Strange Wordings

Ugh, Ugh, Ugh

2010-06-15T14:20:00.000-07:00

No matter what I do time keeps flying by. I'd hoped to be done with Book One by now, but naturally - being the genius I am - I decide to completely rewrite a somewhat minor but critical-to-the-plot character, so . . . maybe by end of June I'll be done. Gonna post an excerpt later tonight, or I'll try but Isabel has Croup so that might not happen after all.

OMG

2010-03-16T07:58:00.000-07:00

Wow, I'd decided to take a little break from writing, and blogging about reading and writing, smell the roses, that sort of thing -- but I can hardly believe it's been almost two years. Two years. Almost. Well, actually I did take a long, very long, holiday but it wasn't really close to two years. It has just been about that long since I posted anything online.

In any event, I'm now back to writing everyday. And yes, I'm still committed to finishing RoseThorn, although I've now decided to split it into two books: The Black General and The Last Queen. I'm doing the final edits to The Black General right now, and I hope to be able to sub it in a few weeks. (I'm going with indies this time -- no more beating my head against the agent wall of invulnerability). And then I need to write about 40k more words for The Last Queen, most of which will involve adding Finn's arc and expanding Eleanor to be a more independent character.

So that's what I'm up to now. More to come later.

Random update

2008-03-11T05:04:00.000-07:00

Sold The Dream Poacher for Issue #5 of 7th Dimension Magazine. It'll be out in May.

Also, new update on Rose|Thorn. Check it out.

New RoseThorn post

2008-03-03T08:38:00.000-08:00

Update on progress on Rose|Thorn: http://rosethornnovel.blogspot.com/ including a preview of a new scene with Finn.

2008-01-31T05:33:00.000-08:00

Nothing new to see here, but there's a small update over at Rose|Thorn. Check it out.

New RoseTorn post

2008-01-17T07:39:00.000-08:00

The newly revised Chpater One of RoseThorn is up pon the blog: http://rosethornnovel.blogspot.com/2008/01/now-new-and-improved.html

Short Fiction 2.0

2008-01-17T07:01:00.001-08:00

Treasure those intermittent bits of truly objective and constructive criticism that you sometimes serendipitously receive. Shrug off everything else, most especially the subjective, both the raves and the rants.

Short Fiction 1.1

2007-12-19T13:29:00.000-08:00

Only a very silly person wastes time in drafting up "rules" for writing.

Short Fiction 1.0

2007-12-14T11:44:00.000-08:00

Rule 0: There are no Rules.

Rule 1: Believe Rule 0 if you will, but prepare your best resistance against the Borg (err, I mean most other writers, editors and other busy-bodies who know the rules of writing short fiction.)

Rule 2: You know what they say about the Borg.

Rule 3: There are no Rules, but there are compromises that you make in the vain hope that you will be published.

Rule 4: Follow Rule 3 if you will; it won't make a difference.

Rule 5: There are 1000 stories for every one that you submit. There are 10 publishing slots for every 1000 submissions, nine of which are reserved for 'names' and FOE's.

Rule 6: Each of the stories that you write is better than most of the stories that are published.

Rule 7: Some of the stories that you write are better than any of the stories that are published.

Rule 8: Rules 6 and 7 do not matter.

Rule 9: It's okay to be bitter and jealous; they are, at least, human emotions. (Hey, you can write about them!)

Rule 10: Write what you want to read; odds are you will be the only one doing so anyway, so you might as well enjoy it.

Short Story Excerpts

2007-11-23T06:47:00.001-08:00

Now that I have a few seconds free, here are excerpts from two short stories. The first is from the last story that I have finished, The Players, and the second is from the next story that I have just started, Do You Believe In Heaven.

From The Players:

And so Ericssen became hopelessly lost in the forest. It was stupid, and he knew it, and he spent the latter part of the dying day cursing himself and wandering among the deep leaves beneath the trees. The sky faded from bright blue to orange and purple and then to impenetrable black. Ericssen admitted defeat, threw himself down with his back against a fallen tree, and drew his jacket tight.

He slept.

He jerked awake, up from where he had slumped, groggy and panicked all at once. Then he remembered. Stupid, he’d been stupid to get lost . . . but, but what was that noise?

Ericssen shifted among the noisy complaints of the dead leaves. A voice? Yes, a voice out here in the sightless night in the forest. Two voices, many voices. A scrape, bang rattle. Noises in the dark never seem to be what they really are. Trolls coming to take him away, he thought, faeries seeking his soul, terrible things that see him through the dark.

But these voices, they were of men, and there was wood smoke on the air and a smell of dinner cooking. He peered over the log at a distant, orangish-red firelight, a campfire light, a camp of men. His stomach turned, twisting and insistently complaining, but Ericssen hung back hidden behind the fallen tree. He truly believed in trolls and faeries, witches and other terrible things that waylaid youths lost in the deep woods.

Still, his stomach roared at the mere thought of food, and he crept closer toward the fire until he had to wriggle on his elbows through the undergrowth. He peeped at a camp of wagons pulled into a rough circle about a large fire of logs. Shadows and silhouettes of men moved inside the ring of wagons. Ericssen felt invisible.

“What’s this then?”

He started and scrabbled backwards, away from a looming shadow, until he got himself tangled tight in the branches of the bush.

The great, black shadow laughed at him. “Come look, friends, come see here we have a skulk lurking in the dark, a sneak, a spy, a voyeur!”

Others ran up then, shadows all of them, quavering with the bright, reddish-orange light behind them.

“Huh-ha!” one laughed.

“Bah, just a boy,” another snorted and turned away.

“Come, come,” and the first shadow held out a hand into the bush; in a moment Ericssen knew that he spoke to him. “Well, come on boy, take the hand,” he said with a booming laugh, “you’re welcome at our fire.” The shadow swept off a huge hat, all brim and plumes, with his other hand, and the way he turned the glow from the camp fell across half of the face of a man. Likely not a troll, Ericssen decided.

Ericssen took the hand and was pulled into the air onto his feet. Soon he was seated on a log ring before the fire looking around in astonishment at the half dozen other faces in the light. To his left the shadow sat and became a great man, a little portly, a little elderly, with an energetic smile and appraising eyes.

From Do You Believe In Heaven:

The crazy man accosted me outside the Save-More Supermarket, a paper bag of groceries precarious on two more bags cradled in my arms. He asked one of those simple, profound questions.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

He stank. Spoiled beer, urine, and rank sweat. The man wore grey jogging pants, filthier than I could ever have imagined, and an old army field jacket. The patch over his heart said ‘Adams’. The United States flag clung onto the sleeve by only a few threads. He stared at me.

I skirted him, and his question, as well as I could. Step sideways, smile stupidly, mumble something like “I really wouldn’t know.” But his attention had already shifted to a woman and her daughter walking down the street.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

The heels of Junior League sensible pumps chattered as the woman and girl hurried along, eyes averted. They didn’t answer. The crazy man was busy scanning for the next passer-by.

I turned the opposite way, toward my apartment, and walked away. Just as I reached the corner I heard the man pose his question again, and I looked around, curious. At this distance I could barely hear him. He didn’t rant or shout, or mumble obscenities. He just asked, simply, politely pleading. The person he’d asked pushed past him into the store. The man checked up and down the sidewalk for anyone else nearby, and when he saw no one else nearby he shuffled over to a rusted bicycle with flat tires leaning against the brick wall. The bike had a bunch of plastic grocery bags in the basket, tied to the seat, looped over the handlebars and the frame. The bags were stuffed, I thought, with this guys life. How sad. He took the handlebars and walked the bike slowly away in the opposite direction. I headed for home.

That night the man came back to me, repeatedly. Something about him stood out. Not just his question, that was not so unusual seeming to me. I had the idea that lots of the homeless were disturbingly religious. It was how he asked, how his eyes focused for a moment on the face of whoever he’d asked, his attention concentrated on that instant. He needed to know. He needed the answer.

Bloody brilliance!

2007-10-25T06:23:00.000-07:00

Just finished reading the first draft of my friend, Sue Boulton's novel, Hand of Glory. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. Even in rough draft it's by far one of the best books I've read this year. If this does not get picked up for publication then the publishing industry is collectively braindead. (Well, let's face it, a lot of people suspect the braindead bit already).

Senator Craig Rebuffed

2007-10-04T11:58:00.000-07:00

I do not, as a general rule, use this blog to discuss any personal matters, or to hold forth on politics or society in general. I’m breaking that rule for a moment.

Senator Larry Craig infamously should learn to keep to himself in any public restroom. His attempt to have his (insanely misguided) plea of guilty to misdemeanor disorderly conduct has been rejected. But this is not really about the republican senator, nor his hypocrisy, nor his self-deceptions and illusions, nor whether or not Mr. Craig should resign his senatorial seat; this is about America’s paranoid homophobia.

Assume, for the purposes of this discussion, that Mr. Craig did everything with which the arresting officer charged him. Assume that he entered a particular toilet stall in a particular men’s restroom in a Minnesota airport. Assume that he touched the officer’s foot, in the next stall, with his foot (both men were apparently wearing shoes at the point of this conduct). Assume that Mr. Craig then made a particular hand signal below the level of stall divider with, assuming, the intent to arrange for asexual encounter with the officer.

Assume all of that, and now tell me what crime Senator Craig committed. Disorderly conduct? The Minnesota criminal code defines the offense of disorderly conduct as:

609.72 DISORDERLY CONDUCT.
Subdivision 1. Crime. Whoever does any of the following in a public or private place, including on a school bus, knowing, or having reasonable grounds to know that it will, or will tend to, alarm, anger or disturb others or provoke an assault or breach of the peace, is guilty of disorderly conduct, which is a misdemeanor:
(1) Engages in brawling or fighting; or
(2) Disturbs an assembly or meeting, not unlawful in its character; or
(3) Engages in offensive, obscene, abusive, boisterous, or noisy conduct or in offensive, obscene, or abusive language tending reasonably to arouse alarm, anger, or resentment in others.

This statute establishes three elements of disorderly conduct: 1) committing one of the three enumerated conducts; 2) knowing or having reason to know that it will alarm, anger, et cetera; 3) others. Note, especially that it does not matter whether the offending conduct is committed in a public or private space. Note that the offense is inherently subjective in the sense that it devolves upon the offense that might be taken by “others”. Note, finally, that the “others” do not have to actually be offended, alarmed, angered or et cetera.

