Joshua Unruh's Blog, page 8

Crabapple

So my beloved and (now) intensely gregarious son, from here on known as Peanut, was nearly two before he spoke more than two words (one of which was not actually a word in any language I've ever heard of). He had recently learned sign language, which led to breakthroughs in communication, albeit not verbally.

Peanut learned many signs, but the first one almost certainly had to be "apple." It's an easy one and looks like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrV1KU3L3ek

Easy isn't the reason he learned it, though. He learned that one because my boy LOVES his apples. One time, a while later, after he was talking well, his grandmother asked if he wanted a brownie for dessert. He said, "No gram, I like apples better. Give me an apple, please."

So I show Sharon, our speech therapist, his enthusiasm over this sign and she basically tells me to stand and deliver for the little produce loving highwayman. If he asked for an apple with that sign, give it to him. Any time, as often as it took for him to realize that these symbols got him things he wanted. And so, for two weeks, I did just that. We went through some apples.

And some apples went through him. He was a prolific fecal producer during this golden age of golden delicious.

After those two weeks, Sharon said it was time to cut off the supply. No more apples for the sign. He had to say apple to get his treat. It didn't have to be perfect. It didn't have to be in the same ballpark as long as it was in the same league. Sign + Voice = Apples. I said no. She assured me it would be fine. I said no again. She said it would be foolish to squander so tantalizing a treat as this and I had to do it. I reluctantly agreed.

Bare moments after Sharon's visit, Peanut toddled up to me.

Me: What's up, kiddo?

P:

Me: Yes, apple! Good! Now say it. Ap...pull.

P:

Me: That's right, you want an apple. Say it with me. Ap...pull.

P:

Me: Kiddo, I can't give you one unless you try and say it. You don't have to be perfect, just try.

P:

Me: Right, I get it. You want an apple. Try and say app-pull.

P:

Me: Ok, I guess no apple this time.

I put the apple back in the fridge. Peanut glowered at me, then turned on his tiny heel, and stormed away as best as he could what with the fact that he tended to fall over every five or six steps. I signed, remembered how hard it had been to get him to use signs, and started mentally preparing for the next altercation.

It didn't happen the rest of the day. He didn't ask for an apple.

Day two, similar silence (ha ha) on the subject.

Day three, I got an apple out and showed it to Peanut. I asked him if he wanted an apple. I expected at least a nod or the sign, but instead I got an angry glare before he went back to playing with his blocks.

Day four, I ate a couple apples in front of him. This time I didn't even get glares. He just ignored me.

Day five and on to day seven, I gave up. I knew my boy was stubborn, but I hadn't realized it would go so far. It was a week without his favorite food. I was starting to feel bad about it. I called Sharon for advice. At first, she didn't believe me, but once I convinced her, she said that if he was going to be that stubborn, I had to stick to my guns.

Day eight, out of nowhere, Peanut toddles up to me. I think I was reading a comic book, because I remember having to put something down to look at him. The glare was back and those tiny, blue eyes shot daggers at me as I said, "What's up?"

He glared at me for a three count, then said, "Apple."

It was his first word that wasn't "mama" or totally made up and it had come out clear as a bell. Clear. As. A. Bell. After more than a week of refusing to even sign apple. I'm sure I stared, probably with my mouth hanging open.

"APPLE," he said again, more forcefully. So I jumped up, ran to the fridge, and I got the kid an apple. I got him a steady stream of apples. And after the second one, we were back to smiling at one another.

If this were a movie, you'd get a montage of the cute little boy suddenly talking like a champ, naming everything correctly, and even speaking in full sentences. It wasn't quite like that. We still had a lot of work to do, and with a kid that stubborn it wasn't always easy. But some kind of dam did break over that apple, because, while we had to work and practice a lot, his vocabulary started to grow leaps and bounds, sometimes it seemed every hour.

By the time he aged out of the program we were using, I was told he didn't need any more speech help. In fact, he was now ahead of the curve on vocabulary, usage, and complexity of sentences. And now, finally, we've got a kid who won't ever shut up and uses words like "heliophysics" because he heard it on a NASA video about the sun.

