Ahimsa Kerp's Blog, page 16

Five Fantasy Books That You Could Love

It's always rewarding to encounter a book that either lives up to the hype or utterly surprises you.  The following five books I recommend to spec fic fans of all shapes and sizes.

We all know George RR Martin,  Patrick Rothfuss, Joe Abercrombie, and Scott Lynch.  These guys, however, are laboring under slightly more obscure circumstances.  Some are award-winning, but none have the recognition that they rightfully deserve.

Read them and let me know if what you think.  (If you have already read them, you can let me know what you think without re-reading them.)

The Horns of Ruin – Tim Akers

This had all I want in a fantasy book. Good characters, some intrigue, a plot that isn't entirely predictable, a unique setting, and a set up for future happening all add up to a superb story. The best part is the narrative voice. It's told in third person, and the protagonist's voice is consistent and distinctive. Reading this as an adult is like reading David Eddings as a child–it's the same sense of immersion and fun in a new world.

The Windup Girl – Paolo Bacigalupi

This book won every major award and it's easy to see why. I personally have a problem with stories written in the present tense (it bugs me to the point that I won't read them) but this book transcended it's wanky tense choice and unfurled a complex, thought-provoking plot with some memorable characters.

Throne of the Crescent Moon – Saladin Ahmed

The characters are great, the prose is good, and the setting is wonderful. It's Arabian Nights meets, well, I suppose more Arabian Nights. But don't take my word for it. This book has received glowing reviews from the likes of Patrick Rothfuss and Scott Lynch. It's a quick read, but a fantastic one.

 Nights of Villjamur – Mark Charan Newton

From the beginning, you can tell you are in the hands of a master storyteller.  Newton's prose is assured and the pace is perfect.  The world-building is subtle but very carefully constructed.  He also deserves kudos for attempting the first albino protagonist since a certain ruler of Melnibone.

Empire in Black and Gold - Adrian Tchaikovsky

The setting and world-building are the most noticeable elements, of course. The tech level is steampunk-y, but there is some magic. The races of bugs, from mantis to dragonfly, from beetle to moth, are plausibly developed and it's fun to learn about their powers.  The characters were both likeable and realistic (you know, for anthropomorphised giant bugs.) There were a few uber-warriors, but also fat scholars, inventors, nobles, mystics, and kids.  It's immersive enough to make for ideal airplane fare.

A Collection of Cthulhurotica Reviews

These exist in various places, but I wanted to include all the reviews of the anthology that mention my story.  There are many great stories in this anthology, or in a long-standing tradition, you can choose to read it for the articles.

From Wagging the Fox

The stories I liked most were varied. Some took a more contemporary approach, some had a more streamlined style to Lovecraft's while hanging onto that imitative flavor. Stand outs for me included: …  "Turning On, Tuning In, and Dropping Out at the Mountains of Madness" by Ahimsa Kerp, which was absolutely saturated in a sixties milieu that felt almost too fun to belong in a Lovecraft world;

From Innsmouth Free Press

My favourite Mythos deity, Nyarlothotep, is the subject of another couple of stories. First there is "Turning On, Tuning In, and Dropping Out at the Mountains of Madness", for which Ahimsa Kerp deserves tremendous credit in imagining the Crawling Chaos as a 60s guru making deals with gullible and stoned hippies.

From Yog-Sothoth

TURNING ON, TUNING IN, & DROPPING OUT AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS (Ahimsa Kerp) is probably the first Mythos story I've ever read set in '60s hippie culture. Definitely the most original characterization of Nyarlathotep I've seen, at least since Alan Moore's Neonomicon.

And from the reviewer Tarl on Goodreads  

Hippies and Lovecraftian themes. Oddly interesting, well written and true to the language and behaviors of the day. A good read, and draws nicely to the feelings of being drawn to something that will (and you know it) use you to get what it wants. Euphoria is oddly a touching character and one someone can easily relate to.

Check out more about the book at Goodreads.

Interview: It Was a Dark and Rainy Night

I was pleased to be interviewed last month by Rainy Kaye of Rainy of the Dark fame.  She has a great blog for writers, readers, and reviewers and it's one that I enjoy following.

