Jennifer Freitag's Blog, page 18

In Answer to Traditional Publishing Queries

pinterestA blogger that I follow posted an open query on her site to anyone she knew that was traditionally published, and since The Shadow Things was traditionally published and so I have had that experience, I picked up her list in the hopes that I could shed a little light on her questions.

If you are also a traditionally published author, and you have answers to these questions, please throw in your two cents!

Dear Published Authors,
What can you tell me about your publisher? I don't have a manuscript quite ready yet, but I am starting to research publishers. At this point, I haven't decided between self-publishing and traditional publishing so I am wide open to any words of wisdom you may have to offer.

Also, what questions should I ask of a publisher? I would hate to agree to a publishing contract only to find out that I agreed to something that I wish I hadn't. I am a person who likes to know what I am getting into and to be prepared. Below are some questions I have been asking. What else do I need to know?

1. What do I need to submit? Manuscript (in what format), synopsis, monies, bio, etc.
What you need to submit will vary from publishing house to publishing house.  They will (or should!) have their requirements posted on their website.  These requirements are not always clear.  I am sorry, but sometimes they can be mind-boggling.  Rule Number One: there are very few hard-and-fast rules.  You have to roll with their punches.

2. Is the acceptance of my manuscript guaranteed (such as in some self-publishing venues...you pay money and they print whatever you like) or is it dependent on their review (traditional publishers and some hybrid publishers use this route)?
The acceptance of your manuscript is subject to the whims of the publishing house.  It may not suit them (in which case you probably should have researched their corpus of literature better), it may be that they already have a lot of books coming out in that genre, it may be that they are swamped.  When rejected, you may feel that it is because your manuscript is not good enough.  This is not always the case.  Oftentimes, it just wasn't their cup of tea.

3. Are there restrictions on the length of the book? (For example, it must be at least 48 pages to be printed in paperback and at least 108 pages to be considered for hardcover). (Or, for example, no one wants the next unabridged Count of Monte Cristo).
Traditional publishing houses often state the word limits they require on both ends (no less than so many words and no more than another number).   These restrictions will vary from house to house.

Hardcover books tend to be costlier than paperbacks.  The anticipated popularity of the book will often dictate whether it is published in hardcover or not, I believe, not the size of the wordcount. 

4. Who owns my manuscript? Do I maintain ownership or do I sign it over to the publisher?
If I understand this correctly, whoever holds the copyright, owns the manuscript (makes sense!).  In my research I came across this article on copyrights and copyright transfers.  This is something you will need to keep an eye on and look for in the list of papers you may sign with a publishing house.

5. Would this be a non-exclusive contract (in other words, do they have restrictions on my ability to submit my story elsewhere)?
Before your manuscript has been accepted, you may send your queries and proposals to as many houses as you wish.  (You may or may not be asked if you are submitting to multiple houses simultaneously.)  Once your story has been accepted, its freedom to be published in other venues is probably dependent upon the contract's limitations, which may vary.

6. Are there time limits on the publisher's services? Will my book ever go out of print?
An article defining out-of-print may be found here.   Your book can, and may, go out of print, and the contract can make allowance for the rejuvenation of the printing (e.g. if my publisher fails to bring out a new printing of my novel within six months of my having sent in a written request to renew it, all rights to my novel will revert back to me). 

7. In addition to the initial fee (if there is one), are there times during this submitting/editing/publishing/marketing process when the author is expected to provide funds?
This is probably dependent upon the publishing house.  And this is the part where I mention that the entire traditional publishing industry is doing itself no favours in short-changing the author so vigorously in terms of royalties and returns.  As I have entered the publishing world, I have watched more and more authors move away from traditional publishing, not because self-publishing is easier (please don't make me laugh), but because we would far rather haul our own carts and urge ourselves at our own hectic pace than be overridden by corporations who intend to work the life out of us and give us very little in return.  They are not all evil conglomerates, but the system is not designed to help the author, and the authors have become increasingly aware of that as the internet network has made self-help more and more feasible.

8. Does the publisher provide the editors and cover design artists?
In general, yes, I believe so; and occasionally you even have the opportunity of interfacing with your cover artist and offering suggestions (or making demands).  Back-pocket editors and design artists are part of the traditional publishing package.

9. Does the publisher print both hardcover and paperbacks? How do they decide whether to do one or the other or both? (Perhaps by how much money you pay? Or by the length of the book?)
I think I inadvertently answered this question above.  Insofar as I understand it, whether or not a book is printed in hardback or paper depends upon its popularity (and therefore the assurance of reaping a return on the money invested in a more expensive type of cover).  I have been watching Andrew Peterson's publication of his (I believe) last Wingfeather Saga novel, The Warden and the Wolf King, and in an Instagram photograph I noticed that the first two books were paperback; the last two, once the series had grown in popularity, were in hardback.  It all depends upon the economic assurance that you will not be throwing money away by creating a more expensive product that people don't want.

10. Do the publisher obtain or help me get the ISBN assignment, Library of Congress Control Number, and U.S. Copyright Registration for my book?
The publisher is responsible for creating the official numbers associated with the literary work.  (In my long list of Things to Do to Self-Publish Plenilune, obtaining these numbers myself is there.)

11. Does the publisher only print black and white books, or would they also print color books? Do they ever print books with interior pictures? What are the requirements for those?
Colour will probably also be dependent on the economic feasibility of the project.  The printing of black and white images in books is common: that's part of your book, and while there may be some wrangling, that will also probably be accommodated according to your needs and the publisher's. 

12. How does the publisher print the books? Is it done on-demand or are large orders printed at a time?
A publishing house will order a run to be printed (this quantity to be determined by the publisher).  Subsequent runs can be ordered as well.

13. Do they offer marketing/networking and help me attain endorsements and reviews? If so, what does that look like and what role do I play in that? (I'd hate to sign a contract with them and then find out unexpectedly that I am required to tour the country for a booksigning during my busiest months here at home).
Publishing houses do offer varying degrees of publicity and author-readership interaction, but whether you publishing traditionally or by yourself, it is increasingly more imperative that the bulk of the responsibility rests on the author's shoulders for marketing and networking.  You absolutely cannot depend upon the publishing house to do this for you, even if they offer some of these services.  It's up to you, because that's the way the book market works these days.

14. In what markets will my book be carried? Is there a time limit on how long a book would be carried by them?
This depends on the distributors that any individual publishing house has in its back pocket, and the duration of the shelf-life of your book will be dependent on a time agreed upon by the distributor and the publisher: if that time has expired and a portion of your books has not sold, the books will be bought back by the publisher.  (This should not effect your royalties, but unfortunately sometimes it does.)

15. Is it likely that my book would be carried in a physical store? (Or is it only offered online?)
As of now, traditional publishing is still heavily invested in the physical book.  Your book will be printed and distributed to physical locations, although it will probably come in ebook format as well.

