Patrice Sarath's Blog, page 5

7 Reasons Gordath Wood Will Make a Killer Netflix Series

When I wrote Gordath Wood, I wanted to immerse readers in the same kind of fantasy worlds that I loved. Worlds of magic (although I don’t “do” fancy magic), adventure, sword fighting heroes and romance and horses. I wanted to make a combination of Middle Earth and The Three Musketeers. Sound familiar? Of course it does. And it’s not just me. Take a look the fantasy shows like Shadow and Bone, and you’ll see a hunger for exactly the kind of fantasy that Gordath Wood is.

So here’s why Gordath Wood should be one of those series.

We Love Portal Stories  

Immersive fantasy is all about dropping the reader into the story. In a portal story, the main characters are the reader’s proxy. Readers identify with Lynn and Kate as they ride through the gordath into Aeritan and are plunged into a world of magic, intrigue, and peril.

I repeat: They ride horses through the forest into a fantasy world.

2. Best Strong Female Heroines

Lynn and Kate – and the other women in the series, like Lady Jessamy and Mrs. Hunt, don’t just sit back and wait to be rescued. They save themselves, and they make the plot turn. One of the most fun things about writing Lynn and Kate was to watch them uncover their strengths and at the same time, stay true to who they are. And yeah, there’s romance. It’s what I do.

3. Best Strong Male Characters

Captain Crae. Joe Felz. Colar of Terrick. There’s no doubt about it – Gordath Wood is Lynn and Kate’s story, but these guys have plenty to do. There’s a war on, and they have to save their world. And Joe, ah Joe. He never gives up on Lynn, not once, and by the end of Gordath Wood, his life – and everything he’s been running away from – is changed forever on a bloddy battlefield in a snowy forest.

Note: I’ve heard from readers that they are either Team Crae or Team Joe. A new audience would get a chance to choose their favorite.

4. Fantasy Horses

Horse girls love them some horses in fantasy. When I re-read The Lord of the Rings, as I do pretty often, I love when the horses show up. Bill the pony, Shadowfax. Hasufel and Arod. Viewers will love Dungiven and Mojo, whose show name is Mojo a Go Go. I can’t wait to see the horses that will portray them on screen.

5. The Danger of the Portal

The magic that drives Gordath Wood is portal magic. There’s a door between worlds, but it’s a dangerous door. It’s sentient and evil, and if it’s awakened too much, well, it gets hungry. When Lynn and Kate get stuck on the other side of the gordath in Aeritan, they are facing not just war but the destruction of two worlds. Only guardians can control the gordath. And the problem is, one is missing.

6. Women Love Romance, Fantasy, and Television

Women lead in television viewing, according to Samba TV. (Some of my favorite shows are on this list!).Romance book sales have been growing, and that growth doesn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon.

These two stats are why Gordath Wood will be a big hit. It’s got women protagonists, it’s got horses, and it combines adventure and romance. Most importantly, with a women-centered story, the tropes that made women turn away from Game of Thrones don’t exist.

7. I’ve Written the Pilot

If you want something to happen, you have to do it yourself. I’m not ready to share it, but when it’s time, I’ll make the pilot available. It’s different from the book, as all good adaptations must be, and I’ve taken the opportunity to make some changes that update the story for a modern audience. But there are still Lynn and Kate, fighting and prevailing to change the world. There’s still the gordath magic, and the danger of an out-of-control portal that threatens our world and Aeritan. There’s still magic and romance.

There are still horses. There will always be horses.

Let’s watch together.

What do you do with a problem like Georgette Heyer?

What do you do when an author you love is a terrible person and anti-Semitic but her books have given you so much pleasure over the years? How do you justify continuing to read her work and even promote it to others? I’ve become more and more unsettled by Georgette Heyer the author, even as I will eagerly read a book of hers that I haven’t yet gotten to. Is this a case of separating an artist from her work? I’ve often thought that’s a pretty facile argument – I will no longer watch a Woody Allen movie – but is that what I’m doing here?

A friend gave me all the Heyers from his mum’s attic. My First Heyer

I read my first Georgette Heyer in high school. It was The Black Moth. I adored it. I read it over and over again. My friends and I read all the Heyers we could find in the school library, and we talked about them endlessly.

