E.B. Roshan's Blog: This, That and the Other, page 15

3,000 Words a Day

For me, writing is a creative outlet, a relaxing, rejuvenating activity. While I love it when my work finds new readers (it feels like making new friends) I have no interest in ever trying to make a living from it. Still, many people hope to, and a few succeed. Click HERE for an interesting article on the writing lives of some financially-successful romance novelists.

Book Spotlight: Abort by C.D. Hulen

“Abort” intrigued me from its opening paragraph, and the story certainly lived up to its promise. Interesting characters, excellent writing, vivid descriptions and exciting plot—what more do you need?

The protagonist, Mason, comes out of hibernation when his small ship docks on a huge cargo carrier. He’s only got one partner, no weapons, no instructions, and only the vaguest possible memory of what he’s supposed to be doing.

Mason’s moral dilemma unfolds gradually, as Hulen blends what’s going on in the present day with snippets from Mason’s past. He’s not the most sympathetic protagonist, but in the context of his world and his past, his actions and thought patterns make sense. Likeable or not, his struggle is captivating. His mission partner, Carter, seems a much more appealing person at first, though as the story unfolds it becomes clear they both carry dark pasts.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching the drama between Mason and Carter unfold as they both gradually remember what their missions are, and struggle with the implications of completing them. While I sometimes got confused about things like the layout of the ship they were exploring, what they were trying to fix, and how exactly all the mechanics worked (this is probably because I don’t read a ton of sci-fi, though I do like the genre) the story itself is not hard to follow, despite the frequent skips forward and backward in time.

With the exception of an oddly-placed “Come to Jesus” moment (it made sense in one character’s context, but not the other’s) and a less-than-clear explanation of one character’s motivations (background character, but key plot point) this story was skillfully told. I’m planning on a re-read, and I don’t often do that. Also, I don’t normally mention covers in my reviews, but this cover is very cool. Will definitely be keeping an eye out for more work by C. D. Hulen.

Note: I received a free copy of “Abort” in exchange for a fair and honest review.

For Better and Worse

I’m pleased to announce the fourth book in the Shards of Sevia series now has a title and a cover! To celebrate, I’m giving away five advance copies of the novel. For a chance to get yours, email me at the address on the “About Me and My Reviews” page.

The first five people I hear back from will receive an ARC of “For Better and Worse” as well as a copy of “Wrong Place, Right Time,” the first Shards of Sevia story, which also features Anna and Boris.

Moving Forward…

By now, I’ve received feedback from the majority of my kind and thoughtful beta readers. Things are looking good for the next part of Boris and Anna’s story! I’ve also got a book description I’m fairly happy with:

“Boris and Anna’s first baby is due any day, but the thought of raising a child in the war-torn city of Dor fills Anna with dread. Because Boris is so focused on keeping his struggling business afloat, he brushes her fears aside.
When White Horse gangsters attack his illegal employee, Boris’s attempt to protect him puts his own family in danger. Will doing the right thing cost him more than he’s willing to pay? Will Boris and Anna live to see their second anniversary?”

I’ll soon begin the process of sharing ARCS with people interested in reviewing the story in time for its release later this Spring. If this describes you, please drop me an email at: btznvntATgmailDOTcom.

I’ll be back soon with a title, a cover, and more details about the next Shards of Sevia story…

No Numbers

When you grow up in a society that doesn’t use numbers, it not only changes how you count (obviously), but how you think. You can read more about some of the world’s anumeric societies HERE.

Short Story: Oksana’s Cafe

It’s been about three years since I wrote Oksana’s Cafe, the short story seed that eventually grew into the ongoing Shards of Sevia series.

A lot has changed since this original story—Boris has more depth. Rama is older, with considerably more backbone. Preen’s second pregnancy never happens. Arjun speaks better Sev. And of course, Anna appears to brighten the scene. Still, it’s fun to see how far I’ve come, both in writing skills and in world/character development. Without further ado, I present the original story:

When the police found Sasha’s body, they called me to come and identify him. Uncle Peter and Aunt Oksana were up in Tur Kej—something to do with Uncle Peter’s literacy work—so I was the one.

On the way to the police station, I prayed it was a mistake. I was still praying as I walked into the room at the back where they’d put his body. But of course it wasn’t a mistake.

I recognized my cousin immediately—short blond hair, high cheekbones, a mouth that turned up at the corners, like he was smiling, even though he was dead. Blood soaked his shirt from a deep gash in his neck.

