Midnight... or 4 AM

This is what a lot of people claim being a writer is all about. Sitting up at strange hours of the day and typing up your novel or pounding out your short story. Almost every professional writer has the same advice: Write, write, write. It doesn't matter if you are happy, sad, sick, or stuck in a snow storm. One should always write. There are some authors who tell you that you should choose a time and then make a guide on how many hours you should sit writing every day. Others are more intuitive and say that you should write only a certain amount of pages per day.

While listening to all of this advice it is very easy to get confused. What should you listen to? Maybe you should amalgamate a little of both. First of all, put aside some time, and then lay down a page goal. If you reach the page goal before you reach the time goal for each day, hen continue typing, because you are obviously on a role.

Putting that aside, I just finished my own long story which I shall refer to by it's working title "RingMage". A lot of time went into it and also a lot of rewriting. It always seemed to me like I was rewriting a chapter I didn't like, but that is why they call it a first draft.

Actually, the reason I wanted to get on here was to show the next small part of my writing of "Oracle". That's righ. I woke up at some random hour because I had a great idea of the next bit of dialog there. Here it is:

A woman dressed in a thick wollen dress, with a low neckline, walked over and in a grating voice asked, “What can I get you?” As she did this, she did her best to fluff graying brown hair. She was not as young perhaps as some of the patrons of the tavern would have wished, but she was not old either. The man didn’t even look up as she tried to get his attention. “What’s the house special?”

“A fine Lager, made right here.”

“Then get me some ale woman.”

“That will be half a penny per mug to let you know.”

“This must be some mighty fine ale then…” The man looked skeptically at the tavern wench when a silken voice came through the hood.

“It isn’t.” The voice was soft, and there was no hint in the tone as to wether the person was male or female.

The man turned towards the cloaked stranger and staring hard asked, “What do you suggest.” The man's eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion.

“I don’t suggest anything, but if you want something to drink, go with the ‘faie wine. Good as anything else that they sell. It's even better than the lager.” The white hand that was within view reached out and slightly tapped the small bowl that was on the table. At the tap, the clear liquid sloshed only slightly, but ripples appeared as if someone had stuck their finger in the direct center.

The man seemed to think about it and then nodded his approval, motioning at the same time to the woman. “What he said. I'll have a bowl of 'faie wine.” The woman shrugged. “That’s three-the-copper.”

“That is fine by me,” the Northern man answered and the woman walked off at the quaint dismissal of the man. He looked at the white cloak for another minute and then said, “Stranger, it’s impolite to leave the hood of your cloak on.” He heard a small chuckle.

“It would be highly impolite to the tavern keeper if I took it off… I tend to like my anonymity.”

The man nodded and then said, “Do you have a name?” He waited a moment and then a small hand raised itself.

“I have many names; and not all of them good, but you may simply call me Luc.” The man nodded at the candor. If the cloaked figure wished not to use House names, then so be it. He would not either.

“My name is Lyzanor. It is nice to meet you Luc.” For a moment, the man thought that he could sense a smile from underneath the hood. “People call me Nor for short though.”

“Nor it is then.” At that moment, the woman came back with Lyzanor’s ‘faie wine. He handed her four coppers and the girl walked off with a slight twinge in her lip. “What brings you to this part of the world Nor,” the voice intoned. “Is it the Arch Prelate’s summons?”

Lyzanor nodded. “Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. Damn bandits take the church for granted and blessed saints if I’m going to let them overrun it!”

“Then you are a blessed of Nadiria?”

“That I am, blessed be her name. Nadiria is the patron goddess of my house. I do not follow what the Arch Prelate says, but I do listen to what the needs of Nadiria are. She has been good to me, just as much as the blessed saints.” At that point, Lyzanor picked up the bowl in front of him and took a deep, long sip of the wine. The sweet and subtle tang of it flowed down his throat like liquid ice. The ‘faie wine was from the mountains no doubt, but was it from the Illen’faie? He couldn’t tell. As he placed the bowl down in front of him, he turned his attention to scrutinizing what was inside the cloak.

“What brings you here to this out-land province Luc?”

Once again, Lyzanor could swear that he sensed a smile from within the hood of the cloak. “The reason I’m here? Well, it’s not like yours. At least yours is not what you say; but as for me… I believe it is about to come in through the door in just a moment…” As white hands began to lift the bowl, Lyzanor’s eyebrows furrowed in misunderstanding. At that moment, the tavern door swung open and from the cold darkness of the cold stumbled in another figure with a gray cloak into the room.