Writing Wibbles

If you haven’t seen the progress bars to the right of this text, check it out. Especially check out that top one, for Lost in Nightwalk. Yup, I wrapped it up Monday night! I wrote a little shell script, with some embedded awk, to generate that set of bars. It reads a text file and spits out the HTML, which I paste into the sidebar.

With that safely marinating for now, I finally get to breathe easy. There was an entire week that I didn’t touch it, but I got unstuck in time for the three-day weekend and made the most of it.

You know what that means, right? On to the next thing! Besides the stories listed in the sidebar, I have a couple others going. I’ll add them once I send Magic App Store and Marginalia to beta readers (at which point, I’ll remove them from the list). Speaking of which, I have two readers lined up for the former, and would like to get one or two more. I need three or four for the latter. Any volunteers? They’re short stores, 18K and 15K respectively, so they won’t take long.

Oh, and I’ve entered the Fantasy Cover Wars round for this month on Masquerade Crew. Follow the link and vote for Into the Icebound and one of the others, and remember to do it every day this month! As you might remember, The Sorcerer’s Daughter did very well in March—won by a commanding margin, in fact—so I’m hoping for a similar outcome this time.

If it’s reviews you’re looking for, it recently got 5 Smiling Frodos on Frodo’s Blog of Randomness!

I owe some people some book reviews, so I ’m off to write those. Until next time…

Taking a Dive

Daughter Dearest has been living in one of the rental trailers below the father-in-law’s place for the last couple months. I haven’t said much about it, because… well yeah, she left the nest, but it’s the same tree. She has a roommate, whom we’ll call Roomie. I can’t think of a more suitable blog-name that doesn’t insult what little intelligence she has (oops, I did it anyway). But I digress.

So, between her trailer and the family of Mr. Sunshine, BrandX, J, and Evil Lad NOT, is a third trailer. This one is rented out by Some Guy. Some Guy will usually help out around the farm if his part-time construction job doesn’t have him otherwise occupied. He grills a lot on his back deck, and invites BrandX and the girlies over to chow down and hang out.

Two weekends ago, he invited DD and Roomie to do a bar run. (I should point out, DD has a boyfriend, but Some Guy isn't him. He’s in Rome GA.) So Roomie was like “Sure!” and DD was “I’ll be the designated driver.” They took his truck and went to Dahlonega. (There’s a song about Dahlonega. My favorite line is It always smells like chicken $#¡+ on Highway 9 / But at least we can score cheap moonshine.)

Now I should mention, Some Guy is divorced and has a daughter, and of course his wife likes to play the custody games that some divorced people seem to revel in. So he was off to drown his sorrows, and Roomie just likes to drink and par-tay. They went to one place, and it was a little crowded with local college students, so they moved on to a different bar. There, Some Guy was talking with a young woman… and then her boyfriend showed up and got belligerent. DD got everyone out of there without a fight, and they left that place.

This is where it gets interesting. Some Guy was bummed out to begin with, and this didn’t help. DD was driving his truck, with Roomie in the middle and him in the shotgun position. Except that he said, “I’m tired of this,” and abandoned his position. By which I mean he jumped out of the truck that was moving at around 30mph.

DD stood on the brakes, and they jumped out. By this time, Some Guy was already on his feet, which says something about drunken luck. Still, he was banged up pretty seriously; he looked like an extra for a Walking Dead episode. DD took charge, started to call 911, but realized they were close enough to the hospital that she could drive him to the ER faster than an ambulance could get there. “Get in the truck,” she told Some Guy. (Meanwhile, Roomie was standing in the road in dark clothes, just gaping.)

“I don’t want to get blood in my truck,” he replied.

The tailgate was down, fortunately. Long-time blog readers know that DD can do a pretty good imitation of She-Hulk when things get dicey. She picked him up and threw him into the bed, told Roomie to watch to make sure he didn’t jump out again, then drove to the hospital. This was around 12:30am. DD called home to let us know what happened, because she wasn’t sure if he was even going to survive it. However, they let him out at 4am with a few instructions about changing the dressings.

The interesting thing was, back when the wife had the knee replacement just before Thanksgiving, they sent us four boxes of supplies —massive dressings, wide gauze rolls, tape—and she didn’t even need one box worth. We stacked them in the bathroom, and there they sat until we sent them down to him. After DD got through with him, he looked like an extra from The Mummy, one of the corpses that was only partly wrapped:

Don't jump out of a moving truck.
You might need more bandages than this.

So yeah, Some Guy is lucky to be alive and able to gimp around (he wrenched his ankle). He’s also lucky DD didn’t do him in herself, after that little stunt. :-P

Somebody’s very glad he’s still around:

Who would feed and brush me
if you're gone?

Remember, boys and girls, keep your bods inside the vehicle until it has come to a complete stop.

The Sentinel Tree (#FridayFlash)

This originally appeared on Google+ in one of +MJ Bush’s “tell me a story” prompts. I’m using a similar but different photo here to avoid copyright issues.

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Image sources: Wikimedia Commons

Lis looked at the ancient tree, the sentinel of the gods, standing watch under the night sky. When her ancestors first came to this place, uncounted generations ago, it had stood on this hilltop. She shifted her burden, nestling in the crook of her arm, and began.

Climbing up to the hollow space one-handed was difficult, but not impossible. Lis teetered at the edge for a moment, then hopped down and crouched. The hollow was safe and inviting, and people often came here to meditate or leave offerings. Lis knelt and laid her infant son on the smooth floor. “O gods,” she whispered, tears streaming, “I am dispossessed of my home, through no sin of my own. Do with me what you will, for none are innocent, but do not allow this child to starve in a heartless world.”

As she stood, she heard a whisper: Take up your child.

“You reject him?” she sobbed. “You would have him starve?”

No, the whisper replied. Take him up, go south to the old road, then follow it west.

“But we'll starve before we go far!”

There are trees and vines whose fruit will sustain you. And streams of clean water. Follow the road, and you will find a welcome and a home.

Lis looked up the hollow at the sky. A star streaked across the Highway of the Gods, toward the west. Trust. Follow.

“I… I will.” Lis lifted her son and scrambled out. The way south was easy, all downhill. She could do this. More stars streaked to the west, perhaps preparing her new home.