In the interview, I talk a bit about Baldairn Motte, and a little bit about why I think vanilla is better than chocolate, and about many other things as well.  If you haven't already checked it out, you can go there now by clicking this link.

Why Y.A. is not A-Okay

Living in my bubble (it's a strong enough material to keep everything from Jersey Shore to Pauly Shore away), I have been slow to realize that Young Adult (YA) fiction is the next big thing in spec fic.

I know that Harry Potter was big. (Hell, even my bubble isn't that effective.)  I read the first book when it came out, and was underwhelmed. I never read anymore, though I saw one of the movies. (But I digress: the problems with Harry Potter are well-documented, and neither here nor there.)

Of course, I had my favorites as a kid: the Hobbit, A Wrinkle in Time, The Phoenix and the Carpet, A Horse and His Boy, A Wizard of Earthsea, Kidnapped, SuperFudge, Julie of the Wolves, and such.  Good books all, and I occasionally reread some of them.

But I don't understand how YA has currently gotten so big with adults now.  It's hard for me as an adult to read much YA now, for a trio of reasons.

1. The Gargamel Problem.

The problem with the villain in YA (especially spec fic) is that he isn't very capable. If he was, the teen boy/perky girl/carebear would die and the story would be over. I can suspend my disbelief about magic and monsters, but in those worlds I can't believe that evil overlords can't summon the power to defeat a sullen teenager.

2. Teen Trauma.

One of the central conceits of YA is that is in a position to deal with the problem of coming of age.  This theme is one of the all-time greats, of course, but has to be handled with finesse.

I'm not a psychologist, but I am aware of many studies dealing with the modern invention of the teenager.  What's more, there can be a tendency to dip into angst and melodrama.

What's worse, while I don't deny that teens have large challenges (moreso now than when I went to high school in the 90′s), the idea that a genre of books needs to pander to a group that, at its worth, can be entitled and not have perspective .  In fact, there probably aren't too many problems that teens have that adults don't. Ostracism, depression, body image issues are part of the modern (western) human condition.

3. Lazy as a Sloth.

YA writing is, like all writing, widely variable and not easily categorized. I'm going to anyway: it's lazy. The best status your prose can achieve is "effective." Probably the best-written YA prose I've seen is from Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising. Her writing is effective, but never beautiful.

Even the difference between the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings is telling, though those books belong to another era.

Don't take my word for it, but the prose of Rothfuss, Kafka, Borge, Wolfe, Bakker,Valente, Meivelle, and Vandermeer. and Guy Gavriel Kay, Peake, Ford, and Zafón (as translated by Graves) is all considered exceptional.  I don't think there are any YA writers in that conversation.  (The Giver is quite good, but its not comparable.)

I recently read the first Percy Jackson by Rick Riordan.  It was clever at times, and engaging, but very light.  I've taken a look at the three books I have (I'm not in a place in the world with a lot of book collections)  and compared the second paragraph on page 23.

I'll begin with Percy Jackson.

The only person I dreaded saying good-bye to was Grover, but as it turned out, I didn't have to. He'd booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound as I had, so there we were, together again, heading into the city.

It's not bad writing, but the second sentence is close to a run-on.  Compare that to Guy Gavriel Kay's The Summer Tree.

"You are too quick to renounce friendship, Dave Martynuik," Marcus snapped back.  "But," he went on, more gently, after a frozen instant, "it doesn't matter here–and to make you see why, I must try to explain.  Which is harder than it would have been once."  He hesitated, hand at his beard again.

There's some stuff going on there–nice writing, characterization, and "frozen instant" is a damned nice turn of phrase.

That is just one look at one random page, which admittedly is a small sample size.

(Unrelated to anything, here is an excerpt of the third book: Almuric by Robert E Howard.  This was written 1939; what we expect from our writing has changed.)

It is needless for me to narrate the details of the following months.  I dwelt among the hills in such suffering and peril as no man on Earth has experienced for thousands of years.  I make bold to say that only a man of extraordinary strength and ruggedness could have survived as I did.  I did more than survive.  I came at last to thrive on the existence.

