Comfort in Numbers

The Formatting of Part Two has commenced.  I opened up the file and started in on it, and just as I was getting ready to head off to bed, I was through with the chapter.  The next awaits me tonight, and I’m going to try and burn through three or four this weekend.  My intention is to get through as much of Part Two before next Monday, then get into Part Three next week, and try and finish up as much of Her Demonic Majesty before the end of the month.

No promises, but if all goes well, I could have the final version heading up through Smashword’s Meat Grinder on 4 May–and not because of any “The Forth Be With You” shite, because that is shite, but but because that would be the first Saturday where I’ll have time to send it up after I finish with the formatting.  If there are issues during the upload, I’ll have the opportunity to fix the problems and send it up again.  And again, if necessary.  But if I get up to Smashwords okay, then I can upload to Amazon as well the same day.

So the first weekend in May is my target publication date.  If it slips–hey, stuff happens.  Oh, and just so you know–I have a second cover!  Just look over to the right and you’ll see it . . .  So the plan now is to use one on Smashwords/Barns, and the other on Amazon, and then after a few months switch them.  Or, maybe not.  Maybe I’ll do like Marvel, and offer variant covers, so if you want them you have to buy everything.  Before you know it, I’m offering the equivalent of the copies of Firestarter with the asbestos covers that once sold for $250.  Not sure how that’s gonna work with ebooks, though . . . maybe that’s where I get the hard copies of the books printed . . .

There is a strange sense here, watching it all come together so quickly.  A month back I was in the doldrums, feeling as if I was getting nowhere fast.  I’d been on Suggestive Amusements since the end of December, and the novel was crawling to an end–or so it felt to me.  I was speaking with a friend the other night, and in discussing my publishing plans this year, I said something along the lines of, “I don’t feel I’m writing now as much as I did last year.”  They asked about what I’d done, and I replied, “I did that novel, that’s about seventy-two thousand words; and I’ve done about seventy thousand words in the blog . . . add a couple of articles, and I’ve written about a hundred and fifty thousand words since the start of last December.”

There was a slight pause, and then came their reply:  ”What?  You think you’re not writing anything?  Are you kidding?”

Being so close to the center of the storm, you lose track of what’s going on around you.  Yeah, I know there are some who say blogging isn’t writing, but then, what is it?  Nose picking?  Here’s what it is:  it’s a continuation of the habit that is writing every day.  You need an idea, you need to get it down, you are writing.  And then novel–enough said.  It’s figuring out characters and creating a story and making sure your plot doesn’t fall apart on you.  It’s work.  It’s a lot of work.

And even when you think you’re slacking, you’re probably just kicking yourself for no reason.  As I’ve said, writers are their own worst critics, and this is the pudding full of proof.

So keep on keeping, I say.  Set your goals and work them.  And when you think you’re falling behind–check your data first.

You’ll likely be surprised.

Little Miss Hellspawn

So ya, thought ya, might like to go to the show.  To feel that warm thrill of confusion, that space cadet glow.  I’ve got some bad news for you sunshine, Cass isn’t well, she stayed back at the hotel, and they sent me along as a surrogate hack, I’ll find all the jerks and toss them out on their cans!

Okay, so I’m not gonna go all In the Flesh on you today; I couldn’t do that because I’m too nice a person.  But I’ve found instances, in my life, when I should turn around and become the raging bitch that some people think I am.  Which I’m not–you gotta trust me on this one.

There was one incident where I discovered someone had entered my author’s page and decided to spam it with a link about weight loss.  Yeah, that’s going to make me happy, she sarcastically said, referring to the spam, not link to some hoodoo weight loss scam.  For the first time since the author’s page went up, I had to pull out the Ban Hammer of the Gods, and smite his butt back to the woodwork.  I don’t stand for one to try and foster their crap upon myself and others, and I deal with it swiftly.

Then there was there other, more puzzling incident . . . needless to say, someone took umbrage with something I said, freaked out like a mofo, severed all links with me, and left me a semi-nasty message in the wake of their departure.  Oh, goodie!  Another dissatisfied customer who gives me no explanation for why they’re upset–they just wanna scream, “You’re an ass!” and leave it at that.

I had something like happen about eight, nine months back.  Someone from one of my writer groups started following this blog, and after a week they left a message:  ”This isn’t just about writing?”  Sorry about that, Tex, but I’ve been known to roll off and start rambling about things that are non-writing related, like now.  Some of it is entertaining, and some . . . well, probably not so much, but I always set out to make it entertaining.