It's pretty hard to imagine a time when I hoped and prayed he'd start talking. Now I'm more likely to beg him to be quiet for a minute. Apparently, my wife and mother were more inoculated against this kind of behavior. They'd both lived with me for quite a while, after all.

The Quotable Peanut

Tomorrow I'm going to tell how my ridiculously stubborn child finally came to add a word to his vocabulary after months of "mama" and the nonsensical "igilee." But today, I'm going to share with you a few choice quotes from him that will make my tales of his non-talking days seem even more unlikely. What can I say, they're funny enough to undermine my own credibility.

For the first batch, a little context. My son honestly has a way with the ladies, young, old, and in between. Recently, a birthday party invite arrived from a female friend of his who was to turn seven. This invite asked Peanut to attend a slumber party. I called the HMIC (Head Mom In Charge) to see what other boys would be there.

"None," she said. "Your boy will be the only boy."

"What are they going to do at this party?"

"Eat pizza, eat cake, and watch My Little Pony."

I turned to my son. "Hey! Peanut! You want to go to an all girls party and stay the night?"

"No," he replied simply. "Wait, what will I do there?"

"Eat pizza, eat cake, and watch My Little Pony."

His eyes widened with pure joy. "I would love to go to the party!"

And so he went. It was his first sleepover anywhere other than Grandma's, but he was very sure and serious about it. I expected him to lose it when another one of the guests inevitably lost it. Instead, he probably would have gone the distance, except he wasn't playing any of the girl games. While they played princess or dress-up or whatever, he changed into his Batman PJs and snuck around fighting imaginary crime. Finally, the Senior Partner went to get him and, to keep him from getting upset about coming home, fed him a line about how I was missing him at home and so very sad without him. Thankfully, he bought it.

But not before he graced the party with some incredible lines.

When handed a glass of the party punch all the kids were drinking, he exclaimed, "If I drink that, I think I'll fall on the floor!"
The scene of the party is a two-story house with a very stout gate to keep the younger kids from going up and down the stairs. Peanut spent a few minutes yanking on it, but it wouldn't come open. The Birthday Girl came over and deftly popped the latch for him. "What amazing girls," he breathed before tearing upstairs.
We watch My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic in this house, I don't care if we are both boys. It's a great show. When we first started watching it, Peanut declared Rainbow Dash was his favorite. This kinda surprised me because Rainbow Dash is, frankly, a jerk. Flash forward many months to the birthday party. Rainbow Dash is also the favorite of the Birthday Girl, and we got her one I hoped she didn't already have. As soon as she opened it, Peanut yelled excitedly, "We got you Raindbow Dash! She's a jerk!"
The kids were, for once, all playing in the playroom. Peanut came out and asked his hostess where a cape was so he could be a superhero. The girls apparently have a Snow White cape or something, so she told him to go look harder. A few minutes later, he came back, still without a cape but "flying" around. When questioned, he said, "Don't worry, I found an invisible cape."
While the girls played What Time Is It, Mr. Owl? Peanut insisted, "I don't like owl games. I only like solar system games.
The Hostess had a broken toilet. The breakage made it very difficult to flush. Not realizing there was a problem, Peanut used the facilities. When he couldn't get it to flush, he came downstairs for help. "I'm faster than a speeding bullet, but I'm not strong enough to flush that potty."

Just so you don't think that slumber parties with girls are the only sources of amusement, let me share a tidbit from Saturday night. The Senior Partner and I had a wedding to go to and asked some friends of ours to watch Peanut for a few hours. They were happy to do it, so we dropped him off, and headed toward the wedding.

While sitting there waiting for the ceremony to start, my phone buzzed an alert. I had been mentioned on Twitter! I lurve it when I'm mentioned on Twitter, so I instantly checked it out. And this is what I found, sent from the friends who were watching my only son.

"When asked if he wanted to eat, your son said, 'Something disastrous came out of my body fast. And it hurt my bottom.'"