16. If I wished to purchase some of my books for my family or if I wished to carry my books to an event to sell them, how would I obtain copies? Is there a reduced cost for the author to buy books? Is there a specific quantity that must be purchased at a time?
This will probably be dependent on the contract.  I know it is listed in my contract as allowing me to purchase my books at a reduced price, but this may vary from contract to contract.

These are some questions answered.  If you have more questions, a good resource to explore is the website Go Teen Writers, which is extremely helpful and a lot of fun to peruse.  I hope this helped!

The Jerusalem Tree

pinterestRachel chose June's Chatterbox topic as

boats and boating

with the deliberate purpose, I think, of watching me writhe.  She said she wanted to see me step out of it like a disgruntled cat which has just trod in a puddle, and shake off my paws.  Which I did.  I am not sure this relationship is a healthy one, but we seem to get on without any intention of disjoining. 

the jerusalem tree

In the dun-dusky evening the road diverged, curling like the sweep of a hurley-stick through the red pillars of the cedar trees, and the Black Prince put down the last two fingers of either hand upon the reins, drawing upon the mouth of his agouti.  A little bewildered, the horse paused, churning fruitlessly at the air.  “Hush, hush, cousin,” crooned the prince absentmindedly.  The horse mouthed the bit and fell silent.Before him the track wound up through the old cedar wood from the depression of the river; over the coppered tops of the trees he could see the gilt towers of the University etched against a sky of new faience-colour and old bronze.  And farther away, making mockery of the lifted land, the froth of cyclamen clouds with their strings of golden pearls and their trains of gossamer-stuff rolled slowly across that kiln-heated heaven.  How beautiful it was!  A small, hurt smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  The evening air and the evening light seeped into his bones and flooded through his veins.  How beautiful…  Once—what was time?—it had been a frightening place to a boy naturally disposed to be quiet and reclusive; once it had been a labyrinth of nightmare and heartache.  But those days were lost behind him; and though he wore their scars, he need not remember: at the foot of this scarleted and golden hill, it was easy to forget.  He glanced toward the junction.  It curved into the wood and followed the base of the hill, and it did not look, to an alien eye, as if it led to anything or as if it were wise to traverse.  But its ruddy shadows, he knew, would open out into the long greensward beneath the walls of Marsdon Tower—whose walls could not be seen from this vantage—and out of the lawn and the swans and the river at the foot of the green emerged memories that the prince did not need to turn away from.He turned his horse’s head into the junction and spurred the shadows of the cedars over his shoulders.  The soft triple spluttering of hooves and the sepia-purr of moving tack were the only sounds in the wood as he cantered down the lane, bending with the movement of the track, hitching up slightly as his gold-touched bay curled its body over the gnarled figure of a fallen beech-limb.  The others would not mind, he considered, that he would be a little late.  They would understand.  In their way, they would understand…The cedars gave way to oak and elm, the wood began to open up and turn from the hill, and presently the cinnabar light became once more diffused with gold spice and amber, and through no conscious guidance of his own, his horse dropped to a collected trot and then a slow, scrutinizing walk as they left the woodshore behind them and came out upon the green.  To his right, the old blasted stonework of Marsdon Tower heaved out of the hillside, broken and burnt without windowpane or wooden floor, and its gateway, once barred with the oak which surrounded the hill, stood gaping to the elements and breathed unhappy memories into the minds of all who passed beneath its shadow.  The road snaked up toward it, but before it lifted from the green it darted away again in the dusty beaten way of used tracks: only a faint green line in the turf marked where the road had once shot precipitously up the hillside into the stone bowels of the Tower.  Away.  The prince looked away, out across the wide sward that was like the curve of bronze buckler verdigris’d with age.  The Lamb lay out beyond the bank, watered like etched steel, slowly carving its banks through the valley and through time, and nearer to the bank than it lay to its castle he looked for the massive walnut tree, older by generations than the building, under which he had sat as a boy new and green upon this hill.The sward stood empty.He must have kicked a little in shock for the horse shivered beneath him, and complained at the sudden jerking of the bit.  But the blow—his eyes swept the green as if by some magic the thing had moved and was still there, yet all the while he knew it could not have moved, not by faith large or small, and he knew the thing was gone.  All things must die one day, said reason, clearly and gently in the back of his mind.  Even the walnut tree.Like one coming up through the dry-leaf steps of a mausoleum, he urged his bay across the lawn, a little lost without the towering compass-point which the massive tree had always been.  The green seemed naked without it.  And more than that, it was not merely a tree.  It had stood before the Tower was built, it had been mature when the cedar and the oak and the elm had encroached as new forest upon the hill.  Its limbs had twisted massive and breath-taking upward and outward, casting shade like the words of an oracle across the grass, and beneath its springy froth had yelped laverock and fox—even the fate of his own family had been tied to its gnarled shadow.  And now it was gone, as all the great ones must go one day, fallen like Ozymandius and leaving behind it only the hollowness of its passing.He stopped his horse upon the brink of the grassy depression wherein its root-system had sunk and stared fixedly at visions which were not very clear to him.  How it had shone!  With the winds and the sunlight in its boughs, tossing it gently against the virgin sky, every leaf flashing and every flash like a name of those who had stood long ago below it.  How it had prospered!  Like the rich soil beneath it, and the men and women who toiled in that land—the prince gazed upward reflexively, squinting into the late sunlight, as if he might see the tangle-work of its boughs again making a golden byzantine tapestry with which to gild his face and the sky.  It had been like rocks and wells and mountains smoking under the word of God.  It had been a promise to the land, an end of bloodshed, a bond, a symbol of peace.  And now it was gone.He slipped his feet from the stirrups and dropped noiselessly to the grass, instinctively catching at his sword-hilt lest it make a rattle.  The horse began to graze, and he stepped from its side to skirt the depression, eyes ever a little ahead of his feet until, by sweeping through the clover and using an old stone pier on the near bank as a kind of reference, he came to the broken slab of granite, pock-marked with lichen, next which he had sat for hours on end and which for leagues of years had lain a quiet memorial to what stood, arguably, as the single most important event in the history of his people.He turned his back to the light and stood over the stone, one hand still upon the sword’s haft, head canted a little as one might look down on a dog one was fond of.  The words were old—very old—but he knew them by heart, and in his mind they still seemed very clear.
THE JERUSALEM WALNUT BENEATH THIS TREE, AFTER MUCH TURMOYL AMONGST THE SONS AND DAHTERS OF THE HONOUR-LANDS, AND MUCH SORIE BLOODSHED, A COVENANT WAS FORMED UPON THAT DAY WHICH HATH BEEN THEREAFTER MARKED AS THE FIRST BETWEEN THE FIVE HONOURS, THAT EACH SHOULD BE TO EACH A BROTHER AND AN ALLY, AND NEVER AGEN MAKE WAR UPON THE OTHER, THAT UNBROKE UNITY AND PEACE WIL REMAYNE IN PLACE OF AGGRESHUN, GREED, AND MURTHER.  YE GOD OF PEACE MEND AL.
And a little more beneath, in only slightly younger lettering:
BENEATH THIS TREE LY THE MORT REMAYNES OF PHILIP CHEVAL, FIRST LORD OF THIS COVENANT, WHOSE VERY HAND ALSO SYNED THE CONTRACT, AND HIS WIFE PAN AENEAS. UNTIL THE LORD COMETH.
The prince crouched down—he did not know why—and touched the cold, crumbled edge of the stone with one outstretched hand.  His shadow arched across the stone and for a moment, coupled with the heaviness of loss, he felt the weightiness of fate impress hard upon his shoulders.“It was that great storm last summer.”He lifted his head, unaware that it had fallen forward.  It took him only a moment to place that peaceable voice, always a little shy and at the same time always sure of itself.  Respectfully he rocked back onto his heels and rose, turning to the Mayor of the University.  How long had he stood here, that the man had come up across the lawn so quietly to join him, and had gone unnoticed until now?  The pale lilac eyes were on the stone between them, and that shy little smile with which the prince was personally acquainted touched at the pale lips.  “The stone is still here.”“Yes.”  The prince turned back on the stone.  It was perhaps a sorry trade, in light of all the storms that walnut tree had weathered, but the stone was still here.  Hewas still here—a testament in the flesh to the carved words in that stone.The Mayor was saying gently, “It was hard to see it go.  It means much to us—more to me, and still more to you.  But the etchings of it are many in the books, the accounts of it numerous, and the rock of remembrance is still here.”  He nodded to it, the wind feathering his white hair.  The prince said, “It came down in the storm?”The colourless face lifted to his, eyes unfocusing a little, as if seeing through to the pain and the past.  “Yes.  Sooth, it had been dead for some time, and the drainage has not been managed properly so that its roots had lost their strength.  It was a great storm, and the tree made no sound as it lay down upon the green.  When we came to it, it was like an old warhorse which has gone back to the fields of its triumph to die.  Very quiet and peaceful.”“Its roots had lost its strength!” mused the prince, quietly and vehemently beneath his breath.  “What ill omen lies within that picture.”The Mayor looked at him steadfastly and said nothing.But already the practical side of him was slipping loose the catgut of the aching wound and he was saying in a moment, into what seemed to him a very hollow, living quiet, “We must needs fill in the hole.  It is within my power to procure engineers to survey and drain this place.  We will have another tree planted.”“That will be good,” said the Mayor.Again he stared at the stone and the hole and the dead legacy.  The wound began to hurt again, more fiercely this time.  “What was done with it?” he asked.With fingertips hardly touching his shoulder, the Mayor moved forward and lifted his arm toward the bank.  The prince, raising his hand to shield his gaze from the sun, looked out along the line of his pointing and saw what the lift of the green had before hidden from his view.  A new bridge, of timber corduroys and stone piers, arched across the blue Lamb from bank to bank, and along its sides like some breed of limbed dragon stepped stairs and walk-planks against which whispered the sides of the long leaf-shaped river-boats as they lifted and dropped to the surge of the current.  “Perhaps it may no longer be the memorial it once was,” observed the Mayor, “but it manages, by some strange providence, to be a kind of way to us even still.”The prince said, “It is a beautiful bridge.”  But in his mind the glittering thing with the sun upon its timbers so that it looked like gold and not wood, looked like a bow, a bow drawn at a venture, and he felt more kin to the early hours of that covenant and the new life of the walnut tree than ever before.  The tree and the covenant had prospered long and sturdily—not always happily, but strong, and though the ache was fresh and the blood seemed to well out from beneath his fingers even as he tried to press the wound shut, there was no anger in the pain.  He looked down again at the stone.God mend all.  Turning in alongside the Mayor and fetching up the reins of his horse, he began the walk across the green with many things lying at his back—and the wind, at his back, rushed with a sudden power upon him, fanning out the dolphinskin of his cloak, and in its plunging he heard the sounds carried across the years of the fox and the laverock and the talk of men and horses, and that peace which was as painful as it was indescribable dropped upon him out of the naked sky.
He fell not by an enemy’s blow,Nor by the treachery of his own followers.But he died peacefully,Happy in his joy,Without pain,His people safe.Who can call this death,When none considers that it demands vengeance?