Behind her, the tree returned to its long slumber.

Writing Wibbles

When I released the first three Accidental Sorcerers novellas, I had a good start on the next story in the series. That wasn’t the case for Into the Icebound—I only had about 3000 words down for the sequel (working title Lost in Nightwalk). After sending four of these stories into the eBook stores, I now have a pretty good idea how long it takes to get a first draft knocked into shape. If I want to keep my “roughly six months” schedule, I’ll need to have the first draft done by mid-July.

Scrivener is a great tool for this kind of thing. Select “Show Project Targets” in the Project menu, and you get a little window with the basic stuff you need:

Scrivener’s Project Targets

The “Options…” button lets you set the deadline date, and what days of the week you intend to write (I set it to take Sundays off). Clicking on the rightmost number under the top progress bar lets you set the target manuscript size. You can adjust it later if you need. I set a somewhat optimistic target of 40,000 words, as you can see, although I now think 32,000 is going to be closer to the actual word count.

It’s pretty simple, really. Tell it how big, how often, and how soon, and it gives you a daily word count target (the “Session Target”). It has moved around some, as I’d write over 1000 words some nights and not at all on others, but right now it’s pretty close to the 850 words/day target I started with… which means that, averaged out over the last month or so, I’ve stayed pretty much on target.

• • •

Salon Doubles Down

There’s a disturbing trend these days. Some organizations will say or print something that’s rather detached from reality, and people will call them on it. Instead of doing some research, or anything that might lead them to have to say, “dang, we really hosed our credibility running that tripe,” they dig in. In some circles, it’s called doubling down on the stupid.

Enter Salon. Andrew Leonard kicked off the month of June with your basic publishing industry press release stenography (because committing journalism is a misdemeanor or something), called Amazon’s scorched-earch campaign. He threw around inflammatory phrases like “monopoly power,” “heavy-handed tactics,” and (the worst insult of all) comparing Amazon to Walmart. Of course, he provided no evidence that Amazon has a monopoly on anything, nor that what they’re doing is disproportionate, nor that they’re sending thousands of publishing jobs to China.

So indies, from Hugh Howey and J.A. Konrath all the way down to me, called them on it, providing counter-arguments with evidence. In some alternate universe, a senior editor at Salon acquired clue, pulled the article, and ran a more balanced piece that used actual data and provided links. In this universe… Salon doubled down on the stupid. This time, it was Laura Miller and Amazon is not your friend: Why self-published authors should side with Hachette. (This disturbing lack of title caps seems to be a thing with Salon. But I suppose if you're not doing actual journalism, it doesn’t matter.)

In this article, the points are:

• The only people defending Amazon are indies.
• Many indies are angry with traditional publishers because the authors failed to get in (or are former midlisters who got screwed over and dumped).
• Self-published authors really, really, really hate traditional publishing (actual quote here).
• High prices for tradpub eBooks help indies by allowing us to compete on price.
• A publishing contract is a business deal.
• Most indie works are dreck, slush pile, etc.
• Tradpub books are higher quality, and so deserve a higher markup.
• Amazon might screw us over in some unspecified future.

OK, the fourth and fifth points are good ones. Stopped clocks, blind squirrels, etc. The rest is once again long on flamebait, short on evidence. Now I remember why I quit reading Salon around 2006.

C’mon, tradpub supporters. Is this the best you can do? Really? Regurgitate the same tropes from 2010 and pretend nothing has changed? If anything, traditional publishers have been squeezing their authors even harder since eBooks started booming. With almost zero production costs, eBooks give publishers more profit… and lower royalties to authors. Don’t take my word for it, Lagardère (Hachette’s parent company) put it on their slides in their shareholder presentation. Hugh Howey has them on his blog.

As far as tradpub books being higher quality goes, just saying “50 Shades of Grey” would be too easy. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to look at a book published 50 years ago, and one published now, and see how production quality has deteriorated. Typesetters have been replaced with Microsoft Word. Copyediting isn’t nearly as rigorous as it once was, and your typical tradpub book has plenty of typos and errors to go around. One of the hardcover editions of Dean Koontz’s Odd Thomas books had an entire line missing from the bottom of the first page! If they’d let that get by with Dean Koontz, what chance do midlisters have of getting a quality production run?

Finally, the notion that Amazon might stop giving indies decent terms—when the worst-case the detractors suggest might happen is still a better deal than authors get from traditional publishers—is laughable at best.

If publishers had some regard for authors and readers, beyond squeezing as much money as possible out of each, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Taking a Dive

I was working at home Thursday morning, minding my own business, when:

KA-RASSHHHHH

My first thought was, “OMG, +E.J Hobbs just had something fall on him!” and was out of my seat and halfway up the stairs in a heartbeat.

“I’m OK,” he said. “I was just in here shaving…”

Mirror, mirror, on the floor,
Why’d you have to fall down for?

“It just came off the wall,” he said. If you look at the picture, you’ll see five black spots where the mirror was. They’re some kind of caulk, dried up and hard and not sticky at all. A line of silicone caulk at the bottom of the mirror, where it contacted the vanity, was the only thing holding it in place. No clips or anything else. Just another example of why FAR Manor was a bad idea.

“Oh well,” the wife said. “We” (that is, she and Daughter Dearest) “were talking about repainting the bathroom anyway. We also need to do something about the lighting.”

She had bought Daughter Dearest a mirror with a white frame a while back, that she isn’t using, and it’s just big enough to cover the black spots (the wallpaper underneath is dissolved, so chipping it off won’t solve anything). I found a cardboard box in the garage, and EJ used that to collect the shards. Since it’s a 3-day weekend in the US, maybe I’ll be able to hang the mirror today or tomorrow.

Red's Basket (#FridayFlash)

Image source:
openclipart.org

Once upon a time, in the Strange Lands north of Aht-Lann-Tah, a pretty red-haired girl dwelt with her stepmother. Being a red-headed stepchild, Red (as she was called) was often called upon to do the hard and hazardous tasks, and today was no different.

“Take this basket to your granny,” the stepmother told her. “Visit with her, and help her out if she needs it.”