Hey, I want to be mortified. But that's comedy gold, people! You can't be embarrassed when it's that funny.

Boundless Curiosity

This morning, I was catching up on tweets and news from the Curiosity Martian Rover. I didn't stay up for it or get up for it. I probably should have, but last night, as my eyes grew heavy, it was easy to forget what a momentous thing it was, and to decide that sleep's importance trumped this grand endeavor. I was an idiot, and I've learned my lesson. I'm watching now.

And I'm really excited about it! A big reason is my son's current enthusiasm for all things space and solar system related. He is going to eat this stuff up with a spoon and come back for fourths. This fascination started several months ago and has held on longer than any of his little obsessions...except Spider-Man, but that's shaping up to be a lifelong love.

I can't help but see his mind fixating on the solar system for so long as anything other than Providence now. Since it's been months of studying, reading, and explaining, even his five year old mind began to grasp the vast distances, the harsh conditions, and the sheer difficulty in flinging anything from one orb to another in the cosmos. He's going to actually appreciate what we've done. As a father, that is amazing and illuminating.

Because I was thinking of Elijah's oncoming wide-eyed enthusiasm for all things Curiosity, I was able to get on the same train and shed some of my usual cynicism. Which is when I realized that's exactly what things like this are for. We are a grand and amazing species, capable of feats of imagination, engineering, and exploration. What ought to seem frightening is, instead, seen as a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down for us to pick up and run with...all the way to another planet if necessary.

This is what we're built for, people. We're built to do and be the impossible. We are built to be miraculous.

I thought about the Olympics and what a tremendous celebration of human achievement that is. Even as we're throwing machines across vast, interplanetary distances, we're also pushing our own bodies to do unattainable feats. Because that's what every new record is: A declaration that something once thought unbelievable is entirely within our reach.

I began to imagine a world where international conflicts were decided by Olympic style events. Rather than war, the deciding factor would be human bodies pushed to the absolute limit in a celebration of being powerful, physical beings. Instead of flung bombs and flying bullets reminding us just how frail we are, flung javelins and flying gymnasts would remind us just how strong we can be.

Even in Oklahoma, where sports rivalries can grow bitter and ugly, this is a brighter vision than war could ever be. No matter how supposedly noble your cause, those would be truly ennobling conflicts.

But it is far, far too easy to forget our potential when the news is about homes consumed in fires, crazed gunmen, starving or abused children, rapists, and wars of epic expense in money, lives, and peace. And if those tragedies weren't enough, there's the fog of simple banality laid over our everyday existence. We get lost in the mundane tasks we force ourselves to do. All so that, after far too many hours working for someone else's bottom line, we can come home to "a little comfort." Never mind that our basest comfort  is more than historical kings and god-emperors have enjoyed.

We are cracked mirrors, my friends, incapable of perfectly reflecting the glory for which we are meant. Or, far too often, we don't even reflect it at all. Most tragic, we forget that there's anything glorious we're supposed to be reflecting.

That's what the Tower of Babel story is about. When we work together, humanity is capable of the most incredible accomplishments. We can do nearly anything. But it cuts both ways. When we allow our hubris to win out over our kindheartedness, the victorious becomes the dreadful. Triumph becomes tragedy. Life, and what could have been life to the fullest, becomes murder.

Enter again the Curiosity. I imagined what our lives would be like if Mars landings were the order of the day rather than a pinnacle event. And I mean our actual, everyday lives; not just what we do all day, but our thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears, and all that other ethereal stuff that makes us us. You know, the stuff that really matters, all focused on the dignity of the human race.

We gifted ourselves with a glimpse of that today. In very different ways, I'm blessed with glimpses of that far more often than I deserve in a set of very special people (you all know who you are). Everybody! do yourselves a favor! Get a grip on this moment, on this glimpse! Demand it more often! Not just from idiot politicians and bosses who would buy your complacency with empty promises. Complacency did not get us to Mars. Demand it more often from yourselves.