A few days later the person left a very nasty comment, something along the lines of, “I’ve try to help you, but you’re decided to hang with the kids at the cool table in the lunch room!” which was about as nutty as it gets.  I didn’t think anything about it until he posted nearly the same message in a writer’s group on Facebook, and at that point I sicced Mjolnir on his ass and put an end to intrusion into my life.  (As a side note I was told that he likewise pissed off other people in the same group with the same, “I’m trying to help you, don’t you get it, you idiot?”  Apparently they didn’t, and he eventually went away.)

I’m not above criticism; being that I’m in this writing game, it’s going to come, and some of it won’t be pretty.  Sometimes it’s going to take a personal turn, because for many people it’s easier to go for the ad hominem than to get into a well-constructed argument that might find them having large chunks of their ass being handed back to them.

But to throw out a, “I’m not going to read you anymore ’cause you’re a bastard!” without specifying the extent of my bastardy–please, show me the courtesy of at least telling me why I’m such a bitch before you call me one and slam the door.

I promise, this hellspawn will listen to you.

I might even write about it later . . .

Cascading Flakes of Persistence

Before coming to the Breakfast Place (which some of you Dear Readers know because you’re seen the name here before) there was a discussion with the Kidlette.  She’s someone who makes you proud:  honor student, black belt, artist.  She knows how to do things, and she’s only thirteen.

However, the last report card was not her shinning moment.  For only the second time she got a C, and it was a low C, and that isn’t good news in our house.  Now, I know how to hurt her, how to twist the screw so that if I really want to punish her, I can make it real.  I don’t need to do anything physical, ’cause . . . hey, man, I’m a writer, back off.  I know all the ways.

I told her, “You gotta do the things you need to do first, then the things you want to do right after.”  She loves her art, she loves chatting with people.  She get hung up on a math problem, and she get into a panic, because she’s afraid to ask for help.  I know that feeling, because I do the same.

But I fessed up to her:  it’s hard doing that, because things get in the way.  She has to do her school and homework, and it doesn’t leave a lot of time for friends and art.  I’m up for nearly twelve hours before I’m able to come home, eat, and get ready to do a little writing.  But it’s not always that easy.  I felt the cold coming back, then it was just being plain-ass tired, then it was wanting to speak with someone online, because I have almost no contact with people, and every little bit helps.

This week cut into the writing.  I only wrote two out of the five previous days, and I feel bad.

It’s all the bad habits coming back to haunt me, to toy with me, to say, “Yeah, you’re wasting your time with this writing shit.  It’s going nowhere fast, so why don’t you surf the Internet for Hello Kitty porn?”  (Yes, it does exist.  Trust me.)  And I hate myself for listening, because in all the times I have in the past I’ve walked away from writing for a while, and just sort of . . . floundered.

That was Bad Cassie, and I don’t like being Bad Cassie, because Bad Cassie has nothing in her life.  The writing is a way to other things, but she wants instant satisfaction.  She wants to see something for her efforts, and she wants them now.

The Muse told her a couple of weeks ago, “You gotta be patient.  You’re new; people don’t know you.  It’s not going to come overnight.”  I do know this, and the logical part of my brain reminds me that it’s a very true statement.  Sometimes, however, you wanna chuck Logic right off the train and party down with Desire (you’ll know her:  she’s the Woman with a Dragon Tattoo, and she will rock your world), and get all the stuff you think is coming to you.

I told the Kidlette, “It’s all about time management.”  It’s true:  it’s putting one bit of shit in front of the other, and ticking it off the list.  I have thing to do today.  There is my other blog, which I haven’t spoken on in a bit, and my story.  I’m behind on my Blender, and I have some friends I wanna hang with today.

A lot on the plate–but there is all day ahead.

It’s all doable . . .

Sort of Quiet On the Writing Front

Crazy weekends leading to crazy things.  I caught up on sleep, I did a lot of research . . . I wrote my butt off.  Well, not really.  The butt is still there.  But the fingers got a work out.

It’s always the same:  planing, plotting, set up, and even writing a story or two here and there.  Most of the weekend involved getting the NaNo Novel 2012 set up and ready to go come Zero Hero, but I also found time to write the next chapter in my four-part Halloween story I’m doing over on Storytime Trysts.  It’s easy to find my story:  it’s the one with the title no one can pronounce.

I just check the Scrivener file on this story, and right now I’ve a word count of six thousand, four hundred and thirty.  If I write another two thousand words–which isn’t out of the question–I’ll finish up around eighty-four hundred words.  This could end up becoming my shortest story ever, and still not be a “real” short story.  I’ll cut the difference and call it a short story, because who’s going to argue?