“Whatever,” Red sighed, because Granny always had work needing doing. But she pulled on her favorite red hoodie, the one with a large G on the front, stuffed a few essentials in her pockets, and took the basket. Getting out from under her stepmother for the day was worth the hassle, after all.

As Red made her way through the woods, a rather large and impolite wolf heard and saw her. He sat in the path and waited for her to approach.

“Good morning, little girl,” the wolf purred as Red stopped short.

“Don’t give me that,” Red growled. “I know you’re after my goodies.”

“Actually, I was more interested in that basket. But if you’re offering…”

Red reached into her pocket and pulled out a chrome snub-nosed .38 revolver, the only thing she had kept of her mother’s belongings. “Back off. I’m taking this to Granny’s.”

“Okay, okay.” The wolf slunk off the path, but ran on ahead. Red was a tough customer, but Granny was the baddest badass in the Strange Lands. It would take careful planning and a little luck to get that basket.

Arriving at Granny’s place, he saw her hoeing in the garden. “Get outta here!” she greeted the wolf, brandishing her hoe.

“Sheesh. I just came to tell you there’s five cows gone through the fence. Such gratitude.”

“Right.” Granny grounded the hoe. “Chase ‘em back in, and I’ll give you two chickens.”

“If I chase a cow, I’ll probably eat it,” the wolf said. “Nature just kind of takes over.”

Granny cursed. “If any of them chickens are missing when I get back, I’ll make your hide into a scarf for my scarecrow!”

The wolf stared at the scarecrow, the mummified corpse of a dragon stupid enough to cross Granny in the past, and gulped. “I don’t feel like chicken. I’ll make sure nothing else gets in there, either.” He laid in front of the chicken coop, but Granny was already gone, hoe and all.

Not long after, a fox came by. “Morning,” said the wolf, “what do ya say?”

“Oh, that’s original,” the fox sniffed. “Who let the wolf guard the henhouse? I thought that was my job.”

“The early wolf gets the goodies.”

“Whatever. I’ve got a taste for some grapes, anyway.” The fox trotted off.

The wolf hid in the grass as Red arrived. “Granny?” she called. Hearing nothing, she slipped inside. As the wolf peeked in the window, Red laid the basket on the table and took out her cellphone. She and the woodsman hadn’t seen each other for a while, after all, and he was working nearby.

Red searched the entire house, making sure Granny wasn’t hiding somewhere, until the woodsman arrived. “My,” said Red with a grin, “what big hands you have!”

“The better to grope you with, my dear,” said the woodsman, licking his lips.

“My, what a long tongue you have!”

“The better to taste you with, my dear.”

Nature took over, as the wolf would say, and they skipped right on by the last part. As they got down to business, the wolf slipped inside. He grabbed the basket, thinking so much for the goodies, and departed. He was long gone before Granny came back, fuming.

“Blame wolf was right about the fence,” she muttered, “at least the cows all went back in—” her old ears finally picked up on the noise, and stormed into the bedroom. “In my bed, of all things! If you two are gonna do that, take it out back of the woodpile or something! Of all the—you got two minutes to get dressed.”

It took them half that to throw their clothes on and agree to meet behind the woodpile after lunch. The woodsman slipped out the window to avoid Granny’s wrath, and Red walked out alone.

“Where’s your friend?” Granny demanded, glaring at the bedroom. “Out the window? Good. Too bad you didn’t get here sooner, I had a fencing problem. You brought lunch?”

“It’s on the table.”

“No it ain’t.”

“What?” Red ran into the kitchen. “I left it right here!”

“That wolf was skulking around,” said Granny. “He musta grabbed it while you and your friend were busy. Serves him right; that stepmother of yours can’t cook for squat anyway. It won’t take five minutes to fix something better than what she sent. Then after you change my sheets, you can help with the garden.”

Meanwhile, the wolf inspected his prize: ham, store-bought cheese, and home-made rolls. The rolls were hard as bricks, so he donated them to the birds and wolfed the rest. Red stayed on with Granny, until the woodsman divorced his ill-tempered wife and built a new cabin, then she moved in with him. They made sure Granny was well-supplied with firewood, and she had them over for dinner on Sundays. Except for a touch of indigestion on the wolf’s part, and occasional interference from the woodsman’s ex, they all lived happily… enough.

(“Happily ever after?” In the Strange Lands? Yeah, right.)

“Into the Icebound” — setting sail May 29!

The fourth Accidental Sorcerers book is just about ready to depart!

Sura, Mik, and Bailar set sail for the Northern Reach, with Lord Darin in pursuit. Their journey is anything but smooth, with storms, raiders, and the prince of Westmarch standing in the way. Joining an expedition to the ruins of Isenbund, Bailar disappears in the night. Now, Mik and Sura must help rescue their mentor from a legendary foe thought long extinct.

The book’s about ready (just have to go through the checklist), and OMG just look at the cover…

May 29, folks! Add it on Goodreads, tell your friends, all that good stuff… and re-download the first first two during the first week of June, because I’m going back and re-formatting them to reflect all the stuff I’ve learned since.

Blackberry Winter

We only had three mini-winters on Planet Georgia this year, although they were pretty harsh. In mid-spring, we get a cold snap they like to call “Blackberry Winter,” because it usually happens around the time the blackberry vines are blooming. The fun thing is, blackberries blossom for two or three weeks, so there’s plenty of time for one (or more) to happen.

So last week, it got cool. “Maybe this is all the blackberry winter we get,” said the wife. “But they need some cold to bloom out, I thought.”

“They’ve been blooming out for a week in some places,” I pointed out.

But this weekend had to be it. The lows got to 40F, and it was cloudy and rainy. The rain is gone, but the cool weather remains. After a taste of nice May weather the week before, this was a bit of a letdown. But with any luck, that’s the last of the cool/cold weather until late October.

The vines are already setting fruit. Looks like Mason will have a great time picking come July 4th weekend. The wild lowbush blueberries should be ripe in the next couple weeks as well.

Launch: “Inquisitor” by R.J. Blain

Say hello to +R.J. Blain, an American expat living in that exotic land called Canada. You could say (I do) that she’s one of the class acts among indie authors. When she’s not working on her own books, she’s editing for other people. She puts plenty of effort (and money) into making sure her books have top-notch editing and covers as well.