So, does Mr. Craig’s restroom peccadilloes amount to a violation of Section 609.72? The first two enumerated categories of conduct do not apply. As far as we know Craig and the officer exchanged no words prior to the arrest. By any stretch of the imagination Craig’s conduct cannot be viewed as boisterous or noisy. The offense, therefore, depends on whether touching another person’s foot and making a peculiar hand gesture constitute “offensive, obscene [or] abusive” conduct.

Certainly an unintentional touching of another’s foot by your foot is not explicitly offensive. Have you never accidentally stepped on someone’s foot? A shod foot briefly making light contact with another foot is patently not obscene or abusive. An apology may be warranted, but not a criminal prosecution. Ever make any odd, but innocuous gestures? I do, and there is no way it can constitute offense, obscenity or abuse.

Make no mistake, what is being punished here is the presumed intent of one man to have sex with another man. Mere intent to have sex with another person is offensive, obscene and abusive in the great state of Minnesota. Keep in mind, now, that there was no actually sexual conduct of any kind, there was no contact with any genitalia, no hug, no squeeze, no leer or ogle or come hither look. Senator Craig was arrested and prosecuted for having the intent to have sex.

Would the arrest and prosecution have gone forward if the target of Mr. Craig’s lascivious intent had been a woman instead of a man? Remove the “action” to the airport bar, let Craig hit on a woman, let there be a furtive touch and non-verbal signal. Whatever his intent, would anyone want to charge the senator with a crime?

Instead of rejecting Senator Craig’s motion to withdraw his guilty plea, which strictly on its own merits was doomed to failure, the reviewing court should have dismissed all charges, ordered the record of the arrest expunged, and censured the trial judge, the prosecutor, the arresting officer and any supervising officer. The mere intent to have sex cannot constitute disorderly conduct, and neither can a few clumsy “pick up” lines. It is not just the job, but the duty of our law enforcement and judicial officers to ensure that arrests, prosecutions and convictions must be supported by the law.

Republican, Democrat, Independent or apolitical, this is not about politics. This is not about whether yet another politician should or should resign. This is about the paranoid persecution of gay men in this supposedly civilized country.

Online Literature

2007-10-01T04:50:00.000-07:00

In keeping with my interest in free, online literature (and speaking of Blue Moose Press), I have been checking out a young adult book, Rowan of the Wood by Christine and Ethan Rose. Targeted for readers from, oh about eight to twelve or thirteen, Rowan is the story of ten-year old orphan Cullen Knight. Oppressed by his foster parents, and persecuted by his much larger foster brother, Cullen retreats into the world of reading fantasy to cope; until, that is, the fantasy finds him in the form of a magic wand Cullen uncovers in a redwood forest. Unknowingly, Cullen releases the wizard Rowan, trapped inside the wand for fourteen centuries, and now Cullen's fate is bound to that of the legendary Green Man.

Frankly, I had some initial difficulty with the orphan boy-hero suffering at the hands of nasty foster parents, and a bullying foster-brother, who finds himself suddenly possessed of magical powers. I mean, it's been done, and recently. Though I did come to enjoy the story of Cullen and Rowan, in some ways I never did get entirely over that initial discomfort. Still, this is a young adult book, and I suppose that readers of that year are perhaps a bit more tolerant of such recycling. (Indeed, the orphan-in-peril trope is hardly a recent invention).

That aside, Rowan could have used the services of an experienced YA editor, as the prose went to purple far too frequently, and there were a number of long, descriptive passages where a few words could have sufficed. There were far too many instances of 'telling, and not showing'. As a young adult novel, however, I could not honestly expect the narrative sophistication and complex structure that I would look for in an adult book.

To the kids the main thing is the story, I believe, and Rowan has a good one. Cullen bonds with Rowan, in some ways literally, as the strong, caring adult that he craves. That Cullen and Rowan must face, together, a truth that may be too painful to bear seems to me the lynchpin of the story. This melding of the worlds of the child and the adult strikes me as quite inventive and sets this book apart from its predecessors in the 'orphan hero' canon.

Rowan is scheduled for release in the Spring of 2008, but there is a preview copy available online at the Blue Moose Press website.

Boxes for the Poor

2007-10-01T04:45:00.000-07:00

It seems that my story, Boxes for the Poor, is currently appearing in the Blue Moose Press Newsletter: Follow this Link

Short story excerpt

2007-09-26T05:34:00.000-07:00

Here's an excerpt from my most recent short story:

From The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes:

They say that when the baby girl was born she did not cry, not even when the nurse dropped her on the tile floor of the delivery room. The nurse held the baby with the gentle ease of experience. She cooed and caressed the soft skin fading from purple to pink, and then those little pinched eyes opened and the girl focused right at the nurse. She screamed, and fled. The doctor cursed her even as he scooped up the serene girl, the parents in sudden distress, mother now calling for her child. The words died on his lips as he turned his eyes to the baby’s face. He stuttered, stumbled, barely managed to roughly lay the child in her mother’s arms before crying out in primal fear. The father’s own curses chased the doctor from the room. This was how the life of the little girl began.

It would not get any easier.

Dorita Bakker. The girl with kaleidoscope eyes. I heard the stories of the strange little girl told and retold in grocery store aisles, parking lots and parks, wherever neighbors gathered to gossip. It was the story of a small town. It was a story of my childhood, the girl who – two generations ago – was cursed or blessed. Touched by God, said a handful, the mark of the Devil many more others were sure. Rumors became stories, stories became tales, and then it all passed into local legend. Finally I would hear some of the truth, much later, when I was no longer a boy, when I was no longer a small town kid.

The Bakkers tried to tough it out at first. They brought the baby to a baptism by the shaking hand of the terrified preacher. They took the child to the park, propped her up in the sand box even as panicked mothers snatched their babies away. The other young children did not notice, they played happily alongside Dorita until pulled away. They looked into her eyes, fascinated, and feared not. It was the older ones, the ones over five, that loathed the girl with the strange eyes, their older sisters and brothers, grown-ups, parents.

Slowly the town ostracized the Bakkers in terrible ways. The preacher came to them, visibly relieved that the girl napped. He told them the congregation had voted, told them it was best they not come back to church. He started shaking when the baby woke crying in the other room, made excuses and a hasty retreat through the screen door and up the dusty driveway. The house they rented burned down on a night they were away. No one would take them in for any money, not that they had much. They found a place a way out of town, a sharecropper’s ramshackle. They paid far too much. There the mother and the girl disappeared, only the father showed his dogged face walking to work at the mill six days a week, taking groceries home Saturdays. He spoke to no one, if he didn’t have to, and no one spoke to him.

I heard the stories, from my mom to make me eat peas and carrots and slimy okra, from kids to scare each other, as a joke, as a threat, as idle gossip. I told the stories, repeating, adding, not knowing the truth or lie to any of it. Long ago the Bakkers had left Millton, left Jackson County to no one knew where. Still the stories were told.

Strange Horizons Review

2007-09-26T05:33:00.001-07:00

My review of Gary Wassner's The Revenge of the Elves will be up at Strange Horizons beginning Monday.

I've made the front page!

2007-08-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

On a whim I did a Google search on my name, just first and last. Two hits on the front page, one for my Amazon profile and one for this blog. It's a little funny to me that the Amazon entry is above the blog, since I've not put a review up on Amazon in a long time.

Terrible News

2007-08-17T04:36:00.000-07:00

Paul Jessup has announced that Grendelsong is going on hiatus, which probably means that he's not ready to face throwing the dirt into the grave just yet. This is awful, because Paul was one of the few actually innovative editors that I know of, and I feel bad because I had not yet subscribed. (Yeah, I'm part of the problem. But this isn't about me. Besides, I did buy Hal's chapbook . . .) So, anyway, I'm posting about this instead of sending Paul condolences because he said not to do the latter.

Terrible news.

Stayin Alive

2007-08-02T04:02:00.000-07:00

Batteries 60% recharged but still nothing to say. Oh, sold a story to Alienskin Magazine for the Oct. Issue. Link when it goes up.

Paul Jessup's Dust

2007-06-27T09:16:00.000-07:00

Yet again I take my sweet time to crank out this post. Paul Jessup is creating an online novel (novelette ?) at his blog: Dust. If you're not familiar with Paul's writing, he tends to the surreal, and if this is manifestly not your thing then . . . whatever. Still, what's the point of not checking it out? The price? The convenience? Go on check out Dust, you've got nothing to lose, everything to gain, and besides this is close to what I'll be doing with RoseThorn come September.

So, what do I think of Dust? Paul is a talented writer, and I've always enjoyed his work, so what do you think I think? Yeah, I like it. Right away I found depths that must be sounded out by the reader, such as the burning of the book of Dust's former life in the opening scene, and this is the hallmark of Paul's writing: depth. If you know anything about my own work, then you'll know that I love writing that makes the reader work.

Bad News on RoseThorn

2007-05-09T11:47:00.001-07:00

The last agent turned it down: http://rosethornnovel.blogspot.com/

In the Shadows: An Anthology of the Curious, by Justin Thorne

2007-05-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

I read widely in the speculative fiction genre, from fantasy to science fiction to horror to just-plain strange. I'll admit to certain biases: I'm not overly fond of Conan-type stories or military science fiction in the Heinlein vein, I shy away from gratuitous blood and semen, and I'm not usually a big fan of the clever plot twist in the last paragraph style of writing. But still, I like to read very widely, and my writing, likewise, tends to wander back and forth across the always hazy borders of genre.

This is why I was delighted to get my hands on an advance copy of In the Shadows, an anthology of short stories by Justin Thorne. Shadows collects about ten years of Thorne's short fiction writing and is about equally distributed between fantasy, science fiction and horror--with a few non-genre stories thrown into the mix. And mix is the appropriate word, as In the Shadows shuffles together an eclectic melange of style and subject.

Just as importantly, most of Thorne's writing a wry, sarcastic wit that naturally appeals to me. And though the writing is certainly well-crafted--all of the periods are in place and most commas appear where they should--the true strength of Shadows lies in Thorne's characters. Wary and world-weary, as are all who live (or lived) interesting lives, there are characters who truly do come to life on the page, vivre veritas, or something like that. But more on that later.