At this point I have nothing to work one, save the development for NaNo.  Which is a good thing, because I don’t want to work on another project at this point.  I did a lot of little projects last year during NaNoWriMo, and while I’ll continue blogging here during the month of November (because who doesn’t want to see someone describing what it’s like to lose one’s mind as they strive to achieve something mere mortal only dream about), I won’t do anything else.  No stories, no guest blogging, no articles.

Just me and my novel.  And the pain that will likely set up somewhere between my eyes.

I have my goals set.  I know what I’m going to write, more or less.  Now, bring on November!

Right.  I feel my body clench ever time I look at a calendar.

NaNo is not for the faint of heart.  You have to, as Chuck Wendig says so ungentlemanly says, “Get to scribbling, motherfucker.”  I’m feeling that, in order to get this novel done the right way, I’m going to need to cut myself off from most of the Internet.  Just reach out and talk to those parts of The Matrix that will bring me help and hope, and screw everything else that does little more than suck at my brain.

What I need:  Google, Wikipedia, Maps, NaNoWriMo page.  What I don’t need:  Facebook, Facebook, Facebook . . . You hear me?  I should just delete that shit off my computer.  Simply put, social media isn’t all that sociable.  It’s too much of a distraction.

Oh, sure, I might check out the NaNoWriMo group and laugh at the members who spend half the day going, “Hey, who’s sprinting?  I need to write 1,000 words–LETS SPRINT!”  Or, you could, you know, just write.  You know?  Fingers on the keyboard, words appear on the screen?  It’s like magic!

It’s also your job.

Writing, despite what some might say, is work.  It’s a lot of work.  You can take pleasure from it, or you can spend a few minutes every hour cursing the day you decided to listen to the voices inside your head.  But if you think you can write fifty thousand words in thirty days and nights of insanity by spending most of the day believing you’re the Tony Stark of the NaNo world, summoning Jennifer and Black Widow and Crimson Witch to help you get that novel out of your mind and onto the page, you’re never gonna get done.

Plant butt in chair, flip on whatever gets the creative juice flowing, and write, baby, write.

Push that front, ’cause it ain’t gonna push itself.

Priming the NaNo Pump

Since I’ll be engaged in the insanity known as NaNoWriMo, I’ve done a lot of thinking about what I’m going to write.  And like last year, I’ll start getting my research together, and my Scrivener documents all set, before I type the first word.

Today I found this post about preparing for NaNo on the Roz Morris’ blog, Nail Your Novel.  If this is your first time on the NaNo Crazy Train, or your tenth, reading the post is worth your while, because you never know if there is something more you can do to make your November experience a good one.

And Roz has a great blog, so it does behoove you to follow her.

Quintessential

First there was my 100^th post, then my 200^th, then came the 300^th . . . what happened to post four hundred?  Does anyone really give a shit?

Here we are, five hundred posts down, and I’m writing this at 10:02 PM, on a Friday night, after a long day of editing.  Really:  about ten thousand words were read and changed, removed, or add, and three chapters to Her Demonic Majesty look far better than how they started.  I also blogged this morning about my crazy dreams, and edited a blog post for a friend.

Sounds like something a writer would do, doesn’t it?

In my 200^th post–which came on the last day of 2011–I said there were a lot of things I wanted.  I started with a lot of hope, and not a few life changes.  By the beginning April, when post three hundred was written, I was waxing semi-poetically about what I’d done, what were I felt I was in my life, and where I thought I hoped I would go.

I’d have probably been better of waxing my car, because the summer of 2012 was one for the Book of Strangeness.

I was sick for two months.  I had a mental breakdown that really threatened to turn serious–probably not as serious as it might have seemed to some, but trust me:  there were a few moment when I came damn close to checking myself into a “facility” for a few weeks because I didn’t know what I might do.

Through all that I wrote.  I submitted work.  I still have one work hanging in limbo, and another that was outright rejected–the rejection coming right at the start of my breakdown.

I was also in the middle of a story that, as much as I wanted to get it written, was depressing me.  Maybe it was the material, maybe it was my state of mind–maybe it was both.  No matter:  I finished it, another short novel under my belt waiting for the Editing Fairy to come along and kick my butt.

But something has changed in the last six weeks.  Call it another outlook on life; call it finally starting to change things around; call it whatever the hell you’d like.  But I feel different.  There was a moment, probably right at the end of July, beginning of August, where I was about to say screw it and do what every other “burgeoning writer” does–stop.

Just freakin’ stop.

