Occasionally (often) I pause and wonder WTF I’m hoping to do with these books – these incredibly complicated yet seemingly simple books, with their short story voice and their long-form goals, their delicate language and blunt characterizations, and I kinda weep for any of it ever working.
And then I write something like this, and I think “yeah, fuck it, who cares, this is fucking gorgeous.”
Gabriel dreamed of death.
He stood in the middle of a creek bed, dry and mud-cracked, the sun cold and heavy on his bare shoulders, and knew that he should not turn around, that the night bird waited for him.
Not for you.
â€œThat doesnâ€™t make it better.â€ His dream-voice was higher, lighter, the voice of a child, not a man. That was how the dreamspace saw him, Old Woman had said. Foolish, but teachable.
Be careful, Two Voices.
He was always careful. Too careful, Old Woman had said, in a tone that said it wasnâ€™t a good thing, not like a hunter was careful, but like a coward.
Gabriel had never denied it.
(from the WiP, aka Devil’s West #2)