A Farewell to EJ (aka @theAmazinGimp)

I haven’t blogged about it much, but +E.J Hobbs had been living at FAR Manor for quite a while, helping out where he could and mostly staying out of the way. (No girlfriend conflicts? No arrests? No drunken rampages? What was there to write about?)

But I digress. A friend of his from high school days lives down in Chamblee—once the father in law’s old stomping grounds, now he calls it “Chambodia” because of its large East Asian population—and has been trying to get EJ to move down there with him. There are several advantages… EJ’s home nurse skills have a wider pool in a more populous area, and there are plenty of McJobs to tide him over until he can get a better one. Plus there’s MARTA, a major advantage when you have neither car nor driver’s license.

He put it off for a while, hoping to build up some money so he could hold his end up, but in the end his friend decided he’d prop up EJ for a while. So on Saturday, the wife gave him some furniture, we loaded up the truck, and away we went. The Maps app made things look easy enough: I-285 to I-85 south (the freeway that Tina commuted on in White Pickups, you may recall), first exit, a couple of side roads, we’re there. We only missed one turn, and that we fixed by cutting through a QuikTrip parking lot to get back on track.

While EJ’s friend works Saturdays, he took the afternoon off to make sure we could move all his stuff inside. It took about 15 minutes to cart it all in. I asked for a decent Vietnamese restaurant, he pointed me to one on Buford Highway, and I treated myself to a really good lunch before heading back to FAR Manor. Meanwhile, the wife attacked the horrible carpet (seriously, who puts white carpet in a rural house? crazy people, that’s who) and made some marginal improvements.

Now, it’s just me, the wife, and Mason. I need to get that room upstairs converted to a library before she has a chance to object…

Achievement Unlocked: Daughter in Law!

Saturday was the big day, and nobody ran off at the last second (although one of the bridesmaids went missing for a while). I ’d have been happier with more of our side of the family there, but The Boy also had a couple friends show up and that made him pretty happy. The wife did a video, a sort of chronological thing of the two of them growing up, then some of them together at the end. It was really nice.

So anyway, here they are…

Dearly Beloved…

As you can see, this was an outdoor affair. In August. On Planet Georgia. Needless to say, we sweated like race horses. This is why I insisted on a winter wedding for us.

A lovely bunch

Daughter Dearest was one of the bridesmaids. She told us she was sure she was going to pass out, because her dress was a bit tight. But she underestimates herself. Not only is she a strong girl, she’s been trained to stand under hot lights (chorale concerts), so she held up without any trouble. She was really pleased with how well her hairdo held up; I guess they used epoxy on it or something.

It was the bride I was worried about. She was swaying for a little while, and I was trying to whisper “bend your knees, bend your knees.” She didn’t hear me, but stayed on her feet anyway. Turned out she put on a little weight (as skinny as she is, a little weight can be a lot of difference) since they got the wedding dress, and it was a little tight on her as well.

Me and the boys

The Boy asked me to be in the wedding, and to be the best man —that was a pleasant shock. I was there with Cousin Splat, Brand X, and the bride’s brother… and Mason. Mason was in a bit of a mood, as he’d spent a long time just before the wedding doing photography poses. He heard “just one more” a few times too many, and by the time of the actual ceremony, he was ready to quit. I ended up carrying and holding him, and he fussed (quietly) until I started indicating people in the crowd and asking him if they were zombies (Traffic Cone zombie, Buckethead zombie, etc.). That got a smile out of him, but after a while he went to sit with the wife. But he came back up and did the thing where the three of them poured different colored sand into a jar. The sand can’t be separated, and so neither can they, is the idea there. Touching, really.

Newlyweds! (sweaty newlyweds)

So, woohoo! We all survived, even if we smelled like a herd of dead water buffaloes by the end of the evening. We slugged down lots of water, and then we got to do some dancing and celebrating. The happy couple is off to Orlando for a few days, and now things can settle back to the normal abnormal that is life at FAR Manor.

Guest Post: Loni Flowers, “Witness to My Heart”

Since the writing brain just got back from vacation, about a week late, there isn’t much for me to wibble about this week. Fortunately, my friend Loni Flowers has a new romance novel out, and I invited her to talk about it! So take it away, Loni…

• • •

It’s my first time here at FAR Manor, and I must say, it’s an honor!

Larry was extremely nice and invited me to tell you a little about myself and my new book, Witness to My Heart, that just hit cyberspace yesterday. I tell ya, I’m so stinking excited about it, I can hardly stand to be around myself!!

This will be my third published novel, and I have to say that after a year and half of working on it, I’m actually excited to be finished and on to the next project. I’m still shocked I’ve managed to write three full length novels. I was never a reader growing up. I hated English class, too. If I could reverse the hands of time, I would have tried harder, actually gone to the library and picked out a “good” book, and picked a completely different career path. But since that isn’t possible, I’m thankful for a friend who convinced me to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer (before it was popular).

