I've been plotting my paranormal, something I rarely do since I'm a pantster.
The story is part of my Rhodes End Series and I need to keep all those pesky details right. I've been using Scrivener and find it to be terrific for keeping track.
So how does this old dog learn new tricks?
I got Scrivener for Dummies, and took a couple classes. Hah. I forgot everything the day the class ended. Lucky for me I saved all the lessons.
I did use the section for character descriptions and faithfully filled in what I needed to recall.
This actually helps for not only this book but the next two in the series.
I hope you all get a chance to catch up with the first three.
Here’s a small excerpt from Ancient Awakening if you haven’t already read it.
The terrified servant fumbled her armload of logs as she eased the laboratory’s paneled door open. The pounding of her pulse shredded his concentration. Hunger stabbed through his gut. His fingers flattened the quill’s nib against the parchment and ink smeared the last entry like blood. Saliva pooled in his mouth while she built up the fire, then scuttled to safety.
His low growl muffled the soft snick of the latch. Once again, he had resisted the impulse to rend, to carelessly feed. A frustrated sigh heaved his chest. The only way to keep good servants was to reward them richly and let them live. The lesson had been difficult to learn.
He held the parchment to the fading light streaking through a slit in the thick stone. The pale glow outlined his fleshless fingers before a freshly-penned phrase caught his attention. He threw the broken quill into the fire and selected another. The correction had to be made and he bent over his desk to take care of it.
Satisfied with the change, he straightened and stared into the dancing red and orange flames until his stiff muscles eased. He had to eat, but he resented interruptions. His latest research into a cure had been so promising; the details so fascinating, only the relentless blood hunger forced him to stop.
Although he had searched the world, he had never found a remedy for the curse he had inflicted on himself. He eased erect and rubbed at his blurred eyes, before slowly stacking the parchment sheets, aligning the unused quills and corking the ink well with shaky hands. He was weak, but the priests would have his nourishment ready. They always did.
A snapping log showered glowing embers onto the slate hearth. He pondered the coals for a moment before he swept them aside with his bare hand. His changed flesh didn’t burn. Along with his soul, his body had surrendered its ability to feel pain, to age, or scar.
Legend gave him many names, but the wide halls of his mountain retreat no longer echoed with countless worshipers. He could have ruled the world had his ambition not died with the passage of time. The endless whispers were from the cold winds and the few praying priests. He didn’t care that he couldn’t remember his real name or birthplace.
For an eon he’d regretted the loss of softer emotions. Love had been the first feeling to die, along with the woman who had insisted he would never harm her. He couldn’t recall her features, just the merry tinkle of her laughter and the bright smile she had greeted him with every morning. He licked his lips. She’d tasted sweet.
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