A good friend handed me The Grand Sophy, and I loved every bit of it. What was not to love?! There was a monkey! There was a heroine who defied all the rules. She had a gorgeous black horse and she got the best guy. She saved the family from ruin, too. Right? That scene with the moneylender, I mean, it was not great, and it was icky, but hey, that’s how they thought back then. (They didn’t, not necessarily, according to histories of Jews in England). And she pulls her pistol on him and saves the day.

My Favorite Heyer

Over the years I’ve read probably two dozen Heyers, including a few of the mysteries and the histories and the non-Regencies. It might have been more, but I keep re-reading the ones I love. Cotillion is my absolute favorite, as I’ve raved about before. Heyer is a master of the screwball comedy and farce.

My other favorite Heyer is A Civil Contract. It is a quietly sad and ultimately hopeful novel about an arranged marriage. I’ve practically worn out my copy (you’ll hear this a lot from Heyer fans).

Every Heyer fan has their favorites, and we can talk about them endlessly. I love Heyer fans as much as I love Heyer.

So what is it about Heyer that’s problematic?

Anti-Semitism and The Grand Sophy

The scene with the moneylender in The Grand Sophy has been discussed by the reading community for years. It’s gross. The first time I read it I brushed right by it – I wasn’t reading for social commentary. I was just reading for the endorphin hit. (Confession: that’s still why I read.) At the time, I had been more confused by the description of Sophy’s stepmother, the sleepy Spanish lady, who was also grotesquely caricatured.

 It wasn’t until a few years ago that I went back and re-read The Grand Sophy. It didn’t hold up for me, but that was okay – Cotillion more than holds up. The moneylender scene was repugnant, now that I had a few decades of reading experience behind me. And as other Heyer commentators have noted, TGS came out in 1950, when everyone knew about the Holocaust. Heyer could have been trying to say, well, that’s what Regency attitudes towards Jews were like, but for an author known for her historic detail, that’s not historically accurate. Additionally, knowing when it was published, one has to think, was it intentional? The description is malicious. In most of her other books, she just talks about characters going to the Jews, ie, going to borrow money. In The Grand Sophy, damn, she writes it like she means it. It’s intentional.

Georgette Heyer, Lady Writer and Snob

If that’s not bad enough (it is bad enough), the casual classism is endemic to the books. In A Civil Contract, the heroine’s father Jonathan Chawley is a nouveau riche merchant who is truculent, unsophisticated, and childlike in his angry rages. Heyer holds him up as a foil to the hero, Adam Deveril, who is smart, self-controlled, polite, and well-bred – everything that Chawley is not.

The Chawleys – Jonathan and his daughter Jenny, whom Adam marries in order to save his patrimony – are constantly set up as oafs and buffoons. Here are a few of the things Jenny gets wrong:

She wears too much jewelryShe doesn’t know how to be kind to servants. (Adam calls the housekeeper his friend; I wonder what the housekeeper thinks of that?)She doesn’t know how to entertainShe has a hard time with her pregnancy and with childbirth, most unlike Adam’s mother, who just popped the kids out with no problemOh, and she’s fat and plain

Despite all this, it’s a lovely story. I think Heyer put more of herself in Jenny than in any of her other characters. And that bit of humanity, which I admit I am literally reading into a novel I love, is why I can’t just write off Heyer. I may be fooling myself, but A Civil Contract is a helluva book and a marvelous character study. It’s a master class in turning the classic romance structure on its head. I think Heyer likes Jenny, and it comes through.

The Rich are Different – They Get Away with Everything

Rogues. Rakes. Gamblers. Cads. Drunks. The Heyer-verse is populated with all the bad boys. They fight duels, kidnap women, and get away with murder. Rape. Theft. In book after book, you can almost hear Heyer saying, Oh, you. In Heyer’s world, the rich can do no wrong. Or rather, the rich do wrong, but there are never any consequences. It’s all just – charming. In Devil’s Cub, which I liked quite a bit, the hero shoots a highwayman and a fellow peer, killing the first and wounding the second. It’s like she thinks they should get away with everything, just because they’re rich?