Yikes.

These are three reasons why I don't think writing something specifically YA is as good as writing a book that applies to everyone.  I over-generalized some generalizations, and I'm happy to be corrected with any specific examples.  Let me know what your thoughts are.

A Year of … ?

While 2010 was a high-point for me (selling one story to an anthology, getting my novel published) 2011 has been consisted of a few steps back.

Although I sold one story to Eschatology early on, my track record otherwise was a bit rough. I submitted a variety of stories for a total of 26 times. 23 of them were rejected, with varying degrees of acceptance. Furthermore, 2 of the three acceptances were for travel writing as guest articles.

So my acceptances are down. The good news is that I've written more this year than ever before. Almost 100,000 total. I have a 5000 word steampunk story that might be a start of a novel, and I think it's one of the best short stories I've ever written. I have a couple of other stories plotted and I think they have some real promise.

Most importantly is Lifeless. I had a thousand or two words written in 2010, but now I've got 80,000 and it's almost done. I aim to finish it before Lunar New Years (mid-January). It's been a pain to write–many POV's, lots of research, and covering a span of time that could kindly be described as ill-advised. It's not like anything I've written before, nor is it like anything I've read before.

What's more, though there haven't been very many reviews, they've all been great. (I've linked to most of them on this blog if you're interested.) Therefore, while this year has not been replete with successes, I think I'm poised for a good 2012. At the very least, I should have a novel and 3 or 4 decent stories to shop.

What are your goals for 2012? How much have you written this year?

Music for Nerds

Be it Lord of the Rings, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, or Chronicles of Narnia, there are a lot of areas to nerd out in. Here are ten songs to help you release your inner nerd.

Lament for Gandalf by Colin Rudd

This one speaks for itself. I believe it was written between Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers.

Marvin I Love you

This one is unique, as Douglas Adams was directly responsible for it. It's still a pretty catchy song.

Long ago, in another galaxy

There lived a gloomy robot

His name was Marvin

He was getting old and a bit rusty

And nobody liked him

Ramble On – Led Zeppelin

To be precise, Led Zeppelin has several songs that reference Lord of the Rings (including Stairway to Heaven) and, famously, they have odes to Vikings and Achilles as well. But a look at the lyrics below will make it clear why I think Ramble On is the nerdiest of their songs.

Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear.

How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air.

T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair.

But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, her, her….yeah.

[image error]

White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane

This is probably more an ode to mind-altering substances than to literature, but Grace Slick has stated she was a big fan of Lewis Carrol.

And if you go chasing rabbits

And you know you're going to fall

Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar

Has given you the call

Don't Wear the Ring by Flight of the Concords

Bret was, of course, infamous in his small role in Fellowship. He and Jemaine submitted this song to Peter Jackson as a possible theme for the films. But they will explain it in the clip:

I don't rap about bitches and hoes, I rap about witches and trolls

Just passing on the words of the Elven king,

Wisdom to all

Frodo! Don't wear the ring!

A Cloak of Elvenkind by Marcy Playground

These one-hit wonders seemingly found plenty of time to play Dungeons and Dragons. They also had a song called The Ballad of Aslan, which is worth a listen.

Sixteen books of magic spells

Stacked below the cloak of elves

And sixteen books on magic spells

So elegantly bound

And I know I could not say why

In the Garage by Weezer

Long-time the poster children for nerds, Weezer never put it better.

I've got the Dungeon Master's Guide.

I've got a 12-sided die.

I've got Kitty Pryde

And Nightcrawler too

Waiting there for me.

Yes I do, I do.

Circus Maximus by Clutch

Lead singer Neil Fallon was an English major, and is a voracious reader. This song is chock full of references to the AD&D Monster Manual.

Now may I present to you the basilisk?

Please dawn your goggles if you wish to resist.

From the fiery depths of the planet's core

The never sleeping for wont of eating unholy stench of the manticore.

