Cage Dunn's Blog, page 64
May 21, 2018
What type of reader are you?
I saw the question, and I wondered. What sort of reader am I?
That means breaking it down into the different purposes I have for reading. You see, I read for pleasure; I read for entertainment (they’re not the same); I read for intellectual stimulation; I read to learn; I read to disappear. What sort of reader does that make me?
I often read seven or more books a week (health willing, job willing, books available, etc.). I read fiction, non-fiction, pre-published, first-second-third drafts, technical, children’s pieces, poetry, maps, star-systems. I read anything that has the potential to dream within its pages.
This is how I responded to the question that asked what I considered to be my strengths as a reader:
When I’m reading (a finished story written by someone else) I read for immersion. I like to become, to feel the journey on the page. I like to imagine within the bounds of the setting of the story. I read to live within the world that’s beyond the printed page. Yes, I read to escape.
When I read a piece for the purpose of editing, critiquing or shaping into a story, I read to find the places where the Reader-Me would fail or fall out of the story. I look for the potential for this story to become the best it can be, and to assist/advise how to get around the quick-sand or mire or missteps that are always in existence in first drafts.
When I read my own work as I try to shape it into a story, I read to find the balance between the reader-me and the storyteller-me. I don’t write a story to be read; I write a story to be lived. As I get to the second draft, I don’t rewrite or revise, I relive the story.
I don’t want to settle for a story where the reader says, ‘I liked it. It was a good story.’ What I want is this: ‘That was great! I laughed, I cried, I fell into the pits of despair, but then …’ That’s what I want my stories to do, both for me as i create them, and for the reader.
I don’t really know if the question was answered, but I can’t find another way to say it. Even in the dry-as-dust technical tome, I’ll find something to be excited about. I can imagine it.
I don’t really read to find mistakes or errors. I don’t care about the odd wobbly bit unless it takes me out of the picture. If that happens more than once or twice, I put the work down. It’s disappointing. Even if it’s beautifully written, stylish, poetic. Those things are nice, a bonus mostly, but they’re not the story. I read for the story.
I read for the story. There is nothing more important to me. The story. Whether fact or fiction, it is the representation of the story, and while I’m in it, I don’t want things that disturb that flow of fantasy, the journey I’m on.
I am a reader for story.
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Searching for Inspiration
And now that I can string a sentence together again, I may have to get back to work tomorrow and start writing my own stories back into their world again. I wonder if they missed me … I certainly missed them.
Have a wonderful day, and enjoy every story you encounter.
May 19, 2018
Poems
Spirit Moments
The sheoak whispers and wails
A wattlebird warbles and whistles
The laughing bird claims the tree – my tree, my tree, mine
A possum tail flicks high in the red gum
Silver-green leaves dance in the morning light
Shivers of bark peel and curl and swirl down the trunk
The ancient tree claims the ground – my place, my place, mine
The shuffle and scuffle of leaves
Blown by a breeze that wanders aloft
Ignorant of the bossy grumble of creek that warns
Of the power of earth, of clay, of stone
The swollen ground claims the creek – my creek, my creek, mine
The sway of stems, green and gold
Lit by a dapple of sun and ripple
Grasses murmur and rattle
Flowers lure the bee, the bird, the possum
To the meadow, the stream, the enchantment
The restless creek claims the water – my water, my water, mine
Noise, croaking frogs, screaking insects
Water moves, slides, sloshes
Comes from somewhere to go elsewhere
Giggles and gurgles, splatters and swirls
Splashes and chuckles, titters and cackles
The music of water as it slides over, around, through
The water claims the rock – my place, my place, mine
The earth, sand and soil and stones
Rocks, grey, brown, tinged in gold
Deny the movement of time
Solid, motionless
They hold their place
Sentinel, foundation, strength
Streaked with white and silver, with memories
The rock claims the age – forever, forever, and now.
CS Dunn 2015
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image from Pixabay
And a second poem, sad, a broken heart, so if you don’t want to feel that, leave now.
Remember
What was your name
How can I remember you
My blackened heart
My shattered soul
The images of what could have been
Mark me
Lost
Did I give you a name
Was there a name for the life that slipped away
Was there time to bestow a name
To something not yet someone
Was there time to grieve
Tell me your name
To bring you alive in my memories
I know the second I lost you
The moment you died
When will the time come
When I can give you a name
Your name
Is there a name for
The dreams
The hopes
The ambitions
A name to remember
To fill the hole that is now my heart
To ease the pain of my tortured soul
There is no name
Those few precious moments when you had life
Have faded into a few precious moments
Only mine, only memories
And I lost you
CS Dunn
Yes, I’m still as sick as a hairy black dog (see previous post).