Because Curiosity has a double meaning. Certainly our boundless curiosity and endless ingenuity allows humanity to do the impossible. But right now, it doesn't happen often enough to be anything other than a curiosity. That's the core of the tragedy that is us. Whether it's curing diseases, feeding the world, declaring peace, or colonizing other planets, I want to live in a world where the extraordinary is commonplace. I want to live in a world where we never forget just how amazing each and every one of us is.

Curiosity led the way, and I'm following. Who's with me?

The Sound of Silence

I realize few of you that know me in real life will believe this. And those of you who know my son in real life will accuse of me fanciful lies and outlandish hoaxes. But it's a tale that must be told despite what it will do to my reputation as a teller of truths. Surely somebody trust worthy will show up and back up this story.

Peanut didn't talk, not really, until he was almost two.

"Unbelievable!" say some. "Ludicrous!" yell others. "Cette incroyable!" scream my French readers (if I have any). But it is the truth. For a very long time, my son only spoke two words.

Mama, because he's an ungrateful wretch of a child and couldn't be bothered to speak the name of the parent that stayed home with him every day.
Igilee. I realize this isn't a word, but he said it clearly and ridiculously often. He said it more than Smurfs say smurf. I don't know what it meant, but he sure did and it applied to EVERYTHING.

Now, for some context for those of you that don't know us IRL, my son never shuts up now. Well, maybe when he's sleeping. But he talks himself to sleep. He talks to anyone who'll listen about Spider-Man, Superman, Batman, his pajamas modeled after these heroes' costumes, the solar system (in a frankly startling level of detail and clarity), whatever. It goes on and on.

And yet, we had to beg this child to talk. It was so bad that when we finally had experts check him out, the first thing they planned to do was test him for autism. I slapped my forehead, and declared that was the problem. He didn't speak, he didn't make eye contact, he sorted things into colors and shapes and such before he was a year old. I wasn't even upset, I was just glad to know what the problem was.

And then he tested entirely negative for autism. So we got a speech therapist named Sharon. Sharon was wonderful. She gave me small games to play with Peanut to get him to start making letter sounds. For instance, when we drove cars they no longer said "vroom vroom." Instead, they said "bub-bub-bub-bub-bub-bub." Sharon taught me dozens of these things and they made a huge difference. She also broke me of one stupid opinion I'd had AND assured me it was a reasonable, though totally wrong, thing to think.

I didn't want to teach Peanut sign language. I thought if I gave him an out from verbal communication, it would just be one more reason to not talk. Sharon assured me that, at this late stage, any communication was good communication and sign might help with his frustration level if nothing else.

Enter my friend in Hawaii, Julie. We also were lucky to have her. Julie's own daughter had some developmental issues and this is one reason Julie became so involved with BabySigns. She sent me a full set of the DVDs (along with macadamia nuts, coffee, and some other Hawaiian goodies).

These things are...well, frankly, I found them difficult to watch. They're baby-focused to the extreme and teach a themed set of signs (bath time, bed time, at the park). But the baby-focus really worked because they are literally the first TV my child ever cared to watch. Before that, no matter what I watched, if he was in the room, he ignored the screen entirely.

But he watched! And he learned! Very shortly, he learned the sign for his favorite food, apples. And the sign for apples led directly to the word apples. But it was a hard path for my deeply and abidingly stubborn son.

But I'll tell you about that next time.

More Sample Chapters!

Okay, this is the last one of these posts until later this month (hopefully) when Myth Reaver comes out. This is the first two chapters of Hob Lesatz for Hire, my first (and currently only, though I plan to do something about that shortly) Arcanoir joint.

On The Species of Origin

I decided to move this one up a day since I had so many great comments and responses and I kept having to allude in my reactions to them about "the answer I'll blog about later."

Well, it's LATER!

So I think I may have figured some things out about both how I see superheroes and how the public at large sees them.

I think for superheroes (in the broad sense of them as cultural artifacts), origins are a merely a vehicle. Take Marvel's mutants as an example. The whole point of mutants was so we could get to superhero action without any origin nonsense. "They were born that way! Suit up and shoot eye lasers at living islands already!"