Today, R.J. is celebrating not only her birthday, but the official launch of her new book, Inquisitor. When she put out a call for bloggers to help, I raised my hand. She sent plenty of support material along, and I get to share it with you:

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When Allison is asked to play Cinderella-turned-Fiancee at a Halloween ball, the last thing she expected was to be accused of murder on the same night. She has to find the killer and quick, or she’ll be put to death for the crimes she didn’t commit. To make matters worse, the victims are all werewolves.

On the short list of potential victims, Allison has to act fast, or the killer will have one more body to add to his little black book of corpses.

There’s only one problem: One of the deaths has struck too close to home, and Allison’s desire for self-preservation may very well transform into a quest for vengeance…

---

OK, blurb isn’t enough? How about an excerpt?

Caroline was either the best actress I’d ever seen, or she was really dead. I crouched next to her, torn between touching her neck to feel for a pulse and running away before the sweet scent of a fresh kill overwhelmed my restraint.

A clock chimed ten. The power of the full moon slammed into me, tugging at my heart, and tightening my chest. The need to embrace my inner beast and become one with the night quickened my breath.

Scents flooded my nose. Strong perfumes mingled with cologne, and the sweat of hot, living bodies stirred my hunger. I licked my lips, and for one brief moment, imagined the salty sweetness of fresh blood on my tongue.

There was another hunter in the room with me, and they taunted me with their kill. Their prey was either dead or left to die. It was a challenge to the scavengers, to the hunters, and a warning to the prey.

“What do you think?” Mark’s mother asked.

“I think she’s an amazing actress,” I replied, careful to keep my tone light. I rose to my feet. If I grew a tail, I could only hope my gown would hide it long enough for me to slip from the party and find a place to gain control over myself.

Or complete the change and go on a rampage.

Another minute passed in silence. I shook my head. “This would be why I’m not a police officer.”

The Wicked Witch of the West giggled. I shivered at the sound. “I see. Very well, Cinderella. Shall we mingle with the other guests and learn about this terrible, terrible deed?”

“I thought this was when Mark was supposed to come rescue me from a fate worse than death,” I muttered.

Oops. So much for keeping civil. I guess it was inevitable. Bodies brought out the worst in me. Especially when the body wasn’t one of my making. To make matters worse, I couldn’t exactly raise the alarm.

If I did, I’d reveal to those who knew the truth about werewolves and witches that I wasn’t just some human girl after a wealthy boy. Then the Inquisition would find silver old enough to kill me or reduce me to ashes to make certain they purged the world of one more rogue werewolf.

“Why can’t you be wealthy?” Mrs. Livingston lamented.

The old woman’s question caught me by surprise. Had she heard me? Did she think it an amusing quip?

Was it possible the woman actually liked me? Confused at the question, I answered honestly. “Ma’am, who says I’m not? I’m your son’s accountant. Do you really think he’d trust someone who didn’t have access to at least some money with his money?” I glared at the old woman. At least the brewing fight between us distracted me from Caroline’s body a little. “Don’t forget I know exactly how much he makes a year, where he transfers his funds, who owes him how much, and whom he owes. I know how much he’s paid in taxes, and I know how much I saved him last tax season.”

The witch’s mouth dropped open. “Just what—”

“I paid more in taxes than he did last year. I’ll let you do the math. Unless, of course, he learned how to count from you.” I pivoted on a heel and stalked my way towards the refreshment stand.

Now, where were we? Oh yes. How about a bio?

RJ Blain suffers from a Moleskine journal obsession*, a pen fixation, and a terrible tendency to pun without warning.

When she isn't playing pretend, she likes to think she’s a cartographer and a sumi-e painter. In reality, she herds cats and a husband, and obeys the commands of Tsu Dhi, the great warrior fish.

In her spare time, she daydreams about being a spy. Should that fail, her contingency plan involves tying her best of enemies to spinning wheels and quoting James Bond villains until she is satisfied.

*If you follow her on Google+ for any length of time, you’ll see that’s true. —LK

And don't forget to check out her book on Amazon…

Writing Wibbles

Woohoo! The words are flowing, and of course I need to get some edits cranked in. Oh well.

+Tony Noland tagged me in the Writing Process blog hop, in which you answer a few questions. Turns out I did this a couple months ago, but completely forgot. But I figured since I needed a Writing Wibbles topic, this was ready-made. Answers can change from time to time, right? So here they are:



1. What am I working on?

Good timing. This week, I just finished two stories that have been hanging around and waiting for me to get back to them. They suddenly turned into Shiny Writing Things and demanded all the attentions.

The first, Marginalia, is a side-story in the Accidental Sorcerers timeline, starring Mik’s friend Charn. The Prince has all the sorcerers up at the palace, leaving the apprentices stuck with minimal guidance. A new girl apprentice is distracting Charn, and someone is writing cryptic messages in his book. Something strange is going on, and Charn’s caught in the middle. Currently 13,600 words. (There’s an allusion to this story in The Sorcerer’s Daughter, if you’re curious.)

The second, The Magic App Store, is a sequel to The Crossover. The Trickster has touched Annie, and she recruits Chelinn and his Earthly apprentice Chuck to help her build a website that sells magic spells. This leads to widespread abuse of magic, and a problem that requires Chelinn and all his new friends to put right. (And it’s not a shadowy government agency trying to get all the magic for themselves, although they’re there, too.) Currently 17,000 words.

With those out of the way, I can get back to focusing on the primary stuff. The edits for Into the Icebound are done, and I need to finish cranking those in. I’ll soon be working on the next story in the series, tentatively called Lost in Nightwalk.


2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

These aren’t 140,000 word epic fantasies, although the first four Accidental Sorcerers books run close to that put together. I write novelettes and novellas, 45,000 words or less, that you can read on your phone.


3. Why do I write what I do?

I’ve always enjoyed fantasy worlds. Like Annie in The Magic App Store, I always wanted to have magical abilities myself. Creating words and writing stories is kind of like magic, though!