In April Lady, the heroine’s brother is an alcoholic and a gambler. He gets into all kinds of scrapes. Oh you, Heyer says. And the whole plot of April Lady is that the heroine hasn’t paid her dressmaker bill, and the dressmaker is dunning her. Tradespeople dunning the elite is a common subplot in many Heyers, and Heyer makes it clear she does not like it when the common folk try to get what’s owed them, no she does not.

So part of this is traditional Regency romance, but Heyer doubles down on the rich bad boys, so that if someone else exhibits the same behavior in one of her books, but isn’t of the upper class (or heaven forfend, is of the merchant class), they get punished for it. An example of this is in The Corinthian, when the carriage driver almost runs over a street child. He’s excoriated for his carelessness and he’s described as low-bred. If Dysart from April Lady did that? Shit, he’d totally get away with it.

The Corinthian is actually an interesting example, because at least the heroine and the hero have some semblance of obligation to the poor and working class, but still.

This attitude of entitlement is off-putting in some of Heyer’s books. The characters in Bath Tangle are selfish and shrewish, and I include the men in that too. They are so unpleasant, it’s the one Heyer I’ve ever only read once. (Seriously, I have a sickness. I know.) She drops the pretty façade in that one. Maybe she didn’t like the characters either. But yeah, it’s like someone else wrote the book and forgot to Heyer-ize it. These people suck.

The Problem with Georgette Heyer

Writers smarter than I have discussed the Problem with Georgette Heyer. My thoughts? I think she’s one of the smartest and influential writers of her day. She created a genre – the Regency Romance – that is a publishing powerhouse. Were it not for Heyer, Bridgerton would not exist.

Is the solution to edit out the moneylender scene in The Grand Sophy, as some editions have done? What about the other bits of gratuitous racism? What about the sexism? Do we add footnotes? Maybe this blog and the other commentary are the footnotes. Do we solve the problem or do we acknowledge that it’s complex?

In the years since re-reading The Grand Sophy, I’ve changed my approach to Heyer. Instead of leaping on each novel with giddy expectation, I’m more cautious. I read with a critical eye. I still re-read my favorites and always will, but it’s with a sense of sadness now, and less forgiveness. It might not be enough – there are plenty of romance readers who have moved on, and I get that. The romance genre is so vital and growing and breaking new ground almost daily, that an author who started writing in the early part of the 20th century is not even on most readers’ radar.

Heyer Recommendations

So have I mentioned Cotillion and A Civil Contract often enough? April Lady, False Colours, The Corinthian, Devil’s Cub (although geez, the hero is a dick in that one), Lady of Quality, and Black Sheep, are all my re-reads. I can’t guarantee there’s nothing bigoted in them, but they aren’t my favorites because of safety reasons. They’re my favorites because of what Heyer does best – she writes screwball romantic comedies.

Enter at your own risk.

Tesara Mederos, card sharp

Listen, here’s the thing. If you can’t spot the sucker in the first half hour at the table, then you ARE the sucker. — Rounders

Tesara Mederos, reluctant magic user, has another talent — that of card sharp. In The Sisters Mederos, she hustles the merchant ladies and their husbands at the elegant gaming tables of high society, pretending to be the breathless ingenue and really taking them for all their money.

Note: there are some people who are seriously into this whole cheating at cards thing. Here’s a fabulous explanation of how to based on math and, well, sleight of hand.

I love that Tesara counts cards. I love that she’s disreputable like her Uncle Samwell, who taught her how to cheat at cards when she was twelve, just before her magic gets out of control and she raises the storm that causes the family to lose all their money. I love that while she fights to control her powers, she also waltzes into the houses of the people who have betrayed her family, and rakes in the dough.

Look, I don’t pretend to write blameless characters. Tesara and her sister are both criminals and justify their criminality because of how their family has been destroyed by the Guild. And who doesn’t like a rogue?

Here’s a bit of backstory for Tesara, in an early version of The Sisters Mederos:

“Coast all clear?” he said, looking around with exaggerated alarm. Tesara giggled. Uncle could always cheer her up.  He breathed a sigh of relief and came in. Uncle Samwell always made fun of Alinesse, calling his older sister the Admiral and occasionally saluting her, which served to enrage Alinesse and make her lose her temper and call him names. It was their secret that he taught Tesara how to play cards, including how to shuffle the deck the way the dock sharps did when they set up their three-card monty games for the marks. She had become rather good at palming cards even with her small hands.

