Surgery… (Otherwise known as my attempts to further the progress of SOTD)

That's right; surgery. Not for me (directly), but for my novel-in-progress (respectfully)… which, if you think about it, can be just as painful to a writer as can the normal meaning behind the referral of the word. Hmm….

If you follow my blog, then you already know, but SOTD is going through a major facelift… actually, it's more like an entire "body-lift" if you want to get technical. That's right, folks… I'm rewriting. Again. Like, for the 15^th time. But this is old news; I've been working on the rewrite since January and you all know that. ;)

What's not old news is that at long last I'm making progress again. I mentioned in my last post that I finally beat the dratted slum that had me trapped in chapter 3. (I mean, I was really getting tired of the number 3! :P) I'm so happy!

Now, the trouble I'm having doesn't have to do with moving on so much as it has to do with editing. I can't wait to move on!!! I have SO much epicness planned for the near future of the book, it makes me want to type! Like, Now! And not stop until late night… or early morning; that is, whenever I pause to look at the clock and realize that I really should be sleeping or I'll be a zombie in the morning. 

It's just that I can't seem to turn off my inner editor. I've tried – I really have – but she just insists that I pay attention to her. And unfortunately Inspiration is in league with Inner-Editor and refuses to let me start typing the next part of the story until I realize and fix the problems that are in the first scene of chapter 3. 

So I've come up with a plan. I've been concocting it for several days now – see my messy hair and crazy, red-rimmed eyes? That's because I've gone all "mad scientist" while working out this blue print of how to foil Inner-Editor's frenzied attempts to stop my progress. I've decided that I'm going to post the first part of chapter 3 here on my blog. I'll let you guys be my editor – if you see anything that stands out to you, good or bad, let me know about it. If you tell me what you think of the excerpt and I work out the kinks you point out, maybe Inner-Editor will be forced to shut down for awhile! Then I can move on unhindered!

So to randomly quote Disney's The Emperor's New Groove in my best Esma voice, "Oh, I know! I'll turn Inner-Editor into a flea – a harmless little flea. And then I'll put that flea in a box. And then I'll put that box in another box. And then I'll mail that box to myself. And when it arrives? Ahahaha! I'll SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER!!!

"It's brilliant, brilliant, brilliant, I tell you! Genius, I say! *poof* Or, (to save time and my sanity) I'll just foil Inner Editor by doing THIS! Take it, my loyal bloggy friends! FEEL THE POWER!!!"

:D

Chapter 3

(Currently Untitled)

Thunk, thunk, thunk!

“Ungggh.”  Curron rolled over and buried his face in his hands.  His entire body ached as if he’d been bucked off a horse and then trampled.  Metal clattered all around him when he moved and something heavy dragged at his wrists.
                        Clang! Thunk, thunk, thunk.

“Téagh, that old rat.”  Grimacing, Curron pushed himself up to a sitting position and rubbed the back of his head; upright, it felt like a large boulder balanced precariously on an insufficient neck. Leaving his eyes closed, he shouted, “Cut the noise, old man!  You could wake the dead with that racket.  I’m up already!”

Normally this would have earned him a retort; something like, “I’ll take what help I can get, ye lout.  If it’s not from the likes of you, then the dead might as well try their hands at it.”  Today, however, there was nothing.  The hammering noise sounded through the room like the muted march of soldiers’ feet, but the old Stable Master never replied.

Curron opened one eye to a slit and immediately wished he hadn’t.  Blood pounded in his head, sending fractal colors and bursts of pain skittering before his eyes.  The small room tilted sideways, melded together in myriad shades of grey and flickering orange, and then started to spin.  He quickly closed his eyes again and leaned back against a wall.   
                       What is this place? he wondered.  Certainly not his room in the stable loft.  For one thing, this room’s floor was made of stone, not wood, and instead of the familiar smell of horse and hay, there was a strange musty scent fused with the underlying, bitter tang of old iron.    For another thing, the room was entirely too cold and completely bare.  What had happened to his bed and the brazier that stood in the corner filled with hot coals?  Where was the trunk that once belonged to Seliah?  And what about the old saddle he’d been repairing under Téagh’s careful instruction?  Téagh treated most people to a dose of crude arrogance whether he knew them or not, but Curron was different.  The retorts remained, but there was respect too, and a distorted form of kindness.  The saddle was to be Curron’s once it was repaired; he couldn't bear the thought of losing it.

His memories all clouded together like a thick fog.  They shifted and churned, darted and flitted like shadow-figures playing hide-n-catch, but they refused to align.  If this isn’t my room, he thought, and it most certainly isn’t – then where am I?

Thunk, clang!  Thunk, thunk, thunk.

The noise jarred Curron’s thoughts.  He opened his eyes and the flitting shadows vanished, replaced by dread that tightened in his gut like a knot of writhing snakes.  There was something very wrong with that hammering sound: something menacing.

He pushed himself away from the wall and looked around the room.    The space was square and barely more than three paces wide in both directions – just big enough for him to lie out straight either way.  It felt more like a tall sepulcher than it did a room or even a cell.  And with the hammering noise reverberating around the walls, he could almost imagine the sound was actually the bony fists of some crypt’s long dead occupants trying to get free. 