I was going to shut down the blog, shut down writing, kicked it all to the curb–kill my dream, as Jim Butcher called it.  Crawl into a hole and let things be.

I didn’t.  Really, I couldn’t.

There was a drive, a long drive back to The Undisclosed Location, where I knew that if I killed my dream, there wasn’t much of a point of going on with anything.  I didn’t though.  Despite the depression and the suicidal thoughts that seem to hang around like angry flies buzzing around some roadkill festering in the summer sun, I couldn’t do this last thing.

I couldn’t do it, because it wasn’t right.  And because my Muse would have haunted my ass, even in whatever passes for an afterlife.

I changed.  Work sucks, but so what?  I’m dealing.  Writing is hard:  tell me something new.  Finding time to do all this shit–I’ve already given my views on that, and I’m sticking to it.

I’m back writing–well, editing my butt off, actually.  I’m going to submit Her Demonic Majesty and not look back.  If it’s accepted, fantastic.  If not, I’ll look again.  And again.

And write more, and send it out.  Because that really is my dream, and killing the dream is the same as killing myself, and damned if I’m ready for that.

There’s too much happening to me these days.  Some is good, some is bad, and some goes right back to when I said 2012 was going to be a year of change.  Yeah, baby, change is coming.  New feeling, new attitudes, maybe even a new life.

Regardless, the dream continues.  I’ve spent most of my life hiding, worried, scared, and unable to do what I wanted to do.  I’m moving on; the hell with the old.  I ain’t got time to be sad, and though I might get depressed, I know I’ll come back out–eventually.

I have to.

I’ve got another five hundred posts to write, don’t you know?

See you when that happens.

Writing to Stand Still

It always seems like I have to say.  That’s why I have a blog; so I can come on here and opine about things that happen to be rolling about in my brain.  And, no:  I don’t expected to have that brain eaten during the zombie apocalypse, because there is nothing dumber than a  zombie apocalypse.

I’m sorta not writing at the moment, because I needed a break.  And I didn’t have anything to say.  Yeah, I’ve got ideas, but I have no idea how to get those stories going.  At the moment I have more that needs a good edit than the need to add to that slush pile, and that’s what I’m doing.

But what do you do when you have nothing to say?

I’m a great one for writing every day.  I’ve said on many occasions that you should write every day, even if it’s only a few hundred words.  Get down to your favorite keyboard–be it word processor, computer, or typewriter–and crank out some wordage.  It doesn’t have to be good; it doesn’t even have to be coherent.  One writer, long ago, said he would type out grocery lists if he had troubling getting started on a story.

Then you have those who take the other approach.  William Gibson has stated that when he’s starting a novel, he’ll sit and start typing, but if it feels as if nothing’s coming that’s worthwhile, he walks away from the story for the day.  He says there’s nothing wrong with that, because some days you have no creative spark; the words won’t come, and you can’t force them into any sort of form that makes sense.

Though I don’t want to agree with him, he is right.  Sometimes that spark just isn’t there, that no matter what tricks you use to put a story together, it just ain’t working for you.  Whatever is coming out is crap, and the more you force it, the more crap appears.  And the more crap you have on the page, the more crap you have to rewrite during your edit.

Now, does Gibson walk away completely?  Sometimes.  He says there are times when he’ll head out and do something that he’s meant to do for a while, but most of the time he’ll be at the computer doing–here it comes–research.  He’ll look thinks up; he’ll read articles; he’ll go over his notes.  After all, writing is his job, and when you’re not writing, you’re doing something to help support that gig.  You’re not on Facebook posting memes that say, “Hey, you should be writing!”, because what’s dumber than a so-called writer telling other writers they should be writing, and not be goofing off on Facebook?

I’m certain Philosoraptor would have something to say about that.

Sometimes it’s a good thing to walk away.  There are times where you need to walk away–just doing make it a habit.  If you’re creative, you need to work that creativity, and if you don’t let you creativity stretch its legs, it’s gonna cramp up and whimper with pain.

There’s nothing sadder than your creativity in pain.  Just listen–

You’ll hear it asking to be let out.

Affirmations of Real

Yesterday is what I used to call a mental health day.  Which is to say, I needed to get away from what I was doing, and do something else.

The sleeping issues have been piling up of late, and Monday and Tuesday nights were particularly horrid.  Yesterday morning I finally realized that I couldn’t work in a semi-zombie condition, so I called off from work and went back to bed.

Then I slept until about 9 AM.

