Worldbuilding in Slow Motion

So now that I finished ViNoWriMo (check out keypub.net for more information), I'm stuck in the position that I don't want to touch that novel until the March 14th winners are announced. I would love to start querying, but The Faithful is currently being read by my fiance, with the ending of the novel up in the air. I can't quite be shopping it about if I don't even know what the length or the ending will be.

I have two projects I can work on. I can work on my next novel, which is set in a desert wasteland on the side of a cliff, or rework my first novel, Between the Shadows. I'm stuck in between new ideas for both of these and can't quite decide which way I'm leaning.

On one hand, I have a brand new novel with a new place that I can expand on and feel creatively fulfilled. On the other, I have an old property that I'm giving a fresh breath of life. The old story felt empty, amorphous. With the new ideas I have, it changes so much of the original work that there is no way to keep the original manuscript and build off of it. I now have two more novels under my belt, so many lessons I've learned that it just seems like a flawed concept to keep going back to try and fix the errors in it.

Maybe after I'm done I'll find that the two works aren't entirely dissimilar, but I'd hate to read that old manuscript and get lost in that version of the world and lose what I had been thinking about. It truly is a reimagining where I'm going with it, not just another run through with edits to try and correct fundamental problems with the manuscript.

Here I am, stuck between two projects, each with its own creative possibilities.

I'll let you know where I'm going.

Stinging with a Purpose

Marise's hands stung as she silently walked down the street. No, stung was not the right word. Burned. They burned with a purpose she had not known she'd had an hour before. She had suspected it, something lingering in the shadows just beyond the periphery of her vision. This feeling though was a confirmation of all that she had suspected. There was a purpose for her art. And that felt good, this recognition.

The sleeve of her red jacket grazed the skin, lighting it afire. Every time something touched it, it renewed her sense of the larger picture. Her eyes had been opened and they now scanned the environment with a renewed interest she had long forgotten. Darkened alleyways were more alive with steam rising off the ground in droves. Hidden people revealed themselves to her now.

She had no place left to return to, so she threw herself into the darkness, becoming reborn in that murk and decay into something more. A figurehead. Her purpose would be revealed soon enough.
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As the underground released him from its grip, Pryor stood triumphantly in the dank air of the above. Not much had changed in the years since his last visit. He was not one to suffer the pains of a growing population. While the area had exploded in size, he could immediately tell that the place still was rife with moral decay. There had to be some way to awaken these poor slobs. To create something more in their petty lives.

And then she emerged from the darkness, making her way triumphantly straight into his arms. There she was. He had found his figurehead.

. . .

The light faltered as she crumpled to the ground. He had been called quite involuntarily. The hard clapping of feet against the pavement receeded quickly off into the distance. In the flash of darkness, a figure stood there with his violet eyes glowing.

He held her, the warm liquid pouring from her side. It never occurred to him to avoid it, and his hand slipped into the sticky substance, dark and crimson. He kept his eyes trained on her face and tried to keep himself composed. On the surface, his face was stiff as he revealed himself to her.

Recognition spread across her face, remembering him from a distant memory. Her features contorted, unable to bring forth the recollection. Mascara streaked her face, marking her for the remainder of her life.

"I'm dying. . ."

"Yes."

She choked on some of her fluids and lost herself in a spasm of coughing. He pulled her to his chest and did his best to calm her down. It wasn't working.

After a minute, she quieted down. She looked up at him with large eyes and asked him the most simple question. The most blatant one. She barely managed to get it out, but it rang clear and true in his ears, "Where am I going?"

He looked down at her and remembered when she was young and full of life. Not this ghost of a woman he saw before him now, her life bleeding out onto the grimy pavement. Despite his commands, tears began to slide down his cheeks. He wanted to comfort her. He really wanted to. But he couldn't bring himself to lie to her like he had lied to so many before her. He pulled her close and whispered, "I don't know."

Just an Escape

Rain pelted the sidewalk and the surrounding buildings. Sheets of white blinded Raine as he moved diligently forward. Despite his determination, the streets had been abandoned long ago. Tonight was not safe and even though it was left unspoken, it was understood by the masses to stay locked indoors. Not by any tangible feeling, but something simply floating in the air.

Light poured over him as he passed under a streetlight, illuminating the rain and giving it shape. At first it was nothing more than a shadow. A mere optical illusion, but as Raine squinted his eyes, he realized it was much more than that. His steps, hollow against the roar of the rain, halted immediately and he watched as the form solidified and the figure of a woman stepped from between the rain. Long blue hair swirled and twisted with the rain, perfectly highlighting the round face of a teenage girl. Her eyes, however, revealed centuries of knowledge and patience.

"Hello Raine. It's about time we met."