Shivering, Curron shook the picture from his head.  What nonsense.  Selliah would never approve of such thoughts.  If he kept at it, he would drive himself insane.

The ceiling of the room was low.  If he stood on the tips of his toes and held his arms stretched up, he could probably brush its surface with his fingertips.  A heavy wooden door without latch or handle was embedded in the wall opposite of him.  Near the top of the door was a barred window that looked out into blackness.  He eyed the window thoughtfully.

Barred?  This was a cell then, probably somewhere within the labyrinth of Fort Gallant’s underground tunnels.  Only once before had he ever stepped foot beyond the darkened lintel that marked passage into the tunnels, and the memory still haunted his nightmares.

He leaned forward, bracing himself to stand.  If he could get a better look through the iron bars, perhaps he could figure out the nature of his prison.  Metal clattered a protest as he moved, and his arms felt extremely heavy and cold.  He glanced down.

Oh…

Heavy shackles coupled his wrists and ankles together, while four lengths of thick chain, their links about the size of his thumb, wound in and out of the bulky rings welded to the side of each manacle.  The opposite end of every chain was attached to a separate wall.

Right.

Curron eyed the chains dubiously and gave them a hard shake.  They rattled together, bashing against the tender underside of his wrists and sending tingles through his fingers.  He let his hands drop back to his side in dismay.  Shackles meant only one thing as far as he knew, and the chains just confirmed it.  Broken scenes from the night before floated back into place, taunting him with their incompleteness: Olan’s mocking voice, Mirra’s screams, the fighting, the blood-lust.  Flashes of color and light flitted through his memory and disappeared again– a knife, a candle, a pair of startling blue eyes…

Rage.

He cringed.  Even the memory of the feeling was so strong it sent his limbs to shaking.  Olan had despised him for years and the feeling was mutual.  He’d always known it would come to a head, but he never envisioned it ending like this.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and cupped his chin in his hands, trying to recall all the details of the fight, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t remember the very end.  It must have been bad, he concluded, Else why would I hurt so much, and why am I stuck in his dark hole?  Maybe I got hit on the head.  Maybe that’s why my head hurts so much and I can’t seem to remember clearly.  He reached up to feel his scalp, but except for a few extra dirt particles and a beetle that he untangled from his curls, there was nothing to feel: no blood, no lumps, no bruises.
            He squished the beetle in his hand and flicked its remains across the cell.  So much for that idea.
            The foreboding hammering sound continued, quieter than before, but just as unnerving.  Voices floated through the air from somewhere over Curron’s head, mingling with the sound of clopping hooves and wagon wheels rolling and creaking over stone cobbles.  Curron shifted uneasily and twisted to glance up at the wall he was sitting against.  Near the top was another tiny rectangular window striated with iron bars and open to the air.  Sunlight filtered through the bars, painting the floor of the cell and part of one wall with patches of a lighter grey, tinged yellow.  The sounds of many people and groaning timber wafted in through the window, followed by more banging.  He thought he heard his name.

Bracing himself against the wall, he inched upward until his fingers finally caught the window ledge and wrapped around the iron bars.  Using the bars as handles, he pulled himself upright and peered between them into a colorful, chaotic mess.

People milled all around the courtyard in and out of thick wooden tables and brightly painted carts as they talked to sellers or yelled after spouses. Traveling merchants hawked their wares to anyone interested: a bolt of brilliant cloth dyed from the gold Lauris flowers of Southland, a bottle of red wine from Ereniel in the west, a spool of silk ribbon from the Hahl’eil silk farms east of the Great Forest, a quiver of Bannergoose-fletched arrows from the Wild North.  A band of children chased chickens around and under the legs of people and chairs alike, ignoring the calls of bustling mothers who balanced babies on their hips and browsed through the offered goods.

Curron’s eyes drank in the whole mess.  A thrill coursed through his body. 

Trades Week!  The very first day.  If he were free, he’d be milling around as well, looking for something worthwhile to spend his copper drúggle on, perhaps joining the older boys in a game of Whithle Tag.  The first Trades Week of the month always brought throngs of people through Fort Gallant’s gates.  Most came from Eldin and the surrounding farmland, or they were Búrri traveling from northern Southland to barter.  However, there were always a few roaming traders mixed into the throng, and a gypsy or two hoping to earn coins by entertaining.  The grim, grey place known as Fort Gallant became a blossoming bazaar of vibrant promise.

Then Curron’s eyes fell on something in the middle of the courtyard: a dark blight that defied all color and reared out tall above the crowds of people, grotesque as an open wound.  Black-stained beams of wood formed a raised platform that housed a single mast jutting up from the center like a dark finger.  The mast was reinforced with wood and iron fittings to keep it from falling over, and a long-armed boom reached out from its top as if to scrape open the sky.  A small crowd of people gathered round to watch a man who stood beside the mast pound in iron pegs with a mallet.

Clang, thunk, clang, thunk, clang, thunk!
                        The people pointed and whispered.

Another man sat astride the boom, working with something in his hands.  Minutes later he let the thing drop.  There, tied around the girth of the long, extending arm dangled a thick hemp rope with a loop at the end.