May 15, 2018
Well, Because It’s Wednesday, and I Promised
However, I left out the part about exactly what I promised. I have an excuse. A good one. Valid.
‘Flu. It’s the first bout I’ve been afflicted with since 2001 (or thereabouts – who the hell remembers specifics that far back when in the throes of death?). If I had the energy, I’d go dig a hole in the backyard and bury myself. But the shed’s locked and the door’s sticky and it’s that energy problem again. And it’s cold out there.
Okay, it’s only the second day this season that’s been cold, but hey, I’m sick, and I can use any excuse I like. I can’t see any frost, but my ears feel it, and they scream at me (scream and whine and whinge and warble) until I give up and close the door on the outside world.
Do I climb back into bed (with two doona’s for the person who usually sleeps the whole winter under a summer doona)? Plump up the pillows on the couch to share the down-time with the dog to keep me company. She’s the only one who doesn’t care if I cough and choke and sneeze all over her (hankies the size of towels required, thanks very much – not just man-sized), although she does close her eyes and look away.
Dogs love us regardless of whether we dress to suit, have good jobs (or any job), shower, brush teeth, etc. They love us because we are pack. They will even starve for us, die for us, if required.
Yes, they will.
This is the bit about the promise I made – to tell this story, from a long time ago, and for (he knows):
The dog I’d been lumped with, pregnant to a rottie (or similar), a pedigreed mini poodle who’d never had a hair trim, came complete with a bad attitude and food aggression – this is her story. It is as true as I can allow it to be (but I will protect the names of the innocent).
Blackie, I called her (not her real name). Two weeks after she first came through the front door for socialisation and house-training (yes, I fostered animals, too), we were starting to get to grips with each other. She’d only bitten me once when I took off the last of the matted jungle of black curls – and boy, was it a cute look; punk rockers got nothing on this little dog. I don’t think she appreciated it, but the house had heating and her skin lesions were healing. She bit me when I took her bone away – once. We had a bit of a discussion. I became pack leader and she became the follower (no, there was no physical beating involved – it takes patience and persistence, not brutality).
One week after the issue with the bone, I heard a noise at the front door and opened it.
A tall guy, someone I didn’t know, stood there. In his hand was a – long, bright, curved on one side and toothed on the other – fishing knife. I know fishing knives. My granddad had a fishing boat. I worked as a deckie. This was a fishing knife. A good one. He held it like a street thug, aimed it at my gut.
The screen door screamed a sound of alarm and distress as it was ripped from the frame. it crushed the recently pruned rose bushes. A heavy screen door.
The guy lifted the knife to face height and stepped forward.
Why didn’t I move? Inside the house were four foster kids. Two more were due home shortly. In all probability, this was something to do with one of them. There is no folding or backing down when it comes to protecting the pack. I stepped forward, raised my hand in an attempt at placation.
The knife flew towards my face so fast it became a blur of silver. I couldn’t close my eyes. I thought I’d been hit by a heart-attack or similar. The thump to my shoulder was hard, followed by a growl and thunder of anger; it was as if Thor stood there with us.
The little black dog, rough as a nut and twice as bad in attitude as a street-urchin teenager, leapt through the air between us, grabbed him with beautiful, strong white teeth gripped firmly around his throat, and growled like a lion while she tried to shake him into submission.
The blood that danced in the air – up, back, down, everywhere – was hers. The knife sliced through her skin like it was designed to.
Someone screamed. It wasn’t me; I was growling, trying to pull the hand with the knife out of the dog. It wasn’t the dog. She was busy growling and shaking and trying to protect her pack.
I found out later where the noise came from; it was the neighbour (she didn’t like us much – noisy, she said – but she did share the produce from her garden).
I don’t know who dealt with what. I don’t remember any more of that day, not even being at the vet and staying with the dog the whole night, just so she knew. Just so she knew she was pack, that she belonged.
The bloke tried to take me to court for damages. I got a lot of help and assistance with this issue, and at the end, the judge threw out his complaint and called it ‘reasonable force’ for a dog to respond to the threat of a knife to the throat of the pack leader. And, of course, the idiot had to pay the legal fees, and the vet fees (a lot!).
Sometimes, stories have good endings. That dog stayed with me until she was almost 21 human years old, blind, deaf, too smart for her own good, and loyal to the pack. To the end.
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My Friend
Added in the comments, because I forgot to say “I’m as sick as a hairy black dog,” didn’t I?