Hold In Memory the Colouring of a Rose

pinterestI haven't really lacked for ideas recently, just the energy to write them down. It is really quite mentally taxing, and emotionally like a roller-coaster. I think I must have got going rather quickly once I reached the climax of a scene, for my husband, who had been dutifully ignoring me and working on his own projects, suddenly looked up in startlement and asked what I was writing. I have some notion that I was also making faces at the computer, so I am also embarrassed...

snippets

There was something momentary and odd on the steward’s face—as if several thoughts, unpleasant in their juxtaposition, had occurred to him all at once—and then they were gone again and the man was straight and obedient and subdued as a piece of sword-steel that one has been accustomed to using for a very long time.talldogs
Raymond regarded his whiskey and his options.talldogs
The pungent scent of fresh loaves threw him for a moment back into the narrow, cobble-stepped roadway of Tamberlane, yellow and dusky with its bricked walls and overshadowing elms. Was it his imagination, or did that long hallowed lane hold in memory the colouring of a rose, even as this little square of sidewalk did beneath the red-lined awning which was as old as his memory…?talldogs
...he glanced up to find [she] had come in her rummaging through the chests upon a hand-written notebook of Sebius’ Mathematics, and was casually fanning through the pages. It was a fat, torn, tattered thing, much referenced and subsequently much abused, but he noted that she treated the thing with surprising care within her long, fine hands, and the thrashing, reckless spirit with which she was accustomed to favouring most things seemed to have completely dropped away from her. She held the thing like a fledgling bird.“Hmm!” she said, ruefully; her cheeks creased back in a deprecating smile. “Trigonométrie.”drakeshelm
His throat was ragged. His fingers flexed at the thought, but did not lift off the hardwoods. It was sore and ragged as if someone had been trying to crush his windpipe. Somehow he managed to crack his eyelids open: he saw the human figures of the dog and the cat and the badger grouped about him, but he did not connect with them. There was an upended chair near the badger, as if someone had kicked it over. There was a frayed coil of rope at the dog’s feet, with a loop and a knot in one end…lamblight
She was beautiful. He sat back and gazed down with gently hooded eyes: something bird-like fluttered warmly in his chest. It was pure and lovely and true, and he thought, I would lay my head at her feet.—Then the ugly thing came darting back into his mind and the corners of his eyes and mouth hardened, his hand tightened on the pen.lamblight
"Like a hammer I will smash you, as God smashed the tribes of Israel with the hammer of the Assyrians. I will crush you and disperse you, and you will become a byword among men."cruxgang
“Overlord!” he cried—and in that sudden silence his gasping voice rang out against the stones. “Overlord! Mercy! Sanctuary!”cruxgang

The Elements of Harmony

the mane six: applejack // rainbow dash // twilight sparkle // pinkie pie // fluttershy // rarityI know I get some criticism for having a children's show as my all-time favourite thing to watch, but bear with me.  Blessings come in odd disguises, and sometimes they come in the guise of techni-coloured ponies.  Lately (and please don't take this as an attempt to garner pity - far from it!) I've been feeling the pinch of my own uniqueness in my personal sphere, which pinch generally manifests itself in the shape of loneliness.  Introvertedly, I failed to notice the profound uniqueness (and subsequent loneliness) of the people around me; having noticed has made the loneliness much easier to bear, but it also helped to readjust my perspective on my own life.  And that is where the ponies came in.