A gallows.

Of course. 

Curron shrank back from the window, cold fear rushing through his veins and wrapping around his heart.  He swallowed hard several times and slumped back against the wall.  This was all his fault.  He’d brought this on himself.  He should never have risen to Olan’s taunts.  If he’d only left the dining hall when he’d had the chance!

The sound of metal being pounded into wood tolled out again, drowning out the people’s whispering voices, filling the air like a mournful dirge.  Curron screwed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears.  Yet without his surroundings to distract him, the black, wooden monster from his dreams tainted his imagination in grisly red.

A frail body dangling in a stark, black wind.  Silver hair swaying before a sweet aged face.  One lone raven circling above, glistening black feathers in stark contrast with the ice blue sky.

Blood…

That monster was up in the courtyard now, waiting for him, drawn from his nightmares like the devil made flesh.

A huge, misshapen, wooden devil.

Curron swallowed the bile that rose to his throat.

A gallows.  He cringed at the word, wringing trembling hands.  That’s why all the people are really here; to watch me die.

****

Nano Excerpt -- finally!!!

Well, I've been slowly plugging away at Nanowrimo: I doubt I'll make it to the end though.  But, I did promise myself that as soon as I finished the scene I was working on (the one I got horribly stuck on and couldn't figure out what to do with it) I would post it here for you guys to see that, yes, I have been at least trying.  lol.

So anyway, currently I'm stuck without my main word program, but I found another one that works alright; at least I can open documents until I get my other program installed.  This scene fits somewhere in the middle of chapter two and it's from one of my villains' point of views.  It comes right after my MC and supporting characters escape their farm where my evil character is lurking in their yard looking for them.  I'm actually much farther in the rewrite than chapter two, but sometimes you just have to stop and go back.  :)

So, without further ado, I give you MY NEW SCENE!  :D



  The smell of sweat; the echo of pounding feet growing farther and farther away; the faint pulse of quickened heartbeats throbbing in the air… 

And fear. 

Lots of fear. 

Vúrhaugh breathed deep, licking the corner of his mouth, and closed his eyes. So sweet; so intoxicating… He’d almost forgotten how it tasted, it’d been so long. He smiled, allowing the aroma to permeate his senses, and glanced down at the footprints beaten into the dirt. Three sets, crisscrossing back and forth over each other. One large set, two smaller. 

The Grohnjiem yanked its chain, wrenching his concentration. Vúrhaugh growled. He kicked the fiend in the back legs and wrapped the chain a second time around his hands. “You’ll get your chance, you Guldakh beast! Heel!” The creature snarled, flames flashing from his maw. Vúrhaugh spit and bared his teeth. His eyes glowed a dangerous red. The fire died in the Grohnjiem’s throat. It glared at him and sat down on its haunches, beating its tail impatiently against the ground. 

Vúrhaugh lifted his head, closed his eyes, and breathed in deep. His mind cleared. Slowly, the night noises faded into oblivion, leaving only the faint sounds of his prey. His nostrils flared, working through the information mingling in his nose. Three, yes: an older man, a young girl, and a boy just reaching manhood. The fear from the girl was strongest. Her every breath, the beat of her heart, and each movement secreted pure terror. The boy’s bravado was only feigned, a mask to hide the panic in his chest. Vúrhaugh scowled. Pathetic. 

And then the man… The man was curious. Vúrhaugh focused his senses, concentrating only on the man’s scent and what little sound of him the night offered. The man was running, but he was trying to be silent and, for the most part, was succeeding. He was frightened but… how strange; he wasn’t frightened for himself. His strides were long: he was a tall man… 

Information bombarded Vúrhaugh’s senses, creating a picture in his mind. The man was mature, but not old. Strong. Well built. He ran, but did not breathe hard: experienced then – a warrior? Perhaps. 

And then a new scent fused the air, sweet and pure. It came like death to Vúrhaugh’s nose. His brow creased and he pulled back. This was not normal. Humans did not have that scent. He freed a tendril of his mind and sent it out before him. Out over the field it went, weaving between plants, bumping over earthen knolls and exposed tree roots. The resonating echo of footfalls came back to him, louder now… much louder. And the frightened breaths were like wind through a cave. 

So, they weren’t being nearly as silent as they thought they were. 

He pushed the tendril onward until it brushed against the man’s leg, then climbed to his waist, up over his shoulder, and finally caressed the back of his neck. Vúrhaugh smiled. The probe nudged the base of the man’s head, seeking a way in. Human skin was fragile and not resilient to mental probes. It would soon find an entrance… 

The man’s head snapped up. 

Pain erupted in Vúrhaugh’s head. He gasped and fell back on the ground. There was no way the man could have seen him and yet… Lightning flashed behind his eyes. A power stronger than his forced the probe back, pounding it into his skull like a nail driven by a hammer. Darkness crowded his vision and for a moment, a set of angry silver eyes flared into existence. 

Then they disappeared. 

Vúrhaugh sat up and looked again at the large imprints in the dust. By all appearance they were normal human footprints, but Vúrhaugh bared his fangs at them and spit. No doubt lingered in his mind now; the man was Awet. 

