The story I'm currently writing is YA fantasy. I thought it would be about 80,000 words when finished, but as I'm currently at 27k and haven't finished the first act, I think it's safe to assume I've underestimated the size of the story. 100k. Easy. Something has clicked in my brain. I haven't yet had a book run over 65-70k in a first draft. I've also never plotted out a trilogy before. But the words are flowing smoothly-- not always easily, mind-- and I find I'm having fun bringing out the characters' personalities on the page. I have already deviated from my outline, but that's okay. I'm concentrating more on the characters' feelings and growth and substituting in situations to force them to react in just the way I need. It's definitely in a good stage, and I find I'm anxious to get back to the keyboard whenever I'm away from it.
Here's a snippet from Chapter 3:
“Hawk or distressed pig?”
Genny raised an eyebrow in response to Liam’s question. “Thinking of taking up a new hobby? Farming? Falconry?”
“Old lady Baker.”
Genny arched a brow. “On second thought, perhaps you’ve had too much sun. I don’t see how since it’s not even noon yet, but if you’re ailing, I have a tincture—“
“Her voice. Old Lady Baker’s voice. Is it more like the screech of a hawk or the squeal of a distressed pig?”
Genny frowned, though her eyes shone with amusement. “Hush. Here she comes.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking.” Liam stood, ready to greet the approaching customer. “Morning, Mistress Baker,” he said brightly. “Can I interest you in some fresh morrels? Or some tart cherries, perhaps?”
The old woman went straight to Genny. Liam sank to his stool, readying his ears for the oncoming assault. An ache had settled behind his eyes blaring like the midday sun, and Old Lady Baker’s searing voice would only make it worse.
“Genny, dear,” she said, reaching for Genny. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“It’s market day, Mistress Baker. Of course I’m here.”
“Tell me, what do you have for baubles on the feet?”
“On the feet, yes. I have the worst time with it at the end of the day. My feet scream in agony every morning when I put my shoes on.”
“Maybe they were just trying to be heard over the sound of your voice,” Liam grumbled. Genny threw a glare at him, but she needn’t have bothered. The old lady hadn’t heard a word he said.
“Er— could you describe these baubles?” Genny said, affecting her voice with what she considered politeness. But it was Genny. Manners weren't exactly her strong suit. Fortunately, Old Lady Baker didn't require much for etiquette, just a sympathetic ear.
Liam dropped his head in his hands while the screecher went into excruciating detail describing wart-like protrusions on her overgrown, wrinkled feet.
“Mistress Baker, a nightly soaking in warm, salty water would be just the thing—“
“Oh, but my head! I can hardly stand the ache in my head every night—“
“Have you tried mint—“
“And my children. They have the ague in their bellies— a terrible ague—“
“A hot broth made of mushrooms and leeks should ease—“
As the two went back and forth with Mrs. Baker ignoring virtually every suggestion Genny gave her, Liam left his post to head for the well at the town square. He hoped a good long drink would help his headache, at the very least being out of hearing range of Mrs. Baker’s voice aught to help.