So, what is the bad news? Well there really isn't any, as the nature of an anthology should suggest. I enjoyed some stories more than others, a few I did not care for (see, biases, first paragraph) , and one turned my stomach. But that is to be expected for no writer has ever produced a story universally loved without reservation. Still, for the few stories that just did not appeal to me, Thorne gives many others that really satisfy. So with all that being said, let me hit the highlights.

The best entry in Shadows--but only by a hair--is Dotted Line, previously published in Nocturne Magazine. Clever, sarcastic and ultimately sad, Dotted Line actually retells the old tale of an artist striking a deal with the diabolical. Needless to say, though, Thorne brings a unique and deliciously dry wit to bear on the story of the artist with nothing to lose but his soul. (Indeed, Thorne revisists this theme later in The Comedian).

Following up on Dotted Line, is the wonderfully subtle Monumental Words in which a well meaning gesture turns into a night of zombie-terror. But don't expect the usual, for this is no mere Romero rip-off, but rather a sensitive treatment on the spiritual power of symbols. Monumental Words first appeared in Be Which Magazine.

Rounding out the top three stories is the previously unpublished Monkey Puzzle, one of the non-genre entries in Shadows. Easily the longest story in the collection, Monkey Puzzle tells a story that is more a crime thriller/detective than fantasy or horror. Here Thorne tones down the sarcasm to explore the always thorny ground of racism, overt and covert, knowing and unknowing. Although the 'mystery' becomes readily apparent at least half-way through, knowing (or at least strongly suspecting the ending) does not detract from the message of this story. Thorne toned down, however, is still not preachy; the moral of this story must be written by the reader.

There is no space for me to continue, not if I want to also talk about Thorne's characterization, so it must suffice to mention just a few of the other excellent stories in Shadows, in particular: The Only Constant, The Medium is the Message, Worms, The Comedian, The Doorman, and most especially, Soundtrack.

Character, character, what is a good story without good characters? Well of course there's more to it than that. Dialogue, structure, plotting, the artistry of the words themselves. Short fiction is particularly difficult because so much has to be done in so few words. In short fiction a compelling character can make, or break, everything. And Thorne's strength in his short fiction is character.

From nothing to lose Tim Blaine, the writer ready to make a deal with the devil, to the unnamed paragon of stubborness in Worms (yes, that was the story that turned my stomach, but still a great character) Thorne's creations seem all but real, as if Shadows were really a collection of biographies. Thorne is also a musician/singer/songwriter, and so perhaps he is well-used to making great characters come to life in only a few verses. Whatever it is, it works. And, well, let me just leave you with a taste of what I mean, from Dotted Line (I wonder what I would do in his place):

Tim stared across at the man and for a while, both men sat in silence. He took a deep breath. “Okay, so worst case scenario is a grisly death, followed by an eternity of individuality. Plus, you can’t tell me when my death will occur?
“Correct. Unfortunately, the other team control life spans, that was the deal the Chief and . . . the other Chief, came up with.”
“What if I sign the deal, walk out and get hit by a car?” he asked.
“That is the chance you will have to take, Tim. And as per the terms and conditions, it would likely be something a little more . . . unpleasant than a simple motor accident.”
The waitress approached the table carrying a jug of stewed coffee. The man waved her away without looking up.
Tim would have accepted a top-up, had he been consulted. “I take it I don’t have any time to think about it?” he asked.
“Sorry,” replied the man, “This is a one-time deal, offered once and accepted or declined at the time of offer.”
Tim looked down at his briefcase containing his work, his craft. How many times have I said that I would do anything to make it?
“Probably no more and no less than every other passionate artist, poet or writer out there,” replied the man.
Tim nodded, not comprehending that the man had just answered his unspoken thought. “Alright,” said Tim excitedly, “Fuck it. Let’s do it. Where’s the dotted line? I’ll sign it.”
The man smiled and held out his hand for Tim to shake. Tim grasped the hand and shook it twice.
“That was it Mr Blaine, the dotted line . . . and you just signed.”

In the Shadows: An Anthology of the Curious by Justin Thorne is now available for pre-order from Sigel Press in both the U.K. and the U.S.A. On the web at www.sigelpress.com.

Because I am a Lemming . . .

2007-05-01T08:55:00.000-07:00

I will imitate Paul Jessup, in what looks like the latest meme, and list some of my favorite books . . . note that the qualifier is favorite, as in it's matter of taste needing no justification.

The Hobbit - John Tolkien. The book that started it all for me. My dad got me a paperback of The Hobbit when I was six or seven, the awful Ballantine cover with the fruit tree and emus, and I must have read it at least a hundred times since.

The Downfall of the Lord of the Rings and the Return of the King - John Tolkien. Umm, what do I need to say?

A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan, The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula LeGuin. Especially LHoD, perhaps the best speculative fiction ever written.

The Name of the Rose - Umberto Eco. The wonders of the re-imagined past.

A Singular Man - J.P. Donleavy and Lucky Jim - Kingsley Amis. Smart, funny and modern writing.

Jurgen: A Comedy of Justice - James Cabell. One of the classics, but still funnay as hell and still irreverent even in today's jaded sensibilities.

Dune - Frank Herbert. Hmm, debated about this one because of the self-parody that the franchise has become, but the sheer breadth of Herbert's original imagination was and is breath-taking.

Grendelsong 2 released

2007-04-24T04:34:00.000-07:00

Ah, I should have done this a day or two ago but . . . um, I'm lazy or something. It's my sleep schedule, and the sheer effort of keeping up with Catherine.

Anyway, Grendelsong #2 is out and ready to entertain you. Virtual release party here, with fiction by a who's who of up and coming writers (er, I mean pixel-stained technopeasants).

Online Fiction

2007-04-23T07:47:00.000-07:00

Here is an online novel, Gormglaith, by Swiss (?) writer Heidi Wyss. I cannot yet decide if I'm really going to get 'into' Gormglaith. Not that I'm averse to esoteric, or difficult, reading--after all I have loved Hal Duncan's The Book of All Hours. Wyss' work, however, utilizes an idiosyncratic idiom (as it were), in a way reminiscent of Burgess' Clockwork Orange. In other words, the characters talk funny, and the standard problem with books in which the characters talk funny is that it can strike you as either genuine or forced. I just haven't decided yet, but so far I'm enjoying the fresh strangeness of Wyss' book. (I could also admit that I did not really get 'into' Duncan's work at first, but later became a rabid convert).

In any event, I'm linking partly for ulterior motives because Wyss has done something close to what I'm considering doing with RoseThorn--release the book for free download over the internet. She's chosen to do a few things differently from the way that I would (or will) but I wanted to link to the site just to give an erg of my support to this sort of thing.

Short story excerpts

2007-04-21T05:19:00.000-07:00

Here's another round of excerpts from recently finished, and one in-progress, short stories:

From The Good Soldier, which is actually a "King Arthur" piece. I've always been fascinated with Bedivere, the last knight of the round table, the one that either returned Excaliber to the Lady of the Lake or returned King Arthur's body to Avalon (depending on which tale you read). I've always wondered what it is like to be the last believer, the one left behind:

The soldier’s eyes snapped open, instantly awake, the habit of a lifetime of fighting, of sleeping in cold camps on enemy ground. His eyes opened, but the soldier otherwise lay utterly still in the darkness under the thicket of brambles. Dawn was an hour, two hours, away. Under a tattered cloak and the remnants of dark dreams he listened.

A distant voice, complaining. A soldier cursing night patrol duty. Another voice, a harsh command, and the first voice fell silent. The choruses of crickets and frogs owned the night noises again, for a short while, and then silence, real silence, fell as the patrol neared.

Footsteps, some crunching on the dirt path, others swishing through the tangles of frost-rimed grass. He cursed under his breath, a misty cloud of resignation and annoyance. Could they not let me freeze to death in peace?

Thwip-Thwack!

They were beating the hedges and bushes and undergrowth with spear-butts, or tree branches. The soldier cursed again. His hand went to the grip of the knife sheathed at his hip, but he had lost that in battle yesterday, buried in the chest of some Umberland levyman. Poor-fool farmer probably died with the dirt of his home fields still under his fingernails. All for that witch and her hellspawn.

Thwip-Thwack!
The soldier grimaced, exhaling slowly. His fingers ran down the ashwood shaft of the lance he’d scavenged. Even broken off five feet from the bladehead it was too long for close work. The sword it would have to be, a poor choice for fighting in the dark in the middle of a thorn bramble. But there it is. He shifted, excruciating, slowly releasing stiff muscles, flexing frozen joints. His knees ached, but he ignored that.
Age-killer. He couldn’t feel his feet, but he ignored that too. A soldier’s always got one foot already in the ground anyway, that’s what they say. By inches he got his legs up under his body, ready to explode somehow when the moment came.

From Was Ruth, a science fiction story written with my friend Kirk:

The strangest thing about living inside of a machine is how completely, and how easily, one becomes attuned to its moods. It breathes. It creaks and groans and complains. It pulsates with its own rhythms and cycles, circulating air and oil and hydraulic fluid. Every sound, every vibration carries meaning, whispers just below the edge of comprehension. The machine seems to live, and more, to speak. More strange, perhaps, if that is possible, is how easily the separation dissolves. Action, thought, belief. Cogs, subroutines, these are just parts of the machine that we become.

Click, squeak.

Click, squeak.

Hard rubber soles staccato the steel deck, close, coming closer. Click, squeak. The vibrations coming up through the deck plate hum through her body, resonating along her nerve endings. She lay on the deck, eyes closed, breathing softly and slowly. She feels the motion of the station, the vibration of the deck, and there . . . the dissonance. Somewhere something is giving way incrementally, and the rest of the structure strains ever more to compensate. Click, squeak.

She knows the sound of guards walking, but this is different. The corners of her mouth turn down. This is not the measured pace of routine and boredom. Click, squeak. Click, squeak. This rhythm is purposeful, tense, and there are two footsteps.

Her eyes snap open. It is time.

She sat up, hugging her knees, staring at the deck. She had dreamed, at times over the past two years, that this day would not come. Something would happen. Someone would intervene. She would somehow run away from it, from reality, just as she had done all her life. The two sets of institutional black shoes that appeared on the edge of her vision, outside the plas-glass door, meant otherwise.