4. How does my writing process work?

I sit at the keyboard. The keyboard might be attached to my tablet if I’m mobile, or my desktop if I’m at home. I start pounding. Words come out. Sometimes they’re not all that good, in which case I stomp them and keep writing. Yes, I edit as I go. But I’ll do a complete edit after I finish, before sending it to beta writers. I also have to prod the cover designer (part of the co-op) and the editor (not part of the co-op) to work their own particular magic.

The closest thing I get to an outline is a list of notes in Scrivener: this happens, this happens, this happens. I’m not always sure how it’s going to end before I begin, which means that sometimes I keep writing because I want to know how it ends. This can lead to interesting additions to the notes, like what I had at the end of Marginalia for the longest time:

Then what?
Profit!
The End. :-P

For production, I live by my checklists. I will forget something critical without them. So much not-writing stuff to think about.

Par for the Curse (#FridayFlash)

We now return you to the regularly-scheduled weirdness…

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Stan nudged Cal, sitting next to him in the golf cart. “Ten bucks says Ricky sinks this putt.”

Cal turned to gape at his friend. “You’re serious? That’s a forty-footer if it’s an inch!” he rasped.

“Yup. So. We got a bet?”

“Easiest ten bucks ever. You’re on.”

They shook, and turned to watch Ricky, squatting on the green to check the slope. Cal thought nothing of that—Ricky was shooting for par, and even the most unlikely par putt demanded careful preparation. Their friend lined up, looked at the pin again, then shifted his feet ever so slightly. Ricky looked up one last time, then swung the putter with more follow-through than usual.

Ricky’s ball arced up the slope, then arced back. “Damn,” Cal whispered, “it’s gonna be close—holy shit!” The ball caught the rim of the hole, followed it halfway around, then fell in.

“That’ll be ten dollars,” said Stan, with a grin.

“Hell,” said Cal, fishing a pair of fives out of his wallet, “it was worth it to see someone sink that!” He ambled over to Ricky’s cart. “Awesome putt, Ricky.”

Ricky was not as elated as one might expect, having just hit a nearly impossible putt to make par. “Thanks,” he said, and dropped his putter into his bag. He looked at Cal, and put on a smile. “How much did Stan take you for on that one?”

Cal laughed. “Ten bucks. But like I told him, it was worth it. If we were in a tournament, that would be the shot they’d show on all the sports newscasts.” Cal made a minute more of small talk, then rejoined Stan in their cart. The electric motors whined as the carts climbed and coasted the slopes to the second hole.

“You knew he’d sink that,” said Cal.

“Ricky always makes par,” Stan said, watching the cart ahead. “Unless he slices a tee shot or something.”

“He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“I never got a straight answer out of him. If you want to ride with him, go ahead. If he doesn’t tell you a line of crap, I’ll give you your ten bucks back.”


The next hole was a par three. Ricky’s tee shot was awesome, flying straight and true, landing on the green not two feet from the pin.

“That’s a birdie for sure,” Cal murmured.

“Ten bucks says he misses,” said Stan.

Cal opened his mouth. “No bet,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but you know something.”

Stan shook his head. “All I know is, he’ll miss this shot.”

Sure enough, Ricky’s putt caught a piece of debris that none of them had seen, and his ball stopped two inches short of the hole. His string of profanity had a resigned tone to it, though. All three of them made par on this hole.

Curiosity got the better of Cal, and he ambled over to Ricky’s cart with a beer in each hand. “Hey,” he said, “want some company?”

“Sure.” Ricky took the beer, and Cal took the shotgun seat. The carts whined and whirred on their way to Eleven; a faint smell of ozone from the electric motors wafted past.

“What’s the deal?” Cal asked. “You sunk that forty-footer, and then… hell, if you’d asked for a gimme on that last hole, I’d have given it to you.”

Ricky sighed. “You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m cursed.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. It happened at Glenoak, last year. I sliced into the brush, but not too far. There was this sapling in the way, and I pushed it over and stomped it to keep it down. Then this girl steps out from… from behind this big oak tree behind me, and asks me why I abused her tree. I told her I needed it out of the way to get onto the green; I figured I could at least make par. Then she goes, ‘you will par any hole where possible, but no better,’ and walks into the tree. Into it, man, I swear. I looked for her all around that place, but she was gone. And that’s how it’s been ever since.”

“Uh…”

“Yeah, I know. Sounds nuts.” Ricky chugged his beer. “But I swear by the hops in this beer, it’s true.”

As Ricky teed up at Eleven, Stan nudged Cal. “He tell you anything?”

“Yeah,” Cal whispered. “And I think he believes it. But you won’t.”

“The curse? Yeah. Ricky’s a great guy, but I think he’s a little nuts. You can have your ten bucks back, anyway.”

“Fine. But I’m buying the first round at the Nineteenth.”

They watched Ricky make par at Eleven, and all but one of the rest. Cal watched and wondered. If I land in the woods at Glenoak, he thought, I’ll just take the penalty.

Z is for: Zharcon the White (#AtoZchallenge)

Whew!

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Zharcon the White is the leader of the Westmarch Conclave, and the mentor for Mik’s friend Charn sim Bas.

Accidental Sorcerers does not record it, but Zharcon met Bailar the Blue at the annual Gathering of the Conclave, through their apprentices Mik and Charn (who quickly became friends). The two sorcerers soon began a Conclave Romance, a temporary liaison that is common at the Gathering. In cities like Westmarch, many local sorcerers are at least distantly related to each other; thus, sorcerers will marry non-sorcerous folk (as did Charn’s father) or carry on temporary relationships with sorcerers from far away. The Conclave encourages the latter, as it is the most reliable way of finding children with Talent; it is considered an honor for a sorceress to bear children. (Some members of the Conclave are a little overzealous about such, and have urged Bailar to encourage his apprentices to mate as soon as possible regardless of how it might impact Sura’s studies… as you might expect, Bailar responded with strong words.)

At home, Zharcon has a delicate position. The Conclave is the only remaining vestige of Camac’s culture that still assumes absolute gender equality. Westmarch (known as Westmark in the time of Camac That Was) was re-settled after a rebellion was put down early in the Matriarchy’s history; the losers chose exile and founded their own nation. Thus, Westmarch is nearly as patriarchal as Stolevan is matriarchal, and their government has a hard time accepting a woman in charge of such an important organization.

