After my two months of plotting angst (see Plotter or Pantser? and Writing from a plot, oops posts), and a whole lot of related writers block, I had a breakthrough last week. Got almost 7000 words down on a new mythica fantasy novel, working title The Jötunheim Eruption. Did I mention this is a very rough draft?
My basic premise is: What if fire giants invaded Iceland. And, since Iceland had no army, what if the best person to lead the resistance is a pushing-40 single mom who once was drummed out of the US Army. And what if she meets a frost giant in a bar who can help…
Yeah, the plot needs work too. But the characters are coming together and hijacking the plot, which I love. So here’s a very rough cut at the opening scene, pre frost or fire giant. A little raunchier than I had expected, but Ulla is having a major mid-life crisis and well, this is her.
Until I change it all.
The Jötunheim Eruption
The Icehouse Bar in Reykjavik looked more dangerous than Ulla Hildrsdotter remembered. The blondes were younger and leggier, their fuck-me heels higher. The men, well, they were either young, buff and enamored with the blondes, or old enough to be her grandfather and enamored with the blondes. Ok, father. She had ruled this bar once, but that was half a lifetime ago. She sucked in her tummy and headed for the toilets, her own four-inch heels clacking as she walked.
No heads turned, except the skinny black geek in the corner, eyes following her from just above a laptop. Not a very smart geek—he still had his wedding ring on. Four-inch heels didn’t cut it anymore.
Jo, where the fuck are you? Ulla texted after locking herself into one of the unisex toilet stalls. Jo was her best friend, ever since Ulla had moved back to Iceland. Even after Ulla had had the twins, they had gone out bar hopping together and sometimes caught men together. Jo always caught a man, sometimes two, but Ulla’s luck had faded as her ass had broadened. Then Jo had married rich and Ulla’s luck had gone from faded to invisible.
She checked herself out in the mirror while she waited. Her hair was naturally blond and her makeup was better applied than the bimbo brigade, but her breasts sagged even in the hundred euro bra and her stomach was, well, round. A few crow’s feet around the eyes that make up only partially covered. She put her shoulders back. OK, her breasts were bigger now, that had to count for something. Thanks, my tomte twins.
Ulla pulled the zipper down another inch on her leather vest and headed back into battle. A minor earth tremor swept through the bar, the fourth in as many weeks, but no one really noticed. Me or the earthquake. At least I didn’t fall.
Keep on writing everyone.