P.C. Hodgell's Blog, page 8

tagmeth @ 2016-01-13T17:16:00

Thanks for your responses.  I gather that the passage is problematic, but not overwhelming so.  On the other hand, rereading it I realized that there's another big problem here not apparent in an excerpt so I'm rethinking an important element in the novel as a whole having to do with the dream- and soulscapes.  See?  Any sort of feedback helps.

Tomorrow, back to the barn.  I haven't riden in weeks, by choice, although I continue to do chores.  It isn't clear to me if I've turned into a coward or if I'm being sensible for someone who nearly qualifies for Medicare.  Some of both, probably.  Physical courage gets a lot harder as one ages, and I've had my share of bone-breaking falls, thank you very much.  How lucky Jame is, to age so slowly.

tagmeth @ 2016-01-12T19:28:00

All of the cards are out.  If anyone requested one and hasn't gotten it, let me know.

I'm up to Chapter 16, the last of the next novel, provisionally titled The Gates of Tagmeth.  Maybe it's the -34 degree wind chill, but I'm feeling stuck and frozen, so I've gone back to the beginning and am re-reading.  I just came to an info-dump and can't decide if it's necessary, or remember if Jame has shared these things with Tori before, even (as here) in a dream.  Input?

Uneasy sleep led to dreams.  Someone lay under the cloak with her, back to back.  Tori, she thought.  They had always fitted together, whatever posture they took.  It felt, though, as if they had been arguing for hours, in circles.
“… what do you know of leadership?” he was saying.  “You may be a randon cadet, but whenever you can, you’ve handed over your duties to someone else – Brier Iron-thorn at Tentir, Marigold Onyx-eyed at Kothifir.  You’ve missed many lessons, once twenty days of them at a time.  You’re always running off, Perimal only knows where, leaving your ten-command to fend for itself.  No wonder the randon question your competence.”
They did?  With a sinking heart, she remembered that tomorrow was Summer’s Day, when her fate for the next year would be decided.  When Tori would decide it.
“There are other things besides lessons and barracks duties,” she said, trying not to sound defensive, wanting to turn the conversation, “and I seem to be the only one doing anything about them. 'Fear the One, await the Three, seek the Four,’ or so the Arrin-ken say.” 
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Had she explained this to him before?  He had so much power over her, but knowledge was power too, and she hadn’t shared everything she knew or guessed.  Perhaps, if she did, she could break through this new, strange barrier between them.
“You know the Four,” she said, “or at least I hear that you saw the Burnt Man once, at Kithorn, and you met the Earth Wife in her lodge.  She was the one hanging by her feet from the rafters while I tried to jar her molten fat back into place.  The other two are the Falling Man and the Eaten One.  The Arrin-ken went looking for them.  The Dark Judge has some sort of an alliance with the Burnt Man, Mother Ragga is friends with the Caineron Matriarch, and Timmon’s half-brother Drie got swallowed by the Eaten One.  I’ve encountered all four, but don’t really have an understanding with any of them.  To them, the Kencyrath is as much an invader as Perimal Darkling.  They speak for Rathillien, but in a confused way.  Each was an individual who found him or herself cast into one of these roles according to the nature of their imminent deaths when our temples activated on this world.”