I know, I know.

You’re probably moaning and groaning about that decision, but say what you will… it opened my eyes and had me obsessed with books… any book, no matter what it is, if it has the ability to engage readers… awesome! From that series I moved on to Harry Potter and learned the true meaning of what “sick days” should be used for when you finally make it to the last book in the series! (Shhhhh don’t tell my boss!) As you can guess, the rest is history. Reading sparked a creative side in me I didn’t know I had and before I knew it, I was writing my first novel at the age of 30… while working a 40 hour professional job, managing 2 kids, 2 dogs and a husband. I still can’t believe I did it.

But enough about how I got started… and let’s get you to the details of Witness to My Heart! This book was a challenge for me. Though it’s a contemporary romance, I mixed elements of suspense and mystery into it. It is a different mood than my other books, but it was so fun to challenge myself.

Here, have a peek at the synopsis:

Keep a low profile. That's what Abigale Peterson was supposed to do, especially when the person she was being protected from was one of the world's worst crime lords. After seven years in the Witness Protection Program, she felt no safer now than she did when she was seventeen. Revenge was rarely forgotten when it came to a professional criminal like Zerilli.

Low profiles meant no social life and definitely no love life.

Paranoia and lies became daily habits, going against everything Abigale believed in, but they kept her safe. They kept everyone safe.

Until a house fire puts her out of that safety and into the arms of a stranger. Max Smith is sexy, smart, and has major attitude. He’s the only one who seems to get her. He calms her fears and comforts her from her nightmares. But he also sees right through her lies.

Before Abigale can stop, she’s in too deep; confiding too much and breaking the one rule she promised herself to uphold: Never fall in love.

If you’re intrigued, I have an exclusive link (not released to the public yet) that will let you read the first 3 chapters.

Now if you are truly intrigued, be sure to grab a copy today… and if you’re interested in winning a few things, I have a big giveaway going on over on my website, http://www.loniflowers.com/

Good luck, if you enter.

Thank for taking a moment out of your day to read a little about me and my latest obsession. And Larry, thank you so much for having me over!!

• • •

Aha, now I know why we get along so well: I was another one of those people who hated English classes (although the College English class I took as a senior definitely did not suck), and I avoided literature classes like the plague. I was an avid reader, though, but Fantasy and SF were not on the curriculum in those days. Ah well, it’s never too late to have a happy childhood, right?

Maybe you want to go grab a copy of Lori’s new book, right? Here’s some links that might help with that:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Witness-my-Heart-Loni-Flowers-ebook/dp/B00MLN4IFW/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1407873663&sr=8-3&keywords=loni+flowers

B&N (Nook): http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/witness-to-my-heart-loni-flowers/1120108466?ean=2940150704220

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/461981

If you want to add it to Goodreads, here’s the book page: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22056608-witness-to-my-heart

And, you can link up with Lori on Facebook or Twitter.

Happy reading!

Harvest Time

On Planet Georgia, the harvest begins in earnest in August. The mother in law, who was the major garden person around here, departed a couple years ago. Still, the wife attempts to at least put some garden stuff in.

It didn’t help that we ended up with a huge amount of tomato plants this spring. One of the local banks does a customer appreciation day, in which they have a cookout with free hotdogs, and give out those six-pack trays of tomato plants. This year, they arrived close to the end of the day… next thing she knew, the bank people carried three entire flats (12 six-packs each, which meant there were 216 plants) over and dropped them in the back of the van. I took one of the flats to church, where several of the church ladies snapped them up, but the other ones were still there. I didn’t help matters; I wanted some Roma tomatoes to put on the dehydrator, so I bought a six-pack (this was before the “load 'em up” incident at the bank).

In addition, there were melons, a couple rows of corn, a handful of okra plants, and a few other things. It wasn’t as much garden as the mother in law planted, but it was more than enough.

This week, the piper paid us.

I came home from work to find the drainboard completely full of Romas. I got to work Thursday night, and roughly half of them were enough to fill the dehydrator. I tackled the rest today. Now, I have two quart freezer bags full of dehydrated tomatoes. The basil we bought is doing well, the oregano is sprawling all over the place, and I have enough tomatoes to make plenty of sauce.

Prepping for the dehydrator is easy enough. Drop them in boiling water for about 15 seconds, and the peel comes right off. This year, I got smart and added a pot of cold water for a quicker cool-down. Cut them in half, drop them on a dehydrator rack, repeat until the rack is full or until you’re out of tomatoes.

That was just the Romas. The wife dropped off a pretty good load of larger tomatoes, both ripe and green. I had made some noise about wanting to make green tomato salsa again, since the last batch I made didn’t last very long. So last night, I was off to the races… or rather, in the kitchen. Blanch, peel, chop up, add some other stuff like garlic, jalapeño, cilantro, onion, vinegar, a dab of sherry, and some “taco” seasoning. Then I dumped the whole mess in the crock pot to simmer overnight.