Vúrhaugh glanced at the Gronjiem, now pacing at the end of its chain. It snarled at him, but he ignored it, lost deep in thought. Humans weren’t supposed to go Awet – they weren’t built for it. To be Awet was to be subdued by the thoughts and minds of others and it took great will-power to remain sane under such a weight.  When Humans gained such abilities, they either grew heady with the power and eventually destroyed themselves, or they tried to hide their gift and crumbled under the burden… 

Or they weren’t human. 

Vúrhaugh stood and pulled the Gronjiem closer by the chain. It snarled but he gave the chain a good yank and the beast fell still. Vúrhaugh’s fingers brushed over the clasp that locked the chain to the creature’s collar. It glared at him, slight interest flickering in its fire-red eyes. 

“Find them,” he whispered, “but do not hurt them yet. Search out the truth behind the guardian’s facade. Then return to me.” His fingers moved and the clasp fell away. The wolf shot off into the field, as silent as a shadow. 

Vúrhaugh straightened and turned back to the farm. Suspicion nagged at the back of his mind and he knew he couldn’t ignore it.  The Prizes were being guarded and the enemy was powerful; Gorakk would not be pleased. 

Why I Write What I Do

It's a really big question when you think about it:

"Why do you write the way you do, in the genre that you do?"

If I were to answer that question off-hand, I'd probably just say, "Because it's a part of who I am."  And it is; oh, it is!  It is so much a part of me that I don't even think about it any more.  But if I were to break it down?  If I were to really take that question apart, think about it, muse over it while savoring every word and wondering what it means to me deep down?  What would I answer then?

Most of you know that I love fantasy.  I do.  I love it.  And I know a lot of writers who also enjoy fantasy (and science fiction, and a load full of other genres).  Because I love this genre so much, my writings tend to be based in this genre, and if I were to ask such a question to a writer who's genre was horror or mystery, the answer would be worlds different.

As a fantasy writer asking myself this question, I don't have to look far to find my answer: it just takes a little time.

I write fantasy because it is the genre that I feel the most free in.  Not only free in writing it, but free in reading it as well.  Fantasy is the singular genre where there are no pre-assumptions attached. 

Right about now the Science Fiction Lovers are going to pop in and start hitting me with their keyboards and paperback books (paperbacks because hopefully they aren't aiming to kill me...  and if you are aiming to kill me, please get it over with quickly and as painlessly as possible.

Anyone grabbing at their bookshelves to chuck their latest find at my head?

No?

Good!  *phew!*)

But I'm totally serious here.

Romance books are expected to have romance in them.

Horror must be scary.

Mystery has to have a secret or an question that just must be answered.

Even in Science Fiction a reader usually assumes it has something to do with space, or at least technology, and there is almost always an explanation for anything supernatural.

But with fantasy there are no such pre-assumptions.  A fantasy book can easily tie together romance, horror, mystery, and technology all in one book and in no particular order... and you never know if the next book you read in the genre will be similar or different by a thousand worlds.

As a writer, I like that.  In fact, I like it a lot.  If I sit down to write fantasy, I don't have to know exactly where the story is set or how it will end.  I don't have to have a certain element in it that makes it the genre that it is (although most people believe that there must be some form of magic in the book to make it fantasy... which isn't necessarily true.)  I don't even have to have done any research, or be any smarter than the average Joe working two part time jobs to make a living... I just have to write.

And my story can take me anywhere!

Now, if you write or read some other genre, know now that I am not trying to convert you!  The most important thing is that you write the genre that fits you best... the genre that you feel "free" in.

That is why I write what I write.  (That, and a complicated childhood back story.  :D)

And in honor of my favorite genre and my love for writing it, here's an excerpt from the novel I started for Nanowrimo last year.  It's from chapter 12 titled "Voices in the Trees".  It's still pretty rough, but it's also one of my favorite scenes
***

Ganeff turned another corner, paused, and glanced around. His fingers moved nervously up and down the haft of his bow as he glanced from tree to tree.



What is going on here? he wondered to himself. This has never happened before.


He glanced behind him, then ahead again, and then from side to side.  It was no use: everything looked the same.


Lost?


The word floated skeptically through his mind. From his first lone romp into the woods to his final mission as an apprentice pickpocket, he’d never gotten lost in Rover’s Wood; never! But then again, he’d swear he’d never even seen this part of the wood before, let alone stepped foot in it.


Perhaps if I turn around, I can track my own footsteps and they will lead me out again. But upon turning, he discovered that his footprints were not there. Dead vegetation covered the dear trail he’d followed, and it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in ages. The trail itself was gone as though the bushes had picked themselves up and moved to cover his only known way back.

Something shimmered in the corner of his eye and then was gone. He spun quickly, searching for the light. There it was again, but coming from a different direction. And again… only that time it was a different color.


Ganaff fingered the string of his bow, his free hand already slipping to the quiver at his side. What sort of devilry is this? He wondered.


There again! The light flashed and then was gone, green this time. Then again, a purplish hue. But now when he looked around he noticed that it was not just one light; thousands upon thousands of them flashed around the trees, up in the foliage and through the underbrush, blinking different colors into existence before vanishing once more. The forest was alive with them.