Narnia by Steve Hackett

You might not expect a collaboration between members of Genesis and Kansas ending up with lyrics like this:

With a queen cold as ice

You'd best take my advice

To steer clear of her charm

She's easily annoyed

What's that sound, you turn around

It just happens there are bells

And reindeer drawing a sleigh

Honorable Mention: Hobbit on the Rocks by Marcy playground

It doesn't have a youtube clip, and the lyrics aren't that inspirational, but you'd be surprised how edgy it was to sing about hobbits in the early 1995.

[image error]

The Wasteland

This is my entry into Chuck Wendig's latest Flash Fiction challenge.

As he says:



It's a month of horror.

And so I feel like the first flash challenge (and maybe all of 'em, who knows) should focus on horror. Right? Right. Or, at least, monsters. Here, then, is your task: I want to see a brand new monster. Something you've never seen before. Not a vampire. Fuck the zombies. No werewolves or ghouls or ghosts or demons or witches or Snookis. I want you to the best of your ability write a story featuring a Brand New Monster of your own creation.

It cannot be longer than 1000 words. Those are the rules. Here is my entry, about a desert-dwelling ghoulish succubus. This story is probably Not Safe for Work.

The Wasteland

Aranth disgustedly spat sand out of his mouth. It was hot and dry and sandy and hot. The landscape was a parody of all that was right. Deserts of stony flint stretched before him, dry salt lakes perched beneath lofty sand dunes, and there was no water anywhere.

The Wasteland. He knew that as hot as it was now, the nights would cool to dangerously low temperatures. There were few animals other than the occasional reptile he saw submerged beneath the sand. In short, it was as deadly and inhospitable a landscape that could be imagined.

The land was not featureless, but neither did the assorted stones, dunes and gulleys make it easy to get one's bearings. Particularly in the daytime, when there were no stars to guide him.

Aranth was lost–lost without food, water, or friends. There was not much time for self-pity, as it took all of his concentration to survive. When he had awoken on the fringe of the wasteland, he had had nothing save the clothes on his back. He was beyond hungry–had not eaten since, three nights ago, as best he could reckon. But he knew he could survive for weeks without food, if need be. It was the lack of water that was his biggest danger. He had been hoping to find a stream—to drink from surely, but also to soak his clothing in. But there was nothing.

The sun was setting as his shoes scuffed softly over the dry terrain. This was the best time to walk, as it was neither too hot or too cold. Exhaustion, however, threatened to overtake him, and when he saw the smooth shaded side of a dune a few minutes later he stopped and instantly fell asleep.

***

He awoke, tense and adrenaline flowing. The stars lit up the dark sky and he realized he must have slept for several hours. It seemed though that something was wrong.

Something had changed in the night air. Instead of the earthy, desert scent was a sweeter and more subtle aroma. It smelled of perfume. The kind of perfume worn by the most beautiful woman in the world. Aranth could practically see her, so evocative was her scent. Long, lithe legs that stretched seemingly forever. Beautiful dark tresses, covering her smiling face. Eyes of the lightest blue, the color of the sky on summer days of the past. '

She was there, suddenly. Exactly like he had pictured, and naked; her supple body hairless. And she started kissing Aranth. He kissed her back, kissed her with a longing he had never felt. He felt like he was complete, that his life had only now truly started. She pushed him down to the sandy ground, and bestrode him, her long legs stretching to either side of his body. Her nude body rubbed against his waist and for an instant he hated his clothing, that it could hinder him in such a manner

She kissed him more, her tongue attacking in little, flicking gestures. His hands found themselves stroking her breasts. They were large, but round and soft in his hands. Her nipples hardened instantly at his touch and she began, ever so softly, to pant.

Her soft perfumed skin was everywhere, and his eyes closed as he breathed in the fragrance. His mind spun, as if it could not truly comprehend the beauty before him. He knew with utter conviction that he would do anything for this woman. His eyes would not open again, though he knew that his tunic had been lifted up. The woman urgently rubbed her wet groin over his body, her panting louder and more desperate. She lifted her hips up ever so slightly and descended upon his hardness with a wet embrace. Her fingernails scraped from his chest down to his stomach, and lower. He had never had a pleasure that could match that delectable pain.