The way Stan Lee thought of mutants is how I tend to think of existing characters, like Batman or Captain America. But broader audiences want character more than plot. As a guy who loves superheroes on their own merits, it doesn't bother me that they're generally much more plot than character. A wider audience is not that forgiving to the concept. This explains shows like Alphas, Heroes, and (some of) Smallville.

This is also probably why the tone of the Lord of the Rings movies felt so different from the books even thought there was almost no plot deviation.  A broader base of fantasy watchers need it grounded in people. It is grounded in people in the books, but in a VERY different way.

So, my guy Ajax Steward, Engineer of the Impossible, born to a long line of pulp or superheroic people, raised by his dad to be the ultimate science hero and problem solver, he needs no origin story. Drop the guy into a fight with, I don't know, mystic Nazis and werewolves.

But a currently unnamed character (I have two names, but I'm waffling between them) who starts out a totally entitled, spoiled douche bag, has tragedy strike to show him what's really important, becomes a better person, which thereby opens him up to super powers... that's a guy who needs a bloated, overwrought origin story.

Take my other great love: Pulp. Pulp is plot transcendent. What's happening? Who is it happening to? Where's the square-jawed hero? How will he stop the cackling villain?

Superheroes are much more plot focused. The focus is so heavy that the character stuff happens during the plot most of the time. So often, in fact, that you could almost make the mistake of considering it plot transcendent. But it isn't, not quite. It's just the conflicts are literalized. I have an argument with my wife, of course she throws an invisible force field up at me. I'm worried about my kids, of course a grown up version of them comes from the future and I hate how they turned out. I'm a planner and a total type A who wants to save everyone's life, of course my arch nemesis is a chaotic homicidal clown.

But those are all still character arcs, they're just worked out in plot. Steve Rogers has a good heart and a crap body, but the good heart turns him into exactly who his people need. Peter Parker makes one bad decision, and it haunts him forever into doing the right thing even when it sucks the hardest. Tony Stark is an entitled jerk who gets hoisted on his own petard and, instead of just getting angry, realizes it's a pretty crap petard in the first place. That's storytelling GOLD.

Some don't need it. Thor has power and believes the weaker deserve protection by the stronger. Superman sees the good in everyone and then reflects it back to them with his selfless actions. Batman creates a crime fighting family because crime steals families. Obviously there could be explanations for all this, but they'd be explanations and not stories.

When it comes to the question of "is a long origin story necessary?" I guess my answer purely in the realm of theory is "sometimes." Practically speaking, I'd probably entirely solve all my problems with the power of flashbacks. But DAMN those are hard to write well!

Sample Chapters!

I'll be doing some sample chapters from my various scribblings. I've been planning on doing one for the upcoming release of Saga of the Myth Reaver: Downfall and suddenly wondered why I wouldn't do one for my other stuff as well.

So, for those of you who haven't been enticed by a Spy Fi novel starring a triumvirate of tween girls, here's the first chapter of TEEN Agents in the Plundered Parent Protocol to hopefully change your mind!

Origins or Snore-igins?

A little over a year ago, I used the trailer for the Captain America trailer as a springboard to complain about superhero origin movies. I later recanted that, despite Captain America's origin being REALLY BORING, the writing on the movie made it work so that the second act only drug a little bit.

Since then, we've been treated to an amazing Avengers movie that's basically a team origin story and yet another retelling of Spider-Man's origin. Both of which were, pardon the adjective in the case of the latter example, AMAZING.

Admitting I'm Wrong...Sorta

Now, to be entirely clear, I still think that long, overwrought origin stories miss the point of superheroes. That is, 99% of the stuff that comes before the costume is stuff that happens to them before they are interesting. That said, I think the public has clearly spoken something here. Despite the fact that bloated, overlong, and painfully detailed origin stories miss the point of superheroes, people apparently still love them.

My love of superheroes is oft-trod ground on this blog as well. To a lesser extent, I've been explained how I used to love comic books while now I, at best, like-like them. These movies are actually helping with that. I no longer need comics to get a superhero fix. There are cartoons, movies, and...novels?