Only once before had Ganeff seen such a spectacle, when he and Aura had been sent to Thatcher’s Corner to investigate the rumors of ghost lights spreading throughout the forest’s inhabitants. Weapons had seemed useless against the lights then. He let his finger slowly brush by the lip of his quiver and back to his side.


A soft breeze flitted through the trees like a quiet ripple of laughter.


Come and catch me if you can!


Ganeff started at the voice, spinning around to see the speaker. There was no one there; just the lights and the laughing wind.


Come and play, Ganeff! You’re it! Try to catch me!


A few yards ahead of him, between the gaps of two tall maples, a swirl of golden light transformed itself into a hand. It beckoned towards him with long, elegant fingers before shattering into a thousand pieces and darting away among the shadows.


Ganeff ventured a step forward. A breeze rattled the branches of the trees as the laughter rippled through the air again.


Come and play with me!


“I’m coming,” Ganeff called to the empty air, and pushed his way through some thorny brambles to the place where the hand had been. Perhaps following the lights wasn’t the very best idea he had, but it was better than being totally and completely disoriented among trees that he’d never seen before.


“I’m going to catch you!”

The words seemed silly to him, but he could think of nothing else to say. Another wave of childish laughter ran through the trees. A few yards farther along, the lights converged again and another hand waved towards him before vanishing.


Ganeff chased after them, twisting and turning through the underbrush to follow the elusive lights as they darted every which way through the trees. Every few minutes another hand would appear; the trees’ laughter grew with each step forward until the whisper had become a voice, and the voice had become a song, and the song urged him forward with each step. The words of the song were strange to him, sung by a sweet childish voice. There seemed to be no particular melody to it, but the nonsense lyrics conjured pictures in his mind until he was almost sure he could understand the words.


Shuttle and loom go ‘clickle, clack'
Sting runs through and is pushed back
Patience is a virtue learned
Young fingers spin the wheel a turn
Round it goes, and round again
Each rotation one year’s end
‘Til Hair once dark is silver spun
Upon a wheel where stories run
String that ages, string that binds
String that frees the caged mind
In and out she weaves the years
Silent silver fall her tears
Ancient loom to be her cage
Ties the artist in her age
Bound eternity to spin
Weaving lives she can’t be in
Until one rises to take her place
Before the world should fall to waste


A life of stories, none the same
A work she loves, but cannot claim
A thousand years, or maybe more
Before a girl will come to her
A girl as ignorant as a child
Though fire hides within her, wild
Sit her down; the loom will tame her
Fate has come: the Tale has claimed her
Old one, teach her how to weave
New tapestries before you leave
An oracle whose gift once hidden
Comes to light before it’s bidden
Weave anew the fraying threads
Before dark might brings all to end


Suddenly the music stopped and, as if coming out of a trance, Ganeff looked about him. He was standing at the edge of a clearing. The colorful lights darted back and forth over the grasses, disappearing momentarily, reappearing the next minute.


Have you come then?  The voice was soft as if the very wind had breathed the words. Have you come to play?


“I have.”


The trees rustled with the laughing breeze as the lights dashed into the middle of the clearing, their many colors flushing gold. A woman’s voice trilled a rapid scale of notes, both terrifying and lilting at the same time. Ganeff let his fingers drift towards the hilt of his throwing knife, gulping back the terror he could feel welling up in his chest. He went to take a step back, but found that his feet were frozen in place; he couldn’t move!


The lights converged in the very center, drifting in a long, lazy spiral around the space where the strange voice seemed to come from. The voice grew louder, joined by another: a man’s this time. Their song filled the clearing with a strangely beautiful yet dissonant harmony the likes of which Ganeff had never heard uttered from the throat of any bard before. As the notes of the song escalated, the golden spiral spun faster and faster, swirling in patterns of wild abandoned, growing tighter the faster they spun until there was no space left between one line of gold and the next. Their brilliance became unbearable to look at. Ganeff squinted his eyes to try and shut out some of the light, but found he couldn’t close them completely. He had no control over them; they simply would not obey him!


Suddenly the light burst into a thousand starry pieces and Ganeff felt like the blunt end of a stick had been thrust into his stomach. He doubled over, lifting his head to squint through the haze of drifting light. A tall man and woman stepped out of the air and glanced around. The woman’s mouth was opened in song. Her voice seemed to give life to sapphire swirls of light which floated from her lips and away into the trees. The man held her hand gently, as if it were made of glass and could break in an instant; his lips were closed, but a haunting harmony still drifted from his throat; Ganeff could see it. The lines of harmony were a rich and vibrant purple. Shimmering gold lights flickered in the purple haze like the notes on a music staff.


But as strange as the colorful haze of music seemed drifting from their lips like living beasts, what seemed an even stranger sight were the set of massive wings flowering out from the two being’s backs, towering above their heads like giant and beautiful guardians: the man’s wings were the color of ink and smoke with veins of red as bright as newly spilt blood tracing their way from tip to tip; the woman’s wings were a deep sapphire, gilded with patches of gold and with veins of silver filigree swirling through the blue in intricate patterns. She glanced over her shoulder, fluttered them twice, and smiled. As the music faded away, she turned her smile on her escort.