This morning, I grabbed four pint jars with lids, scooped salsa into them, and screwed the lids down. Despite the lids being used, they sealed. I’m still putting them in the fridge.

But gee, there’s still all these red tomatoes to deal with! I’ve always been curious about gazpacho, so I looked up a recipe. When I took +E.J Hobbs to work, I picked up the stuff we didn’t have around the manor, and came home and got to work on that.

This took a little longer than the 45 minutes the recipe page said, especially with regard to the “take the seeds out” part. I won’t be surprised if a handful of seeds managed to sneak past my diligence. Still, I’m looking forward to trying some of this, come tomorrow’s hot afternoon. If it’s any good, and EJ and I leave any, I’ll take some to work Monday.

The only downside is, I used less than a fourth of the ripe tomatoes to make the gazpacho. And the wife opined that there’s probably as many more tomatoes coming our way next week. She’s already made salsa (much milder than what I like to make), and she thinks she’s getting a rash from eating too many of them, so I need to figure out what to do with this bounty. I suppose I could give them away at work easily enough…

Oh, and lest I forget. You know I like big melons; I’m a guy. Get a load of this (it was a load, all right):

45 pounds. Can’t wait to get my hands on that!

Maintenance Monday

A vacation in Michigan is wonderful, but then there’s the return to the routine and outright misery that is FAR Manor. Nevertheless, I took an extra vacation day yesterday, partly to get a little rest before getting back to work and partly to take care of some things.

Vacation was altogether lovely. We stayed at the Ramada Plaza, at 28th St. and East Beltline, the heart of the retail district and a 10-minute drive from both Other Brother’s place and the place where Dad is now staying. The Plaza has a shallow pool with a high waterslide, and Mason loved the pool. He finally worked up the nerve later in the week to take the waterslide, first with Daughter Dearest and then with me, and then on Friday (our last night) he unlocked the “go it solo” achievement.

The day before we left for Michigan, my phone (iPhone 4) began acting up—powering down and restarting whenever I tried to do anything that involved the display (and that’s why I have no pix to share for now; DD will share soon). I assumed the phone needed to be restored, and worked through it that night with no luck. During the week, I figured out that I could use it for hours if I left it plugged in, which pointed to the battery. Fortunately, iFixit has parts and entire replacement kits (which include necessary tools), along with extensive instructions and videos, and the kit was $25 including shipping. Fighting the Ramada Plaza’s thoroughly crappy hotel wifi, the biggest downside to the place, I managed to place the order and the kit arrived on Monday.

But the mail runs around noon at FAR Manor, so I had the entire morning to change the oil in the Miata. This was something that needed doing a few weeks ago, so it got priority. Turned out I already had enough oil, and just needed a filter. (And an oil drain plug gasket, but we’ll get to that shortly.)

Changing oil is pretty straightforward: put the car up on ramps, loosen the filler cap on top of the motor, the drain plug underneath, and the filter on the side. The top and side can be done by hand, the bottom requires a 19mm wrench. You want a pan to catch the oil, a few rags to wipe up spills… and a new plug gasket. I’d neglected the last part, and ended up with the car spitting a cup of oil on the garage floor when I started it for the leak-check. Off to the parts store for a replacement, which required the van. Since the van needed new wiper blades, no problem. I lost another cup of oil when I loosened the plug, although that was expected. I kept a thumb over the drain hole and put the new gasket on with the other hand. Sloppy, but not difficult.

Then, I figured out what was needed to fix the windshield washers—a Y-connector had come apart and the fluid was going down the rain drain. Since the wife was going that way again anyway, I tagged along to get a replacement.


With the car dealt with, I finally got to the phone surgery. I have a floor lamp with a magnifier, and at my age it’s not an option for doing detailed things like this. To keep tiny screws from escaping to freedom, I did everything inside the shipping box. I was struck by the similarities between the battery swap and the oil change: three screws, a couple of specialty items (ramps vs. plastic pry tool), a little care when reassembling… and each took about the same amount of time. The differences were primarily those of scale and sloppiness.

The insides of an iPhone4,
with the new battery ready to install.

With repairs effected, and vacation over, things can get back to normal. Ouch.

Writing Wibbles

Lots of ground to cover this week, so I’ll get right on it…

• • •

First off, Angela Kulig’s mini-anthology Coffin Nails is free through Wednesday! Go get it.

• • •

Kindle Unlimited… I’m hearing a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth over a new lending service. Seems like we get this every time Amazon tries something new, huh? (Tip: instead of spending $10/month, go down to your local library and get set up for borrowing eBooks. It’s free and the selection is wider.)