“Are you saying that we created them?”
He sounded dubious, and a bit scornful.  Jame began to regret telling him anything. 
“In a sense we did, the way that the uncontrolled power of our temples made the New Pantheon gods possible, except that the Four rose out of the Old Pantheon, the gods worshipped on Rathillien before we came.”
“This is getting complicated.  I imagine that the Three are the Tyr-ridan, who speak for our own wretched god, or will when they deign to show up.”
Jame gulped.  “Tori, I think I’m a potential nemesis, about to become Destruction incarnate.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.  Then who, pray tell, is the One?”
She noted that he skipped over the other two potential Tyr-ridan, Creation and Preservation, himself and their cousin Kindrie.  However, a nervous tremor ran through him.  That was unusual, as she knew from their childhood when they had often shared a bed.  This was a dream.  They had often shared those as well.  Something more was going on this time, though, and that made her increasingly uneasy.
“The One is the Voice of Perimal Darkling, which Gerridon is under pressure to become,” she said, all the time testing the link between them.  They were currently in the Dreamscape.  Dared she probe beneath that to the Soulscape?  Just keep talking.  “You see, the Master is running out of Kencyr souls to maintain the immortality he gained by betraying us all during the Fall.  Perimal Darkling will sustain his eternal life if he agrees to speak for it, but that also means being consumed by the shadows.”
Torisen grunted and twitched.  His voice roughened in her mind.  “The randon say he led the Karnids against Kothifir.  Why is he still fighting for Perimal Darkling if he doesn’t want to serve it?”
“It isn’t quite like that.  He will do anything to avoid paying for the Fall.  You talked to him when you were a boy serving in Kothifir.  You know he has no honor or conscience.  He wants Rathillien and the Kencyrath for himself, to make a stand against the shadows.  He will sacrifice anything and anyone to obtain that goal.”
“Then there are three forces:  the Three-faced God, Perimal Darkling, and Rathillien.  Each is seeking its own voice, its own manifestations.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way, but you’re right.  It will come down to individuals acting for greater powers.  Oh, Tori, don’t you see?  It all seemed so far away, so long in coming, but come it will, soon, and we aren’t ready!”
“What good is that, or anything else, if the Kencyrath falls apart first?  It needs a strong leader.  Now.  Father says … Father says …  you will destroy me if you can.  Destruction begins with love.  I love … I love … no!”
He was thrashing now, turning.  She felt his chest press against her back, then his arms tightened around her.
“We are twins, you and I.”
His breath roared in her ear, and it stank of the pyre.  “We are one, not two, not three.  Damn the Tyr-ridan.  Damn our god, who has never yet kept faith with us.  Damn …”
“Tori!”  She struggled in his grip.  “This isn’t you!  Whose voice is speaking through you?”
Then she woke, tangled in the cloak, cold with sweat.