“Good. No officers on deck,” he winked, and pulled out a small child’s chair from the table, turned it around, and sat down with her, resting his forearms on the back of the chair. He pulled out a greasy deck of cards. “We have time for a game before dinner. Are you in?”

She nodded eagerly. Samwell Balinchard was much younger than Alinesse and Brevart, but he was going to seed, Brevart said. His face was fleshy and slack and his body ran to fat. He was barely thirty years old, and Tesara had heard Brevart say he would eat and drink himself into an early grave.

“What’s the state of your holdings, Monkey?” he asked.

“I don’t want to play for money,” she said, stalling. She had only two half-guilders left after a rampage at the sweets shop after church last week.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You’ve won before.”

“And you always make me play one more hand, and then I always lose.”

Sometimes all of her allowance went to Uncle Samwell. She had learned that he always knew when Papa doled out their pin money.

“This time you can stop whenever you want,” he coaxed. She eyed him with a mutinous look. He gave her an innocent look back, then leaned forward. “You’re getting very good. You know you can beat me.”

That convinced her. This time she would win. And that would teach him.

“We stop when I say,” she warned. He crossed his heart and yanked his earlobe, which he had told her was swearing solemnly. He shuffled and dealt and they settled down to play. Samwell brought out a tin of anise-flavored drops and shared them with her. She loved the strongly flavored sweets.

“All right, Monkey, remember how to count the cards?”

“That’s easy,” she said, too young to understand it was not. She never once questioned that she could learn the formula for remembering when the cards came up in the deck and yet was always considered the dunderhead.

“Now, depending on where you play, you try this trick at the wrong table and the night watch will find your body floating in the harbor with an extra smile.” He made a throat-slash motion.

“Uncle!” she protested, shivering with delight. “It’s the truth.” He leaned closer to her. “I tell you this for your own good. Why just the other night I threw down with several gents o’ the night. We had a rare old time, them thinking I was just a know-nothing toff without a clew, and me counting cards on them.” He shuddered with exaggerated fear.

“What happened?”

“I had just about won all their money and the silver-chased pocket watch one of them had stolen from a drunken bounder with more money than sense. Then my luck failed, and the ringleader got suspicious, saying I had a card up my sleeve.”

She gasped. Counting cards was one thing. Only stupid people played fair, Uncle said, and she had no reason to disbelieve him, because her parents and the other merchants said almost the same thing about trade. But cheating was something different. “Did you?”

“Yes, but that was neither here nor there. I was just counting. Still, I couldn’t let him find the card as he’d never believe me that I wasn’t about to use it.”

“What did you do?” “As they closed in on me, I grabbed the pot and the watch, threw over the table, and ran for my life.” He winked at her with great good humor and she laughed. Uncle Samwell was the best.

She drew a card and busted. He chuckled and swept up the coins from her first bet, stacking them meticulously. With ceremony he popped an anise drop in his mouth. His breath always smelled of the strong drops. She had enough for one more bet. She had to win this one.

Narrator: She doesn’t.

When I wrote the character of Uncle Samwell, I really meant for him to be a jerk who stole his niece’s money and then tried to marry her off to a sleazy friend. And yeah, he does all that, but he redeems himself too, sort of. I like Uncle Samwell, or at least, I’m sympathetic to him.

But that’s a story for another time.

I can’t believe he taught his niece to cheat at cards, though.

Addendum: Port Saint Frey is based in part on an alt-history San Francisco. From True West Magazine, here’s how to cheat at cards in the Old West.

Without getting killed, as Uncle Samwell might appreciate.

Bandit Girls, or The Sisters Mederos

So what is it about bandit girls? There are plenty of real-life stories about women who have taken up sword and pistol to join the ranks of villains. Pearl Hart robbed stagecoaches in the US West. Phoolan Devi was India’s Bandit Queen.

That’s why I’m happy that my Yvienne Mederos joins the ranks of bandit girls the world (and secondary worlds) over.

Did you know: The working title of The Sisters Mederos was Bandit Girls. I was all in on a story about two gutsy sisters who fought back against their enemies, one with a silver-chased pistol, and the other with magic and her skills at cards.