Her gaze slowly, involuntarily, rose from the deck and traveled over the first uniform. The name tag read ‘Wallace,’ one of the regulars. She had never known his first name, or seen his face behind the riot helmet.
“It’s time,” he said, his matter-of-fact voice distorted by the intercom. “On your feet.”

From The Players, current story in progress:

And so Ericssen became hopelessly lost in the forest. It was stupid, and he knew it, and he spent the latter part of the dying day cursing himself and wandering among the deep leaves beneath the trees. He had never seen a compass, they hadn’t been invented yet, and if you handed him one he would have thought it witchcraft. When the sky faded from bright blue to orange and purple and then to impenetrable black, Ericssen threw himself down, his back against a fallen tree, and drew his jacket tight.
He dozed.
He jerked awake, up from where he had slumped, groggy and panicked all at once. Then he remembered. Stupid . . . but, but what was that noise?

Ericssen shifted among the noisy complaints of the dead leaves. A voice? Yes, a voice out here in the sightless night in the forest. Two voices, many voices. A scrape, bang rattle. Noises in the dark never seem to be what they are. Trolls coming to take him away, faeries seeking his soul, terrible things that see him through the dark.
But these voices, they were of men, and there was woodsmoke on the air and a smell
of dinner cooking. He peered over the edge of the log at an orangish-red firelight, a campfire light, a camp of men. His stomach turned, twisting and insistent, but Erickssen hung back. Trolls existed, and so did faeries and witches, even if compasses didn’t, and who knows what allures they may take on.

Still . . .
* * *
“What’s this then?”
He started, and fell back into the bush, scrabbling backwards until he got himself caught good.
The great, black shadow laughed at him. “Come look, friends, come see here we have a skulk lurking in the dark, a sneak, a spy, a voyeur!”
The others ran up, shadows all of them, quavering with the bright, reddish-orange light behind them.
“Huh-ha!” one laughed.

“Bah, just a boy,” another snorted and turned away.
“Come come,” and the first shadow held out a hand into the bush; in a moment Ericssen knew that he spoke to him. “Well, come on boy, take the hand,” he said with a booming laugh, “you’re welcome at our fire.” The shadow swept off a huge hat with his other hand, and the way he turned the glow from the camp fell across half of the face of a man. Likely not a troll.

Flashspec Reviews

2007-03-22T08:54:00.000-07:00

Not sure how I managed not to do this before, but the Flashspec Anthology -- which includes my story The Shark God, has garnered two reviews: the generally positive and the dismally negative. Now I have no quibble with Deniz's review, as being his honest opinion. In fact, I quite enthusiastically agree with him in that Shark God is "horror at its absolute worst;" well, I should say that I 'would' agree if Shark God actually constituted "horror". Umm, supernatural fantasy, anyone? Still, I will admit wholeheartedly that I have no idea how to make you scared.

Illustration group blog

2007-03-09T11:56:00.000-08:00

Here an interesting site with lots of good content. http://drawn.ca/ The best thing is that it's a group blog of illustrators, so you get a wide variety of art that they thing is good, cool, cutting edge, whatever.

Romancing the Rational

2007-03-08T05:12:00.000-08:00

Go here, read this, tell me it does not make you doubt . . .
http://notesfromthegeekshow.blogspot.com/2007/03/eternal-moment-of-modernity.html

And obviously the emotion of duality resonates within me, blood and ideation, flesh and spirit, hunger and indifference -- the beginning and the end. But the one thing that Duncan misses, so far as I can see, is the paradox, the unity of the dual, the lie of separateness.

Or perhaps he comes close, alluding to the unity here,

The Modernist looking up into the heavens today sees the stars and planets, sun and moon, cycles of seasons, months and days measured in time that warps and twists, sees cycles of centuries, precessions of equinoxes, processions of arcane symbols still alive in the imagination, symbols of ancient civilisations now in ruins, the whole cosmos not as clock and calendar but as a new deep, a new abyss, a new wilderness where the only real frame is the edge of the watering hole we stand outside of, children of kings and animals, leaning down to be surprised at our own reflection, seeing ourselves against that backdrop, looking for the eternal moment where essence and existence collide and collude in a Rational Romanticism, a Romantic Rationalism.

Yes, that eternal moment, the only moment ever here and ever now where essence and existence are one. The thorn, after all, has its rose.

Excerpt from Lord of Light

2007-02-26T16:11:00.000-08:00

Reading Zelazny's Lord of Light, this excerpt struck me as oustanding exposition:

Ahead, a crowd gathered to watch the passing troop. Horses were ridden only by those who could afford them, and few were that wealthy. The slizzard was the common mount -- a scaled creature with snakelike neck, many teeth, dubious lineage, brief life span and a vicious temperament; the horse, for some reason, having grown barren in recent generations.

Good stuff, good stuff.

Update to the Nerdy Implosion

2007-02-26T08:55:00.000-08:00

Here you go, the latest entry on the Harrison v. St-Denis blogathon. Hal has a great deal of smart stuff to say, who could have redicted that, but it basically distills down to "it's all tedious" if you askme.

That Word

2007-02-06T05:46:00.000-08:00

Mike Harrison rants against "world-building" here and Patrick St-Denis responds here and flowing as an undercurrent throughout the reaction and overreaction is the bugaboo: escapism. I. Am. Sick. Of. This. Word. So sick, in fact that I banish it. Yep, henceforth, that word shall be known only as 'that word'.

Why?

That's a good question. The answer? Simple, 'that word' represents the self-loathing, inferiority complex that has dogged specfic ever since, well, ever since rationalism and realism conquered the literati. Screw them, if what we love to write and to read seems 'that word'-ist to them. Screw them. I do not care what they think. I do not write in a ghetto. The exercise of imagination is the genesis of creation, not something of which I should be ashamed.

Edit: and here are the linkages where further discussions may be had . . .
The Lotus Lyceum thread: http://lyceum.kapo.ws/?p=78#comments
Johnathan Wood's take: http://thexmedic.blogspot.com/2007/02/worlddestroying-so-theres-been-lot-of.html
Gabe Chouinard's blog: http://deadcities-icon.livejournal.com/139469.html
James Enge's blog: http://jamesenge.livejournal.com/11302.html
Paul Jessup weighs in (or will): http://kapo.ws/wordpress/?p=754

Anybody I missed?

Reminder: RoseThorn

2007-01-30T08:37:00.000-08:00

Just a reminder, I _do_ have a separate blog entirely devoted to my first novel, RoseThorn (currently seeking representation by the way, nudge, nudge, wink wink). The link is just to the left there, umm, where it says RoseThorn oddly enough. There's actually quite a few delicious and chunky excerpts helpfully linked on the top post of that blog. Also, if you do come to visit, PLEASE post a comment, if only a 'Hiya, Jerk' so that I will know who's coming by and when and et cetera.

Yeah.

Submissions, Other Stuff

2007-01-30T08:29:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm finally sending out the submissions for those short stories that I have been writing. And I think, probably a terrible decision, that I will only submit electronically. The idea that I would have to print out a story and cover letter, an SASE, an address label just to get (most likely) rejected, in the TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY, is ludicrous. Not - going - to - do - it.

Other stuff: Gabe Chouinard, over at Urban Drift, has formed a new forum that looks to be attracting people from all over, some of whom I've never interacted with - so that should be cool.

Lotus Lyceum is back and fully functional, i.e., generating train wrecks!

So sue me, I'm late

2007-01-10T06:06:00.000-08:00

As promised, and only slightly late, here are excerpts from the short stories that I have been working on. Looks like this is going to be a long post. Now I need to find places to submit these travesties, except for Boxes for the Poor, which is under consideration for Grendelsong #5. As always, anyone who wants to read any of these, just send me an e-mail.

From The Sword is Mightier than the Pen:

“It was a voice,” he returned to his tale after a moment, “a gurgling, raspy kind of voice coming from behind a wild growth of hedge beside the path. ‘Here,’ the voice whispered. Young Roald bolted upright, leaped from the saddle and plunged into the hedge. He found an old woman lying among the thorns; yes, a mad old woman, her eyes rolling in her head—a wraith of skin and bones—moaning and muttering and whispering the same words over and again.”

“’Here, here,’ she said, thrusting into his hands an ancient sword in a tattered scabbard. ‘The Well, the Well, the Well of Wonders,’ she rasped, ‘here, seek it, here, here.’ Roald took the sword and, turning, made as if to set it aside. But the hand of the crone, like a claw it was, snatched his arm with a strength beyond belief. She pulled the armored knight around like a child and brought his face close to her own. Her eyes suddenly ceased rolling, catching him in their gaze, ‘take the sword, my son, seek the Well of Wonders. I am late.’ With those words the crone breathed her last rattling breath and fell back. Her hand slid off of Roald’s arm and struck the ground.”

From The Shark God (Long Version). (The short version was originally published in the Flashspec Anthology, but I would like to see the full text published somewhere):

The voyage began badly. The elders held the rite of peaceful passage on the beach, as had been in all the years of the people. Ka-Ti, Go-Adi and the other young men knelt in the sand, their brothers and fathers standing, glaring down at them. The acrid smell of smoldering bubua leaves mingled with the sweet smell of flower garlands. Stinging sparks danced on skin as the men brushed the bubua over the young mens’ backs and shoulders. The pulse of the drums pounding, the feet of the dancers beating, the rhythm of the waves, made the music of mother ocean.

The boys smiled, even under the stern faces of the elders, as the line of girls danced by them. Skirts rustled before their faces, breasts and hips swaying. Ka-Ti knew his cousin Go-Adi secretly smiled at beautiful Ma-Mo as she danced. He’d loved her since they all were children. She smiled back. They would marry when the men returned. As the girls passed, the older men anointed each boy with the milk of the sea.

Everything changed when Ti-Pa-Pa, the shaman, leaped with a scream onto the sand. He shambled about, a pathetic man under a shark mask and mantle, rattles tied to wrist and ankles. He shouted, gestured, implored the sea and threatened the sky. He invoked the Shark God. But the god did not come. The god did not possess him; the elders grumbled and shook their heads in fear for the voyage.

