lord.

There’s also a possibility that Hope can get a check even without a player asking for a Hope roll. Maybe the GM can award a check for the party’s success in a difficult situation, and everyone can get a chance to increase their Hope. Similarly, Despair can also get a check when, let’s say, one of the party dies or is seriously injured without healing at the end of the adventure. PCs will have to make a Despair roll at the end of the session to make sure they aren’t overcome by the bad situation.

Maybe this is too swingy or fiddly, but if I make rising Despair into something that is more about role-playing and less about a mechanical disadvantage, then that might give players freedom to ask for Hope rolls during the game to advantage themselves, knowing that if Despair goes up, it’s more about the storytelling than about making their character less effective mechanically.

I’m also curious to try the Nimble 2e (and Cairn/Into the Odd’s) mechanic of only rolling for damage. This would mean hit points need to be slightly higher at first level, and I’m not sure I would use Nimble’s exploding crits mechanic (but I would keep its normal crit rule, where rolling the highest number on the die equals a crit and you can roll again and add to the total). I would keep Nimble’s rule of missing on a roll of 1 too.

I would also use Nimble’s armor class rule, where the AC is lower (normal AC score minus 8), and that’s what gets absorbed on a hit (but only when using Defend as a reaction, see below). Everything hits, basically, except a roll of 1.

Similarly, I would also keep Nimble’s action economy. Every PC gets three actions per round, and those can be used outside their turn as Reactions too (help, interpose, defend, opportunity attack). A PC could potentially attack three times in one round, but the second and third attacks are rolled with increasing disadvantage. Monsters would not get three actions; they would most likely get two actions (move and something else). The more dangerous the monster, the more actions they would get (using DCC’s action dice rules).

I think warriors and dwarves at higher levels will get more actions or special actions to make their classes special.

I would also steal Nimble’s magic system, where PCs would spend mana to cast instead of rolling. I feel like magic in Tolkien’s Middle-Earth rarely “fails.” I’ll keep the DCC spells, though (with a few subtractions… the ones that don’t fit the flavor of Middle-Earth).

My next big step in all this is to make a character sheet, come up with a starting occupations table that’s more Middle-Earth-centric (no gongfarmers, lol), and create the patron tables for Elbereth, Aule, Manwe, and Sauron. Then I gotta cut down the magic spells lists, figure out how to modify the DCC Annual’s Canticles rules to fit with Middle-Earth sensibilities, and playtest with some of my new rules (the Nimble combat and magic stuff, and the Hope/Despair mechanics especially).

I’m still teetering on the edge of my own despair (pun intended) that this homebrewed system won’t work or be worth the effort, but my hope hasn’t faded entirely yet. I think once I put some of these ideas into playtest, see how it goes, then perhaps I’ll feel better.

One may ask: “What’s the point of all this labor?” And I’m not sure I have a good answer. All I know is that I want to try it. I have an idea of playing in Middle-Earth, and I want something that keeps me in an OSR-space while also being a bit more Middle-Earthy than normal OSR DnD. For now, I’m still obsessed with making this homebrew, and despite my struggles, I’m still having fun.

Word Counts and Critical Voice

I never realized how much my consideration of a project’s word count could invite my critical voice to make an appearance. After all, if I’m writing a novel, don’t I have to make sure it hits a certain word count (ballpark, anyway)? Same for short stories, novellas, etc. How can I write anything without considering word count?

Here’s another case of me not heeding my own advice. I tell students all the time that page counts and word counts are arbitrary when it comes to prose. Teachers tell students to write five hundred words (or a thousand or two-fifty or whatever) not because the word count is intrinsic to the piece of writing, but because of other factors: we don’t have time to read twenty-five eight-thousand-word essays this week, or we want the students to learn brevity, or we simply follow convention by giving students their beloved “How long should this be?” question an answer.

The real answer is, “However long it needs to be.” But students hate that answer. We teachers sometimes hate it too.

If we were printing a magazine or a newspaper, then column length would matter. There’s only so much space on a page.

If we were publishing books, then length would matter too for something pushing against one thousand pages.

But students aren’t usually writing for publication in a print newspaper, and novelists aren’t usually pushing against one thousand pages for their novels.

The answer is, “However long it needs to be.”

And yet here I am, sitting here week after week, scribbling and typing away at my stories, constantly checking the word count to see if it “fits” the prescribed type of story I’m writing. Not genre, not narrative. But: Is it a short story? A novel? A novella? Better make my “short story” the right length. Not too long, not too short. Better make sure my latest novel is between 90k and 100k words. Better work towards a “length,” because how else will I know I’m done?

Idiocy.

Despite what I tell students, I’ve internalized the “How long should it be?” question for my own writing, and it’s opened the door to Critical Voice. Instead of spinning the yarn and letting it go where it may, I’ve decided ahead of time what “type” of story it is, and I’ve been writing to that length and structure.

Who is to say what I’m writing is a short story? Even if I set out with an idea I think will be a short story, what happens if it starts to pick up steam and becomes something more? Am I open to that possibility, or am I stuck in “short story”-mode, trying to fit an oversized foot into a glass slipper that just won’t hold it?

For Norse City Limits, I decided that it needed to be a “proper” length. Fantasy, after all, is a genre that welcomes the longer book. Readers expect a hefty tome.

But what if my story isn’t fit for hefty-tome-dom? What if NCL needs to be 60k or 70? What if it needs to be ultra-hefty? 300k? Or more?

I am not trusting my Creative Voice here. I am working towards something arbitrary instead of something that comes intrinsically out of the story itself.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

I never realized how much the “publishing” side of things was intruding on my creative process. I thought that since I always write what I want and never to “market,” that I was immune from the business side interfering with Creative Voice.

Gah! I was so wrong!

Sneaky, that Critical Voice.

If I were writing for a print newspaper, things would be different. If I were writing a sonnet, obviously, the form demands a certain length.

But I’m writing fiction and nonfiction on my blog and as an indie publisher. Length doesn’t matter.

This is wildly freeing. Today, as I worked on a “short story,” I realized that there was no reason it had to be bound by the term “short story.” I mean, maybe it will end up being a short story. Chances are it will. There are only a few characters and one setting. It’s basically the story of a brief affair. I don’t think it will be more than a short narrative.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is only the first chapter of a longer story. Maybe this little May-December romance will become something larger in scope.

That’s not for me to decide at the moment. All I have to decide is what the next sentence will be. And the next. Until the story finds its ending.

That’s the key: The story must find its own ending.

Not a word count or publishing consideration. Those don’t determine the ending. That’s Critical Voice thinking.

What does the story need? Where will it end?

That’s Creative Voice talking. I’m just along for the ride.

I finally realized today that I’d been trying to backseat drive, trying to route the way only to discover that there is no fixed destination. Not yet, anyway. The route, the journey, my Creative Voice will decide the destination, not me.

And not my word counts.

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