Writing The Book on Superheroes

There are a few superhero novels in the world. Some of them aren't about pre-existing characters (although novelizations of my fave, corporate -owned guys can be a lot of fun). I'm somewhat interested in making comics, but it takes a) an artist and b) an artist you really trust to make that happen. I currently have neither of those. But I do write novels. And I do have original superhero characters rattling around my head.

Until recently, I've planned to tell those stories as though the characters are well-established, skipping the origin and, possibly, many of the early years of their careers. I've also planned to do them in short stories or novellas and using a style that is much faster and punchier than the typical novel.

But all these only-sorta-superhero fans that helped Avengers make as much money as the Gross National Product of Laos and went to see (and love) yet another Spidey origin have me rethinking this. Do I need to, despite proper judgment, do a long, overwrought origin story for my characters? Would potential readers of superhero novels want me to write a 80,000+ word novel that explained who a character was and how he or she came to be?

So sound off, people! You'll be taking the reins of my creative energies here! If I were going to write prose superhero fiction, would you be interested in a novel length origin story? Movies and TV shows say you would...but possibly only for movies and TV shows. Would you read it? WOULD YOU?!?

By Odin’s Beard! What the frack is all this sprock?

Recently I found myself reading Courtney Cantrell's newest book, the first in what will be a long running fantasy series, Legends of the Light-Walkers: Rethana's Surrender. Peep this cover art.

I've mentioned it briefly before, but it really is a fantastic book. I cannot recommend it highly enough. There's pretty stunning character work, some impressive world building, some semi-annoying fake languages (so many vowels and apostrophes...but we forgive her!), but mostly there's just an amazing story of a sheltered, frightened girl trying to figure out how to take care of the little sister that's wasting away in front of her eyes.

I'm told that eventually there'll be a war. You can see how that kind of thing would make Rethana's priorities even more complicated.

But the words I really want to talk about isn't the one with all the vowels and extraneous punctuation. I want to talk about dirty words!

Rethana fantasy curses like a fantasy longshoreman. And the cursing is fantastic.

I'm not sure when I noticed it exactly, but once I did, it could not be unseen. I immediately texted Courtney about Rethana's predilection for dirty words. She rightly defended it by pointing out that most of Rethana's friends are guys who have served mandatory military time. Courtney also pointed out that Rethana censored herself better when she was around her great grandmother.

I thought about how the Vikings I'm writing about in Saga of the Myth Reaver: Downfall curse and how complicated that was for me to figure out. That's when the light bulb went on.

More than religion, more than language in general, more than government, more than clothing styles, the thing that most defines any given culture might be how it decides to curse. And, most shockingly, this doesn't seem to enter into world building all that often. I mean, you can see in in the post title. The first is comic book Thor swearing by his actual dad's facial hair, honest to goodness stubble of  the guy he probably just saw at breakfast. The second is so the surly military folks on the Battlestar Galactica revival could drop the F-Bomb more or less. Seriously, despite a lot of cultural barriers, there seems to be no difference in usage between our own favorite f-word and that of the crew on BSG. And, lastly and nearest to my heart, you have the catch-all curse word from a thousand years in the future used by the Legion of Super-Heroes.

I think these are pretty typical stand-ins. And the thing I notice is that they are either ridiculous or nearly 1-to-1 with our own style of cursing. Ridiculous I can dig, that's always at least fun. And it does say something about the tone of the work even if it doesn't speak to the characters. But 1-to-1 is boring and almost as bad as fake curses that aren't thought out at all.

Courtney and I conversed via text about this for a couple hours and it reminded me of all kinds of things. It reminded me how the producers and writers of Deadwood had tried a script that used period curse words, and they jettisoned that idea because everyone sounded like Yosemite Sam. That made me think of how, until very recently, cursing was mainly blasphemous rather than scatological (Biological? Whatever.) as we are now.