Happy New Year!

Time is truly subjective.  Years used to last forever.  Now they last until Friday.

I looked at all of your names and thought, "I don't want to choose."  So I spent a pleasant New Year's afternoon making more cards.  There are now (or will be soon) enough for everyone who asked.  All I need are your mailing addresses.  For privacy's sake, you can send them to me in a PM or via the contact link on my website (pchodgell.com).   Let me know if they don't arrive in due time.

Happy New Year!

Card in a Hat

I should have said that readers who want their names in the hat for the card drawing should tell me so explicitly.  So far, I've heard from three:  Amelia, rhodielady, and Damien.

Happy Holidays!

Finally, I figured out how to post this.  I'm a computer idiot.

I just sent off my New Year's cards, late as usual, and have one to spare.  These are handmade with paper, angelina fiber, fabric, and ink, also signed.  I would love to send one to all of you but, obviously, I can't.  Therefore, if anyone wants one, send me your name, I'll put it in my hat, and draw one out on New Year's eve.  Expect receipt soon after via my not-so-secret website address.

In the meantime, here's a snippet from The Gates of Tagmeth, now just two chapter's short of an ending.

The lodge door had opened.  A woman emerged from under the lintel, between posts glowing with gold and silver inlay.  The mouths of the imus carved along the outer wall seemed to gape and sigh in welcome:
… ahhhh …
Firelight set embers aglow in her long red hair.  Her face, when she turned it upward to smile at her audience, was broad and white across the forehead, set with smoky green eyes that smoldered even in shadow.  As she mounted the steps, she seemed to rise out of the very earth, immortal in stature.  Her mantle and tunic rustled with gold thread as she moved.  More gold gleamed in torques twisted around her neck, bare arms, and waist.
Her smile deepened when she saw Jame.  The women parted between them, still clapping and grinning.  They embraced.  The Merikit queen being a good head and a half taller than the Kencyr, Jame’s face was pressed between the other’s generous breasts.  They smelt of sweet smoke and warm milk.
“Still skinny,” said Gran Cyd, breaking off to regard her at arms’ length.  “You don’t eat enough, child.”
Jame grimaced.  “Who has time?  These are my companions, who seek your hospitality.”
“Welcome, daughter,” the Merikit queen said to Lyra, who was staring at her in open-mouthed awe.  “Stay as long as you wish.  As for you …”
Her gaze shifted to Char, who glared back.  Jame guessed that he too was over-whelmed, as well he might be, but it wasn’t in his nature to show it.
“Now, what shall we do with you?  My women, what do you suggest?”
“He is a man,” some called. “Drive him out!”
“A man, but no Merikit,” cried someone else.
“Then turn his coat!”  That, surely, was Da.  “Make him a woman!”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“So be it,” said Gran Cyd with a smile.
They descended on Char who flinched back, his hand dropping to his knife.  Jame gripped his wrist.  With an effort, he held himself still.
“It’s all right,” she said in his ear.  “I think.”
Various women divested themselves of whatever clothing they considered most feminine.  One supplied a skirt spangled with silver beads, another a loose blouse, a third something fetching in pale pink leather.  Char gritted his teeth as they stripped off his outer garments and re-clothed him.  The deed done, they retreated.  He glared down at his new finery and irritably tugged up the skirt, which had settled low on his narrow hips.
“You can’t tell anyone anything about what happens here,” Jame warned him.
He spat hair-ribbons out of his mouth and shot her a baleful glance.  “D’you think that likely?”
“Hush.  It’s beginning.”

This and that

Back again.  I didn't mean to be offline for so long.  Maybe my difficulty in holding a conversation carries over into writing a blog.  I was a teacher with great difficulty, every sentence a leap off a cliff.  It's been a lot easier to be a writer whose works speak for me -- except that I publish at such long intervals.  I seem to get quieter and quieter as I age.  Only a few people can engage me in discourse any more.  On the other hand, some of my oldest friends have waxed loquious.  They talk for an hour, non-stop, and I only for five mintues.  It's frustrating.  On the other hand, my silence may put pressure on them.  As a rule, though, I don't talk unless I'm encouraged.  To do otherwise seems egotistical.  Perhaps that was my father's point when he created his "words, words, words" lino-images.  His art spoke for him.  Mine, I hope, does for me.

I'm about three quarters done with the next novel.  The point is to find Jame a home, at last, but also to advance the plot toward the end, which I see in 1-2 more novels.  Reading over what I've got, I worry that there's too much action and too little circumspection.  Extended conversations make me uneasy, though.  I want to get on with things.  There's a lot, of course, to get on with -- more with every novel.  If it's a gift to be simple, I don't have it.  But I continue.

Had a weird experience the other day.  Someone from the Wisconsin Dept of Public Instruction came by to video-tape me as I wrote.  There I was with a camera pointed at my face and someone taking notes, expected both to write and to comment on the writing process.  Nightmare.  Mostly I babbled.  I was told there was enough for a 10-15 minute segment in the Wisconsin Writes website.  When it comes out (if it does), I'll let you know.

Sasquan Redux

I'm still thinking about the big convention in Spokane.

For some reason I've gone to fewer cons in the last few years than previously, so I'm a bit out of touch and out of practice.  It doesn't help that most of the year I'm a quasi-hermit.  Well, I always have been, with an excruciating time out to teach college English.  That got better when they let me teach composition as "Wisconsin Gothic"  with Wisconsin Death Trip as a reader, but still ....  

Anyway, by the third day of Sasquan I was having trouble even speaking, and not through larengitis.

Then came the kaffeeklash, where I learned that I've become something of a catch-phrase at a blog call File 770.  That was the first I'd heard of it.  Someone present reported that I was amused with this belated (from the 1980's) acclaim.  More like startled.  That in turn made me think about my overall ambitions.