On the other hand, the Conclave (since The Treaty was ratified) developed a policy of serving the greater good of all Termag above national or local loyalties. The Westmarch sorcerers are less than enthusiastic about Prince Nalfur’s expansionist ambitions; they were glad to see the winter campaign against Stolevan thwarted, and even happier that the Mik had technically not violated The Treaty in doing so. For Zharcon, the refusal of Westmarch’s government to take her seriously as a leader diminishes any nationalist feeling among the sorcerers. It’s not that they are disloyal to Westmarch; both Zharcon and the other sorcerers do think a strong but peaceful Westmarch would be a better counter to any potential Stolevan expansionism, and work toward that end.

Y is for: Yes (ways to say it) (#AtoZchallenge)

This post is really about dialects and idioms. Although Camac’s empire is long past, the language that it spread across the world either replaced local languages or is kept as a trade language. Still, over centuries, local dialects and idioms have developed. In my Termag stories, the way that people say “yes” is perhaps the most obvious example. In the southern nations, the Stolevan Matriarchy and the Alliance cities, urban and educated rural folk say “indeed” (although “yes” is used to mean “it will be done”); rural folk use “yar.” Northerners say “aye,” and Easterners say “yes” (or “oh, yes” for strong agreement).

Rural folk often use Low Speech (or Old Speech among scholars), a form of the Western tongue that was likely spoken through The Lost Years. The distinguishing feature of Low Speech is that speakers put the verb phrase at the end of their sentences. There are plenty of examples in Water and Chaos, as Mik’s aunt (and to a lesser extent, his father) both use Low Speech. Some folk, including those who speak Low Speech, consider it a mark of ignorance and are embarrassed to use it among more educated folk.

Idioms

Idioms can be a challenge (and fun as well) for writers. Done right, they convey the meaning without too much explanation, while emphasizing the “you’re not at home” feeling. Common idioms in Termag’s Western tongue include:

• Peace and harmony: a formal greeting, once a way to offer a temporary truce to an enemy. “All peace unto you” is the expected response (and the old way of accepting the offer of truce).
• Longest journey: a euphemism for death, taken from a line of an epic poem: “I will soon begin the longest journey, the one from which there is no return.” (The poem in question survives only in fragments.)
• Lucky man’s supper: fish, leeks, potatoes. Used mostly in the rural parts of the Matriarchy. This may refer to a “lucky man” bringing home both fish and leeks from the river, saving money that otherwise would have been spent at the market. (Most rural folk have a potato patch.)
• Making the wind: idle chatter, like we might say “shooting the breeze.”
• The tide comes in, the tide goes out: acknowledging that events are beyond one’s control. Similar to “what will be, will be,” or “roll with the changes.”

Next: Z is for: Zharcon the White

X is for: Xorsecc (#AtoZchallenge)

This was actually a place (with a name) before I started the Challenge. It’s the ancient town in Water and Chaos.

Xorsecc is one of the larger settlements (these days, calling it a “city” is stretching) on the Spine of the World, a chain of long mountainous islands in the Western Sea. The narrow passages between the islands are logical spots for a town, and Xorsecc is situated just south of the northernmost passage; this passage is the most direct route from Port Joy to the Archipelago (a chain of islands farther south and west). Mik’s first impression of Xorsecc is recorded in Water and Chaos:

Mik looked around the town. Everything about it said old. The stone buildings seemed to shrink into the hillsides, or sag with exhaustion. Clumps of grass grew here and there, but Mik saw no trees. The streets were flagstone, kept up as well as any street in Exidy or even Queensport.

The name is a holdover from the most ancient of Termag’s languages. The X is pronounced with a tongue click, and the cc at the end with a throat click. These sounds are not present in modern Western, and so Mik can only approximate the pronunciation as “Chakorsect.”

The Spine is perhaps the longest continuously settled part of Termag. Like everywhere else, it was hit hard in The Madness, but (as in the Alliance cities) the survivors were able to keep order. Even then, the people were at least partially Westernized. Only vestiges of the ancient tongues spoken there, or native cultural practices, remain. There is no central government on the Spine; each town manages its own affairs. Freeholder farms may or may not be under the jurisdiction of a particular town.

The Spine has no trees (mostly grass, reeds, and scrub). However, they mine a black rock called firestone that burns hotter than wood. The smoke ruins food, so they cook on top of their fireboxes.

The steep hillsides are suitable for raising goats; crops cover what flat spaces there may be. Even without trees, the denizens of the Spine build small boats; they are usually wicker frames with oilcloth or goatskins stretched over them. Others are essentially large copper bowls, and a few are even made of glass. These little coracles are the foundation of the Spine’s fishing fleet.

Xorsecc’s residents earn their living by fishing, farming, making minor repairs to passing ships, and renting houses to travelers. There are more houses than people in town, so property is cheap to either rent or purchase. Raiders and the like often have houses in Xorsecc, either as convenient quarters between jobs or as hideouts. There is little love lost between the permanent residents and these temporary denizens.

Next: Y is for: Yes (ways to say it)

W is for: Woldland (#AtoZchallenge)

Woldland lies on the eastern side of the Gulf of Camac, a vast grassland of plains and rolling hills. The inhabitants, the Wolds, are a semi-nomadic people who herd cattle across the lands. The coastal town of Mastil serves as both a capital and a market.

Origins

In the time of Camac That Was, Woldland was divided into East Bay and Perinia provinces. Away from the coast, the land was divided into cattle ranches that provided beef to the entire empire.

The Madness, for whatever reason, did not hit the Eastern provinces as hard. On the other hand, Eastern farmers have always had difficulty in the dry weather off the coast, and mad souls destroyed many of the crops. Thus, while survivors in the West and North had no trouble feeding themselves, Easterners faced starvation (exacerbated by nascent “lords” who had little regard for the welfare of their subjects).

Before The Madness, the Eastern word wol’it (literally, a sense that anything would be better than the present circumstances) was used ironically or humorously. People would apply it to themselves (similar to how we might say “just shoot me”), or mockingly to others who were seen to overreact to minor setbacks (“drama queen”). But in the early part of The Lost Years, Easterners began to use it seriously. Westerners often pronounced the word as woldt, and it softened over time to wold and became the name of the people who migrated to the grasslands.