“You were right, Creon; it does feel good to have my feet planted in the rich soil of this earth again. I had nearly forgotten how the full the air seems of song and life.”


The man called Creon nodded, glancing around the clearing. “Yes, the Tale has favor on the beings of this land. But try to remember, my dear, that we are here for a purpose that must be fulfilled ere we return to your kingdom, and we must not overstay our welcome.” His eyes finally sought out Ganeff standing in the shadows on the edge of the trees. “Ah. There he is. Just as you foretold.” He broke his grip on the woman’s hand and walked towards the boy. As he walked, his feet barely seemed to touch the ground.


“There is who, my love?” asked the woman. It took her a few minutes longer before her eyes finally settled on Ganeff. She looked him up and down, as if uncertain about something. Her pale blue eyes became worried. “Are you sure, dear? He looks so slight, as if he is only half shadow himself: unsubstantial like a Breeze Daughter. I do not doubt a single blow from your lips would knock him to the ground twice his own length from where he stands.”


Creon glanced over his shoulder, something between a smile and a sneer working the corners of his mouth. “He is slight indeed,” he said, “but do not be fooled by him; the Tale has granted the inhabitants of this world the gift of endurance, and of the Tale’s other gifts, frailty is not among them.”


Ganeff opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single word, Creon waved his speech away. “Be still, Earth Child. We are granted but little time to speak with you, and there is much to be said. But first, answer me this: are you the guardian of Aura, Light Spinner?”


“Who?”


“You see?” said the woman, gliding towards them. “He is dazed; our words do not make sense to him.”


Ganeff drew himself taller. “I understand you,” he said, “but I don’t know who you’re talking about. The Aura I know is a spinner of nothing unless it is a story of questionable origin. I don’t know what a light spinner is.”


The woman chuckled lightly, pale white hands flying to her lips to modestly hide her mirth. “Perhaps you are right my dear,” she said to Creon. “He is not as fragile as he looks: it would seem his substance lies in a sharp tongue rather than in his body.”


Creon frowned. “My dear, you are insulting him.” Then to Ganeff, “Come and join us.”


Ganeff didn’t have much choice. The tall man grabbed him by the hand and pulled him out into the open before he could say a word. With a wave of his hand, thousands of colorful flickers danced around Creon’s palm. He studied them for a few minutes before shoeing them away. Unabashed by the dismissive gesture, the lights converged several feet away into two separate spirals: when they broke apart again, two thrones sat in the middle of the clearing, one silver set with onyx and ruby, the other gold set with sapphire and diamond. The lady made her way over to her throne and sat in it, bouncing slightly in her seat as though she were a child.


Creon stopped Ganeff in front of the thrones. “Stay here,” he ordered before walking over to the silver throne. The lady straightened herself as he approached. At a nod from him, she flicked her wrist and white staff appeared in her hands. Ganeff tried to hide his surprise, though he was sure they could see it reflected in his eyes. The lady waved the staff over a pile of leaves that stood beside her thrown.


Ganeff blinked, then blinked again. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He closed his eyes and shook his head, but when he opened them again, he could not deny the fact. Where, a moment before, nothing had stood, now a golden loom was slowly fading into view. Before it was even complete, the lady picked up the shuttle and began gently sliding it between the warp and weft threads.


Clickle, clack. Clickle, clickle, clack.


Her fingers moved so swiftly through the strings, that they shimmered as they moved. A tapestry was slowly being built, but Ganeff couldn’t quite make out the picture just yet.


Creon nodded to the lady but then turned to Ganeff.


“Young man, do you know why you stand before us today in the presence of both Fae and Faeling?”


Ganeff shook his head, his curly hair tumbling down into his eyes. His knife and bow, long forgotten, hung limp in his fingers. “I became lost,” he answered simply.


“Lost, yes!” sang out the lady. “Lost among tree shadows. Lost while searching for something… while searching for a friend. This is true, is it not?” Her fingers flew over the loom.


Clickle, clack. Clickle, clack.


“I was looking for Aura.”


“Aura.” Creon’s eyes were trained on him. “The girl who is the key to everything. The girl who could change the world forever… or break it on a whim.”


“I’m not sure we’re talking about the same…”


“But we are,” Creon interrupted. “Your friend, the Light Spinner."  At Ganeff's questioning gaze, Creon sighed impatiently.  "You say she has a gift for telling stories. Do you know why she is so gifted?”


This time Ganeff didn’t move, waiting for the answer to come to him instead. He’d made a fool enough of himself to answer right away.


As the lady spun, she began to sing:


Little girl whose gifts are hidden
Child of light, whose flame is cloaked
Stories spill from you unbidden
Mischief by your heart is stoked
You who wander field and water
Hide your talent by a mask
For all know the Rover’s daughter
Mustn’t find her father’s past

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ganeff asked. “The only gift that Aura has is an overactive imagination that keeps getting her into trouble. That’s why I’m out looking for her… and what does Rogue Quince have to hide?”