Even before I know the entire story that would become TSM and later, Fog Season, the sisters were the crux of the tale. They argued and annoyed one another and stood by each other the way sisters can and do. That’s why I dedicated The Sisters Mederos to my sisters. But even more than sisters, they are also heroes, and what are heroes but misunderstood villains?

When Yvienne Mederos first came to me as a full-fledged character, I knew she was going to be more than just the “good girl” foil to her wild child little sister Tesara. She was the always the smartest girl in Port Saint Frey; the most diligent, the most likely to follow in her parents’ footsteps and cement the stature of the family merchant house as the wealthiest and most successful in the city.

The thing about good girls is, when they stop being good, they are very very good about being bad. At age fourteen Yvienne Mederos vows to get revenge on the enemies of House Mederos. Six years later, she makes good on her vow.

The Bandit Girl’s First Time

You never forget your first time… Yvienne starts her life as the Gentleman Bandit of Port Saint Frey thanks to three drunken dolts who try her last nerve.

From The Sisters Mederos:

“Ho, there, villain!” a man shouted. Yvienne jumped back, fumbling for her pistol. The man reeled tipsily and his friends held him up. “Who is it? Who goes there?” He giggled. “Where are we?”

He reeked of spirits. Under the dim light she could make out his evening cape and his elegant shoes, the worse for wear in this weather. He swayed, and his two friends had to hold him up.

“Now, boy, tell us where we are and be quick about it!” snapped one of the young men in a lordly way. “Which way to House Saint Frey?”

House Saint Frey? They had drifted so far off course in the fog they would end up in the harbor if they kept going. She was about to tell them that, when the second man said drunkenly, “Don’t talk to him, Bror. He’ll just try to pick your pocket. Oldest dock trick in the book. Did you see that? Ran into us. Check my pockets.” He tried, but only succeeded in groping his sides ineffectually.

“Poor scrawny feller,” said the third friend, as drunk as the other. “They train them up as children, you know. Orphans. Beaten until they learn to lift a wallet as gently as a bee takes nectar. It’s lovely, really. My mother formed a benevolent reform society.”

“Can’t reform them,” the first drunk objected. “Press-gang ’em, maybe. Better to die at sea than rob their betters.” He swayed forward and said loudly and slowly, “Beg our pardon, beggar boy, and we won’t thrash you.”

Yvienne had had enough. She drew the pistol, aiming it at the man’s nose. “I have a better idea. Your wallets. Now.” She held out the satchel, inviting them to drop their money in it. For a moment there was nothing but heavy breathing. Then, remembering, she cocked the pistol, the small metallic sound ringing out in the fogbound street. The reaction was dramatic. The three men drew out their wallets and dropped them into the satchel. Yvienne kept her pistol aimed at them as she stepped back out of the light.

“A pleasant evening to you, sirs, and thank you for your contribution.” She faded into the fog and the darkness, and took off running.

This of course leads to many more feats of villainy and banditry, including daring escapes, ballroom robberies, and finally, the unmasking of the evil enemies that brought down House Mederos. In so doing, she captures the imagination and even the hearts of the young ladies (and some young gentlemen) of Port Saint Frey, who think she is a handsome he.

If you like bad girl heroes, The Sisters Mederos and Fog Season are waiting for you.

The Musketeers and literary swashbucklers

Been watching The Musketeers and enjoying it immensely. For a lot of people, The Count of Monte Cristo is their favorite Dumas, and I get that. But for me, when I picked up The Three Musketeers in ninth grade, it was like an explosion went off in my brain. About three years earlier I had the same experience with Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Again, Treasure Island is people’s favorite, or The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, and again, I get that. But Alan Breck? Who could love Long John Silver when there was Alan Breck?

Rafael Sabatini was the next pusher — Captain Blood, Scaramouche, the rest of his work. Don’t even get me started on what happened when I saw Star Wars for the first time. Han Solo joined the swashbuckling bad boy hero pantheon that I sought after like an addict for the next hit.

Aside: The reason men write these characters isn’t because they want to be them; they want to be with them, and you will never convince me otherwise.