Meanwhile, the cattle lived on. As they broke down fences, and nobody came to repair them, they began to roam freely. Jira the White, in an attempt to alleviate the suffering (even though all the Eastern provinces had declared independence), sent word that the cattle were there for the herding (or eating). Starving Easterners began to make their way south, and over time were joined by Western and a few Northern folk.

Age of Heroes

Within a generation, the old province names were all but forgotten; the region was simply called the Wold Lands. The Wolds’ language was primarily Eastern, but mixed with Western and became its own language over time.

During this time, the Wolds were nomadic; they drove the herds north in spring and south in fall. They adapted a maze of sea caves on the northern coast as a summer home, and named it Tirfa-Wold (literally, Wolds’ summer dwelling). A large forest clearing, not far from Armyr (one of the Alliance cities), became Sufta-Wold (Wolds’ winter dwelling). These were the primary points of contact with the outside world for the Wolds; they traded cattle and exchanged news with nearby folk.

Modern Woldland

With Termag once again becoming more civilized, the Wolds found themselves needing to formalize a government, if only to have a way to communicate with other governments. Internally, each drive-clan manages its own affairs, but there was a need for an entity that could speak where needed for all drive-clans. And so, Woldland was born. Each drive-clan sends a representative to a council. The council in turn is authorized to govern how clans interact with the outside world.

Formal education is somewhat haphazard; each drive-clan decides for itself what is needed. A growing number of clans are deciding that literacy is a good idea, especially when dealing with foreigners.

Next: X is for: Xorsecc

V is for: Vlis (#AtoZchallenge)

In the time of Camac That Was, Vlis was a small but important city, upriver from Koyr. Surrounded by forest, Vlis supplied Koyr with the lumber needed for its shipbuilding industry. Situated near the Deep Forest, Koyr was also the primary contact (and trading point) with the Unfallen who dwelt in the forest.

An interesting and disturbing rumor dates back to the beginning of The Madness. Shortly before people began going mad, Red Vlis (a title meaning roughly “Lord Mayor of Vlis”) gathered a few hundred citizens, who boarded barges going downriver. Anyone who asked was given the same explanation: “we seek haven.” The refugees debarked at the north landing and marched north on the Royal Road, but none of them ever arrived in the Northern Reach. They seem to have disappeared; the most common explanation is that The Madness took them and they perished in the middle of nowhere.

Near the end of the Age of Heroes, Captain Chelinn (whose official domain included Vlis) attempted to resettle the city. The attempt ultimately failed. Soon after, Chelinn wrote: My error was this: instead of finding people who were for Vlis, I gathered those who were against Ak’koyr. Animosity was not enough to overcome the hardships. Still, the effort was not all waste. For one thing, Chelinn stumbled upon the last settlement of the Unfallen, dwelling nearby in the Deep Forest. For another, he wrote copious notes about the resettlement, and his great-granddaughter Captain Rietha used that information wisely in her successful resettlement of Stolevan (Queensport).

In the modern age, Koyr has begun resettling Vlis, once again to provide lumber for shipbuilding (and for structures in the rapidly growing city). With Koyr actively providing resources, it seems that the resettlement will be successful this time around.

Next: W is for: Woldland

U is for: (The) Unfallen (#AtoZchallenge)

Quoting the creation myth: “The Evil One persuaded many people to worship the lesser gods, but a few refused. Those few withdrew from others, and the Creator brought them together as a new people. These, the aelfi’in (Unfallen), the Creator gave long and vigorous lives, and their children as well… The people were jealous of The Unfallen, and some sought to kill them, so they hid themselves away in the Deep Forest…”

Among the many misconceptions that folk have about The Unfallen is that they were elves, or immortal, or angels, or Makers. Only the latter was partially true; some Unfallen were Makers, but so were some folk. What is true is that The Unfallen had a much deeper communion with the Creator than did other folk (i.e., the descendants of the fallen). Their lives were truly long, without sickness, the way the Creator originally intended for all people. But over centuries or millennia, Unfallen would grow weary of their earthly existence and yearn for the life they knew was to come, so the Creator made provision for them to lay down their lives. Not all Unfallen were perfect; but for them, each sin was an original sin to be atoned for before the Creator. Theologians continue to wrestle with the implications.

Early on, The Unfallen made their way to the Deep Forest, a vast region extending from the northwestern coast past the Wide River, and a little beyond. Over time, the trees awakened; they would warn The Unfallen of intruders, and even defend against the hostile or discourteous. To this day, few are foolish enough to take from the forest without permission. (The Deep Forest is not so much enchanted as self-aware, although there is little effective difference.)

Toward the end of the Age of Heroes, Captain Chelinn began his unsuccessful attempt to resettle Vlis. Through the age, the Deep Forest expanded a little, near to the ruins of the old city. Exploring the immediate area, Chelinn stumbled across the last settlement of Unfallen. A few of the younger, more adventurous Unfallen befriended Chelinn and traveled with him after he again abandoned Vlis. He attempted to pass his silver-plumed Captain’s helm to Evin, claiming that a resident of the district should have the honor; Evin returned the helm to a protesting Chelinn on the eve of the battle that secured the Seventh Trumpet (Evin was one of the two Unfallen who winded the Trumpet as well).

Soon after the sounding of the Seventh Trumpet, the last of the Unfallen transcended, leaving behind only legends and a forest that is still awake.

Next: V is for: Vlis

T is for: (The) Treaty (#AtoZchallenge)

Its official name is A Compact Among the Civilized Nations, Concerning the Use of Magic in Battle, but sorcerers (and nearly everyone else) simply call it The Treaty. Signed in the ruins of Camac That Is, dated Year 3825 of the Pearl Throne (PT.3825, or SM.348, as years are reckoned in the Matriarchy), The Treaty forbids the employment of sorcerers in combat, both as sorcerers and as common soldiers.

The Treaty was first proposed by Ak’koyr in PT.3820, after a battle near the market town of Anlayt. The Northern Reach was threatening to overrun Anlayt, which would have left the road to Ak’koyr itself clear. Amon the Red, a sorcerer in Ak’koyr’s military, knew about the bones of a Firedrake nearby; in desperation, he awakened it and ordered it to destroy the Valiant Men of the North (the Reachers’ army). Not knowing the necessary binding spells, nor having pure motives, the dragon killed Amon and then wreaked havoc on both armies. With fighting forces depleted, the two countries called a truce and agreed to remove sorcerers from military service. (The cannon was a recent invention, which made sorcery in wartime less necessary anyway.)

