P.C. Hodgell's Blog, page 17

The Talisman's Trinket

I just got word that the short story "The Talisman's Trinket" has been posted on the Baen page ( http://baen.com/talismanstrinket.asp). I was rather surprised as I didn't expect to see it until December, but there it is.

I wonder if people who don't know the series will be able to follow it. The trick, of course, was to write something that interlaced with the end of God Stalk and yet stood alone. Eventually I'd like to write Patches' full story, and bring Jame back into it, back to Tai-tastigon. That may yet happen in the series, but I always also thought of it as a stand-alone YA novel. I wonder, though, if my style is adaptable to a younger audience. I've always written to please myself, which is to say that I've written the best I could, about complicated things that interest me. Well, we'll see. One day.

In the meantime I have the current novel to wrestle with. Talk about complicated ...! One thing that's held me up is envisioning Old Pantheon gods in Kothifir since they are based on variations of the Four, some actually predating the Four, as Gran Cyd suggests in HP. That is, that there were many versions of the Four before Mother Ragga and the other three suddenly became their prime avators with the arrival of the Kencyr temples. Any thoughts or suggestions?

The Highs and Lows of an Inheritance

It's been a mixed week. Some time ago I shipped two of Dad's statues to a buyer in Florida via UPS, and they both arrived broken. I gave him a full refund. They were insured, but the UPS will only pay 25% of their value since the recipient refuses to return the pieces, which he has since glued back together again and given to his mother. Not much I can do about that. I hope at least that she enjoys them.

On the other hand, the Wisconsin Historical Society has brought out a very handsome publication featuring Dad's murals for the 1948 State Fair. You can see it at http://www.wisconsinhistory.org/museum/statefairmural/ As I probably said before, these murals are huge, 12x28 feet each, and they found nine of the original fourteen back around 1999. Dad and I were there when they unrolled the first of them. Just restoring them cost a fortune. Anyway, I had the original sketches, which Dad had displayed in his studio to the day he died, and the Kohler Foundation has bought them to restore and gift to the WHS. I'm pleased about that and think that my father would be too.

Now a Chicago gallery proposes to take my entire collection of Dad's work on consignment. I feel ambiguous about that, afraid to let go and yet what good are they doing anyone here?

I wish Dad were still alive. He died in 2000 of colon cancer, which is quite treatable if caught early, which he didn't. His mother died of it too. You can bet that I get checked out regularly.

Meanwhile, I've sent a short story to Baen for, I think, their December website. I ended up with one from Patches' POV on the Jame's last night in Tai-tastigon, although I've kept all of your other suggestions for future consideration.

Now I'm wrestling with the next novel, specifically trying to figure out how to interweave Tori's dreams about his past in Kothifir with Jame's present there. Seems I've been stuck here before. This is going to be one complicated story.

Short-short story for NPR

NPR is running its three minute contest again, the guideline being that someone enters town and someone leaves it, in under 600 words. So I wrote the story below. It's not as good as the last one I tried, but you never know what the judges will like.

Meanwhile, I hear that orders for Honor's Paradox at this point are nearly twice those for BiB. That bodes well. I keep hoping that someday I will break through to a much wider audience. That will probably never happen, though. At least I know that the readers I do have are a dedicated crew, a fact which I greatly appreciate.

Send In the Clown

Dwight Purdy was nearly home when he saw the clown standing by the ramp to the interstate with a thumb out.
It was the clown's smile that almost caused Dwight to have an accident. Could anyone's mouth really be that wide, upturned that far at the corners? Even against the chalk white face, it didn't look like grease paint. It looked as if the clown was genuinely happy.
Other details only struck Dwight afterward – the fringe of bright red hair, the bulbous nose, the over-sized suit, the enormous floppy shoes.
When he looked in his rearview mirror, the clown was gone.
I should have picked him up, he thought. I should have run away to join the circus when I was a boy.
Mrs. Purdy met him at the door.
"I've had the dog put down," she said in that abrupt, harsh voice that meant she felt seriously put upon.
"Rusty?"
He looked for the golden shadow that had greeted him, tail wagging, for the last fifteen years.
"He was old and smelly," said Mrs. Purdy. "He left hair all over the furniture. You never think about anyone but yourself."
Rusty, Dusty, Rover, and Runt, stretching back to his boyhood. All gone.
"When is dinner?" he asked.
She followed him into the immaculate dining room. "Never mind that. Did you finally get up the nerve to ask your boss for that raise?"
He sat down at the bare table, feeling himself shrink inside his clothes. Sooner or later, he would have to tell her. Miserably, he fingered his nose and the pimple on its tip that made it feel red and swollen.
"About my job. I lost it three weeks ago."
Mrs. Purdy stared at him. "Then where have you been all this time?"
"Driving around the countryside, looking for … something."
"What about the mortgage? Don't you care what happens to this house, to me? Oh, you are so selfish!" She grabbed her purse. "I'm going home to mother."
"Your mother died years ago."
"Then I'll visit the cemetery."
The door slammed. A moment later he heard the car leave on squealing tires.
No dog, no job, no wife and, soon, no home.
But had this house ever truly been that? He looked around at Mrs. Purdy's knickknacks, her drapes, her precious, dog-hair-free furniture. What more was he than another of her possessions, less cared for than most? Nothing would change if he walked out the door and never came back.
Well, why not? For weeks the open road had called to him. All he had needed was a destination.
Dwight left the house and hurried toward the interstate to thumb a ride out of town. The wind stirred his fading ginger fringe of hair and his enormous, floppy shoes slapped against the pavement. He couldn't stop smiling.
Somewhere, a circus waited for him.