From Boxes for the Poor (as I said, this one’s under consideration by the editor of Grendelsong):

People jostle by, though most veer quickly away. They avoid the rags of my poverty, my emaciation. Their eyes avoid my face. I wish, just as fervently, that I was not here in their street, in their way. Naked I rose, some place and some time now lost to memory. I found rags to cover my body, my shame. I concealed the sores on sinking flesh, the protruding joints, this grotesque frame. From house to village to town I wandered, begging for sustenance, scrabbling for my keep. The stones of the road bruised my feet. The thorns of the wilderness cut my flesh. Always I walked, and in the end I wandered to this town of Syr, finding little charity in the world. Now, through the dust of the street, the passers-by avoid me, dodging the taint of death impending.

From The Dream Poacher (this is more a “cerebral horror” story rather than fantasy):

Its prey struggled, feebly, within the nets that it had set, webs of ether, skeins of mist, luring, catching, numbing with cold, clinging comfort. It hung on the ceiling by claws that penetrated into other anchors than plaster and lathe. The blunt head trailed below the sinuous body, wide, round ink-black eyes following every shift and twitched of the prey. It waited for the moment the dream would sweeten, for the ripe fruit, the stock of its trade.

The body below tensed, rolled onto one side, curling up the knees into the abdomen. Tthe Dream Poacher released its soporific breath, a soft, sibilant hiss. The dreamer’s face turned up, lip parted slightly.
So soon, so near.

The Poacher crept along the ceiling and down the wall, until it perched just above and behind the sleeper’s head. It clung by only its hind and medial legs so that its forelimbs were free, fingerlets curling and uncurling. It breathed again, long, slow and soft as a soundless whisper. The sleeper tensed, rotating her head back.

Now!

The Poacher grasped the sleeper’s head, feather light, gradually increasing the pressure of the tips of its fingerlets until it held firmly. Fleshy lips gaped. The toothless mouth descended until it caught the top of the sleeper’s head in an open kiss. Then it started to suck.

From For Brianne (and this one is kind of a romantic ghost story, instead of fantasy):

On a night just the same as any other Charlie woke to a silent house. Moonlight streamed in through the window, and he lay for a while looking up at the play of shadows across the ceiling. A wind swayed the tree limbs outside. He rolled over, buried his head deeper into the down. He tried to sleep but eventually abandoned the effort as useless. Charlie rose, put on his glasses, and took up his current read from the bedside table. As he straightened his glance strayed out of the window and down upon the garden. Someone was there.

For a moment it did not occur to Charlie to wonder why, or who had invaded his garden in the middle of the night. He merely stared down on the vague form below, quicksilver in the moonlight. He closed his eyes for a moment, certain that he was having a vision in his sleeplessness, but when he opened them again he saw a woman sitting on the edge of the old well in the center of the garden.
Charlie set his book back on the table and withdrew silently from the chamber. He took his dressing robe from the hook on the back of the door. Descending the back stairs to the kitchen he tied the robe closed. As Charlie set his hand on the latch of the kitchen door he paused, looked out of the window into the garden. Empty. Charlie threw the door open, strode along the path to the well. But as he came near his steps slowed until he came up short against the low, stone ring. No one was there. He spun around.

The garden was empty.

From Anthropomorphica (and here’s a contemporary fantasy):

The telephone woke her before noon. She ignored it and the angry message from her boss. Lissi showered, changed, drank some orange juice and grabbed a bagel from the fridge. She ran out to the corner, caught the city bus to the library stop. An afternoon spent looking for anything, everything on parallel worlds, other dimensions of existence. Crackpot theories, mostly, if the author seemed at all to take the subject seriously; the rest was comic book stuff. Both were entertaining, but useless.

Toward evening Lissi took the bus home, bought take away from the Thai place on the corner. She ate sitting in the chair and ignoring the accusatory blink of the red light on the machine. Late into the night she watched the ragged and urban-wild fringe of the old park that backed onto her bedroom window. How long had the city been indifferent, to the overgrown hedge, to the ground covered in strata of seasons past, dead limbs and leaves, spent condoms and needles? She sipped sparingly from a glass of water, not wanting even to go to the bathroom. Somehow she felt tonight was her last chance.

It happened, just as before. She sensed it, felt it as a whisper upon her face even inside the building. The light outside turned liquid, bubble thin. Reality wavered, the edge of her world softened as it pressed against another. The chair spun in her wake, the door slammed behind her passage. Lissi paused at the threshold of worlds. And he was there, waiting a little farther away than he had stood last night, patient, watching impassively. There was the park, the city spreading out below, the rivers, the sun setting behind snow-capped mountains. Tonight she would not be afraid . . . except she was, but she stepped forward anyway, leading with her chin high, eyes fixed on his hulking silhouette.

From A Donkey Called Lion (this one’s still in progress):

In the middle of the ring a stream of water sprang musically up through a crack in a square-cornered stone. The fountain spilled down the stone, meandered in the ring, but though I tried to follow it with my eye, walking round and round the ring, I did not find where it flowed out. The wind bent the stalks of grass, spoke to me of nothing.

A glance I tossed at the donkey—not returned. Unconcerned, he nibbled at the green shoots among the desiccated leaves of last year. Still, for some reason I did not want my only friend to wander, or perhaps I lacked courage. I took hold of the halter. Donkey and I stepped into the ring together.

I could no longer see the animal, nor even the end of my own arm, for all of the green in the way. I perceived color for the first time just at that instant. Green of leaf, every subtle shade of it, as if I’d never seen it before; light, dark, every tinge and undertone of green from blue to brown to yellow. Was it only one leaf that I saw? In a while I remembered to breath, and sometime after that I forced my eyelids closed against the intensity.

But that did not release me.

Eyes closed, my body reverted to other senses. The smell was of flowers, all kinds of flowers, every one of them of which I have ever heard and more besides. It was the smell of flowers as known by the insects. The smell of life, of purpose and eternal spring. I needed no reminder now, for each breath was an ecstasy. Each breath took them in, every flower that ever bloomed, and I knew them separately. In that moment, however long it lasted, perhaps I could even have named them.

I held my breath, against every aching wish of my body. Somehow I knew that I must move, an inch, a step, anything, or I would stand here until I planted myself in the honeyed soil. My eyes fluttered open but I kept them moving, not focusing on leaf or twig or branch for too long. My arm was still extended, though the halter had
fallen from my fingers, the donkey nowhere to be seen. But no movement, not even a breeze and no noise, except a slow, sonorous whisper that I almost did not hear.

And for a super secret bonus, an excerpt from Shagrat and Gorbag are Dead (yes, it does exist, I am actually writing it, and no it will probably never see the light of day for copyright reasons). This is part of Section 1 of “We are Slaves”:

“Where were we?”

“Here,” Gorbag gestured about the bleak situs of the debate. They stood in a cranny in the wall of the cliff-bordered path. He vaguely waved at nothing of distinction.

“Not spatially,” Shagrat growled, baring the tips of his fangs, “in the conversation. You said that I was a slave, I said am not,” he pointed in turns at himself and his companion, “am too, are not . . . ahh, I remember. Whom do you serve?”

“Whom do I serve?”

“No, that was the question that you asked me.”

“Ah, yes . . . well?”

“Well what?”

“Whom do you serve?”

Shagrat thought for a moment. He sat upon a low, nondescript boulder and crossed his knees, elbow propped on knee, chin cupped in hand, and he thought. For a long moment his mobile eyebrows twitched and skittered like a pair of caterpillars dancing. Finally, he raised his free hand, the index claw pointing upward, a beatific
smile playing across his mien, “my master.”

“Aha, a slave.” Gorbag stepped forward onto the path, his arms spread wide, he proclaimed, “we are all slaves.”

“Oh,” answered Shagrat, his chin dropping back down into his hand. Gorbag came and sat next to him on the boulder, shivving him over with a sideways thrust of his hip as he sat. He mimicked his friend’s pose. Neither spoke for quite some time.

“Of course, it’s not so simple as just saying that we’re slaves,” Shagrat said finally.

“What do you mean.”

“Well, it begs a question.”

“What does?”

“What does what?”

“What begs a question?”

“It.”

“It.”

“It.”

“I see.”

“It begs a question, to wit: what is the nature of freedom? Is anyone actually free?”

“Hmm, metaphysicks.”

“Philosophy.”

“Theology.”

Together they dropped their chins back down upon their hands, sighing together. “But we don’t know much of that stuff,” complained Shagrat, "the educational and experiential deficit of being a slave."

Gorbag sighed again, loudly. “Too true,” he added, but then he sharply raised his head, glaring about. “Aww, now will ye jus’ look at this crew. Hie ye maggots!” he shouted and growled at the same time, “d’ye call that proper searchin’? Get to lookin’ an’ get to finding if’n ye knows whats good for ye!” He cracked his whip but did not manage to do more than vaguely threaten to actually stand, much less to use the weapon.

“Ugh,” Shagrat commented, his chin still firmly planted, “useless.”

“Worthless.”

“Why do we bother?”

“Because we’re slaves.”

Shagrat glared sideways at his companion, opened his mouth to retort, but then snapped it shut and resorted to rolling his eyes.

Oops!

2007-01-09T13:22:00.000-08:00

A month without posting?! How did that happen. All right, X-mas, RL, etc., but still . . . I promise an update, and some fragments from the short stories that I have been working on, to be posted tonight.

What's going on

2006-11-30T06:34:00.000-08:00

Been quiet a while, what with holidays, personal stuff, work heating up a bit. Here's what I'm up to: putting aside all manuscripts at the moment to refocus on doing short fiction for the next six months. I've also retooled the query letter for RoseThorn, and will be set to send out about a dozen queries (hopefully this weekend). Still haven't heard from the one agent that requested the full manuscript, so that's still out there. Anyway, that's the plan. I've already finished a short story since I've decided to go this route, one is kind of outlined, more have been brainstormed. So, soon I will be tormenting the various zines and journals.

My thoughts on Jeff VanderMeer's Shriek: An Afterword

2006-11-14T13:07:00.000-08:00

Adhering to my (newly-found) policy of not posting book reviews, what follows is not a review of Jeff VanderMeer’s Shriek: An Afterword, but rather just my thoughts on the book.

A recurring, and not entirely undeserved, criticism of the fantasy genre is that its works emphasize plot over characterization. In the usual genre novel, the criticism generally goes, the characters exist to experience and move the plot along, and as a consequence the characters in fantasy tend toward the simplistic and archetypal. To the extent that this criticism is true, Shriek stands as a shining exception to the rule. This book is a wonderful example of a character-driven novel, with the emotionally and morally complex brother and sister, Duncan and Janice Shriek.