"I wish we could all be ponies," I said miserably."Yes," he admitted; "but even ponies have their problems."Since that was part of my point, I retorted, "Yes, but they always sort them out in twenty minutes."
When Tim or I need something light and sweet, the best thing to do is watch Ponies.  We're all caught up on the show, so naturally the only thing to do was to go back and watch from the very beginning.  Misanthropic - (can I use that word?) - misanthropic, bookish Twilight Sparkle, out to save Equestria from Nightmare Moon (whoever she is) with the six Elements of Harmony (whatever they are and wherever they may be): the last thing she wants to be told by her royal tutor is to make friends.  Ain't nopony got time fo' dat.  Enter five ponies in turn, all irritating Twilight and getting in her way with their kindness, generosity, faithfulness, cheerfulness, and straight-up honesty.  Fine, whatever, they can tag along, but Twilight has the Elements of Harmony to find and the fate of Equestria rests in her hooves.  Then comes the climax: when her magical spark seems to be a dud and the Elements remain lifeless, and Nightmare Moon has seized the day, enter the five ponies whose friendship (although at first unwanted) is genuinely appreciated by Twilight in her moment of need - and the spark of magic is ignited.  With the living manifestations of the five Elements - honesty, loyalty, laughter, kindness, and generosity - the magic created in their newfound friendship is powerful enough to defeat Nightmare Moon.

I cried when Twilight Sparkle heard her friends coming to save her.

Yes, I know, I'm a sentimental sucker, but I realized that those six ponies, all extremely different and all having vastly different strengths, created a bond that nothing could break.  It was the strength of their cumulative virtues, bound by friendship, which defined them, not separated them, and made a very powerful magic which is not relegated to the techni-colour screen. They are all strong characters (yes, even Fluttershy), but instead of letting their strengths and their differences separate them, as ponies alone and aloof (now there's a sentence I never thought I would construct), they came together and became stronger.  And that was something I needed to see: that in skill and strength and difference, there need not always be loneliness.  Instead, there can be harmony.

and this is why I watch My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic

And the Road Goes On, Seeming Ever Longer on the Way to Mandalay

talldogsSummer has been ushered in with strawberry picking.  "Caravanserai" is strumming its haunting notes from the second-generation speakers of my computer.  I have a candle burning on my desk beside a bouquet of flowers produced by magic from the hand of my husband.  I am (have I mentioned?) at the twelfth week of pregnancy and wondering if I am really going to be sick this morning or if I am just in for quietly nauseating misery. 

I was asked specifically if I could give an update on my writing, but I thought a general update would not go amiss.  Naturally, I have been exhausted and emotional to degrees I have not thought possible, so I have been doing less writing recently in a trucking-along kind of way, and a lot more plotting.  All things considered, Talldogs , which is my work in progress, is coming along nicely, and is currently weighing in at 76,637 words.  I am enjoying the process, when I am not so tired that I can barely care.  There is very little room for my enthusiasm after the story has been written; the writing process itself is what I love best, and the gradual exploration of characters and plot.  I could wax lyrical, but I feel shy about trilling my own excitement, so I don't believe I will.

My other stories do not keep quiet.  They take turns, with no rhyme or reason to their rhythm, piping up with scenes or plot ideas for me.  I have done a little scribbling on Drakeshelm recently because it gave me a monster of a scene and I did not dare ignore it for fear I forgot it, and I finally had a touch of a break-through with Lamblight the other morning while I was more or less comatose in the bath.  I had a break-through on Cruxgang , too, after a fashion - in that large chunk of night through which I can no longer seem to sleep - and that was encouraging.  I am very excited to begin that story because I love the colour and the feel of it, and lured by its aesthetic siren manipulations I keep scootching back to it to fiddle with research and daydream about scenes that are about as fantastic as they are ridiculous. 

I have three additional novels that are so far off that they aren't really within my sights yet: Amaranth, Ampersand, and Dondonné; they are pretty quiet, so I don't say much about them.  (Actually, I don't say much at all, do I...?  I was once told I was rather tight-lipped about all this, or held my cards close to my chest, or some such analogy.  I never considered that.)  You might catch a line or two from these three in my snippets posts.

Someone asked if I actually bought a house, or if I was joking.  No, I actually bought a house, and it is under renovation at present.  I can't tell you when we will be able to move in, but then I am not typically concerned by time, much as I sometimes should be, so I don't sweat it.  Tim says that it is not in the rurals, it's in the suburbs, but I still stand by my view that it is somewhere in between those two areas - this view backed by the fact that a chanticleer goes off every once in a while in the near district, and we saw a hen crossing the road.  No joke.  The house itself is a bewildered old ranch-style with an extended kitchen out the back and a large sunroom attached to one side, and now that the cramped wall-plans have been altered and much of the living space has been opened up by the magic which is my brother's renovation company, the whole place shines with sawdust and light.  We have nearly two acres of weedy construction-churned landscape, and the previous owner allows us use of his easement to get back to the river.  All this to say, I am really excited for this house.  I like to think we are one of the nicest things that could have happened to the poor thing.  I may even bore you with pictures later on, we'll have to see.

oh, and i'm working on self-publication for plenilune

In Which the Details of Things

drakeshelmI don't always cross the streams, as it were, between my writing blog and my fashion blog, but on a whim the other day I did up my make-up in the style of one of my Plenilune cultures, and that started a ball rolling.  Before I launch into this month's snippets (hold on - no jumping the line - just wait a second and hear me out), here are a handful of links to some very fun Plenilune looks done by myself and three of my friends.  (And by all means, if anyone is inspired, join in!  It's a lot of fun and, naturally, it kind of makes my day.)