Think about Shakespeare. It's all "God's Teeth" and "Zounds" (a shortened form of "God's Wounds"). People still damned things, of course, or suggested that God should do so. But, again, that's all in the realm of "blaspheming." Nowadays, we are almost pathologically concerned with fecal matter and sexual activity when it comes to our cursing. Or at leas colloquially we are.

Then I couldn't help wondering, what caused that shift? It happened way before the Post-Christianization of the Western world, so it couldn't be that. Courtney suggested the growing focus on personal hygiene in the West might have something to do with it. That's a fantastic theory, but I don't know if it's true. What's worse, I don't know how to find out!

And it could really matter! Whatever caused that sociological shift could get injected into a fantasy or sci-fi world I'm creating and I wouldn't pay attention to the attendant cultural shift in curse words. That feels wrong, like introducing the printing press but having it be no big deal.

This is why my "fantasy" Vikings curse the way they do. I thought about going the Deadwood route for all the same reasons, but it just didn't feel right to me for my Vikings. Others have gone that route, and it more or less worked, but not for me. But there doesn't seem to be a lot of easily accessible scholarly work on how Vikings cursed. So I went the blasphemous route with a little biology mixed in. This is why most of my guys are all "By Loki's dangling balls!" or "What in the name of Tyr's bloody stump is this?" And this is working for me now, but what about the next thing I write?

And what about non-Western cultures? Courtney grew up in Germany and they pretty much curse like us only in German. But we've also been living in their kitchens for the last 60 odd years, so that's not surprising. My friend Zac who spent a lot of time in Japan, tells me Japanese curse in a very boring, pedestrian way. I love that information because, with very little pondering, that totally makes cultural sense.

Anyway, this is getting long (probably because I find it fascinating). For now, go buy Courtney's book and review it when you inevitably love it. Second, if any of you have or know of scholarly works on this subject, link me. Better yet, blogs and such where it's getting broken down for the layman would be perfect. Lastly, just for funsies, put in a comment with your favorite fantasy or sci-fi curse word or phrase.

I can't wait to learn how to curse in even more made up ways!

I Return Bearing Gifts!

Hey, gang! I know, I know, it has been hella quiet around here. I'm honestly really sorry about that. But writing time has been precious lately, and I know that, given a choice between blog posts and novels, you'd all pick novels, right? RIGHT?

Heavens, I hope so. I love writing at this blog for real but I love writing stories way more.

Speaking of awesome stories, I missed the chance to point you at my dear friend, writing coach, and acquisitions editor Courtney Cantrell's offer of free goodies. Well, you'd have heard about it if you followed me on Twitter, though. You all follow me on Twitter, right? No? Well, go fix that (@JoshuaUnruh)!

Anyway, she thankfully extended the offer for an advance copy of her next book, but you all better hurry. Legend of the Light-Walkers: Rethana's Surrender is an epic fantasy kissing book that still manages intense action scenes as well. I finished it in record time and loved it. It is nuanced, true, and painfully real at times. Go check it out!

Between you and me, grabbing Rethana's Surrender and reading it as soon as you can might just net you a leg up on some freebies coming down the pike that have my name on them. Just saying.

So just what has kept me so busy that I couldn't post here? That would be The Saga of the Myth Reaver: Ascension. Come August, I'll be joining the ranks of published fantasy authors. Remember when I had an existential crisis and you all told me you loved me so I decided to do a fantasy novel? Well this isn't the one I had in mind, but it is the one that's getting published.

Myth Reaver is my own answer to the question "What happens if you rigorously apply Noir storytelling techniques to a fantasy story?" The answer started out being "something very like Norse sagas," but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that wasn't enough. Noir and Norse legends have a lot in common, but they aren't a straight one-to-one conversion. It's a helluva starting place, though!

So I wrote the story of how Finn Styrrsson, a hero cast in the same mold as Beowulf or Sigfried, keeps getting everything he wants, but it never makes him happy. Conniving family members, ever-greater victories that refuse to satisfy, and slaving for powers you can't hope to control with only your own flawed moral compass as guide. Now that sounds like a Noir story even if there are swords instead of .45s and mythological monsters instead of mobsters.

Sounds cool as hell, right?