ARC of Honor's Paradox

The eARC of Honor's Paradox is available! Mind you, I'm only now reading the galley proofs, so this is an uncorrected copy, but still ...

Archery

Here's a quirky research question: Jame has just finished archery practice on horseback. She's riding back to the Host's camp when she sees a caravan being ambushed. Her bow is unstrung. Can she restring it without dismounting?

Interesting doings regarding my father's art work. Way back in 1948 he painted a series of huge murals for the state fair. Nine of them have shown up in storage and been restored. I have all fourteen studies. Now not only does the Historical Society want them but also an art gallery in Chicago. I was just going to donate them, but now it seems that they're worth something. Will have to find out how much. That aside, it's good to see my father get some national recognition. He was a great artist.

Argh

Bad news about Honor's Paradox. Not enough people pre-ordered, so it's coming out as trade paperback. I'm fairly upset about that, but there's nothing I can do. On the other hand, I have the contract for the Kothifir novel. Some day when the series ends, I would very much like to bring out a uniform HC set complete with original tipped in artwork. It would probably have to be self published. Any interest in that?

Media events

This seems to be my month for media coverage -- two events, anyway. One is on blip-tv posted by sursum ursa:
http://blip.tv/stuffyoulike/stuff-you-like-9-the-kencyrath-chronicles-by-pc-hodgell-5443135 a short, funny intro to my world. The other is a podcast on liveparanormal.com hosted by Linda Godfrey: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/liveparanormal/2011/07/28/liveparanormalcom-linda-godfreys-hotel-forteana
Linda was interested primarily in my fantasy creatures, so we talked for an hour about them.

Meanwhile, I'm kind of stuck in Kothifir, trying to get Jame settled in. This will be a difficult novel both in scope and technicality. I know where it ends, but the muddle in the middle is getting me down.

Rode Countess this morning outside. She insisted on cantering and at one point tried to go backward down a ditch with me. Been there, done that, don't want to do it again.

Consistency

I think you're right: the record is there to be worked with. I can make some minor changes in HP and I can think of some interesting twists for the next novel that would allow for Grimly to enter Krothen's court but for the struggle over succession still to be going on. I wish I could spell out more, but it depends on a character whom you haven't yet met, who only shows up by reference in HP.

Throughout, I've tried hard to be consistent, and haven't always succeeded. That's a problem with an on-going story, especially one written over so many years. If I'd waited to know everything, I wouldn't yet have started. It's been a big help to have such knowledgeable readers. Apparently George RR Martin similarly depends on a couple in Sweden who have an encyclopedic knowledge of his work. Bujold is right too that stories grow in the telling, but I'd rather think of plot loopholes than contradict myself. It's spotting problems in time that's the trick.

a snippet and a question

Oh bugger. I want Grimly to be involved in the dynastic struggle between Krothen and his father Kruin, but I've specifically said (in DotM) that the Wolver didn't get to Kothifir until Krothen was on the throne, and I don't have him meeting Tori until after the debacle at Urakarn. Therefore there's already an inconsistency in HP, which suggests that Tori and Grimly were both caught up in the above power struggle. The story-teller and the purist are clashing in me. Which is more important?

(Tori is scrying on Jame, but most of what he gets are his own memories of his early days with the Southern Host -- memories that Jame perforce shares.)

Meanwhile, I've written a short story about Patches on the night Jame left Tai-tastigon. It was very strange to see that story from the outside. I don't know what new readers will make of it.

It's terribly hot here, as I guess it is many other places. I hope you all have access to A/C.