call all the ladies out // they're in their finery (jenny)a kind of pale jewel opened and closed within your eyes (mirriam)our camels bridled up // our howdahs full (jenny)you have witchcraft in your lips, kate (katiebug)who is that girl staring straight back at me? (leanna) 
Almost at once sound broke back on the scene. Someone was hollering for a water-line, cursing the gods and Hades and the slowness of the foot-soldier, and Alwin breathed again, knowing that the business would be taken care of.drakeshelm
I followed the line of his arm and marked, not merely the doorway, but that the elegant quilting on his silver sleeve was stitched in gold thread—real gold thread: my blood tingled with the closeness of the magical element.dondonné
...it had been a new and curious thing, even a little alarming—her eye dropped to the mauled side of his face and something quivered a little in her middle—but at the time it had been only a fresh excitement. Now she was conscious of Sophia sitting far off from her, and never quite coming back. maresgate
Her lips pursed and spread in a straight, mirthless smile of contemplation. “Right into Commander Herro’s thigh-bone. Rummy luck!” She sniffed and looked round the battery. “Where did the baby go?”drakeshelm
But in the forefront of her mind she was thinking vividly about Number Eight and the sickening quickness with which it must have whirled round on its handlers. Like a feral pup that goes back to its kind when it is old. She stepped into the stairhead and shivered her way down the cold passage. In a quick, conversational way, she added, Good God! How easily it might have killed someone, too.drakeshelm 
"You did not reckon on Golightly. No one ever reckons on Golightly: that is what I love about him."maresgate
"The end of gods and giants himself!"drakeshelm
Out of courtesy Raymond extended his hand, and [she] deftly slipped her long, freckled hand into his—the fingers squeezed with remarkable power before detaching. “Good morning.” The green eyes flashed daggers.talldogs
And in one of those odd little moments in which the details of things seem to stand clear and seem vitally important, Alwin noticed also that the man wore a shoulder-pauldron—like any other pauldron, save that it was stamped in tiny relief with the pattern of the planta prunellier, and he knew at once who the man was.drakeshelm
“Only once or twice!” mazed Avery. “And with such woods as these to prompt! I tell you what: Amaranth is plain-set, and we have no close woods like these to lure us in. It is old, well-mannered country down in Hol-land.”talldogs
I am pretty well grateful that you are taking the brunt of their fire from me, he considered a little exasperatedly, but there is no call to go making a Sabine of her!talldogs
Eleud began to writhe in his grip like Tam Lin.talldogs
But it was the figure on the creature’s back which interested him most, and he, too, lifted his head a little, eyes hooded, to examine the superb being perched tailor-fashion on the narrow flat saddle. It was helmed in a round, ribbed cap of metal, with a thick brow and a mesh of silver coins lowered over the neck and swept up round to cover the wearer’s face to the bridge of the nose. Only the eyes showed through, a calculated dark amber rimmed in black, couched between the silver-coin veil and two glossy red antlers, split into two tines at each end, which sprouted from the helm’s brow. Beneath her headdress—it was a woman’s pair of eyes, he noted—she wore a curious fusion of masculine and feminine garb, robed in a silken gown printed over in golds and reds and rusts, and wrapped close about the waist by a long scarf of vibrant cinnabar-colour. From amidst the belt hung a very beautiful and notably serviceable sword, and beneath the billowing folds of the gown were tucked a pair of trouser’d legs, plumed in loose linen and tied tightly into the mouths of a pair of buckskin boots.cruxgang
This drawing was good—superb, even—but it was not an accurate depiction of the original work. Small things had been twisted, and twisted so horribly that even though the master had painted a pagan picture, the result of this imitation was truly blasphemous.lamblight
She laughed gaily and prattled with him toward the door, leaving Raymond and Avery alone in the hallway. His hands free, and put into his own pockets, Avery lounged abbreviatedly to Raymond’s side, eyes narrowed as he watched the young lady taking the shepherd off under her wing. When they were out of earshot, and the steward had shut the door, he turned to Raymond and asked,“Do you still think Geoffrey is having an affair with Illia Mara?”talldogs

The Title At the End of the Reader's Patience

pascal campionEveryone once in a while, Abigail and I trawl through book covers on Goodreads - for whatever reason - and part of the ritual is to make commentary on the titles, covers, and synopses as we go by.  We tend to be critical people, for good or ill, and while it is generally considered taboo to hold a negative opinion about anything, there are some truly regrettable book titles out there, among other maladies in the trade.  I thought I might share with you a few good ones I ran across, as well as some typical bad ones - and it should be said that my opinion about all of these titles in no way reflects the content of the books.  Let us proceed.