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the girl who hadn’t died because he had. I imagined her pressed against the wall, her hair scattered across her face, the way she must have looked when Sasha stepped in front of her and pushed her attacker away. If that’s how it happened.

Even the police officers who’d come to the scene and spoken with the girl afterwards weren’t exactly sure how it happened.

I had thought only someone desperate for God’s approval would throw himself at death like that. But no one was more sure God loved him than Sasha.

“Yes, that’s Alexander Neyrev,” I said. “His parents are out of town. Should I call them?”

Then I sat down on the floor and covered my face with my hands. My head felt too heavy to hold upright. The little silver crucifix that Sasha had once given me hung like a lead weight around my neck.

***

“It’s roasting in here,” I said. “Arjun, prop the door open and let in some fresh air.”

The exhaust fan rattled high in the red tile wall. Arjun looked up from scraping charred bits of something out of a skillet. He was sweating.

“Aren’t you hot? Prop. Open. The. Door.”

He nodded and kept scraping. I shook the extra flour off my hands, squeezed past him and wrenched open the door, getting flour and bits of dough all over the knob. I kicked a chair into position against it.

“You need your hearing checked, mop-head?” I muttered under my breath. But Arjun heard me, and his grin froze for a second, then cracked open too wide.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Yes.” He poured soap onto his sponge.

“Sorry, Arjun…” I thought about saying more, but stopped.

He didn’t look up. “Yes, yes, no problem.”

He wouldn’t have understood a long apology, but it would have made me feel better. Maybe.

“Dear God, I really do want to be sorry,” I whispered.

I finished wrapping the last few sausage links in dough and laid them out on a pan to rise before frying them. I washed my hands and turned on the gas under the pan of oil.

Rama, who had been out front, mopping the floor, came clattering back into the kitchen.

His girlfriend, Preen, walked in behind him, a baby girl on one hip and a big plastic bag in her other hand. I had told Preen not to visit Rama at the café while he was working but she ignored me. Or didn’t understand.

Rama poured the bucket of dirty water down the dish-washing sink, even though I had told him at least twenty times to use the utility sink. Then he took the baby and held her up, nuzzling her belly while she kicked and giggled. She had tiny ankle bracelets with bells on them that jingled when he lifted her above his head.

Preen said something and patted Rama’s arm.

Rama gave her back the baby and opened the bag. Inside was an imitation leather jacket, a pair of expensive-looking jeans, and a couple of tee shirts. Rama tried on the jacket, tossing his head and folding his arms across his chest. Preen smiled at him.

I was glad she bought him new clothes, since I’m pretty sure he’d been wearing the same tee shirt and jeans for a month, but I wondered why he didn’t just buy them himself.

All three of them were talking at once. Rama was laughing. Preen glanced over her shoulder at me, her brow furrowed. I sensed something was wrong, but I had no way of knowing what, so I told Rama and Arjun to get back to work.

Preen said something else to Arjun in a louder voice, gesturing at Rama with her free hand, and stalked out of the kitchen, her long braid swinging behind her, the baby bouncing on her hip.

The oil was hot, so I started frying my sausage rolls.

It took me a minute to realize that Rama and Arjun were fighting, because they were loud even when they were getting along. They were always shouting at each other and rough-housing for fun when they were supposed to be working.

Rama punched Arjun in the face just as I was dropping another batch of sausage rolls into the hot oil. Arjun shoved him backwards, and Rama fell, crashing into the stove beside me. His arm hit the pan and he splashed boiling oil all over himself and the stove-top.

I jumped out of the way, but not before a few drops of oil scalded through my shirt and jeans. Rama yelled with pain, and held up his blistering hands. Arjun froze, his own hands spread out, his eyes wide with horror at what he had just done.

I read somewhere, or maybe Sasha told me, that cold water can stop a burn from getting any worse. As soon as I shut off the gas, I grabbed Rama, dragged him over to the sink and plunged his hands under the cold tap.

He struggled. Rama was small, like most Tur people. His head came barely past my shoulder, but the pain made him so wild I couldn’t hold him. He slipped again, and collapsed onto the floor.

Sasha would have calmed him down and explained exactly what was happening. But I was not Sasha, and right then I was furious.

Arjun grabbed a handful of rags and threw them at the oil slick on the stove-top.