Within the fantasy genre, I suppose an apt comparison might be made to China Miéville’s Perdido Street Station, inasmuch as both books interject the reader into a unique and fascinatingly surreal urban environment in a world all the more disturbing for being somewhat reminiscent of our collective reality. (Humans, after all, dominate both Ambergris and New Crobuzon.) But for all of its innovation, of setting, of language, of treatment, and for all of its wonderfully imagined characters, Perdido Street Station still functioned within the confines of plot. (Freytag would have no difficulty in recognizing its basic structure.) Still, I believe the comparison apt for Shriek will certainly prove as important to the genre as Miéville’s seminal work.

Shriek, however, mostly eschews plot, and very effectively so, as it does not so much really matter what happens in Ambergris—the reader gets slightly different versions from the two main characters anyway—as how Janice and Duncan react, how they feel and think and grow as events unfold. VanderMeer’s organization of the novel is rather simplistic. The story proceeds in a more or less linear fashion, loosely following the career of Duncan Shriek as historian, teacher, journalist, disregarded revolutionary. There are no dream sequences, and few, if any, flashbacks. POV does not shift among multipicitous characters. But again, coming up with a different way to present tired, old plot tropes is not an issue for VanderMeer; Shriek is not that kind of fantasy.

I suppose, indeed, that the out-of-the-ghetto critics might claim that Shriek: An Afterword is not fantasy at all. Where are the wizards in pointy hats, the flighty elves, the fire-breathing dragons, the muscle-bound heroes and buxom heroines? Plus, genre writing is plot-driven, is it not? Ergo . . . (you fill in the blanks.) So, what is it, fantasy or literary fiction? Literary fantasy? (Can there be such a thing?) I mean, my god, there's a typrewriter on the cover. A typewriter! And mushrooms! How can that be fantasy?!

I don’t know what it is that VanderMeer has done here, not really, not at least to go so far as to pigeonhole Shriek as this, or that, or this but not that. You decide. I will say this: I read fantasy in all of its forms; I read it all and I know what I like. This I like.

The Writer’s Eye (and ear, nose, tongue and skin)

2006-11-10T13:55:00.000-08:00

Been meaning to spatter this digital ink across my screen for a few days now; you know what it’s like, just getting to things that you mean to do. But, hey, maybe it’s better for the time to reflect.

I had to vote earlier in the week, had to in the sense that I’m a resident of Virginia, and by all accounts Webb needed every vote he could get. Let’s thank someone he got them. Anyway, that’s not the point; yes, there is a point here about writing. I had to vote and that means taking the Metro out to Clarendon and walking about six blocks to the community center. Out and back about twelve blocks, passing by a condo construction project each way.

Now, walking by the construction site, feeling good about being a dutiful citizen, I pondered on the sights and sounds and activities of the workers. A lot was going on, all over the place. I watched as I walked, them doing their things and me walking and watching.

Then I realized what I was doing. I was filing it away, the sights and sounds, what people were doing where and, maybe, why. I wasn’t looking at it like John Q. I was looking at the construction site with a writer’s eye, listening with a writer’s ear, cataloguing every detail to use when or if needed in a story.

And then I realized that I’d been doing the same thing a lot, perhaps most of my waking life these days. Experiencing life, to be sure, but also taking notes, as if I’d hired a tiny scribe to sit in my brain and log all sensory input for later access, analysis and exploitation. A formation of gauzy cloud scuttling across the sky? Check. The slow degradation of the dead pigeon between the tracks of my train station? Duly noted. Those flirtatious glances form that young, cute blond? Log updated, Sir!*

Now I see, hear, smell, taste and feel in two distinct modes. As the one who experiences, and as the one who observes. Has anyone else found themselves changed like this upon becoming seriously dedicated to writing?

*It’s possible I may have imagined that part but the inner scribe doesn’t care. It’s all experience.

Off to World Fantasy!

2006-11-01T13:30:00.000-08:00

Expect some lame report next week. Ha!

Random image

2006-10-31T07:52:00.000-08:00

A (fake) overheard conversation . . .

2006-10-27T13:16:00.000-07:00

She: Has everyone seen the pumpkin?
He: I hear the Pampas is quite rainy this time of year.
She: Quite, and Mickey got a little irritated by it. So what are we going to call him?
He: Let’s call him Horatio and force him to carry the lunch basket . . . and the blanket.
She: I was thinking Wilson, maybe say he got a little sick of being on that island and went "FedEx-al"
He: Better to go with Spaulding. Want to avoid any copyright infringement, yes?
She: Good point. By the way, I found a recipe for shrunken heads on the internet.
He: Well, that would create a highly specific “mood” at the picnic. Might spoil some appetites, though. Suggest a different activity; perhaps, potato sack race?
She: They also have a recipe that uses apples instead of heads.
He: In that case, I suppose it might be incorporated into the bobbing for apples.

Updatery

2006-10-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

No news lately as to the pimpitude of Rose|Thorn. It's still out with the one agent and still a few queries as yet unanswered. I think that I'll have to crack a copy of Writer's Market and send out some more packets.

As to the works in progress, over 10k words on The Witch and the Warlock duology, and that's just in the outline. Serious work should start on that sometime this week. Once the outline is done I'll start posting to the blog for that work. As for Ootrang, over 12k words, and working on chapter three.

Stolen from Paul Jessup

2006-10-18T08:34:00.000-07:00

Disappointing news from Ursula Le Guin.
http://www.ursulakleguin.com/GedoSenkiResponse.html

Is there anything to say here? will anyone ever film/animate Earthsea properly?

(Oh yeah, and old news here, Peter Jackson optioned Naomi Novik's Temeraire series. I'm sure she's elated, and Jackson will do a good job with the imagery, but boy Jackson-Walsh-Boyens will rip Novik's world to shreds, just like they did with Tolkien.)

Stolen from Jay Lake

2006-10-18T07:57:00.000-07:00

Pennsylvania Senator Rick Santorum should know a great deal about the Eye of Sauron, having toiled in it's service all of his political career. But check it out, (LOL) Suddenly, as a fantasy fan and a Tolkien fanatic . . . I feel dirty.

But the most interesting thing? Santorum's remark that you cannot negotiate with Ahmadinejad and the mullahs of Iran because they are messianic visionaries! Umm, pot, kettle, black, what?!?

My God, it's full of stars!

2006-10-16T06:01:00.000-07:00

What the hell is the matter with me? Eh? This weekend I had another storyline jump into my brain, dance around a bit, put it's feet up on all of the furniture, drink from the milk carton, and then set up for an extended stay in the spare bedroom. The Life and Death of Michael S.: A Posthumous Autobiography, by Kathryn S. Yep, that's the title. It's about this woman who finds her estranged brother's unpublished papers after his suicide. The papers include diaries, letters, emails, a few short stories published in various obscure journals and 'zines, and a first draft of a manuscript. She edits the papers, includes her own comments, and publishes the collection as a biographical examination of Michael's life. He was a drug addict and secretly bisexual. The black sheep, he had not communicated with his family for years. His stories, largely SFF, carry double and hidden meanings with relevance to his own life and family. There's also a lot of his frustration with the publishing industry and the lack of concern for art, the difficulty of writing and getting published.

Hmm, this sounds like an artsy-fartsy book. Anyway, it's now on back burner. (Part of the reason why I blog about these ideas is to preserve them for when I can work on it).

Writerly responsibilities

2006-10-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

How much responsibility does a writer bear for the interpretations of her/his words by random and unpredictable readers? Here is an incredible dicussion on this topic at the Lotus Lyceum.

Haunted

2006-10-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

Just for fun, here's a flash ghost story that I banged out for an impromptu contest:

HAUNTED

“Evil deed reaps its own,” my grandmother used to say, but then that bitch was always blathering. God, how I hated her. I still do, more than ever.

Hey, I know what you’re thinking but it wasn’t my fault, really. I had a hard life. My old man crapped out on us when I was five, and dear mother disappeared not long after into the life of a crackwhore. I’m sure she’s been dead a long time too. Grandpa Bill and grandma Trudi took me in for good the third time my mom got arrested. It was that or the institute. But they didn’t really want to, I could just tell. They acted like I was lucky to have a couch to sleep on and slop to eat.

The other grandparents? Never even met them.

Used to be that grandma Trudi would spew at grandpa Bill all day, every day. She just talked and talked. It didn’t matter. Anytime anything happened she had some country saying or some wise, old lady bullshit to say. ‘Never rains but it pours’ or ‘up by five, stay alive.’ But grandpa was deaf as a rock; he didn’t give a damn what she said. The old bastard just watched t.v. all damn day, ignoring the hell out of her, with the volume up so high it hurt your ears.

When grandpa died she turned it on me.

Yap, yap, yap. Every fucking minute she had something to say. I couldn’t fart or scratch myself without her having some dopey shit to say. The worst was when I tried to bring a chick home, or drink some beer or smoke something. Then she’d screech and rant and quote shit from the Bible. Man, it never ended, with that voice like a whistle in my head all damn day, even when I started to work at that shithole of a warehouse.

So I killed her ass.

After I did it I just sat in the house, I don’t even know how long, just . . . what’s the word? Yeah, reveling. Just reveling in the peace and quiet. I mean I fucking relaxed for the first time in my whole life. Then the cops came. There was a trial and all, and the stupid lawyer the government gave me keep going about protecting my fucking rights; half the time I wanted to choke him. But I knew it was all up. You see, in this state, when a crapass like me shanks an old bitch, you can bet it’s the chair for him.

And so it was.

Still, I think it wasn’t my fault. Not really. I mean, sure I killed the bitch but I had a hard life, and she would never shut up. So I shut her up. When the preacher came to save my soul I laughed at his ass and told him to shove it. That’s when they took me to the chair. I chose it. Yeah, I did. I never saw myself lying down and just going to sleep, so when they said it was my choice, I took the chair. Now that’s a ride! Hell yeah!

Then they flipped the switch and I fried.

Except, I got up. When it was over, and I was dead, I stood up all glowing and see-through and shit. And there was my body slumped over in the chair. The doc listened to my heart and declared me dead and the guards brought in the gurney to wheel me,
the old, dead me, away. I was all 'freakin hell, I’m a ghost!' For a minute I thought how cool it would be to haunt the shit out of all the fuckers that screwed me over in life: those dicks from high school, my old boss, the fucking cops. I’d scare them shitless. That made me laugh.