When I finally crawled out of bed I realized I was in a position where I didn’t have to do anything.  Most of the time I have things planed out; I know, when I get up, what I need to do for the day.  Yesterday–no, there was no plan.  I could do anything I wanted.  Anything that struck my fancy was fair game.

It was a wonderful feeling, knowing I didn’t have anything to do.  So I did a few things, ran around, did some shopping–all things that I didn’t have to do, but did anyway.

Oh, and I did my blog post for the day.

I’ve been slacking from writing for the last few weeks.  Since finishing Diners at the Memory’s End, I haven’t started on anything new.  I’ve had ideas, yes, and I’ve put those ideas in a file so I don’t forget them, but beyond the chapter a week I’m doing on another blog for my story Replacements, I’ve not sat down and started anything that’s required my attention every day of the week.  Yes, I’m doing a final edit on Echoes, but there isn’t a work in progress in progress.

The summer burned me out–there’s no doubting that.  A lot of things hit at the same time, and I wasn’t doing a very good job dealing with anything.  A month ago I decided that I need to do things for me, that I need to stop worrying about what I’m doing for others, and think about what I’m doing for me.

I need to see to it that I’m good, because if I’m not good for myself, then I’m no good to anyone else.

I’m still writing every day.  Even if I don’t have a work in progress, I have the blog.  If nothing else, I get my five hundred words a day in here, and post it around the Internet.  Writing every day is one discipline I keep to, because the moment you give up writing, you start killing your dream.  My dreams are important, and I want them to become more than dreams.  So I continue with the writing, even if it’s here.

Before you know it, however, there’ll be a work in progress, because the Muse won’t allow me to remain idle for long.  She keeps me going, but she also knows that if I’m going to write, I’ve got to be well.  I’ve got to be good to myself.

Can’t stay in ruts; can’t keep beating myself up; can’t refuse to do good things for my own well being.

Keep it real, and real will keeping make nice for you.

Never Missing the Scene

Today I’m over with Allison Bruning, discussing scenes removed from our works, and how we do it–and how it makes us feel.  Come on over and enjoy the moment.

 

 

Kill Me, My Darlings

Today is Guest Post Day, and who better to have come over and guest than Bruce Blake, a most entertaining gentleman who has graced these pages before.  So sit back and listen closely while he gives us a little bit of his writing knowledge.

Take it away, Bruce.

 

 

On Murder and Deletions

 

Kill your darlings.

That darling little piece of writing advice is attributed to William Faulkner, author of Absalom, Absalom!, As I Lay Dying, The Sound and the Fury, and many others. It may be derivative from some other writer’s advice, and it has certainly been adopted by Stephen King, who tends to beat it to death (though why hands that out as advice in the midst of writing 1000+ page novels is a mystery). What it refers to, for those who may be uninitiated into our little band of serial killers, is not letting your own love of your writing stop you from cutting a word, sentence, scene, chapter, etc, which is not necessary to your novel.

Our assignment this week for the blog tour is to share with you a deletion. When I first began thinking about this, I was concerned. It is not often I delete whole chunks of a manuscript. Words, sentences, sometimes paragraphs, to be sure, but rarely more than that. How was I going to find a few sentences here and there to cobble together for my post? And then I remembered my current work in progress.

You forgot your work in progress, Bruce? Well, no, not exactly. The first book that makes up my four part epic fantasy, Khirro’s Journey, was the first novel I wrote and I finished the first draft about six years ago (don’t hold it against me; I’ve written and published two novels in the meantime and the first two books of the Journey have made it to draft number 11).

After I finished the first book, Blood of the King, I did a couple of edits, then passed it off to my beta readers. They wanted me to change the beginning. “The beginning?” I cried. “But that sets the stage. It introduces the characters! How can I cut the beginning?” The debate raged and, after much arguing, pouting and probably a few tears, I ended up chopping off the first thirty pages of the book.

You heard me…thirty pages.

I’m not going to reprint them all here, but I will give you a taste, and then I’ll let you in on why I ended up making the cut. Please bear in mind, these words never made it to the final edit, and I didn’t try to spruce them up for this post, so forgive any errors in spelling, grammar or good taste.

Without further ado, the never-to-be-seen-anywhere-but-here former opening of Blood of the King.

 

Men boiled over the land bridge, swarming onto the salt flats like so many maggots spilling from a burst corpse.  Wavering sheets of heat radiated from the sun hardened land, twisting and distorting the army into unearthly shapes.

“The heat is in our favor,” Braymon said leaning against a merlon.  Even the gentle sea breeze playing across his face gave no respite from the summer’s swelter.  “But the parched flats will make for an easy march.”