And then I encountered D’Artagnan. See, in my high school, I was in with a big group of geeks who would hang out at the library before school, and if that isn’t on-brand for me, I don’t know what is. We were all obsessed with The Three Musketeers. Who was better? Why? The brooding Athos? The sexy Aramis? Porthos, the funny one?* We’d dissect the plots and the action and recommend other books and basically geek out on all things Musketeers.

*Oh Porthos. Dumas gives Porthos the most poignant death at the end of the series and I was so sad I couldn’t even cry.

D’Artagnan. His cheeky conversation Constance when he first meets her. The fact that he has nothing to be afraid of when challenged to a duel by the other two musketeers, because he was sure to die at the hand of the first one. His courage and recklessness and cheerfulness and that tinge of crazy violence…

Sigh.

Back to the show The Musketeers — it works because the people are true fans themselves. It also works because — and I am convinced of this — when they cast their D’Artagnan, they went back to the Richard Lester movie and basically got themselves another Michael York. To wit:

See? Luke PasqualinoAnd Michael York.

Yes, I get the obvious, but bone structure does not lie.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that Yvienne Mederos is in the direct line of descent from these heroes, and if they were smart, they’d see her as a comrade in arms.

Story sale!

I’m very excited to announce that my short story, “Joe Fledge’s Jump,” about the evolution of the human species, will be appearing soon in Utopia Science Fiction. No date yet on the issue; I’ll keep you all posted.

“Joe Fledge’s Jump” has had an interesting trajectory. It was a Baen SF Finalist a few years back, and has been looking for a chance to appear in print ever since. The story itself was one that I worked on, put away because it wasn’t working, then picked up and thought, hmmm, this has something.

Here’s a bit of a teaser:

“Some people see somebody do something stupid and they don’t think, that idiot. Joe Fledge had set a record for surviving the longest unsuited spacewalk. The chatter on the Net had all been speculation about how long a person could survive, and what someone needed to do to stretch that survival time to its maximum.

Two newbies had gotten into the rigger program specifically to recreate Joe Fledge’s jump. They took advantage of the accelerated training program, put in place to keep the project on schedule and at its target budget. They had practiced beforehand, learning how to expel all the air in their lungs to slow de-oxygenation.

They smuggled up drugs to pre-treat themselves to prevent ebullism. One – Tandy Rollings – went out unsuited. She held the hand of her partner, fully suited, who timed her.

Twenty-five and a half seconds. Give or take a millisecond.”

Of course, stories are never just about what they are about. At its core, “Joe Fledge’s Jump” is about a father and son, about letting our adult children make their own choices.

I can’t wait for y’all to read it.

Hard freeze

“There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen.” – Lenin

Texas had its “Come to Jesus” moment last week, which is a fitting idiom for a state that is the buckle in the Bible Belt. As I was telling a friend, I expect a good bit of change to come, because the state that calls itself the biggest, the best, the proudest, the most, was brought to its knees by a storm that would have been shrugged off by any state up north.

The beauty of the storm.

Yay, Texas – the state embarrassed itself in the eyes of the country and the world. The state that made its wealth on energy let citizens die in the dark. Our governor tried to blame wind energy turbines that had not been winterized for the failures, and later walked that back. Our most notorious senator fled to Mexico. He came back in disgrace.

As I said, I expect change to happen. We’ll see. Capitalism is bigger and better in Texas, and there are people whose fortunes depend on the hardships of others, so maybe I’m naïve, but if anything, the embarrassment should sting enough to make Texas politicians realize that they don’t want to be unmasked as “all hat and no cattle.”

There’s nothing like Texas aphorisms, man.

We did okay, and I don’t want to hold up my experience as anything other than an inconvenience. We lost power for one day. We decamped to an apartment with heat. We did not suffer broken pipes. We are under a boil water notice as of this writing, but it’s an annoyance. We are not a hospital depending on water, or a household without water or heat or electricity, and we have food, though perhaps not the variety we are used to.

The harsh beauty of ice.

The above paragraph is a description of luck. We are not better than anyone else, we did not prepare better, we do not deserve better. We have resources, the good fortune to live in a neighborhood that doesn’t let the power go out because Texas government buildings are in the area, and we got lucky with the pipes.

There are a lot of people who think that the troubles of others are their own damn fault. These people don’t know that they are one roll of the dice away from being down and out. I hope that maybe we can combine compassion with good governance to mitigate the hardship and death of the next 100-year storm. Because it’s coming, and with climate change, these events are coming harder and faster.