But the lady just laughed and continued to weave.


Seek the Spinner, seek and find her
Guardian of half-wove dreams
She is with those who would mind her
Teaching her the way of things
Heed my song, ye brave young warrior
Lest thy heart is clove in twain
For Aura’s life is bound by thread now
Never to be freed again.


Life is light, and she the Spinner
Stories roll from off each finger


Wove in chord, in string, in thread
That cannot be undone again


The pen is mightier than the sword
The Tale has penned its lasting word.


Ganeff scowled. “Why do you speak only in riddles?” he demanded. “Are you trying to confuse me with your worthless songs? You have told me nothing.”


“Be still.” Creon commanded. “The Lady’s song is prophetic; you would be wise to heed her words, even if you lack the understanding of them.” He waved a hand and flickers of light immediately darted to it. He held it out for Ganeff to see. “Do you recognize her?”


Ganeff leaned closer to see it better. In the middle of the ball of light, there was a face. He recognized it at once.


“That’s Aura!” he shouted but Creon shook his head.


“It is not,” the Fae Lord said. “Look again.”


Ganeff peered at the picture again. It was Aura; he could recognize her face anywhere, but…


Something was slightly wrong with this picture, though the differences were so subtle that he hardly noticed at first. In this picture, the face looked older, more mature than Aura’s did. On yet a third glance he realized that it wasn’t Aura at all. The person in the picture had lips the perfect color and shape of a rose bud, and her thick hair was almost black rather than just dark brown, falling over her shoulder in curly torrents: Aura’s hair was straight.


And her eyes… the lady’s eyes were the most captivating part of the picture. Aura’s eyes were strange and beautiful, but they almost seemed dull in comparison with these. The eyes in the picture weren’t dark brown like so many other rovers’ eyes; they weren’t the color of emeralds, like the gypsy rovers from the north, nor were they the flashing brilliant blue color that made Aura’s eyes so mysterious. These eyes were Violet, a purple so pure that it was its own primary color. And deep within the purple irises, flecks of gold gilded the rims like fireflies caught in a net.


Ganeff had only seen a picture like this once before, and then, too, he had at first mistaken the girl for Aura. But he’d soon learned the truth.


“Th-that’s Aura’s Mother,” he stammered.

I Laughed So Hard, I Fell out of my Chair... In the Library! :D :D :D

Ok, a friend of mine just posted about this really, REALLY bad romance novel she started to read on her lunch break the other day.  Oh my goodness!  It was the funniest thing I've ever read!  Seriously.   I'm not one who usually points fingers at other people's work: normally I try very hard to find something good in just about anything, but this... this was BAD.  So very, very bad.

But oh so funny!

The only way you can know what I mean is by reading it for yourself, so click here to read the entire thing.

(warning: there is some profanity in this post: parents, you are cautioned.)

If there are any romance novelist out there reading this, please, please, PLEASE DO NOT base your book off of this lady's writings!  Unless you want the invisible monkeys of the terrible, horrible, extremely bad prose to hijack your keyboard forever.  :D  :D  :D

Transitions and What Makes them Good

Transitions are a tricky subject to tackle and one I’m having difficulties with right now, which is why I decided to write a post on the matter (go figure!). I’m working on one of my older pieces, titled “Eldrie” and I’m at a point where my characters have a sudden understanding that they are not just ordinary characters, but extraordinary ones.

Now, I admit, this transition is very popular in epic fantasy and its counter transition is just as well used (character comes into the story knowing that he’s extraordinary, and either finds out that he’s not as amazing as he at first thought, or else he uses his awesome powers to fight off evil forces… this transition is more popular with urban fantasy than with epic.) But let’s all face it; we read fantasy and Sci-fi because we like that sort of transition… and all the magical and futuristic baubles that tag along with it. We wouldn’t read it (or write it) if we didn’t.

The trick, however, is for a writer to make these transitions look new and appealing as if we were the first ones to think them up. And let me tell you now, it is NOT easy! There are no (or else very, very few) ideas out there that haven’t been tapped into before, and the same thing goes with transitions.

So what do you do when you find yourself stuck writing a transition that just doesn’t want to work?

Well, for shorter transitions such as scene or chapter changes, here is a tip from the all important literary agent:

First and foremost, do NOT describe weather.

Weather is a fine thing, and as writers we all want our readers to know what’s going on at all times, whether it’s raining, snowing, morning, or night. But agents have made it clear, they don’t like reading long descriptions of the weather or how brilliantly light or deeply dark it is outside unless it seriously affects the scene.

Let me be the first to admit, I am totally guilty of this.

To be honest, weather is an easy subject to use and it’s one of the first things a writer considers when trying to set a scene or start a new chapter. I don’t know how many times I’ve started a scene with “The night was dark” or “The sun rose... [fill in the rest of the sentence]”. Recently I’ve tried to go back and rewrite these transitions so that they fit the scene better.

Here’s a quick example. In the first excerpt, I’m trying to describe one of my villains to the MC who is seeing the creature for the first time. The setting is late at night in the MC’s front yard. What I’m trying to portray is sense of deep evil and dread, even though my MC has never seen or heard of the villain before. In this particular instance, the fact that it is dark out is very important, as my MC just woke up from a nightmare set in the black of night on a high cliff top.