Here we come to a delicate balancing act.  Somewhere in the distant past, I decided to keep fantasy and reality strictly apart.  I have never day-dreamed about myself, presumably to avoid false expectations.  I try not to think about awards or money or fame.  Repeat: try.  Those things are out of my control.  At the same time I take what I do very seriously.  My whole life has been structured around writing this particular fantasy.  And professionally I've been slapped in the face many times.  Perhaps there's a virture in sheer, bull-headed determination.   As a result, though, I don't know if this life-long obsession is a potential triumph over adversity or a personal disaster.  Whichever, the course was set long ago.  Now it only remains for me to see it through.

Sasquan

Just back from the worldcon in Spokane.  It went very well, I think, although the city seemed to be on fire with smoke rolling like distant snow between the buildings and the sun a dim red cherry in the sky.  They say that the nearest burn was 15 miles away.  You could have fooled me.

I was on the first panel of the con and actually managed to say something.  My kaffeeklatch, reading, and autographing were all well attended.  I also had a chance to talk to my editor, publisher, and many fans, some unexpected.  As I said, a good con, if exhausting.  

Checking In, and a Snippet

anisosynchronic points out that I haven't posted in awhile.  True.  The writing was going well and then it stopped, but that happens all the time.  In this case, I have an upcoming chapter that seems to want to be told rather than shown, and that always makes me nervous.  I'm much more at ease with scenes than exposition.  So I've got to work around that somehow.

And in two weeks I'm off to the world SF con Sasqaun in Spokane WA.  It's going to be mostly a road trip.  Melinda is flying from Portland OR with the twins to Minneapolis where she will turn them over to their grandmother.  Then she and I will drive back out west, twinless, reversing on the return.  I have a panel, a reading, an autographing, a kaffeeklatch, and a writers' workshop.  Is anyone else going?

In the meantime, here's a rather long snippet about which I have some doubts.  You will notice that I'm filling in backstory again to bring the current plot into focus.  It would be better if I'd thought of some of this before but oh well:  this whole series has been in part a game of catch-up.