And the whole purpose of the story was to tell about the tradition she started: being sick as a hairy black dog, which is what I am now.
We all still say it, and remember her, and the few weeks she spent at the vet hospital.
There’s still Time
A few more hours to get Not On The Cards free.
A ticking clock, forever moving forward, rewards only those who step in front to take advantage of the brief moment.
Time ’til it’s finally over:
Tuesday, May 15, 2018, 11:59 PM PDT
May 13, 2018
May 12, 2018
The right way to write?
Adding voice to style … how does it go?
There was a bit of a conversation going on yesterday over at Serendipity about finding your voice as a writer. It is something with which many writers are preoccupied and with reason. Your voice is your signature. The tone, the flow, even the choice or repetition of words will, if you are lucky, make your work appeal to a reader.
For a writer, the best thing in the world is to know you have been read and that what you have written has been enjoyed or has struck a chord with a reader. Most of the time, we just don’t know… a book goes out into the world and we hear very little unless we are fortunate enough to get a review. Sales don’t matter in that respect… they only show that a book has been bought…you still don’t know whether they were even read. The odd review or…
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May 11, 2018
I’m Free, I’m Free – Book Promo
This weekend only – Not on The Cards is free at Amazon.
An urban fantasy with soft sci-fi and arcane elements.
A simple mistake, to fall in love.
Worse, to bear the child in secret.
Worst of all is when her baby is stolen at the birth.
A mother will do anything, travel all worlds, through times and planes and dimensions, even beyond hell, for her child.
Chiri’s first concern should be the safety of her daughter, but as the Gate-Keeper responsible for the lives of millions, those now in grave peril due to her error, she must choose.
Will she sacrifice the search for her child, or abandon her world to the fate decreed in the Cards?
May 8, 2018
What to Read this Weekend
Of course it’s a push – I want to let you know that Not On The Cards is going free this weekend. Only this weekend. Which means, go there this weekend, rapido, and get it. And if you do get it, please do a review.
There are many reasons I like to see the reviews – and none of them have to do with how it boosts sales (although people keep telling me the only way to get good sales is to have many, many positive reviews – oh, and keep writing).
What I look for is how people respond. I aimed the story at a particular segment of the reading world. When I read the reviews, I can determine whether I shot wide, hit the mark, or … any other options would be a kick to the backside, right? I need to know how it’s received by the intended reader.
Did I hit the mark? Are you the reader this story needs? Let me know. Please.
A simple mistake, to fall in love.
Worse, to bear the child in secret.
Worst of all is when her baby is stolen at the birth.
A mother will do anything, travel all worlds, through times and planes and dimensions, even beyond hell, for her child.
Chiri’s first concern should be the safety of her daughter, but as the Gate-Keeper responsible for the lives of millions, those now in grave peril due to her error, she must choose.
Will she sacrifice the search for her child, or abandon her world to the fate decreed in the Cards?
Reviews:
M said: I enjoyed the book. It read like a short story — very fast paced, very focused on plot. I got caught up in Chiri’s desires. … I liked the way it was a growing mystery enfolded in a sci-fi thriller.
L said: Congratulations! It’s so beautifully written, so polished. …writing is so engaging and therefore held my interest. I wanted to keep reading throughout, it’s a page turner! I love the sense of place with Camberwell, too, the markets and the junction. It’s real and grounded. The later scene where the junction itself becomes the portal is really good. I can visualise it all so perfectly. The pace of the scenes … is great. It’s edgy and I felt all the emotions that Chiri was going through.
I loved it, Cage – not a genre I normally read, so thank you for the introduction to it, and for the privilege of being an early reader. Best wishes for a best seller!
C said: Fast paced from the start; I was completely enthralled with her fears and journey. I would recommend this to the person who wants something interesting and different. Not witches, not warlocks, but enough arcane mixed with soft sci-fi, and in places we can see, smell, and hear. Loved it. GoodReads
Meanwhile, back at the ranch … okay, at the computer, still writing.
At the moment, I have two mss (that’s manuscripts, plural) submitted to traditional publishers. Why did I do that if I’m an Indie Author? Because I’m afraid I’m not hitting the mark. Authors have this thing where they always wonder if what they wrote is ‘good enough’ or ‘the right story’ or [you get the idea of suffering from severe lack of confidence].
So I lodged those two and await with bated breath. Well, no, I don’t. If I did that, I’d die of asphyxiation months before anyone even looked at them. I also entered one competition. Not holding my breath for that one either. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people are in there with me.