“Get up,” I said to Rama. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

During the drive to the clinic, I called Aunt Oksana and explained what had happened. She said she’d call Uncle Peter and have him come down as soon as his afternoon class at the University was over. She probably felt sorrier for Rama than I did, but I guessed she was angry too. It was not her idea to hire young, inexperienced Tur men to work in the café. Uncle Peter was behind that.

“Better a few broken dishes than one more member of a Nationalist gang,” was his philosophy, and he stuck to it, even after Sasha was murdered. Maybe because Sasha was murdered.

I decided to fire both Rama and Arjun, if Aunt Oksana agreed. I was tired working with people who made me hate myself, who put the worst of me on display every day.

God never gave me enough patience. The simplest conversations often seemed to end with me yelling and waving my arms, while Arjun grinned and Rama scowled. Maybe they really couldn’t understand me, or maybe they just didn’t want to.

***

After about half an hour, Rama came out of the exam room, heavy-eyed with painkiller, hands swathed in bandages. He sat down, then slumped sideways across two chairs and pulled his legs up to occupy another two.

I started to explain to Rama that I needed to go back to the café to help Arjun. By eight o’clock, the café would be busy. But as I looked down at Rama huddled across the chairs, I suddenly thought of Sasha. I hadn’t been able to help him. I hadn’t been there when he needed me most, but I could still help Rama. It wouldn’t be right leave him alone.

“My Uncle Peter is coming to take you home. I’ll wait with you until he gets here.”

Rama didn’t look up or move. I sat down again by his head.

‘Touch him, let him know you’re here,’ something inside urged. I didn’t want to touch him. I was done pretending to be kind to someone I hated. Maybe if I patted his shoulder it would comfort him more than words he didn’t understand could, but my hand wouldn’t move.

I noticed a small tattoo on his left wrist, just above the bandages, a pair of stylized bull’s horns. I had seen that same tattoo before. I think it was some kind of gang symbol.

“Almost a year ago, my cousin was murdered,” I whispered. Of course I knew Rama wouldn’t understand me. He was probably asleep, anyway.

“His name was Sasha. Some Tur gang member stabbed him to death. He died trying to protect a girl, I think. I don’t really know. But I do know that it was your people, Rama. Your stupid, violent people killed the best friend I ever had.

God smiled at Sasha, and at me too, when he was alive. God hasn’t smiled at me since. That’s why I hate you. I’m glad you got burned today.”

Saying it out loud was a relief, for a moment. Then it made me sick again.

I forced myself to touch Rama, at least his hair. Secretly, I was curious about those Tur dreadlocks and had always wanted a chance to examine them. I lifted a piece of hair and rubbed it between my fingers. It was a little greasy with some kind of scented oil.

According to Uncle Peter, the dreadlocks are a warrior tradition, from the days when the Tur ruled our nation and Dor was Beyun.

Rama and Arjun would sometimes fiddle with each other’s hair during their lunch break, in the café kitchen, I might add, twisting strands to tighten them or wrapping them with thread.

I wound pieces of his hair around and around my fingers as the pain in my stomach bubbled up into my throat and my eyes started to burn.

I realized I wasn’t grieving for Sasha anymore, I was grieving for myself, the me that had died when he did, choked to death on bitter hatred.

Maybe if I smiled at Rama, or gave him money, or helped him find another job, or, I don’t know, tied his hair, changed his bandages, maybe I could bring myself back to life.

“Dear God, I don’t want to hate him,” I whispered. “He never did anything to me.”

Nothing I did could change who I was. Hateful. I wasn’t kind enough to deserve kindness. I wasn’t forgiving enough to deserve forgiveness. I could have learned a few Tur words instead of mocking Arjun’s mangled Sev. I could have smiled at Rama’s baby when Preen brought her in this afternoon, instead of yelling at him to get back to work. I couldn’t share the love that people who know they’re loved can’t help sharing, because I didn’t have it.

Through the blur of tears I saw Uncle Peter walking in the clinic door. He smiled at me, then bent down and touched Rama’s shoulder. He said something in Tur and Rama startled awake, his eyes widening when he saw who it was. I don’t think Rama wanted Uncle Peter to see him that way. Uncle Peter’s blue eyes grew serious and the lines in his forehead deepened as Rama started to talk. Then he started to cry. His eyes streamed, his nose ran, he wiped it with the back of his bandaged hand until a heavyset woman in maroon scrubs came out from the nurses’ station and handed him a box of tissues.

When Uncle Peter sat down beside him, Rama dropped his head down on my uncle’s shoulder.