Meanwhile, here's another snippet:

Marc paused in mixing the raw ingredients of a new batch of glass as Torisen wearily mounted the stairs to the High Council chamber.
"You look a proper mess, lad."
"So do the fields."
Torisen sank into his chair. More brown with mud than white, Yce trotted into the high council chamber after him and took refuge under the ebony table.
"I should be glad that they didn't wash away altogether. Most of the ash did. We can't even think about planting again until things dry out some."
"There's time yet," said Marc soothingly. "Anyway, you have funds now to tide us over if the summer harvest fails."
"So everyone keep reminding me."
To distract himself from that unpleasant thought, he looked up at the map. Marc had fitted the gaping, stone embrasure with a grid work of horizontal iron bars. Slotted into the uppermost was as much of the Riverland as he had so far been able to assemble. Shot incongruously with ruby to indicate gold dust, the Silver looped downward with luminous glass clusters on either side to indicate most of the Riverland keeps. Each section was made out of materials native to that particular region plus cullet from the old window to augment it. Oddly, glass fragments representing contiguous geological areas easily fused together without heat, seam, or the need of lead jointure. The result so far looked like a twisting vine shooting off lumpy fruit in a dozen glowing hues at more or less regular intervals.
"That melded glass is surprisingly strong," said Marc, contemplating his handiwork. "I think I could hammer a nail with it. Perhaps, when the map is complete, it won't need a brace at all."
"D'you think it ever will be – complete, that is?"
The big Kendar shrugged and cast a discontented look at the vacant Western Lands. The Eastern were nearly as bare, with many gaps in between. "There's a lot of space left to fill with these little pieces, much of it country which we Kencyr have never seen. Mother Ragga has supplied materials for some of it and your agents bring more home every day from wherever our reach extends." He laughed. "Quite a common effort, it's become, almost a competition. Not all the bits fit together so far, though."
He indicated the ebony table on which a crude map was drawn in chalk. Small sacks and fragments of cast glass dotted it like random pieces of a puzzle not yet attached to the whole.
"I suppose," he said, scratching his bristly chin, "that I could fill in the blanks solely with recast cullet from the original window and with local material, all held together with lead strips. That would be the normal way of things."
However, Torisen heard the reluctance in his voice, a master craftsman hesitant to compromise.
"No," he said, "go on with whatever comes in, mixed with old glass to stretch it out as you've been doing. This may be the work of several lifetimes, but it's a good start."
Marc shot Torisen a look under his shaggy, singed eyebrows. "Something else I've noticed. Travelers report that the recent floods have changed the course of the Silver yet again, especially between Shadow Rock and Wilden. See here: There used to be several meander-loops in the river, but now water has cut across the neck of the largest.
"Well, I'll be damned. So that was what Holly was talking about. I got a letter from him this morning complaining that the Randir were encroaching on his land where the river boundary had changed. Of course he would be upset: that loop contains the richest bottom land in his domain."
Holly tended to scrawl when excited. The map made clear what his hasty words had failed to convey.
"I take it that the Randir have claimed everything on their side of the river," said Marc. "Is that going to cause trouble?"
"How could it not? The Randir squeeze in wherever they can, and the Danior are too small to fight back properly. I'll need to see to this" – and hope that I have authority enough to make them listen. "But look here," he continued, puzzled. "These changes just took place. How did you know to include them in the map?"
Marc shrugged. "I didn't. They just appeared."
"You mean that the finished glass flowed again? How is that possible?"
"Blessed if I know. There's something magical about the whole project, if you ask me. I mean, how does one go from a handful of sand, soda, and lime even to simple glass, much less to something like this?" He indicated the growing expanse of glass, subtly aglow in the after light of dusk. "There may be possibilities here that we've never dreamt of. Have you tried yet to scry with it?"
Torisen shook his head, exasperated. "All it gives me are bad dreams. I look at the Southern Host's camp and what do I see? Harn, wearing a pink dress. I ask you!"

Short story etc

My thanks to everyone who suggested short story topics. I've taken note of them all and may well use some in future. In the end, I seem to have come back to the idea of a Patches story set during Jame's last night in Tai-tastigon. It's tricky because there's only so much Patches knows or can find out about what causes all the events of that chaotic evening. On the other hand, this has to be her story more than Jame's, so I'm trying to get into Patches's head. It's strange observing Jame from the outside. As a teaser, there are things about Patches that Jame doesn't know either. Also, I just realized how much the Lower Town Monster owes to the Monster of Dread End, except for being more immaterial.

Otherwise, it's been one hell of a week. To mention only a few of the things going on, half my koi died during the semiannual cleaning of the pond, I had two very bad rides on Countess leading me to wonder why I'm spending so much of my income on something that makes me feel crappy, and the cat pissed on my new lap-top. Again. This time she may have fried it.

On a better note, I've just learned that Dark of the Moon and Godstalk have been/are being turned into talking books for the blind in Washington state. I don't know if they're available outside that area. I wish someone would record them for general consumption as they were really meant to be read out loud and I'm a big fan of audio books.