hush, hushA unique title, with a good cadence.
gracelingAgain, unique, it has a good sound, and when you say it you want to know more.
fireWhat.  You did so well with Graceling.  What happened?  Fire?  That's it?  Sit tight and you'll see a glimpse of the fiery competition that your title is up against.
eyes like starsYour character can have eyes like stars, but not in the title.  While it may be totally pertinent, it says amateur romance.
the hunger games, mockingjayBoth of these are evocative and unique.  The Hunger Games?  What is this curiosity?  "Mockingjay"!  Just feel the way that tingles when you say it.  Alluring use of curiosity and cadence here.
shadows of the realmEverything the light touches is part of our kingdom, but that shadowy bit over there is the elephants' graveyard.  ...Just wait: "shadows" is totally hackneyed.  You really have to know what you're doing to pull that word off.
betrayedWell, I guess I don't need to read the book, then.
poison studyNot great, but also not lousy.  You have an immediate idea that there is a mystery here, you know generally what you are getting into, but the title does not try to cram the entire synopsis of the book down your throat.  It leaves room for the mystery of the plot itself.
gardens of the moonHere is a case of a title rising up out of the ashes of hackneyed title nouns.  Gardens on the moon?  Tell me more!
son of ereubusFirst of all, "offspring of - " is also hackneyed.  If the character cannot carry off the reader by the strength of his own personality and purpose, but has to depend upon his pedigree (which is a form of deus ex machina, as the circumstance was completely out of his own control), then why do I want to read about that character?  And that isn't how you spell "Erebus."
daughter of the forestThis could mean anything.  Is she a Native American?  Is she a fairy?  Why she ain't got no parents?  Not enough information - I'm not interested.
the name of the windAnother case of interest in the face of hackneyed nouns.  I want to know why the wind has a name; who knows this? how did he find out? what can you do with this knowledge? 
darkspire reachesExcellence was within your grasp, and you literally overreached yourself.  "Darkspire."  Sounds interesting.  What does that mean?  Is it a name, or a place?  "Darkspire Reaches"?  Now it's just another fantasy novel.
ombria in shadowI realize that darkness is a legitimate, accurate depiction of evil, but the only seriously scary "shadow" I have ever read was the opaque, deadly, sentient Shadow of A Wrinkle In Time.  Otherwise most shadows just seem lame.  And hackneyed.
the fox womanThere are lots of werewolves and vampires and changelings and shape-shifters out there, but a simple little "the fox woman" is not trying too hard to pull you in - one almost feels it is the nameless name given to a local legend that no one dares speak about too closely.  Less is more!
my name is rapunzel"I know my name! Get on with it!"  Everyone (including Rapunzel) knows Rapunzel's name, and Rapunzel's story.  You are not assuring me that you have conjured up anything remotely unique here with this bland title.  Why would I want to pick this book up?
his majesty's dragonOkay.  Whoa.  Hold on.  His Majesty's what now?  You got me.  What lies behind this delectable morsel of title-flesh?
born in flames, embracing the flamesOne of these is impossible, the other is very inadvisable, both are cliche.
the doom guardianHow do you guard doom?  How do you say that without laughing?  And how well does that pay? are there benefits...?
sabrielThis doesn't really tell you anything about the book, but it's simple, quick, easy to remember, and it's a pretty name.  Props!
glimmerglassIf you think about it too hard, it could sound dumb, but mostly it's just a lovely series of sounds that conjure up vague but magical images that you would like to hunt down further.  It's a good title.
the pillars of the earth, world without endWell, Scripture is a good place to steal from.  These are strong titles, evocative of power, and while they may not tell you much about the books themselves, the titles stand alone without any apology.
shadows returnWhich means my husband will need to put in new light bulbs.
fire of stars and dragonsDo all the fantasy things.
the broken destinyAnd more of the fantasy things.
everneathThey were trying to make a catchy fantasy title, but they tried a little too hard.  What does "everneath" even mean?  It does not sound intelligent enough to warrant further investigation.
legends rebornLegends and birth.  More classic fantasy tropes.
the god enginesWhat is this - this - this violent meeting of "spiritualism" and "materialism"?  Here are two often incongruous ideas brought together in a title!  You have my attention!
caged in darkness...and you lost it again.
the looking glass warsThere is a whole pack of good cadence, action, and scintillating fantasy in one sublime title.
the legend of witchtrot roadThis escapes falling into the "legend" trope by the delightful tongue-in-cheek springiness of the addition of "witchtrot road."  I kind of just like saying it.  "Witchtrot."  Okay, I'll pick up the book.  What happened there...?
the way of shadowsTypically you have an opaque or translucent object upon which you shine a light, and since the light does not wholly penetrate the object, it leaves a hollow on the other side, without light, and that hollowness we call shadow...
spell hunterNot only is this cliche, but how on earth do you even do that?  It does not sound sensible.  I'm moving on.
the stolen moon of londorWhere is Londor?  It has a moon?  And how was it stolen?  More importantly - by whom?  Tell me more of this picturesque image.
dawnsingerOh yes, my favourite: Noun Gerunds!  This must be one of the oldest fantasy cliches in the book (I saw this pun coming, even though I didn't intend it.)  Now, unless "the stars cast down their spears // and watered heaven with their tears," this just sounds lame and amateur.
city of a thousand dollsAlarmed, interested, immediately picturing cities populated by dolls.  The cadence is good, and the subject matter is intriguing.  I would pull this off the shelf and actually look at it.
king of thornsThat is not a good prize.
darkness risingYou again?
divergentThis is totally fun to say, and just vague enough that I might actually ride the wave of the pretty word enough to overcome my apathy and pick this book off the shelf to find out more about it.
the gathering darknessI swear by my pretty floral bonnet, if I see the word "darkness" one more time...
the whirlwind in the thorn treeOkay, this is a good title.  Nobody's asking anybody to rule over a weedy hedge, and it is reminiscent of, I don't know, Thomas Hardy and other classic writers that are actually rather terrible but somehow won acclaim.  And isn't that an awesome mental picture?  The whirlwind in the thorn tree...
the chains that you refuseThis is not only an excellent use of cadence, but it draws the reader in immediately.  What chains did I refuse?  What does it mean for me?  What am I going to do?  Tell to me my fortune!
daughter of smoke and bone"That doesn't seem like a very good mating."
the half-made worldGood cadence; and who made the world? why is it half-baked? who lives there? what does it mean for them? how do we finish this world? 
the body finder...is always the jogger because they are out alone in the early morning.  Also (red flag!): NOUN GERUND. Dun dun du-u-un...
stormdancerYou will get struck by lightning and the grammar police.  NOUN GERUND.
vampyre kissesFirst of all, I was going to let it go on the virtue of truth in advertising, but then they replaced the "i" in "vampire" with a "y," and that is just uncalled-for.
artemis fowlIs just a straight-up shindigging fun name to say.
paladin of soulsI didn't know that was a job, and I don't know how you do that, but I can tell it has its teeth sunk deep into the fantasy trope.
casket of soulsI...I am really having to suspend my disbelief that this could work - by a slender thread over a fatal drop.
sword of the deceiverI can't tell if this is literal, metaphorical, suggestive, or what.  It does not sound as though it would do justice to the reader's intelligence.
gemini of the emreianaDid any of you read that last word?  Did any of you pronounce it?  Neither did I.  Next book.
everlasting embrace...is going to get awkward when someone has to use the restroom.
crown of shadowsI don't know how you would do that, unless you were deep into an introspection in a shabby armchair in a shabby smoking gown puffing away tug-boat-like upon a pipe.  And I don't think that is the image they want to conjure.  It's fantasy, anyway; we got that much: "crowns" and "shadows" and all.
the war of the flowersFirst of all, this was a real thing, and it sounded better under the original title "The War of the Roses."  I have no idea what this book is trying to sell, but it sounds totally bloodless and cheap.  Possibly hippie.
lightbornUnless this is a spiritual metaphor, this is impossible.  Stop using "born."  
lake of sorrowsYou should probably move.
sunrunner's fireGet all the fantasy noun-gerund tropes in there!
eyes like sky and coal and moonlightThis is my favourite.  I don't know what things happened to this title, but an editor was not one of them.
the throne of fireDo not sit on that throne.
A good book title is extremely important, as I hope we can all see by now. I think a lot of people sense that, but then try too hard.  It is important, and you should definitely put a lot of thought into the title of your novel, but whatever you do, avoid being chintzy, try not to take yourself too seriously (this is mostly fantasy, after all, which is a genre bloated to the exploding point with material and ponderous self-worth), relax, and just be sensible.  And enjoy the ridiculous nature of the genre as well, because sometimes you really have to laugh to keep from crying.

The Casual, Independent Existence

"Your worlds shrug. They exist apart from the reader's imagination and the reader must jump in as best he can."

rachel

"It wasn't Atlas that shrugged; it was the world, in this case."

jenny

The Headwaters of the Himmajol

this world is as wild as an old wife's tale,and strange the plain things are,the earth is enough and the air is enoughfor our wonder and our war;but our rest is as far as the fire-drake swingsand our peace is put in impossible thingswhere clashed and thundered unthinkable wingsround an incredible starg.k. chesterton

may chatterbox: water

I don't think "dedication" is what I want, and "acknowledgement" sounds a little dry, don't you think?  But whatever word I want (am I a writer, that I should know these things?) my parents are both responsible for this Chatterbox in their own very different ways.  If it weren't for a particular lecture of my father's (and one small, tangential remark which struck me with a very potent mental image), and if it weren't for my mother's dedicated (there, I do want that word) tutelage throughout my wee homeschooling years, I don't believe this story would have come to be.  And I am pathetically (in both senses of the word) nostalgic just at present.  You will have to forgive me for that.  And you'll have to forgive me for the overabundance of parenthetical statements: I've gone well over the recommended limit for a single person.