Neither of the men standing behind him said anything, allowing their king to ruminate aloud on the invaders who had been seeping into his kingdom for the better part of six hours.  If he wanted their input, he would ask for it.

“I played on these plains as a child,” Braymon said wistfully.  “I learned to swim in the Bay of Tears.  Back then, the fortress was a place to be explored, soldier was a game to be played.  How things have changed.” Sunlight flashed on shields and armor, melding the distant army into a blurred, shimmering mass.  “How many do you think, Rudric?”

“Thousands, my liege,” Rudric replied from his place at the king’s left. Braymon didn’t look at him as he spoke, instead keeping his eyes on the horde encroaching on his kingdom.

“Always trying to lift my spirits Rudric.  Thank you,” the king said with an unenthusiastic chuckle.  “But I should think they are more tens of thousands.  What do you think, Therrador?”

“At least, my king.  They are many, but the fortress is strong.”

Braymon looked to the sun in the east climbing higher into the sky.  Below, the Sea of Linghala sparkled, waves rolling gently shoreward, indifferently chasing the enemy onto the plains.  Would he ever dip a toe into its bracing waters again?  Only time would tell. He turned and put a hand on Rudric’s shoulder, bare flesh slapping against metal armor; it was hot to the touch.

“A day—maybe two, but no longer—and they will fall upon us; I’d wager it. Have the men ready by nightfall.  Our enemy doesn’t conceal their intent, so we best give them the courtesy of a fight they won’t soon forget.  There’s bloody work ahead of us.  Go and make ready, Rudric.”

The knight bowed shallowly at the waist before taking his leave. Braymon turned back to the plains stretching out from the foot of the Isthmus Fortress’s massive wall.  Therrador stepped up beside him.

Atop the wall, they were more than a hundred feet above the plains and, on a clear day like today, could see for leagues upon leagues.  Built nearly a thousand years before, the fortress wall was some forty feet thick, its surface scarred by battles fought centuries ago. Braymon traced his finger along the jagged corner of the merlon where a piece had been knocked free by an enemy catapult the Gods alone knew how long ago.

“It’s been many seasons since this wall was last called upon to keep out the enemy,” the king said.  He pushed at a crack in the stone and a piece came away in his hand.  He turned it over in his fingers, examining it as though he were trying to learn its story.  “I had hoped many more would come and go before it was tested again.”

“As we all did, my king.  But the wall will hold; it need not prove its mettle often to repel those dogs.”

Braymon looked at the man—his friend of more than two decades.  All those years had changed his looks only little—a few strands of gray showed in the braid of his beard and his short black hair, his naturally dark complexion was showing more wear.  Still, his features gave way little of the ferocity with which Braymon had seen Therrador fight.  But for the scar over is right eye, one might mistakenly think he had held the role of statesman and adviser all his life, rather having grown into it alongside Braymon’s rule.  Many times had the king felt relieved and thankful Therrador was on his side.

“It’s not the strength of the wall which burdens my thoughts, Therrador,” Braymon said.  He tossed the piece of stone absently over the crenellations, sending it hurtling to the ground too far below for them to hear it land.  “It’s been nearly twenty summers since Erechania has seen anything more than skirmishes.  The warriors who fought beside us all those years ago are old and tired, or long since gone to the fields of the dead.  Too many of our soldiers have never loosed an arrow but at a target nor swung their swords for more than practice.”

Therrador nodded, meeting Braymon’s gaze.  “You’re right, your majesty, but they are well trained.  And the soldiers of Erechania couldn’t ask for a better leader.”

“Hmph.” Braymon returned to surveying the enemy as they continued to funnel from the land bridge, filling the distant flats like sand in an hourglass.

How appropriate, he thought.  For soon time will run out.

Waves on the Bay of Tears rolled on, mindless of human indulgences like war and greed, or of man himself.  No matter what came to pass, the sea would go on forever; blood would wash away, the dead would rot and decay and disappear, but the waves would roll ever on.  So many years had passed since Braymon had frolicked on those waves, equally as heedless to the follies of men.  So much death had happened since then, and there was still more to come.  Soon the plains would be stained red, waiting for the sea and the rains to wash them clean.  And the waves would continue.

 

 In the 28 pages that follow, we meet the main character, Khirro, and see him interact with others as the fortress is prepared for siege. He’s a farmer who makes an inept soldier (sorry for the cliche, but the truth is, in a medieval-style society, most of the citizens were farmers by necessity) who eventually finds himself fighting off invaders at the king’s side. At the end of the 30 pages, Khirro has been incapacitated and King Braymon is seemingly killed.

