To be fair, I did leave the dust to settle for a few months before I stirred it up again. It’s just not being allowed to re-settle.
The first draft of Outpost 9 has had a significant overhaul - I’ve corrected many a typo, added a bit more confidence and about 10,000 more words. I’m very grateful to four fabulously fastidious friends, who crawled through that pock-marked first draft to dig out the typos, and to provide detailed and valuable feedback. I'm so grateful to you I’m going to name and shame you on here…
Vicki, Sarah, Joan and Clare - you are all AWESOME. 🙌
For those of you in a similar position (one has emptied oneself into a novel - now what), I’d love to share a link with you that Joan has shared with me - this is a free online course about navigating the different paths to publication:
https://courses.nationalcentreforwriting.org.uk/p/know-your-publishing-options-ncw
While on the subjects of sharing and publishing and awesome women - a huge thank you must go to
and for their experienced insights into the world of publishing, self publishing, self-doubt and perseverance, and for taking the time to write it all down for me. Thank you! 🙏Back to the dust. I’ve realised I’m a completist … I want to publish Outpost 9. I want to spend too long in Adobe Creative Cloud fine tuning cover designs. I want to hold it in my hands.
I’m going as slow as I dare because I want it to be right. To keep those dust particles dancing, I’ve also dug the foundations for a sequel, provisional working title - The Incredible Machines of Thinkery: TheLiked. We are in the same world as Outpost 9, about 18 months further on. As a quick heads up to avoid confusion, Ezra has had a name change (in both stories), to Edwin. Edwin Cooper.
I’ve copied in 700 words or so below.
I don’t know if this is the beginning yet. But it is the start.
The Incredible Machines of Thinkery: TheLiked -
There is a sickly-sweet stench of recent death.
There are twelve of them, all in a row.
Twelve cold waxy faces draped in small pieces of glossy blue fabric - shrouds, ceremonial cloths, or whatever they are supposed to be. Big enough to cover the eyes, nose, mouth. Too small to cover glimpses of personalities that no longer walk the earth – fraying plaits of hair and unkempt beards. There is a white icon on each silken square, from where you are standing it appears to be a circular object centralised within a heart. You don’t want to get close enough to see finer details. The most you can do at this moment in time is lower your gaze and make the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Your whisper is shaken and uneven.
With icy sweat dribbling down your armpits, you hurry back down the grand staircase to the ground floor. Your hand travels the smooth oak banister, mindful of the one-way trip made by twelve hands not all that long ago. Who are – were - they. When did they. And the rawest question of all – grabbing at your gut and twisting into your heart – why did they.
The cold in this place is brutal. Your breath hangs behind you – small warm huffs of life leading away from those sorry souls trapped in the rigor of death. Light from a near full moon filters through the thick leaden windows. Your booted feet leave the stairway and cross the monochrome tiled floor, changing their tune from echoing thuds into sharp taps.
‘Is there anyone else here?’ Nell’s voice reaches you from across the vast hallway.
You release a breath that you hadn’t realised had been held tight to your chest. You aren’t sure what to say yet.
‘Um… coming...’ That’ll do. For now.
The air stings at your face and fingertips, these towering ceilings hold no heat, the stone walls are as cold as the night. You reach the drawing room. It might not even be a drawing room – you are well out of your depth navigating a home of this size – it was simply the first ground floor room you had come across. An extravagant, voluptuous space, furnished with upholstered armchairs – French, Louis the something style - velvet chaise longues and small, delicate looking tables you suspect would be described as ‘occasional’ by the people who had lived here. Most things are covered in sheets. Everything is covered in dust.
In the far corner a titanic stove is being nursed by Nell. It’s an inflated, rich man’s farce of a wood burner, another excuse to overwork gold plating and decorative flourishes. Designed to impress, it has the opposite effect on you. You find it vulgar, preposterous, an insult to its grassroots purpose. You reach the wall of warmth belting out of its open, ceramic body. Your face feels like fire, your back like ice.
‘Er. Really?’
Nell turns to look at you. Even with one hand gripping the back of a French armchair, she struggles to keep herself steady. Your heart pulls but you try not to show any sympathy. You’ve learnt not to.
‘We need to sleep somewhere, it’s too late to move on now.’ She pushes the door shut, puffing a plume of smoke and an additional punch of hotness into the room. ‘And we’d freeze our arses off if we didn’t light the bloody thing.’
You try to ignore the ceiling as your brain retraces your steps, back up the staircase, left at the landing, straight ahead to the room at the end of corridor. The room that you calculate is now right above your head. You don’t want to sleep underneath twelve people who will never wake up. Then you catch Nell’s eye, those fierce green eyes, now hurting with pride.
‘Please, Edwin.’ She could even be on the verge of tears. It had been a long, torturous day by anyone’s standards. You nod.
‘Yeah, yeah. Of course. I’ll go and grab some bedding.’
‘Thank you. Is there anyone else here?’
The answer stalls on your tongue. You had hoped she wouldn’t ask again, not until morning at any rate. As it currently stands Nell at least has the chance of a good night’s rest. Why knowingly take that from her.
‘No.’
Adore the second person POV in your story parcel, Linnhe. One of my favorites to play with. And you've pulled me in. Best to you on your self-publishing journey. Take your time and follow your instincts. I have no doubt the final product will be stunning. 💜
Good luck, Linnhe. Glad we could help with the answer to your questions here: https://marytabor.substack.com/p/dear-linnhe and a link to Eleanor's answer in that post. I'll send a quick email follow-up email on Sunday U.S. time--and look forward to hear back from you. All best, ~ Mary