the headwaters of the himmajol

It was still early morning, and somewhere beneath the humid layers of sunlight there was still a prickling of cold dew; beneath the boy’s palms, the slate slabs that bordered the pool were so chilled as to feel damp.  The harlequin nature of summer temperature amused him, quietly—soon enough the last touch of damp would be gone and the harsh bronze sun-disk that was rising out of the heaped-up hills would cut cleanly at any scorn, gentle or otherwise, that the dew-flecked soul of man might harbour.  He trilled his bare calves noiselessly in the water at the pool’s verge, his toes tangling with the low-lying hornwort and plucking a little, idly, at the stems of the great blue lotuses which peppered the pool from one long end to the other.  A long blink of yellow body emerged from the black depths: he stilled his legs a moment, flesh sparking with delicious apprehension, and the languid koi, half curious, half ambivalent, brushed its whiskered face against his foot before passing on.“Of the Arzachel Mountain range, Delepnir is the largest and most prominent peak: its perpetually snow-topped heights can be seen across the steppes for leagues.  No one has ascended its height; it is only known that somewhere in its insurmountable slopes are the headwaters of the great Himmajol.”At his back, seated among a froth of gold-embroidered cushions that masked the presence of a simple wood-slatted chair, the woman read patiently from the browned text of a large dolphin-skinned book, one leg slung over the opposite knee: her suspended foot jigged a little, and the boy could just see its far reflection bobbing silverily in the water.  The head was bent, the dark brown hair coiled and hazed with the morning light.  The voice hummed on, delightfully husky, as if God had made it out of the same ethereal stuff of this early summer moment.“The Himmajol’s course, once it cuts its meandering way around the Arzachel’s foothills, has been charted from antiquity.  It waters the Five Valleys, and runs beneath the walls of the old, old city Mazadin—named—” the voice suddenly detached from the text “—after the war-lord who founded it.”The boy nodded absentmindedly, for he remembered that from some other piece of text which he had been privy to: he could not remember where or when, only that the legendary thrill of the character had possessed him with its dragon-faced plates of armour and the springing step of the hunting cat.  A long time ago, Mazadin had been.  But the name still stood, strong as forever.  It still sent shivers through the blood of a southern boy whose civilization had ever been at odds with that of the war-lord.They had long shadows, he thought pleasantly, and his eyes wandered to the long muted shadow of the white crane which stood motionless among the striped rushes.  And their foundations last, even to this day.  Man is dreadfully mighty, even without God.The woman’s voice purred thoughtfully toward the cypresses, as if sharing with them: “I recall something somewhere—I do not remember where—something about a river beneath a city, and the floodwaters dammed back so that an army could invade through the water-ducts…  Perhaps Mazadin did not know about that story.  Anyway, it does not seem to have come back around to bite him.”  And she picked up again where she had left off reading.“Once the Himmajol leaves behind the Five Valleys—the Telmu, the Bax, the Serro-Vulga, the Jochi, and the Temüge—it skirts the raised, level plain of Batu, upon which stands Mazadin, and at the southern foot of Batu it divides into the three major northern rivers: the Timmin, the Ghir, and the Inganid.  Bruin, darling.”  She interrupted herself again.  “Would you like to see the map?”A large fluffy cat, dun-coloured with a seal-point face and devilish blue eyes, had slunk from the black taro and sat poised across from the crane: together they watched the koi flickering in the water.“No, thank you, Mamma.”  He began to move his legs again.  “I can see it in my head.”“…The Ghir, running almost directly west, divides what were once the southern Carmarthen ‘gang-lands’ from the high steppe country in the north.  The steppes benefit very little from the river valley, nor are they much watered by the Himmajol on its way down, for it passes on the east side of Batu.  The nomadic peoples of the steppes are but distant cousins of those settled folk who populated the Five Valleys and who, through the strong House of Mazadin, built up the land of Orzelon-gang in the days before Auxoris.”With a little involuntary widening of his eyes he could see them very clearly: the long pool became the rigid banks of the Ghir, the crane and cat and sleepy koi became the living icons of past war-lords.  The cypress trees that bounded the garden were the far mountains that ringed in the northern world, flashing, not with dew, but with the everlasting snows.  Something hurt in his chest, and he did not know why.“The Inganid diverges eastward, coiling tightly through the countryside until at last it cuts down into the sea.  The land is rather mountainous, and steppe-like it is very arid, so that the effects of the Inganid are limited to its own valley.  But the landscape of the valley is very lush, and some of the best coffee growing has followed the green ribbon of the Inganid for time out of mind.”  The woman chuckled softly to herself, and the boy heard her lift the little bronze-embossed coffee-cup off the table to drink from it.  She gave a little cough, as if she had swallowed too fast for herself, and set the cup down hurriedly again.  “And here we are, my littlest fox—the Timmin!“Like the Inganid, the Timmin meanders heavily west and eastward, descending by degrees through the territory of Orzelon-gang.  It is the major river of the area, and eventually diverges into the southern rivers of the Glass at the Lookinglass Falls, and the See—which is our own river.”He was staring at a webbing of lotus plants, sparked in cerulean like the massive cities and castles which had grown up around these rivers, and it was like looking at the veins of a living body, pumped through with the life-blood of the great rivers, descending from the inscrutable slopes of Delepnir and the thunder-charged torrent of the Himmajol.  The land was alive with these rivers.  He clenched his hands on the cool slate.  Could anyone else see that?  And if these rivers, slowly, inexorably trickling away into smaller and smaller channels, still spread their peacock-coloured wings over the long-boned, hot-blooded peoples which walked through the midst of his life, what race might live among the headwaters of the Himmajol?  “The Timmin, old and domestic, with its flood-plains well demarcated and its valley known through antiquity for its fertility, continues to enrich the valleys of Orzelon-gang, and has been a source of political contention throughout the years of Orzelon-gang’s existence.”What must the gardens of the Himmajol be like, if the gardens of the Inganid and the Ghir and the Timmin were so lush?  Who tended those cedars, or coaxed the shapes of the cypresses which would, on those slopes, bear no imagery of death?  The mists would hang perpetually about the place, watering the plants; the blossoms would flash through the silvered gloom like jewels—the birds would weave the air with their golden wings!  If only I could go there, he thought, and his chest hurt again, horribly.  If only I could go.No reason, no pride or exploitation, only he hurt in a deep, desperate way, and to see the garden slopes of Delepnir would be the only way to dispel the pain.“If you look out between those two cypresses, darling, at the end of the pool and the little lawn, you can see the steam coming off the Timmin.”He looked and saw the cypresses like black door posts, and a crystal haze of sky, broken up by distant hills, steamed with the steam of the long river as it coiled through the land…  And between the garden door posts, and the trees which had for centuries been the sentinels of the classical barrows, hung a shivering, shimmering, throbbing picture of spirit beauty, sinuous body woven into a kind of star-like knot, and casting down the length of the pond a glow of yellowed firelight that skipped and danced upon the dark surface.  The boy came immediately to his feet, shaking and trying not to show it.  “Mamma,” he gasped.  He swallowed, trying to steady his voice.  “Mamma—look!  Do you see the dragon?  Look, there is a dragon!”The woman, robed in blue tabbied silk, as if God had painted the tiger the same colour as the lotus, turned a page and murmured, “It is a long chapter, this chapter on the rivers.  I do not know that I can read the whole thing, darling…”The dragon’s featureless eyes were watching him, piercing through the desire of his heart.  He stood with a naked soul beneath its glare, and knew he would never get to see the headwaters of the Himmajol: it would not let him by.The crane was gone; the cat was gone; the koi had become reflections of the dragon’s light.  It hung its head at the base of its star-knot and began suddenly to thrash it about in wordless warning, as if thrown into an agony of urgency.  Its jaws snapped open and shut, and every time its furnace-mouth gaped a blade of flame stabbed outward from among its fangs.  It cut across the surface of the pool, lifting the water into a rage of smoke—it shut, quenched, opened again and set the lotus alight into tall blue plumes of flame.  The boy clenched his fists against the terror of it and somehow stood his ground.  Already the steam was obscuring the sight of it, save for where the shining eyes and the tongue of flame cut through the gloom.  A roaring as of the roaring of many waters began mounting in his ears…The woman heaved the large book shut upon her knees and twisted on the palette of rugs and silken pillows.  A single lamp hung suspended from a silver chain overhead, and by its light she could look down into the quenched face of the boy cocooned within the long silk sheath of blankets beside her.  His breathing was not yet even, for he was still lingering within the shallow dreaming world, but her voice was tired of reading and he was by all accounts asleep.  Putting aside the book, she leaned upon her hands and bent down through the soft sleeping-breathing and the lamp’s scent of olibanum, to kiss the smooth pale brow.  He had a comfortable, indescribable scent, and he was pleasantly cool to the touch of her lips.  And the touch must have come through to him wherever he was in his dreams, for his small hand closed lightly but determinedly upon the front of her blue tabbied gown and she could not sit back up without drawing on the clutch.  A small, soundless laugh escaped her parted lips.A panelled door slid open, a square of light flashed upon the tiled floor, and she turned her head to see her husband stepping noiselessly through the deep brown gloom to join them.  Putting back the gauze hangings of the bed, he stood looking down at the little tangle—and he laughed huskily at the expense of them both.“He has only just fallen asleep,” she whispered.  “As you can see, he is still a little master of his surroundings.”“That is my boy,” said the man coolly, and he, too, knelt among the pillows across from her.  He put out one long, fine-boned hand to stroke back the dark fluffed forelock of the small sleeping master.  His spare hand strayed to the little fist on the woman’s gown and gently detached it, folding it back at the boy’s side.  Then he, too, kissed the brow with his own paternal magic and swept back on the balls of his feet, coming upright.  “Come away now, darling,” he bade the woman, reaching out for her.  “He will sleep now.”She found her legs somehow in the great tangle of her skirts, surged like an encumbered blue heron to her wings, and stepped over the little body in the bed.  The pillows slid beneath her bare feet and her husband’s hand beneath her own became necessary for support.  Together they turned within the waterfall of gauze and waited breathlessly as the boy’s small, aristocratic face trembled a moment in sleep, bereft of the accompanying geniuses of his parents, and softened again, finding some inner comfort apart from their presence.  “What do you suppose he dreams about?” his mother whispered.The harsh profile of the father creased, a thoughtful smile driving back the lines into his cheeks.  “Oh—Nimrod,” he whispered back in a precipitate tone; “and loaves and fishes.  Come away.”