There is much I liked in these pages: the negative imagery of the men invading like maggots from a corpse; the powerful king’s wistful remembrances; and later, Khirro’s relationship with some of his fellow soldiers. So why cut it? Three reason:

1. King Braymon dies on page 30 and does not appear anywhere in the book again, so why spend a bunch of time building his character? That can be done through other characters.
2. Too much time spent on description, not enough action. If you’ve read  my other books, you know I like to keep description to a minimum. In my opinion, the reader should create the world with only a little direction from me.
3. The characters Khirro interacts with never show up again in the book, so they also became wasted words. Other characters and situations later in the story are more than enough to reveal and build Khirro’s character.

So where does the book start? With Braymon’s death and Khirro almost immediately being dragged into a magical plot to save the kingdom. Instead of 30 pages of character building, the story begins in media res. And I think it has made a stronger book. Watch for book 1 of Khirro’s Journey to be released in September.

One of Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Good Writing is “try not to write the parts that people tend not to read”. Have you ever read a book and wondered why a scene was there? Do you skip parts of books? Did you skip to the bottom of this blog post?

I hope not.

 

Biography

Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don’t take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.

Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn’t really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the “u” out of words like “colour” and “neighbour” then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.

Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn’t until five years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, “Another Man’s Shoes” was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, “Yardwork”, was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, “On Unfaithful Wings”, was published to Kindle in Dec., 2011. The second Icarus Fell novel, “All Who Wander Are Lost”, was released in July, 2012, and the first book in the four-part “Khirro’s Journey” epic fantasy is due in September, 2012. He has plans for at least three more Icarus novels, several stand alones, and a possible YA fantasy co-written with his eleven-year-old daughter.

 

On Unfaithful Wings

I was alive, then I was dead, now I’m stuck somewhere in between.

My name is Icarus Fell. I am a harvester.

The archangel Michael brought me back to collect souls and help them on their way to Heaven–that’s what a harvester does. If I get enough of them before the bad guys do–if I do a good job–I can have my life back. Now people I knew in life are dying, killed by a murderer’s knife, their bodies defiled, and the cops think I’m the killer.

I’m not, but I think I know who is.

But how does a dead man, a man who no longer exists, stop a psycho? I’m not sure, but I’m going to stop him before everyone I know is dead.

I have to stop him before he gets to my son.

 

 

On Unfaithful Wings

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Pick Up the Projects

Yes, it’s that time again, kiddies.  This is the point where I find myself taking on way too much stuff, and spending my weekends writing like a madperson.

Allow me to explain.

My story Replacements—which I’m writing on another blog, but you can see the latest entry here—is going well.  It’s one of the few I’ve tried where I sit down and just write.  Well, for me, “just write” is a bit of a misnomer, because I’m thinking about where I’m going with it, and I’ve already figured out the ending.  I think.  We’ll see.

It’s actually fun to write, because I don’t feel any pressure to get this done—other than the deadlines I’ve had imposed upon getting each chapter posted.  Other than that, there’s no pressure, because I don’t know if I’ll ever publish this.  Oh, well:  who am I kidding?  This would be a good one for a quick self publishing book.  It might even be short enough to be considered a—gasp!—short story.  I don’t know; I haven’t checked the word count.  That’s how little I’m worrying.  I’m only writing here, folks.

There is an issue, however:  I did say I’d have my normal Monday entry in on time, which means I gotta boogie this weekend to get it written.

Then there’s the blog.  I’ve been getting the entries out a little late these days.  Not late as in, “I’m doing Monday’s on Wednesday,” but late as in, “Rather than write at five in the morning, I’d working at one in the afternoon.”  This was how I used to do it, last year, when I started blogging.  Then I decided I’d write first thing in the morning.  Why?  Because I was up, and I’m a bit crazy.

These days I’m mucho tired in the mornings.  I’m trying to catch up on my sleep, and while that is happening slowly, and I’m starting to feel less worn out during the day, it does mean I’m not rising and shining early enough to whip out my posts as I have done most of this year.

It feels as if I have more energy in the afternoon, and that means I can write with a bit more speed than I was showing during my early morning sojourns.  There is always the matter of what I’m going to write, but that’s an issue every write faces, and the time of day plays a small part of what you want to say.

Unless you’re brain dead; then it’s a problem.

Also . . . article time!  Not only am I on a blog tour, and writing a blog, and writing a story, but I promised someone I’d get them an article this week.  What on?  Hummm.  I had an idea a few weeks ago, but now I’m thinking of something else that ties in with something I was dreaming up last night . . .