What’s next?

So. What’s next? 2021 has been looking a lot like 2020 so far, but viruses don’t know from calendars. As far as COVID-19 is concerned, it’s just going on its merry way, mutating and spreading la la la. Since it’s not likely I will get vaccinated until the summer, I’m still continuing protocols, including masking up when going to the grocery store, and socially distancing with friends. The photo is from Saturday’s hike at Walnut Creek — one of the loveliest parks in Austin.

But there has been one significant change. At the beginning of 2021 I was let go from my day job of almost four years.

I’m currently looking for a new gig, but taking the time to look for volunteer work, which is something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. And of course writing. The current projects are going well. I expect the first draft of the novel to be completed by the end of February, which is so exciting! As I’ve said here before, my favorite words on any project are “The End,” and I’m closing in. I’ve also written a brand new short story in the Port Saint Frey world, and I’m excited to share that with you when it’s ready. If you haven’t signed up for my infrequent newsletter, well — I’m going to revamp it, and I’ll let everyone know. The new Port Saint Frey stories will appear there first.

I also have to announce that I’ve caught the screenplay bug, and it has been a blast. Screenwriting is a different kind of storytelling, but the need to be compelling is paramount, just as it is in prose writing. It’s prose with like a really cranky level of formatting.

And finally, the reading. All the reading. I’ve been trying to keep my book buying to a minimum, so I signed up for Libby with my local library, and I’ve read more this year than in many years past. Recent favorites: The Queen’s Gambit (loved both the novel and the series), The Weight of Ink by Rachel Kadish, and Red White & Royal Blue, which I just zoomed through because it’s possibly the most perfect example of a modern romance and a top example of the form. Plus, it’s totally adorable.

So that’s my world. Off to write!

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Gordath Wood News!

“Good news: your script, Gordath Wood, is advancing to the quarterfinalist round of the ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Competition.  Congratulations!”

I had semi-forgotten that I had submitted GW to this contest. We are in good company among the 2020-2021 quarterfinalists.

Here’s my logline:

“When Lynn rides a famous show jumper home after a show, she is plunged into a medieval world where noble houses vie for supremacy and war is ever-present. But a greater danger brews in Gordath Wood and Lynn must join forces with an enemy to stop an ancient magic from destroying two worlds.”

Keep your fingers crossed for this crazy longshot!

Gh(P)osts of Christmas past

It’s a pandemic, not a writing retreat. — Everyone on Writing Twitter

And true enough, but despite all that, I managed to get words down, and the words are good words. For all my despair over not doing enough, I look back and see what I have accomplished.

* More than 70,000 words on the new novel, which I started in January or February of 2020. And that means I am on track to complete the novel in a year.

* A new short story in the Port Saint Frey-verse.

* A spec pilot script — completed.

* A different spec pilot script — treatment.

I have also increased my reading, and have made good use of the public library app Libby. This was part of my plan for 2020 — by supporting public amenities I am contributing to the overall health of the community.

I looked back at other Christmas posts I’ve made over the life of this blog. A prescient one was this one, when I came down with strep before the holidays in 2015. And I’m pretty sure how I got that case of strep — it was the annual holiday singalong in Austin. That year was in the rotunda of the Blanton Museum. Several hundred Austinites, singing Christmas carols with Craig Hella Johnson of Conspirare. Damn.

Strep: Watch me take out Austin before Christmas.

COVID-19: Hold my beer.

In looking back at my Christmas posts, I sense a theme — renewal certainly, and also a certain harriedness, and sadness. In this post, I write about being on the cusp of a great change while returning to my hometown, even my mother’s kitchen table, and preparing for the next stage of my career. It’s also a post about losing a dear friend, and the sadness of that loss.

I would be remiss if I didn’t leave you with my usual almost annual Christmas in Aeritan excerpt from The Crow God’s Girl. It’s December 24, so remember, you can always get the Gordath Wood series from sfgateway for your friends who love horses and who dream of riding into the forest and entering another world. Books are the ultimate portal, aren’t they?

Happy Holidays! Light a candle or a bonfire so the sun will come back.

Patrice