Until she came.

“Evil deed reaps its own, I told you so, I did.” I heard her voice behind me. It made me jump outta my skin, or would’ve if I’d had any. “Henry, Henry, what have you been doing? Wasting your life, as usual. I always say 'a penny spent is a dollar lost,' and I always knew you’d come to no good end . . .”

“Oh god, no!” I screamed, or tried to, but I had no voice. I couldn’t even talk back to her, tell her to shut the fuck up. Still she went on and on, blah, blah, blah. You know, there is no night for a ghost. There is no sleeping. There’s no time off or time out. I can’t run from her. She always finds me. I can’t stop her. I can’t hurt her. I can’t touch her. She always finds me, and there’s no shutting her up.

“Evil deed reaps its own . . .”

God, how I hate that bitch.

It's official

2006-09-29T10:56:00.000-07:00

I'm insane. Already working on outlining Ghost, Ghoul, Goblin, Witch and Devil, Demon, Dragon, Warlock, (I've now fixed on the overall title of The Witch and the Warlock, so it would be GGGW: Volume I of TWATW, DDDW: Volume II). So, there's plenty to do. Each volume is composed of four 'books' of ten chapters each. That's 80 chapters to outline. Then comes the writing. All on top of pimping my first manuscript, Rose|Thorn (which, btw, is still with the agent).

So, why am I insane? Is that not enough? Yeah, well, I've also started drafting--yes actually drafting--my fourth novel and third that I'm writing concurrently. I know, I know. But the idea is so fucking exciting. I mean this one is good, very, very, very fucking good. The first chapter is done and it is, forget humility, freaking awesome. (Any of my lame friends who want to read it just send me an e-mail). The first chapter is mind-blowingly better than anything I've written in the past.

So there, are we agreed? I'm insane? Yes.

Quite out of nowhere

2006-09-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

into my mind this morning popped a full-fledged idea for a story, rather like the Birth of Athena in reverse. Ouch. Novella length, I think, the story is essentially a murder mystery in a steam-punk, Mieville-esque fantasy setting. It begins with the somewhat mysterious death of the autocratic leader of a nation, a relatively minor nation. A dagger to the chest, it seems, and no longer does the autocrat's heart beat. Hmm, strangely though, it is the autocrat's own dagger and he is the only one with access to the death chamber--all locked tight from the inside--and there is no sign of entry. Oh, and there's also the phalanx of guards that were on duty. You see, because there are seven nations in this world, and this is the fifth leader of such nations to die in the past few weeks. Strange. And though each death was apparently a suicide, (and each also had no direct heir) it cannot be a coincidence, right? Ergo the guards after the first four mysterious deaths. Yet, despite the guard and the triple locked doors, warded with magic, the autocrat lies cold.

This dude, you see, or dame whatever, was the autocrat's chief of security and naturally takes on the blame for the death. He or she is forced out by longtime rivals taking advantage of the crisis, a few of the autocrat's nieces and nephews begin an espionage-and-assassination war for the succession. In the midst of chaos the dude, or dame, starts to poke around a bit, investigating the first five deaths.

The investigation leads to, well, really what is now a fairy tale about an ancient evil creature, I think probably a lich, that tried to take over the world, etc. At that point the various peoples of the world banded together to defeat the lich, and there were seven leaders of these peoples that finally threw down the walls of the black fortress and killed the lich. That is how the seven nations were founded according to this fairy tale.

Well, unknwon to anyone, the lich was defeated but not destroyed. Just as the seven burst into its inner sanctum it cast a spell, splitting its spirit into seven parts, sending one into each of the seven leaders. The spirit then passed down through the ages, through the bloodlines of the rulers of the seven nations until a time when each bloodline would finally come to an end. Then each of the spirits would overcome its host, cause the host to commit suicide. Upon the death of the last of the seven the pieces of the lich's spirit would reuinte and be reborn to once agina imperil the world. Muhahaha!

Well, so anyhow our hero, or heroine, chases this knowledge down as the leader of the sixth nation kills herself. He, or she, then must somehow get to the seventh leader, themost powerful and reclusive person on the face of the world, and somehow convince that person of what is really going on. Ha ha! But he, or she, fails the seventh leader dies by its own hand (maybe even by accident, oh the irony) and the lich is reborn.

Now our hero/ine must confront the lich, a powerful creature of ancient evil and malice, that sort of thing. And yes, the lich is defeated. Huzzah! But ... umm ... how dow we know that the lich didn't pull the same bullshit and now its spirit lives on in the bloodline of our hero/ine?

I envision a sort of Conan-Doyle meets Verne meet Mieville flavor. Oh and there's no humans at all. Each of the seven nations is a different version of an animal-human amalgamation. Zebra centaurs, pan-like goat men, gorilla men, hyena-dog men, crocodile men, a cross between an elephant and a rhinoceros (no human element) and lion men. Except the lich, and his long dead minions, were men. Cool, neh?

Nothing quite so profound to say,

2006-09-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

but I just finished Ursula Le Guin's The Tombs of Atuan, and can I say that one day I hope to be able to tell a story this 'effortlessly.'

Addendum: okay, so here are a few words of (un)wisdom. If A Wizard of Earthsea is about personal responsibility, and the pain and sacrifice that it takes to be really true to oneself, then The Tombs of Atuan is about personal freedom. I mean not in the sense of rugged individualism or libertine excess, but rather the freedom that comes from the choice of conscience. I mean the freedom not to be inhuman. Le Guin makes a point here, albeit in a story so effortlessly enjoyable as pure story that one is forgiven for not seeing the meta-text, that true freedom is the freedom to serve humanity, not to serve oneself.

Hal Duncan's Vellum, my strange thoughts

2006-09-20T19:39:00.000-07:00

Having just concluded reading Hal Duncan’s Vellum I immediately sat at my computer to begin composing my comments, for I knew that I had to review this book. But then, I stopped. I stopped and thought, because that’s what Vellum makes you do; or it should, because if you are not thinking about this book then you haven’t really done more than skim the surface. You need some friction upstairs, to warm up the grey cells, to really appreciate just what this book is all about.

Having just concluded thinking about Hal Duncan’s Vellum I tentatively sat at my computer to puzzle through my jumbled thoughts and emotions. And now I know that I’m not writing a review at all, because what I really want to talk about is not the plot, or the characterization, or whether the world of Vellum is “fully realized.” And I really do not want to talk—much—about the unique, even exciting, style that Duncan employs in the first 440 or so pages*; others have done better at that than I could Here and Here. No, what I really want to talk about is the last chapter, the last 15 or twenty pages, the epilogue where the shite hits the fan.

You see, Vellum is a deeply, profoundly subversive, humanistic book, a book that challenges the heart of what it is to be human in the world that we have created. It hits you, dear reader, with all of this brash challenge between the eyes in the last twenty pages, paradoxically, with a gentle and tender ending, a moment between two lovers.

Why? How? Well, “here be spoilers,” I suppose I should say at this point. If you’ve not gotten through to the end of Vellum, then read on at your peril. And if you’ve not read Vellum, then much of what I am going to say will make no sense to you. But then, that’s also a good point. This is not a book that can be readily explained to you. This is not a book that can be readily digested by a skim-through. To really get why Vellum is a great book—and it is—then you’ve got to read and think, and then think some more. In fact, if you’ve not read Vellum then you’ve probably wasted your time thus far, reading this, and would only waste more by reading any further. Go here, you know what to do.

Okay, now to the epilogue and why Vellum is so intensely subversive. Subversive with a capital S, italicized, capitalized, subversive in cursive underlined twice. In the epilogue are three characters: Tom, Jack and the rag-and-bones man (let’s shorten that to the Rag Man). But who are they? Tom and Jack represent humanity, humankind, you, me, and every man and woman that ever was, and is, and ever will be. Fearful, uncertain, needful Tom represents the humanity that was and is; he’s us now, you and me. Fearless, bold, detached Jack is humanity as it will be, or rather as it could be. But who is the Rag Man, whose skin is made of souls, whose burden is saving everyone in Endhaven, whose function is reckoning, judging?

The Rag Man is the savior, The Savior. He’s Jesus Christ, Messiah, Buddha, whoever, whatever it is in us that tells us, convinces us, that our souls need saving from something. Saving from what? From damnation, from eternity, from the unknown, from whatever it is that our fear and needfulness convinces us that we need saving from. The Rag Man is the savior whose price is our souls. The society of Endhaven is built on the Rag Man’s contract (and another word for that would be a covenant) and the price he charges for safety and sustenance are the souls of the inmates. Sound familiar?

So what happens? The Rag Man judges Tom and finds him worthless. Even worse, he judges Tom a sinner. Yet he offers Tom a deal: betray Jack and live, or be cast out into the Evenfall, the fearsome darkness, the storm of shadow. Betray what you could be, turn away from that, the Rag Man offers, and I'll give you a starveling, hand to mouth existence under my rules, but safe and secure. Tom turns down the deal, however, calling the Rag Man’s bluff. And Tom’s soul is not cast out but cast free; the Rag Man’s rule over him is broken and the fearsome darkness is revealed as a beautiful, starlit night.

So, what is Duncan saying here? Well, in a nutshell, he’s saying that humanity needs no savior, that our souls do not need to be saved, they need to be set free. He’s saying that all of the gods and angels, demons and devils that we’ve invented, that we’ve given life to, are nothing more than the embodiment of our fears. He's saying that all of the myths and superstitions that we've given power over us are just stories. He’s saying that we need to call our own bluff, to move beyond our fears and our need for salvation.

How well does Vellum work at this subversion seems a fair question. It worked for me, but then I’m an areligious, profane humanist myself and I’m predisposed to think highly of this message. More importantly, however, this subversive message works very well in the context of Vellum as literature. It rationalizes and ties together what is sometimes a manic, almost incohesive style. As a reader the ending makes sense of much that seemed merely stylistic. In retrospect, for example, the message makes clear why it is that Finnan says that humanity will be the cause of the downfall of the gods. It's the last twenty pages that make Vellum a great book, rather than an interesting experiment. It works quite exceptionally well, if you get it. Unfortunately, I suspect that few people will put in the work that it takes to get that far.