What will I write?  There’s a third option that I came up with this morning, and I might give that a shot, but—

Hell, I don’t know.  I’ll figure it out tomorrow, once I’ve had a chance to get out of work, and drive home, and relax, and sleep.

You know:  when I get to my writing.

Super Questions From the Lounge

Today I’ve opened the Interview Lounge, and today I have author Allison Bruning hanging with me today.  I’ve a few questions for her, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the conversation.

 

When did you begin writing?

I started writing when I was in Kindergarten. I was so excited when I wrote my first story that I showed it to my grandmother. She saw the potential I had and encouraged me throughout my schooling to create books then read them to her.

What was the first story you wrote?

I can’t recall. I started writing poetry, moved into prose then into short stories. By the time I was in High School I was writing screenplays. In college, I went back to poetry and short stories. I began my first novel six years ago.

When did you first think, “Whoa, I’m really a writer”?  Or have you not yet had that epiphany?

I’m staring to realize the talent I have. I’ve had people tell me that I am but it has been hard to believe it myself because I am too hard on myself. Recently, since I began Graduate School, I have had the epiphany that I am a writer. Not only a writer but one that can straddle the fine line between the entertainment business and literary sides.

Why did you start blogging?

Last year.

Tell me something interesting about your blog that you’ve never made public before.

My first few posts are all over the place because I never quite understood what blogging was all about. It wasn’t until I hired Tasha Turner and she explained it to me that I was able to comprehend what blogging was supposed to do.

Tell us about your current project.

I am currently in the process of writing a short ghost story that takes place outside of Fort Davis, Texas. It’s loosely based on a local legend from the area.

Who is your favorite character in (name of your current story here), and why is that?

I just love Doctor Alexander James McGillpatrick Turner of Calico. He was so fun to write. Although he’s a secondary character he is a very complex man with inner demons of his past that he has to work out.

Where is your favorite place to write?

My dining room. I have a nice round table in a small room with a window. I love to look out the window periodically when I write.

Have you ever fallen in love with a fictional character, and if so, whom?

If I could I would marry Little Owl from Calico in a heart beat.

What is the best story you’ve ever read?

The inheritance cycle – all of the books

I’m in the  middle of the Hunger Games. Usually I don’t read 1^st person stories but these are really sticking to me.

What is the worst story you’ve ever read?

War of the Worlds by HG Wells

When your story gets made into a movie, (1) who do you want to play the main character?  (2)  Who do you think will actually play that part?

I would love to see Taylor Swift as Calico

And Michael Spears as Little Owl.

What story do you really want to write, and why?

I have so many! Where can I begin? I like to write the untold stories from history, especially ones that have strong female leads.

What does your muse look like?

Depends on the story I am writing on. She tends to change form based on the time period. I’m really attracted to the Grecian era and Native Americans.

What is your favorite word?

I tend to write really a lot, really I do.

Lastly, if you could, for one day, live anywhere as anyone, where and whom would that be?

I would want to be Pocahontas. She was such a strong woman and she showed the Europeans that not all native people are bad.

 

About Allison Bruning:

The Executive Director of the Kentucky Young Writers Connection, a non-profit agency of writers who promote young authors throughout the state of Kentucky. Allison originally hails from Marion, Ohio. Her father, Roland Irving Bruning, was the son of German immigrants who came to the United States at the turn of the 20th century. Her mother’s family had been in the United States since the 17th century. Allison is a member of the Peter Foree Chapter of the Daughters of American Revolution. Her linage traces to Private Reuben Messenger of Connecticut. Her educational background includes a BA in Theater Arts with a minor in Anthropology and a Texas Elementary Teaching certificate. Both acquired at Sul Ross State University in Alpine, Texas. Allison received National Honor Society memberships in both Theater Arts and Communication. Allison was also honored her sophomore year with admission into the All American Scholars register. She holds graduate hours in Cultural Anthropology and Education. In 2007 she was named Who’s Who Among America’s Educators. She is also the recipient of the Girl Scout Silver and Gold Awards.

Allison lives with her husband in Kentucky.  Calico is book one from the series, Children of the Shawnee. She is currently working on the sequel, Rose.  She is also working on another series, The Secret Heritage, which traces the life of her great great grandmother at the turn of the 20th century in Ohio. Allison’s interest includes Ohio Valley history, anthropology, travel, culture, history, camping, hiking, backpacking, spending time with her family and genealogy. Her genres include historical fiction, paranormal, romance, and suspense.

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