Down the darkening shore, a small bonfire leaped in the growing shadows.  Approaching it, Jame first saw Jorin stretched out on the sand, apparently intent on the blaze.  Then she saw that someone was turning a spitted mouse over it.  Skinny arms, legs like sticks of kindling under the tattered folds of a skirt, a half veiled face…. 
Eyes rose aglow with reflected flames.  Ragged teeth grinned at her.
“Took your time, didn’t you, girl?”
“I didn’t know that you were expecting me.  What if I had gone through a different gate?”
“Then I would have been waiting for you there.”
Jame lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the sand.  “Granny, this is Brier Iron-thorn.  Brier, meet Granny Sit-by-the-Fire, also known as the Story-teller.”
The Kendar nodded and sank to her heels, a wary poise.
“Well,” said Jame, “now that I’m here, what do you want with me?”
The half-veiled grin turned almost carnivorous.  “Why, to tell you a story, of course, and to ask a question.”  She cleared her throat and spat into the fire, almost hitting her dinner.  “D’you remember the desert gods?”
“Some.  Stone, that tells truths hard to bear.  Dune, that reveals with one hand and covers with the other. Mirage, that always lies and lies without purpose.  And Salt the Soulless.”
“Very good!  There are also gods of the mountains, the plains, and the oceans, of course, or were in the old days.  Some have since lost their voices; others, themselves.  Man came, you see, and big truths like Stone and Dune and especially Salt – they frighten him.  He has to recast everything in his own image, so he took what he found and made it look more like himself.  A new pantheon arose.  You call it ‘old’ now, given what followed.”
“Is this making any sense to you?” Brier asked Jame.
“Yes.  Granny is saying that the Old Pantheon brought divinity down a peg by adding the human element.  Remember the healer Vedia, sometimes woman, sometimes statue, and all of those snakes?  In Kothifir, her kind were banished to the Undercliff.  I hope Kroaky has kept his word and let them out.  Gods in the basement are never a good idea.”
“Heh, heh, heh.  So they aren’t, pretty-pretty, as you well know.  But the story I have to tell starts in the days when the so-called Old Pantheon reigned.  Before the tribes of the middle plains built their cities and then their empires –“
“Bashti and Hathor?”
“Yes, yes.  Don’t interrupt.  Before them, I say, a clever people lived in the land.  Did you never wonder where the ruins in the Riverland came from?  Perhaps they were the distant ancestors of the hill-tribes, but oh, they were so much more cunning.  Among many other things, these folk discovered the use of stepping stones, and that allowed them to settle wherever they pleased, with their fields and gardens half a world away – always depending on the presence of the right stones, of course, and they tend to show up where this world is most itself.  But nothing lasts forever.  In time, their wisdom faded.  Maybe it was war, or sickness, or religion, or stupidity, but one by one they wandered off and their keeps fell into ruin.
“But that’s not the story I meant to tell either.”
Brier snorted.  “Does she ever get to the point?”
Granny pointed her skewered mouse at the Kendar and shook it with a stink of burning fur, its whiskers and tufted tail alight.  Jame saw that she had neither skinned nor boned it. 
“Silly girl.  What do you know?  Your mother swims under the sand and your grandfather tortures cranberries.” 
Brier stiffened, but Jame put a calming hand on her knee. 
“After all,” she said, “Granny is right.”
“Hah’rum!  In the days after those of which I speak, not long before the wheel of gods turned yet again, a strange folk came to us.  They were no bigger than children and their skin was gray, laced with blue veins, but oh, they were smart.  Your home, Tagmeth, was one of the last keeps with a nearly intact step-forward ring.  They learned from it, and used it, and built one of their own in their new city.  Heh, but one not quite as good as ours.  These were native stones, y’see, and they were as alien as … as you yourself are, and the rest of your kind.  They may not have meant harm, but they caused it.  Mother Rathillien had her revenge on them for their arrogance, oh, yes she did.”
Granny slid the mouse off the skewer.  Holding it by its tail, she ate it as a snake might, head first, whole.  More disappeared down her skinny throat with each swallow.
Glup, glup ….
She nipped off its tail with her snaggle teeth and threw it to Jorin, who snatched it out of mid-air.
“Ah ….” 
With that, she fixed her fire-lit glare on Jame.
“You know what I’m talking about, girl, don’t you?  Mother Rathillien is patient, but nothing lasts forever.  You and your temples and your god – as if three faces could out-face many.”
“Then you disown the New Pantheon and the Four?”
Granny grimaced.  “Your lot changed much, but not everything.  As I am the daughter of Stone and Wind, so Mother Ragga is my grand-daughter.  This is her time, hers and those other three.  I only watch, and warn, and tell my tales.  For now, farewell.”
The fire leaped sideways.  In a moment, she was wrapped in flames, then ash, then gone.
Brier had jumped to her feet, aghast.
“Don’t worry,” said Jame, also rising.  “She often leaves that way.”

Endgame etc

Lots of good comments!  With some, I thought, "Ah-ha, I thought of that," with others "Oh!  I should think about that."  It really does help to bounce ideas off all of you, and I'm repeatedly delighted by the level of discourse even if I don't always respond individually.  Many writers say they can't talk about work in progress, and I understand that.  On the other hand, I've always been stimulated by discussion, perhaps because so many of my ideas are in flux -- not so much where I'm going, mind you, but how to get there.  This is a chimera of a story, ever changing, organic.  I take that as a sign of life, if rather quirky.

And here, another question:  on Autumn's Eve the lord of each house remembers the names of the dead to re-establish their connection to his house.  He also has to remember the names of the living bound to him, always.  What I can't remember is if both the dead and the living are remembered on the Eve.  What I'm thinking is that Tagmeth only has one dead so far, and he isn't even a Knorth.  But it has its current if somewhat reluctant garrison.  You can probably see where I'm going with this.