Some good news: I submitted some stories to StoryMart and two were accepted (I’ll let you know when they go live). That’s an amazing feeling. Someone liked the stories. Leap up and dance around and sing (okay, let’s not get too carried away – all the dogs in the neighbourhood just arced up). Backside back in chair, please.
And my current WIP: The Second Battle for the Wild Hunt is well underway. Next week I’ll put up a storyline/blurb and you can let me know if it’s enough to tempt you to … read the whole story.
May 6, 2018
The Second Battle for the Wild Hunt
Scene 1 [image error]
The big event commenced two days hence, when the three moons eclipsed in front of the Red Sun. So much work to get done before then. A perfect reason for Terrani to be where he was, and not down there.
To Terrani’s left and above his hidden ledge was the main wind-eye entrance to the cave system of the Hunters Guild. He could sit there all day and they wouldn’t know. This ledge was hidden from above and below. The perfect place to listen, to learn what they did, and when finally accepted into the School of Hunters, he’d be the outstanding student, the best in history, the first of his group to be chosen by a new hatchling. However, if anyone ever found out about the first egg, that he even knew about the eggs, they’d exile him below the cloud-line.
No noises came from the cave system above him. No Riders, no Hunters, no lessons rained words down the cliff face to his hide-out. They were out. Probably hunting to provide provender.
Some of the Hunters, those without a Ride, would be higher up in the smallest cave, counting eggs or settling the Queens that showed signs of being ready to nest. Some would be trying to imprint on an egg, singing and rubbing a shine onto the hard shell, thinking the creature inside would then know the person when it emerged. And there were always one or two Riders on the highest ledges, where the Wild Ride waited and watched the world below, on guard, while the servants of the Riders cleaned and polished the glistening scales of the creatures known collectively as the Wild Hunt.
Terrani could climb up and have a look around the main cave; he would, but for the wards. He couldn’t risk it now, and after the ceremony was over, he’d be applying to the Hunter Guild for entry anyway, so he’d wait. What difference would a few days make?
If the servants of the Hunt weren’t already busy, he’d get them to tell him what they spoke about, what the Hunters did. A small offer of a token to the market stalls would do. Bribery was an amazing tool, and Ter had access to two streams of gold since Tsuni always gave him her share. He’d refused — the first time — but she said once she took up her role, she’d never be allowed to see or touch it, so why bother with it now? Who was he to argue with the Protector-designate? Who just happened to be his twin.
Ter was good at finding ways to get the best outcome. Or at least, best for him. Like now. The ruse to get out of the stupid preparations for the ceremony of Century Hundred. A simple request for something that no one recognised the name of. Of course he had to go himself, as they didn’t know what it was he needed.
And they didn’t need him. Tsuni was important, not him. At the end of the ten-sun day ceremony, she’d be locked into her obligation as the Protector of the Wild Hunt. As long as it was her, and not Ter, he’d help. As much as he could.
Planning and drawing things up were fine. He was happy to do that, and to organise the crews to do the work. As long as it didn’t involve him doing the drudge work, the digging of pits for the visitors, the building of terraced seating in newly built block-stone arenas — stones were heavy! — for the theatrics of the celebration, he didn’t mind. Surely they had enough serfs and servants to do the other stuff.
Ter had skills to learn; how to fight a-back the Wild Hunt, for one. How to make a harness to maintain his seat while fighting. How to become the Master of the Hunt. Now that would win him a new woman every week. He rubbed his arms to warm them through the cold leather of the thin-skinned crip-lizards that thrived in the upper zones of the mountains.
He lifted his right hand — the hand that would one day wear the true shell-ring of his link to the Wild Hunt, and examined the blisters and cuts and — splinters! The small priers he normally carried on his work belt were down the hill, next to the last thing he’d worked on. Hmm, the pylons? He’d have to go back down. Eventually.
In the meantime, he’d watch what Tsuni did, in case he needed to have a few legitimate memories of what happened in her vicinity. It was the best tactic. Give her some of the stuff she could verify through her own experience, and add very few embellishments. His twin loved him, forgave easily, and didn’t trust him for a twitch of claw.
Ter smiled and leaned back.
A nap would be nice; the sun was warm on the dark stone. The reflected heat wavered in the thin mountain air. It would be easy to close his eyes and let the afternoon sun energise him. It was so tempting. Too tempting. Ter pushed his leather-clad back against the cold, white stone to keep himself awake and aware of who was doing what in the village.
Tsuni would strip skin from his toes if she thought he’d left her with all the work. Again. He was supposed to be there, to be her backup, to learn what she learned. If she failed, or couldn’t take up the role, Ter would be the second choice for Protector-designate.