Afterwards, both nations (especially the Northern Reach) championed the idea of a general worldwide ban on sorcery in battle. The Conclave of Sorcerers, whose numbers had begun to decline, embraced the proposal. Other nations were at least agreeable to the idea, and sent delegations to Camac to hammer out the details. The Conclave sent a delegation as well, and inserted a clause that allowed sorcerers to use magic to protect themselves or family members in any conflict. Another exception allows sorcerers to serve in non-combat roles; for example, calling the wind on a naval ship or aiding Healers. Still, the Conclave has since pursued a policy of putting the needs of all Termag above the needs of any nation or locale. Some folk consider the Conclave to be a de facto nation, whose population is scattered among other nations.

As combat magic was a large part of sorcery up to this time, The Treaty actually accelerated the decline of sorcery (rather than protecting the existing numbers, as the Conclave had hoped). Major combat spells were put aside entirely, while simpler spells were repurposed to peaceful use. In the modern age, new and old enemies are driving a renaissance in combat magic. An untrained boy, who awakened an ice dragon to defend his besieged town, triggered the renewed interest—but those stories are available on most eBook sites. :-)

Next: U is for: (The) Unfallen

S is for: Sorcery (#AtoZchallenge)

Sorcery, harnessing the classical elements (Earth, Air, Fire, and Water) to produce a physical result, is one of several kinds of magic known on Termag. Others include enchantment (imbuing an object with magical power) and witchcraft (harnessing nature, and working around the edges of Chaos magic). In ancient times, Making was a power both coveted and feared, as Maker could create anything they could imagine. Chaos magic (the polar opposite of Making) includes weather control; it is known, but not understood. Sorcerers generally believe that the rules of Chaos magic are too complex for the human mind to grasp, and attempts to harness it tend to prove that theory.

The Three Principles govern sorcery (and to a lesser extent, other kinds of magic). These principles are:

1) Principle of Necessity—there must be a need for the magic performed. Many sorcerers point out that the principle itself is rather loose at times, and includes the need to practice (especially for apprentices). Rogue sorcerers have a very loose interpretation, that allows them to use magic for unethical purposes.

2) Principle of Power (or Intent)—some suggest that this should be two principles, but traditionally they are combined. It does make sense: the person performing sorcery must have both the Talent for sorcery, and the intent to produce some result.

3) Principle of Closure—a spell begun must be closed. Some spells close themselves; for example, a Finding spell is closed when the sorcerer locates the missing object. Others (like Sleep or the False Dawn) must be explicitly closed. Any open-ended (permanent) spell must be cast as an enchantment.

A sorcerer typically undergoes six years of training as an apprentice. The distinctions of junior, intermediate, and senior apprentice are a rough guide to the capabilities of an apprentice, and each period lasts roughly two years. Intermediate apprentices begin to learn more complex spells that combine two elements, and can maintain two to four spells simultaneously. Some seniors can hold up spells in their sleep.

After six years, apprentices appear at the Gathering for testing. The testing is more practical than theoretical, and those doing the testing note how well the apprentice does with each element. In the end, if the apprentice passes, the testers choose a “primary element” for the new sorcerer, and indicate that primary element with a colored sash: brown for Earth, white for Air, red for Fire, blue for Water. The sorcerer then takes the color of that element as a title; for example, Bailar the Blue or Jira the White.

Next: T is for: (The) Treaty

R is for: (Captain) Rietha (#AtoZchallenge)

Captain Rietha may well be the single most influential figure of the modern age. Born Lady Rietha, of House Chelor in Dacia, Rietha was Chelinn’s great-granddaughter (through his adopted daughter Sarna). As a child, she learned a great deal about tactics from the retired Captain Chelinn, and grew into an excellent soldier and tactician.

In those days, skirmishes and raids against (and by) the other cities of the southern coast were common, and Rietha’s competence in battle meant she advanced quickly. In her twenty-third year, she was granted the silver-plumed helmet of the Captains—and by coincidence, the same helm had belonged to Chelinn in his day. Rietha was assigned an unpopulated region—in her case, Stolevan, a few days’ sail west of Dacia.

As was common for Captains with unpopulated territories, she set out on an exploratory tour; they sometimes found a purpose on these journeys. Sailing east and south, her caravel was caught in a major storm and blown aground in the South Sea Islands. The ship required extensive repairs, which gave Rietha time to observe the local customs. To her surprise, she found that the Islands were a matriarchy. It was then that Rietha asked her crew the famous question: Must women rule only in the south? Why not in the west as well?

Returning to Dacia, she made careful plans. Her great-grandfather had attempted to resettle his territory in Vlis, upriver from Ak’koyr, in his day, but had failed. So Rietha gathered people, both women and men, who shared her vision of a new kind of nation. About eight hundred people from the coastal cities answered the call.

The phrase “social engineering” is unknown on Termag, but Rietha’s attempt at it was successful. To establish the tradition of women in charge, from the household to the throne, she used laws until they were set enough to become custom. Compulsory education, both for children and immigrant adults, was an innovation that has been copied by several other nations (most notably the Northern Reach); besides letters and numbers, schools taught history and the social norms of the Stolevan Matriarchy. Thus, the Matriarchy has a very high literacy rate. (In the Matriarchy, it is a truism that since men cannot fight for status and position, they devote their energies to the good of the nation, and all prosper as a result. Scholars in other nations suggest that universal literacy may be the actual key to the Matriarchy’s strength.)

Although Rietha renamed the city Queensport, using the old name for the nation as a whole, she never took the title of Queen. Respecting her decision, she is simply called the First Matriarch. After the Council of Captains agreed to dissolve, Rietha sent her helm to House Chelor, where it has a place of honor alongside Captain Chelinn’s sword. When she died, her final resting place became a shrine of sorts; women (and some men) leave prayer candles with requests for guidance and wisdom.

Next: S is for: Sorcery