Outside, the night was black. Clouds scuttled across the sky, hiding the stars from view.  A dark figure stood in the yard. Tibain figured it to be several feet taller than Dakore and it was completely black. Shadows darkened the ground around it and no moonlight fell where they were. No moonlight fell on the figure either; it repelled the light like an oil-skin repels water.

That was the original text. Did you catch the “black night” reference? Did you also catch how it countered the fact that the moon was out?

Well, recently I’ve gone back and rewritten the scene to seem more forbidding and dark.  I tried to be careful when choosing my words, and I was also careful to have the weather set the scene rather than hinder it. See if this sounds any better:

Tibain slid his dagger from under his mattress and eased himself out from beneath the covers. Keeping his movements as silent as possible, he crept over to the window and drew the shutters open. Clouds scuttled across the sky, hiding the stars from view. The moon’s ghostly light shone through them, piercing them with silver. The land lay beneath it, cast in a spectral glow.

A tall, dark figure stood beneath the oak tree. Moonlight splattered over the shoulders of its tattered black cloak, filtered through the branches above. Shadows darkened the ground around it, stretching towards it like errily reaching fingers.

In my personal opinion, I like the second version better. I cut out the “black night” reference, and instead made the fact that the moon was out seem almost more frightening than if it’d been hidden away. (or at least I tried to).

But there are other types of transitions too, and they are not so easily dealt with.  Like, for example, the one I was talking about earlier - you know, the one I'm having trouble taming. That one spans several chapters and covers several scenes.  My problem? I feel like I’m taking too long to get to the point.

So what do I do now, eh? Do I let it sit? Do I fall over my laptop and cry out of frustration? Do I rewrite it?

Actually, the first thing I did was go and look up possible solutions in “Novel Shortcuts” by Laura Whitcomb. (and no, I’m not being paid to advertise her book.) Seriously though, I’ve found it to be an immense help, and I suggest that every writer get a copy. My problem right now is that I feel like my transition comes too late in the story, so I flipped to chapter 9 in Ms. Whitcomb’s book and looked up “pace and structure”.

There it was, listed #2.

For copyright reasons, I will not actually quote Ms. Whitcomb’s book, but I will try to summarize what it said.

Basically it said:

If you think your novel is moving too slow, then pay attention to that feeling. It could mean that you have too many scenes that don’t really pertain to the actual plot, or maybe you just like to describe things in detail but you don’t need to. Try to cut out what you don’t need, including some scenes that aren’t as important as others. Cut back on your adjectives and adverbs and use them only when absolutely necessary; sometimes things can be described better without them. Then, if cutting things out doesn’t help, go back and look at the outline or rough draft: perhaps your problem isn’t in too many words, but in the flow of actions. If your characters actions don’t seem to flow correctly, go back and try to figure out what went wrong, then try to fix it. You might find that the problem get’s fixed by rearranging (or cutting) a few scenes to keep your reader’s turning pages. Also, read, read, read!!! Reading and analyzing transitions to see what made them work from some of your favorite books might help you realize what is going wrong with yours.

So that’s what I’ve been doing, and it’s already helped a lot. I’ve gone back and cut words (and a few scenes) and have started re-reading some books that I feel have a similar story voice as mine. (when reading someone else’s work to discover a problem in your own writing, I’ve found that it’s always best to choose something with a similar voice because the style I’m reading tends to slip into my writing style as well).

If anyone out there struggles with transitions as much as I do, I hope this post helps. Transitions aren’t easy, I know… believe me, I know! But they can be done and done well. It just takes time and determination, and before you know it your book will be reading smoothly again. :)

For Those Who Are Curious About "Song of the Daystar"

Well, I've had a couple people ask me just what Song of the Daystar is about.  So for those of you who are curious, I'm posting my hook.  (if you would like more, you can read the prologue on the page that says "Read the Prologue".  :D )  This book isn't published yet, but I'm hoping to get something going for it before the end of the year.  (also, if you do read the prologe, the cover art at the top of the page is just a stand in: something I threw together to associate my book with.)


King Morven has decreed that anyone who believes in the spiritual entity of Anahdor must be put to death. Forced to go underground with their beliefs, the Seven Elder's of Anahdor pray daily for their feedom, but when a stranger shows up in the dark of the night and passes them a mysterious stone before dying, they believe that their prayers may be answered.

Young Curron holds fast to his belief in childhood heroes, even if the world outside Fort Gallant is strange to him.  But when a cloaked messenger arives with a summons for him from the mythical Elder's of Anahdor, Curron is shocked.   He is given the Daystar, an ancient and magical stone whose power is governed by faith, and told he must convince the king to rescind his decree or the followers of Anahdor will be doomed.  With the threat of the King's guard close on his heals, Curron finds his own faith tested as he fights for the lives of the Elders as well as his own.




So, that's my hook.  If you would like to read the first chapter, I've posted it on the Christain Fantasy Forum; you can find a link to this on my blog.  I hope you enjoy it!  :)


Song of the Daystar by Nichole J. White is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.