He snorted. Just let ’em try. No way was he going to be mind-linked to the Wild Hunt. One of the beasts, and only as a Rider of the Hunt, was tolerable, but to be the mediator between the entire Wild Hunt and all Humanity — not for Ter. There were women to meet, challenges to win, Hunts to Ride. Tsuni was the serious twin. She could do the other stuff. Ter wasn’t going to be tied to this place for the rest of his life. A big world awaited him down there, below the cloud-line.
The first squeal cut the air like a rock-split that preceded an avalanche, long and high-pitched, with a solid thump when the sound rolled into a low tone. No crash followed the thump. Not a rock-fall. What?
Ter leaned over. He shaded his eyes to get a good view. What happened? Did someone drop a bloody great rock? He scanned to the north as far as the spires of the Revers Hall. Nothing. He frowned and scanned all the way south to the red lake. Nothing.
He shook his head and closed his eyes. Reopened them. No people at all. Where were they? He pinched his bare wrist. Ow! Not dreaming.
Ter pressed his index finger to the centre of his forehead and sought for Tsuni.
Nothing.
Nothing? That never happened before. Not since … No, he wouldn’t admit to that. But if he couldn’t touch minds with Tsuni, and she never shielded herself from him, where was she? Would he know if she was hurt? A deep shudder shook his body. Dead?
He leapt over the edge before he thought too hard. The path down was steep and dangerous. Even most of the mouflon mountain sheep went down this path sideways, but Ter had a hot coal burning his chest.
Tsuni! he mind-screamed. Where are you?
His vest tore on the Assia vine thorns when he slipped off the path at the first turn. Ter used his momentum to swing back to the thin track. His feet scudded and slid as he threw himself forward. A slight lean of his right shoulder turned him right, skidded his feet out from under him for a second. Rebalanced, pivoted; he kept his momentum at the cost of a few years’ worth of leather skins on his legs and back.
It took less time to reach the first-fit section of the arena. His breath roared from his mouth as he pulled himself around the corner.
And stopped.
It was empty. The arena was full of tools, smoking collars of fire-pits, scattered pieces of metal and wood and lumps of stone. Not a single person. His mouth snapped shut.
“Hello!” Ter yelled. His heart pounded too loudly to be able to hear if anyone responded. He reached for his finger-length las-whistle and put it to his lips. The tiny reed trembled in his hands. He sucked in a deep breath, leaned forward, and blew for his life.
The shrill scream would scare all the animals in the area into hiding, all the Hunt into alarm mode, and all the humans within hearing into raging anger at him for using the measure of last resort.
He shoved the whistle back into its slot and leaned his hands on his knees. The breathing eased, slowly, and he stood up. He was alone. No one responded. No one came. No noises, no people, no goats or sheep or birds. He was alone.
Where did they all go? Where would they hide? Yes! Revers Hall. They must be there. It was a sanctuary; someone would be there. Had to be.
Ter ran at full stretch up the terraced path. He reached the top step.
A whisper of breeze chilled his neck. He turned and looked down.
The wall of cloud that separated his mountain home from the lowlands swirled with movement. People. Dressed in indistinguishable dark colours; unknown delegates?
No, not delegates. They were going downhill. And herding the white-coats; all the villagers of the Damned Hunt.
Tsuni!
The link between them shimmered. He heard one word.
Slavers.
Ter’s sense of Tsuni faded as she went below the cloud-line. His heart froze. She was gone. He was alone.
Tsuni!
His mind echoed with the call like an empty cave. Tsuni … suni … uni … ni.
Copyright Cage Dunn 2018 – The Second Battle for the Wild Hunt (a novel)
That’s the start of the new story. Fantasy, with action-adventure.
May 4, 2018
A Muse in the . . .
I was inspired by( https://dailytales.com.au/2018/05/04/195-the-tale-of-a-story-never-told/), and decided to reblog my own version of the wandering story-beings.
Cage Dunn: Writer, Author, Teller-of-tall-tales
What is the word for a whole passel of muses? Multiple voices yelling that it’s time they had a chance to say something?
Musae – that’s what it is. Hundreds of them, hanging around, waiting – not quietly – for their chance in the sun (or words). But they never shut up, never go away, never leave the mind at peace. Never.
In the bath, and my other half comes in, asks “you okay?”, I say “yeah, we’re fine.” he says “we?” I say “yeah, me and my muse – it’s telling me a story.”
True. This happens all the time. I don’t think I’ll live long enough to tell all the stories that come to me that way. Too many.
I worked it out once (this thought came from the muse of numbers). If I wrote ten books a year, I’d have to live for at least another fifty years to…
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