"He Has the Most Punishing Left Imaginable"

pinterest // drakeshelm

I like things that make me think, that delve deeper than the average surface talk. People "dummy" things down too much for fear of scaring other people away.

I had only just got up, and already I was bone-tired.  I sat in a meagre panelling of sun on the couch and stared blankly at my fingernails: they were the only things to look at; I was far too tired to pick up The Nine Tailors, which sat beside me.  Was the polish really that bad?  It was chipped and shabby, but was it completely reprehensible, or could I leave off scrubbing it away for another day - or at least the morning?  I was so, so tired.  Was that a hair stuck on the ragged edge of a nail?  My eyes adjusted.  No, it was only one of the creases in my palm.  Weird-lines.  Weird-lines, I called them in my stories, after the Norse "fate," and the old belief (that I did not myself adhere to) that you could read your fortune in those etchings.  Perhaps people would not always follow that - perhaps people would not always be acquainted with the old use of "weird," but if they were worth their salt as readers they would not mind learning - and if they did mind, well, I wasn't writing for that sort of reader, anyway.

"The reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest men of past ages."rené descartes
I had been meaning to address the above, introductory comment, which I got on my post She Was Not of His Folk, but I was having a little trouble solidifying my thoughts, and then I happened to chance upon a piece of published material which I thought did the author no justice and was quite juvenile.   I was angry, and since Rachel was unfortunately present to be ranted at, I lit into her (I think she deserves a halo) complaining that I do not expect the calibre of Tolkien, and E.R. Eddison, and some of the other Big Names from my library, but I push myself - I flog the best out of myself - and I fully expect other writers to do the same with their own geniuses.  I expect everything and more from myself, and I hold everyone else to the same standard.  I am the poster-child for quixotic, I know.  The varying developmental stages that people may be at in their writing aside, I am of the opinion that the writing genius suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.  In my whirlwind way, I told Rachel that I am all an illusionist's pocket of tricks: light, colour, distraction - and then the punch.  If nothing else, I must know when to hit people in the right nerve, and I must know how to do it.  To me, writing is a physical, violent sport, and one cannot be afraid nor "dumb things down," or one's writing is ineffectually boxing at the air.

Perhaps the only aspect of my life in which I could conceivably be called brave is my writing - but even then I don't consciously think "I will be brave, and I will not think that perhaps this will drive people away" while I am writing, so even in that I cannot take much credit.  But even so, whether it is a choice of vice in a character, or the use of an archaic word that people may not be readily acquainted with, I come stiffened with a certain amount of hubris that assures me I know what I am doing, and a certain amount of impatient charity which also tells me that the reader can keep up.

"I quickly learned that reading is cumulative and proceeds by geometrical progression: each new reading builds upon whatever the reader has read before."alberto manguel
In addition to expecting the world of myself, I don't pretend that I am the whole world to my reader.  I fully expect that he will be reading other works (no doubt better and more informed than my own), and that any passages in my works in which I am speaking in parts and portions and dark sayings will in these latter days be revealed in the light of someone else's literature.  I also have a candid appreciation for my own lack of intelligence: I don't know Latin, or Greek, I don't read lengthy passages of Norse mythology on a whim: everything I know, anyone else can find - if not, they are just lazy in the brain-pan, and I have no use for that.  I don't usually make people "think deeply" on purpose, as though I knew anything worth really sharing, but if people want to walk with me, I'm happy to have them along.  Meanwhile, I will always stay true to my craft, and think very little about the reader in the process.  The reader only gets underfoot at this stage, anyway.  He can have a slice of pie when it is done baking. Shoo.

It's best to remember that the reader, like an animal, can smell fear in the author.