Addendum: All of the reviews of Vellum, that I have been able to find, cast the story as a 'war between Heaven and Hell, with humanity in the crossfire.' Engendered are images of angels and demons blasting each other as people flee in terror, or die by the thousands. Huh-uh. Nope. I suppose that the reviewers have taken their cues from the publisher's promotional materials, designed to drive sales; but no, Vellum is more a story of the war between Heaven/Hell and humanity. If the reader expects a big, blood-drenched showdown ending between armies of angels and devils, uhh, then you'd better be prepared for a letdown. Vellum ends with Tom (humanity-as-it-is) embracing Jack (humanity-as-it-could-be), with us having the courage to love ourselves. I, for one, like that ending.

*A note on style. Much has been said on Duncan’s style of writing in Vellum, including the author’s essay on “Style is Substance” here. I found Duncan’s style reminiscent of one of my favorite non-genre writers, J.P. Donleavy, so it worked well for me. If you don't know Donleavy then, well, jeez I guess this entire thing has been a waste of time for you. Sorry about that.

A rant of mine at Lotus Lyceum

2006-09-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

We don't need no stinking badges!

poetry pet peeve

2006-09-07T13:25:00.000-07:00

Why do so many fantasy writers seem compelled to wedge awful poetry into the text of their prose? Because Tolkien did it? Ugh, so tedious. The only one who has done it well recently, in my experience, has been Alison Croggon. But then, she was first a poet.

That having been said, here's a poem that is going to appear in RoseThorn! Hey, can you say hypocrit?

Golden Leaf

I saw a golden leaf fall,
it took eternity and no time at all.
For the leaf all the time that was and ever will be,
but a breath, but a heart beat for me.
I saw a golden leaf fall,
it took eternity and no time at all.

(at least it has the virtue of brevity)

The Shark God

2006-08-16T10:53:00.000-07:00

Here is the flash story that was published in FlashSpec Anthology: Volume One, edited by Neil Cladingboel. (Posted here with Neil's knowledge and consent)
______________________________________________________

THE SHARK GOD

The pain was how Ka-Ti knew that he still lived. Sun ravaged, a thousand cuts screaming whenever the salt-sea washed over him, his body shivered with thirst, fever, and pain. Three days he had clung, with the others, to the wreckage of the outrigger. Then the sharks came. A day later only he and Go-Adi lived, but with each spasm blood gurgled from the gash in Ka-Ti's leg, staining the water. The sharks would return. Until then he welcomed the pain.

* * *

The voyage began badly. The elders held a rite of peaceful passage on the beach, as was the tradition. Ka-Ti, Go-Adi and the other young men knelt in the sand, their brothers and fathers standing, glaring down at them, the acrid smell of smouldering bubua leaves mingled with the sweet smell of flower garlands. Stinging sparks danced on skin as the elders brushed the bubua over the young mens' backs and shoulders. The pulse of the drums pounding, the feet of the dancers beating, the rhythm of the waves, made the music of Mother Ocean.

Ti-Pa-Pa, their shaman, leapt with a scream onto the sand. He shambled about, a pathetic man under a shark mask and mantle, rattles tied to his wrists and ankles. He shouted, gestured, implored the sea and threatened the sky. He invoked the Shark God. But the god did not come. The god did not possess him; the elders grumbled and shook their heads in fear for the voyage.

Ka-Ti descended from true shamans, the elders said--his father, sailing alone on a spirit quest, had been taken by the Shark God itself--but as a child Ka-Ti could not take his father's place. So the elders chose Ti-Pa-Pa, who swore that he also had power. A fraud the elders later said, but he would not give up the mask, not even now that Ka-Ti was old enough.

Ti-Pa-Pa shook the shark-tooth club as he called on the god to protect the voyagers. Each boy-man went into the surf with him to sacrifice their blood to the sea, and he scratched the club against the backs of their fists. Crimson drops stained the water. When Ka-Ti came forward, the shaman ripped the teeth through his flesh. Ka-Ti bit his lip to swallow a cry, but his eyes never left Ti-Pa-Pa's through the mask.

* * *

The storm scattered the little fleet during the fourth night of the voyage. By morning Ka-Ti, Go-Adi and nine others floated on the remains of their canoe, knowing nothing of the other five craft. Then the sharks came.

Greys, the ghosts of the sea, and Bluebacks circled until, one by one, the men were pulled away from the wreckage--or, giving up all hope, let go. The tails of the sharks beat the sea into red foam. Seabirds came and dove for the bits of flesh that fell from the sharks' mouths. Within a day only Ka-Ti and Go-Adi lived, left with a choice of death under the sun, or under the sea.

* * *

Ka-Ti heard the shark break the surface when it was still far away. He raised his head, cracking open his burning eyes. Its blunt nose was an island, breaking the swell with a roar, its fin a mountain, and its wake a tidal wave. The shark was greater than even the great air-breathing fish his people hunted in summer. It came for Go-Adi.

He did not decide to slip into the water, or to try to distract the shark. He simply acted to protect his cousin. Ka-Ti swam hard, with as much noise as he could, away from the wreck. He took a breath, saw the great head turn toward him, and in the next moment sensed the jaws opening. Ka-Ti cried out.

"Father!"

* * *

When he returned to consciousness, Ka-Ti knew every current in the ocean, and every fleck of sand that rose above the waves. He knew the taste of the sea before the Fire God raised his mountains of flaming stone under it. How presumptuous to seek to cage the ocean! He sensed all movement on the water, and under it, and he knew, without knowing how, where the broken remains of each outrigger now floated. Ageless and boundless was the Shark God, and with a flick of his body he whipped back toward the tiny bundle of wood, rope and flesh drifting on the sea.

* * *

The Shark God did not devour the man called Go-Adi. Instead, it took a length of rope in its jaws and began to tow the wreck, and the man, back to their island.

When the people learned of the disaster they would sacrifice to the Shark God--and it intended to receive this sacrifice, for one human thought remained in its hungry mind: Ti-Pa-Pa.

______________________________________________________

Hey, if you like that, you might check into the anthology for a lot more stories: http://www.flashspec.equilibriumbooks.com/about.htm

Working on things.

2006-08-15T11:14:00.000-07:00

Man, I've really got to get into the hang of this blogging thing. Hmm. Nothing much to say. This ain't good for a guy who is supposed to be a writer . . . well, maybe I'll just link to a bunch of other cool people, how's that?

Review: A Shadow in Summer

2006-08-07T05:50:00.000-07:00

I encountered A Shadow in Summer by Daniel Abraham while wandering the internet, happening upon the website seredipitously. Abraham has posted the prologue and by the time I had finished reading it, I was a convert. In fact, I dare you to follow the link in the sidebar, read the prologue and then refrain from running to the nearest bookstore--like I did--to pick up this volume. To put it plainly: brilliant.

Abraham deftly weaves together lucid prose, compelling story telling, and a wonderfully realized setting. By the end of the first chapter you`ll be marvelling that this is a debut effort by Abraham.

This is not to say that A Shadow in Summer is without flaw. A number of reviewers have pointed out an apparent, and rather glaring, problem with the plot development. I say 'apparent' with the knowledge that Abraham intends this to be the opening of a four-book series; as such, he has leeway to resolve the problem in the next volume.

The plot in a nutshell: the city of Saraykeht--sorry if I get the spelling wrong, as I'm doing this from memory--stands at the pinnacle of wealth and power, but it has feet of clay. The city thrives from dominance of the cloth trade, provided entirely by the power of the andat, Seedless. An andat is a concept, given coherence by the word-thoughts of a poet, and the encaptured spirit exercises power commensurate with it's founding concept; therefore, Seedless possesses the power to remove 'the part that continues.' For the cloth trade Seedless removes all of the seeds from all of the harvest of cotton, giving Saraykeht an insurmountable advantage in the trade.

With wealth and power, however, come jealousy and fear. If the poet Heshai should lose control of Seedless, Saraykeht would fall. When a conspiracy rises to free the andat, who will stand up to save the city . . . and should it be saved?

A Shadow in Summer by Daniel Abraham--brilliant.

Review: The Prodigal Troll

2006-08-07T05:42:00.000-07:00

Charles Coleman Finlay's debut fantasy novel, The Prodigal Troll, shines in its compelling and powerfully imaginative treatment of dissonant cultures in conflict. Finlay manages to do well in a single piece what so many fantasy authors cannot, even in the multiple-volume sagas currently in vogue: weave a rich tapestry of hitherto unknown cultures and tell a damn good story to boot. Prodigal Troll neither takes on the creation of all the minutiae of an entire world, nor does it expound at excruciating length on the politics and economics of numerous kingdoms and empires with unpronounceable names.

An empire expanding its borders invades a wide and fertile valley, the territory of a tribal people. Technologically and militarily advanced, the empire inevitably pushes the tribes to the fringes of the mountains beyond the valley. However, the conquest completed, the center of the empire now seeks to curb the autonomy of the periphery, in particular the conquering hero Lord Gruethrist. Knowing that he cannot resist directly, Gruethrist plans to take to the hills as a rebel, hoping eventually to force a favorable settlement. There is one problem with this plan; Gruethrist's infant son, Claye.

With imperial forces besieging his castle, Gruethrist entrusts Claye to a knight and a nursemaid. These guardians slip away in the night with the infant, but before they can reach safety, they meet their deaths in the wild hills. A mother troll, grieving over the death of her infant daughter, finds Claye and adopts him as her own child. Claye grows into manhood among the mountain-dwelling trolls. When he desires to take a mate, however, his otherness leads him down from the mountains toward the settlements of men, just as the tribes begin to chafe again at the ascendancy of the invaders.

Jacket blurbs compare Prodigal Troll to LeGuin's The Left Hand of Darkness and Burrough's Tarzan stories. Perhaps these are apt comparisons, given some similar themes and plot devices; but Finlay brings his own strong, confident style to bear upon these themes. The fan of LeGuin and the fan of Burroughs should not expect to find a merely concurrent voice in Finlay. The Prodigal Troll works well enough on its own merits.

If there is a serious weakness in Prodigal Troll, it would be found at the ending. Without spoiling the book, it must suffice to say that Finlay concludes the book in an abrupt manner. The actions and motivations of the characters at this point do not entirely make sense. However, the ending works better by remembering that the opening scene of the novel belongs, chronologically, at the conclusion, and by assuming that Finlay sets up a sequel by ending The Prodigal Troll in this way

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2006-07-27T05:12:00.000-07:00

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