The darkness began to overwhelm him and he realized he was dying. It was surprising, but not alarming. Perhaps, he mused, it was too much sensory stimulation. As the last fragments of his self began to scatter, he felt … sad. His own sadness was part of it, but a small part. He felt the grief of the world descend upon him….

A slap sent the darkness fleeing away, and the shadows abandoned him. A second brought his eyes open again. The naked woman who had nearly killed him was beside him, ferally stretched and hissing. Not at him.

At the woman who had appeared next to him. At the woman who had slapped his would-be lover away.

"Leave this one. He is too young to suffer the fate you offer."

The naked woman, her face racked with beautiful hatred, raised her hands up. In the waning light, her fingers looked more like talons. She said nothing, but her face echoed an anger that spanned eons. She turned then and was gone.

"You had best clean yourself up, boy."

He looked down and realized he was still quite naked. And aroused. His chest had deep red trenches already scabbing up. With a start he pulled his tunic on and stood up.

"Who—what was she?"

"They call her Lamia. You do not wish to know more about her."

The woman before him was nothing like the one who had just left, but in a more earthly way was equally beautiful. Her reddish-brown hair was short, her body small but muscled in the way of a dancer or warrior. She wore clothing he had not seen before, but her legs and arms were completely bare. Dozens of multi-colored bracelets jangled about her calves and ankles.

"Thank you. I owe my life to you. I am Aranth."

She looked at him, surprise flashing in her green eyes. "I suppose you do. How unfortunate."

The End.

A Saga of Sexy Words I Could Literally Live Without

We all have our fair share of annoyances, and writers probably have more than most. Some of us are grammar geeks, others are purists. I am more in the latter camp, though I probably have a foot planted rather firmly in each.

Here are some of the misused words that bother me the most.

Literally : Here's a good rule of thumb … when someone says "literally" now, make a quick mental substitution for "figuratively" and you'll be both happier and more sane.

Sexy: Unless you are describing boobs, a schlong, or some other part of human anatomy, don't use this word. Cameras aren't sexy. Cars aren't sexy. Dish detergent sure as hell ain't sexy. This materialistic melding of attraction with consumerism is a sad sign of our times.

Saga: This means, very specifically, a medieval prose tale from Iceland. It does not mean a particularly long email or blog post. (The only exception is if your email or blog is a re-imagining of Gisli the Strong or Burnt Njal.) Nor does it apply to Brandon Sanderson, George RR. Martin, or Robert Jordan. Sagas are typically quite short.

Zen: Zen quite narrowly refers to Chinese Buddhism as it exists in Japan. The concept most people mean when they refer to "zen" is Taoism. It means exactly what people misuse "Zen" to mean. Why don't more people use the correct word? I literally don't understand it.

What are some words or grammar peeves that bother you? Is there anything I should add to this list?

Progress Report: Lifeless

I am a lazy writer. I would way rather, it seems, read about the national politics of Uzbekistan or watch reruns of Cheers than actually write.

At this point, either of these could be me.

So on September 15, in a conversation with my two closest writing friends, we made goals for ourselves. Mine was to write 10,000 words by the end of the month. For some, that would take a good day. I hope to be that fast some day. For the current me, however, it felt like the ultimate hubris to even pretend I could do it.

But I made it. The prose is probably a little rougher than I'd prefer, but that can all be polished in a rewrite. I'm at, as the sidebar tells you, 60,000 words and have (maybe) another 20,000 to go. Based off what I did this month, I'd like to be finished with the rough draft by Halloween. We'll see what happens.

Rogue Blades Review: The Roads to Baldairn Motte

A reviewer by the name of Keith West (evidently a man of impeccable taste) recently read our novel and wrote this great review. I think he sees everything we were trying to accomplish, which is very rewarding.

An excerpt:

The writing in this novel is professional level, much better than I typically expect from newer writers. The prose is crisp, and the characters fleshed out as real people, not archetypes. The book had an epic feel to it.

I encourage you to read the review and see if you agree. Or, if you haven't read it, if you feel obliged to after reading his take on matters.