My take: The per-borrow payout has been a over $2 for months, now, slightly more than the royalty on a $3 eBook purchase. Amazon has offered a 30-day free trial, so I expect that August is going to push down that payout quite a bit (my guess: it will be around 50¢) despite Amazon increasing the fund by 66%. For some authors, the increased borrows will more than offset the depressed per-borrow payout. Others will hate it—perhaps enough to yank their books out of Select.

Amazon is walking a tightrope. At current payout levels, an average of four borrows per member per month (about one per week) will nearly wipe out the monthly subscription fee. But if the payout drops too far, authors will pull their most popular books, making the service much less attractive.

I’d recommend taking Green Day’s advice: wake me up when September ends. The free trials will peter out, Amazon will adjust the lending fund, and I expect that things will right themselves by November.

• • •

I’ve been tagged in the Meet my Main Character blog tour by my Twitter bud and co-op partner, Tony Noland!

Here are the rules:

The taggee must write a post answering the same seven questions about their MC (main character). Then the taggee becomes the tagger and chooses five other authors.

Since I have an ongoing series, this is both a WIP and a published work. It has not one MC, but three. I thought it would be more fun to let them answer the questions.

1. What is the name of your main character? Is he a fictional or a historical person?

Sura: What is this “he” about?

Mik: I think this world uses “he” as a generic pronoun, Sura.

Bailar: Mik is right. No offense was meant. Now, let me introduce us. I am Bailar the Blue, once Sorcerer of Exidy, although we haven’t seen home in over a year now. These are my apprentices: Sura sam Bailar, also my daughter, and Mik sim Mikhile, whom I named Mik Dragonrider. Sura and Mik are 14 and 15, respectively, as of our latest adventure. I suppose you would consider us fictional, although we feel quite real to ourselves.

2. When and where is the story set?

Bailar: We have roamed a great deal of Termag, the name of our world, so far. The three of us are citizens of the Stolevan Matriarchy, and we hope to return there some day. We’ve seen great cities, little upriver villages, and the ruins of ancient sites that will soon be resettled.

3. What should we know about him?

Sura: There’s that “him” again, but no matter. As an infant, I was abandoned on my father’s doorstep. It’s unheard of for Matriarchy women to abandon their daughters, but he raised me as his own. I learned of my true parentage in The Sorcerer’s Daughter. Without a mother, I’m legally the head of our household. Still, I defer to Father on certain matters.

Mik: I grew up in Lacota, one of those upriver villages the mentor mentioned. Two winters ago, I awakened an ice dragon when invaders from Westmarch were set to overrun my home. I had no training in sorcery, but the spell was in a child’s rhyme. It drove away the invaders, but I didn’t know I was supposed to dispell it afterwards. So it flew me to Exidy, and I became an apprentice.

Bailar: There is a fairly complete history of my life elsewhere. To that I would add, I have my hands full these days. Not only with all our adventures, but keeping the apprentices focused on their studies. Sura and Mik are good people, and excellent apprentices, but Nature tempts them. The skirmishes we’ve been in have given them a taste for mayhem as well, and that sometimes troubles me.

4. What is the main conflict? What messes up his life?

Sura: Patriarchies.

Mik: The mentor scrying when Sura and I are alone together.

Bailar: You need to whisper more softly, Mik.

Sura: That was second on my list.

Bailar: And that is why I scry. But my apprentices downplay our adventures. Each of the stories to date has a primary conflict, or perhaps a series of them. We have faced rogue mages, pirates on rivers and high seas, lovestruck suitors, and creatures thought extinct. We need not go looking for trouble, it finds us easily enough.

5. What is his personal goal?

Sura: His again. I give up. Let’s go, Mik. Father can finish this.

Bailar: Keeping the apprentices focused on earning their sashes, and keeping them safe. Although, sometimes, they end up rescuing me. Serving the Conclave, seeing new things. You know, I dreamed of adventure when I myself was an apprentice. As painful as it can be at times, I do enjoy this life.

6. Is there a working title for this novel and can we read more about it?

Bailar: Of course! First, I shall link to the first four stories already published.

Accidental Sorcerers
Water and Chaos
The Sorcerer's Daughter
Into the Icebound

The next story, Lost in Nightwalk, is about our harrowing experience in Koyr, which was supposed to be a safe haven. There will be excerpts soon enough, I believe.

7. When can we expect the book to be published?

Bailar: The first draft is complete, and the finished book should be available before the next solstice. Now, let me check on the apprentices before they get into too much mischief…

---

And… they’re gone. I guess I need to tag the next five victims. A lot of my Twitter friends are already tagged, so I’ll dip into the Google+ pool as well:

• +R.J. Blain 
• +Brooke Johnson 
• Craig WF Smith
• Scott Whitmore
• +Matthew Graybosch 

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.

---

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:

---

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.

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