After a while, Uncle Peter called Aunt Oksana. “Love, if it’s all right with you, Rama will be staying with us for a few days. Apparently he’s been sleeping in the park, but he can’t do that now.”

I didn’t hear Aunt Oksana’s reply, but I knew it would be yes. She probably went and found a blanket and pillow to put on the couch for Rama as soon as she hung up.

Uncle Peter turned to me. “Thanks for waiting with him, Boris. What an unfortunate accident.”

“It wasn’t exactly an accident. He and Arjun were having a fistfight in the kitchen.”

“Oh. I see. This is the end of his career at the café, I suppose?”

“I’ll have to talk to Aunt Oksana about that. She’s still the one officially in charge.”

“Boris, Rama was explaining to me that he’s working here in Dor to pay off a debt his father owes. He told me that a relative’s barn burned down and his father was involved in starting the fire. I’m not sure of all the details. Rama probably isn’t either.”

“How much can it cost to rebuild a barn?”

“There were about a dozen cattle killed or injured too, and cattle are cash on legs for the mountain Tur. Every bit of his salary has been going toward that debt since he started working. Is it two years now? He’s also managed to acquire a girlfriend and a baby since moving to Dor. A busy young man.” Uncle Peter smiled, though his eyes were still troubled.

Rama had been staring at his bandaged hands in his lap throughout our conversation. When Uncle Peter stopped talking he looked up at me.

“Very, very sad,” he said. “Very shame.”

I had never heard him speak a whole sentence in Sev before.

“We’re not going to fire you. You get another chance,” I told him, slowly, but not slowly enough to make him feel stupid.

Uncle Peter had some questions for the nurse, but I got up to go. I was thinking about the café, about Arjun grinning at impatient customers while borscht boiled over on the oily stovetop.

When I stood, Rama stood too, then he knelt in front of me and brushed his hand across my shoes two or three times. Uncle Peter smiled at my puzzled face.

“He’s telling you thank you,” he said. “It’s a way of showing deep respect, better than words.”

I didn’t know what to say. Somehow God had taken the fake, forced kindness that was all I had to give and made it real for Rama. If my love felt real to him, did that mean it was real?

***

When I got back to the café, Arjun was chopping potatoes. “Where’s Rama?” he asked. “Clinic?”

“No, he’s with my uncle. He’s going to be staying with them a few days. At. My. Uncle’s. House.” I repeated.

“House is close,” Arjun muttered, looking at me. I wasn’t sure if it was a question.

“Yes, it’s pretty close. What’s wrong?”

“Rama is not good. Not a good man. Angry. He say he is killing…” Arjun made a slashing motion across his own throat with his hand.

I winced.”When he said that, he was crazy with pain. You shouldn’t worry about anything he said this afternoon.”

Arjun shrugged. “Rama is not good,” he repeated, as if I was the one who struggled to understand Sev. “Rama give my sister one baby.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, my sister Preen. He gives my sister one baby girl, but no money, no house, nothing. She gives everything. Now she has baby again. Inside.”

“She’s pregnant?”

“Yes, pregnant. Rama saying this to me today.”

“Is that why you were fighting?”

“Yes.”

I wondered if Arjun knew that Rama never saw a dinar of his salary and couldn’t give Preen or his daughter anything, no matter how much he might want to. I remembered him slumped against my uncle’s shoulder, too discouraged to sit upright, and now I saw sadness and anger and fear in Arjun’s eyes.

They made me think of an ikon in my grandparents’ church in Dovni, one that had fascinated me as a child. It showed Christ on the cross, gleaming white in the middle of crowds of dark faces that swirled around Him like smoke, all yelling, crying, smothering Him. The artist had painted Jesus black too, up to the waist, and the edges where the black and white met were blurred, as if the darkness was still rising and was going to cover Him completely.

Even back then I knew I was part of the darkness that swallowed Him, but I wanted so badly to be one who helped take it away, to be loved enough, to be pure enough, to bear it, like Jesus did.

When Rama got hurt, I helped him because I had to, not because I cared about him. Now I really did care, and I wanted another chance to show it.

As I scrubbed plates with a soapy sponge, I prayed that God would be merciful and give me that chance.

Suddenly, my hands were on fire. At first I thought I had accidently bumped the hot tap open more. Sometimes it comes out scalding. I fumbled for it but it was off. My rinsing water was barely warm. I sucked in breath to keep from shouting in pain and stared at my dripping hands, expecting to see them redden and blister, but they didn’t look any different.

“Boris! You are all right?” Arjun’s voice sounded blurry. “Sit down. You’re sick.” He pulled me towards a chair.

“I’m burned,” I gasped. I expected the skin on my hands to start peeling off.

The kitchen door swung open behind us. It was Rama. He was wearing an ugly yellow plaid shirt that I’m pretty sure was Uncle Peter’s, and his dreadlocks, which had been loose in the morning, were tied in a knot at the top of his head. Uncle Peter must have helped him, unless—

I noticed he had torn the thick outer layer of bandages off his hands and only the gauze was left, sticking to his raw skin.

Arjun’s and Rama’s eyes flashed simultaneously to the big knife on the counter beside the potatoes that Arjun had been chopping. Rama stepped over and picked it up. Arjun backed away from him.

“No, Rama. Please no,” I whispered.

Arjun bumped into the wall and stopped, cornered. He raised his hands to defend himself.

Rama was saying something, but he didn’t sound angry. He waved his free hand and the one holding the knife back and forth.

Arjun looked more surprised than scared.

Then Rama turned back to the counter, picked up a potato and chopped it in two.

I yelled at Rama that he needed to get out of the kitchen, he shouldn’t be handling the food with open wounds. He ignored me.

Arjun reached out and put his hands on Rama’s wrists and pulled him around. Rama tossed the knife into the sink. They were both smiling. Arjun held Rama’s hands palm up in his own and studied them, while Rama slowly curled and uncurled his fingers.

My own fingers felt like they had been set on fire. Or plunged into boiling oil.

I remembered something that Uncle Peter had told me soon after his son Sasha was murdered. “God loved Sasha enough to entrust him with a short life and a violent death,” he had said. “Challenges like those aren’t for everyone, but God knew Sasha would be faithful and use whatever he was given wisely. God only gives gifts like that to the ones He loves the most.”

At the time, I was too hurt to understand. That kind of love seemed worse than hatred. But sitting there in the little café kitchen in the middle of the night, sick to my stomach with pain, it started to make sense. Whatever I thought about myself, God must know I was good enough, loving enough, to bear Rama’s pain for him.

He loved Rama enough to take it away, but how much must He love me to entrust me with someone else’s searing pain—just like Jesus, the one He loves most of all.

Learning a New Language

It doesn’t have to be all boring drills with flashcards. Check out THIS article for fresh ideas, tips and resources.

Minimalism and Minor Characters

If there was a spectrum ranging from “Authors Who Know Practically Everything about Their Characters,” to “Authors Who Know Very Little About Their Characters,” I’d be on the latter end. My preference for minimalism extends to character creation, especially with minor or supporting characters.

For example, my most recently-published novella, Love Costs, introduces a new secondary character, Vova. His primary purpose is to be a practical, level-headed counterpart to the idealistic, drama-king protagonist, Rado.

Vova also helps Rado at key points in the story. For example, he agrees to trade a shift at work when Rado needs to be somewhere else, and provides key information about things Rado doesn’t yet know (think cleverly disguised info dump.)

So what do I know about Vova? Honestly, not much more than any reader of “Love Costs” would. He’s young, but I don’t know his exact age (early thirties, perhaps?) His parents are briefly mentioned, but I have no idea of their names, where exactly they live, whether or not he has any siblings, etc. Since these things aren’t important to this particular story, I haven’t cluttered my book, or my brain, with them. Vova effectively fills the story “slot” he was created to fill, and doesn’t weigh the story down or take it on tangents. That’s the strength of the minimalist style of character creation.

The weakness is, of course, that very little description and backstory can leave you with vague or boring two-dimensional characters. To avoid this, it’s vital to make the most of every detail you do choose to include. For example, a brief description of a character’s appearance can do double-duty by hinting at both backstory and current state of mind. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” is easier said than accomplished, but that’s part of the fun…

First Draft Finished…

This week I finished up the first draft of Shards of Sevia #4 and sent it off to beta readers. I’m itching to start editing right away, but every story needs some time to steep. They’re a bit like tea bags, if you think about it…give them time, and they’ll keep giving. Do you know how many cups of tea you can get out of one tea bag in a pinch? But I digress. Anyway, thankful to have that big step completed. Stay tuned for a title, a cover and a release date.

Map

I created a simple map of Sevia…while not a professional piece of work by any means, it was fun to play around with. I may put some iteration of this into future series installments, to lend geographical “verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.” The sea on the southern coastline would be the Black Sea.