Ken Lizzi's Blog, page 16

Cirsova Winter 2022 Issue. Plus Savage Journal Entry 22.

Writing is an odd business. Each story is its own, unique blend of challenge and joy. Then it sits, sometimes for years, only to be released to the public as if newly born, created mere moments before. And occasionally they arrive in clumps. For example, a story of mine is in the Tales from the Magician’s Skull Special Issue 2 (AKA Issue 8.5) published last month, I believe. And now, Cirsova Magazine Winter 2022��issue is out, redolent with that new publication smell. Two stories written years apart, seeing the light of day at roughly the same time in late 2022. The timing seems to suggest some relationship between the two, though none in fact exists. Other than that they are both entertaining, so you should get your hands on copies ASAP.

Or, perhaps you are in the mood for a novel. How about Under Strange Suns?

If you’ve been enjoying Savage Journal (Anyone? Buehler, Buehler?) here is entry 22.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 22.

�� �� �� �� �� �� �� ��I do not look longingly and regretfully over my shoulder when I pull up stakes and move on to greener pastures, dear diary. I do not pine, I do not sigh. I suppose it likely that I’ll see Bandahar again, but that eventuality is inconsequential. Sentimentality is simply not a barbarian vice.

���������������������������� Quitting the city was a calculated decision. Everything I did today was finely calculated ��� except responding this morning to the display of gratitude offered by the slave girl I’d rescued last night from the sacrificial altar. (The potential repercussions from that feat ��� in the form of vengeful priests, you’ll recall ���factored heavily into my calculations.) The ignorant may dismiss a savage warrior as a creature of passion, incapable of advanced planning. Such people are only half correct: I am both a creature of passion andcapable of advanced planning. For example, over the last several weeks I’ve had time to plot burglarizing the storehouse of Haakon the Fence. I’d gone so far as to develop contingencies for a daylight heist.

���������������������������� The act of robbery was calculated. The decision to proceed was a function of pure spite ��� hot blooded, coldly executed revenge. I had enough coin laid by already to outfit myself with saddle and pack horses, supplies, etc.; I did not need to clean out Haakon. But he had consistently underpaid for every filched item I’d passed into his fat, be-ringed fingers. A barbarian is seldom sentimental, but he is always vengeful.

�� �� �� �� �� �� ��So I find myself on the move again. Bandahar recedes into the distance. A beautiful girl rides at my side. Every pannier and pouch not loaded with supplies is stuffed with Haakon’s gold. The sun sets behind as we ride leisurely eastward, chasing our lengthening shadows.

�� �� �� �� �� �� It is good, dear diary, to be a wandering barbarian.

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

 

First Draft Malaise. Plus Savage Journal Entry 21.

As a writer, you dream of reaching the conclusion. But we live in the present. Actually typing “The End” becomes anti-climactic rather than the cathartic experience you’d imagined. Still, it’s done. All those interminable hours in the chair have concluded with…something.

Is it any good? Here come the doubts, the second-guessing, the expressions of Imposter Syndrome, the questioning of life choices. All that time spent on this nascent literary abomination could have been better used for…some other purpose. Maybe.

Then you put the first draft away, stuff it in the back of a closet and try to forget about it for a month or so. Work on something else, so that when the time comes to begin the second draft, you are theoretically viewing the material with fresh eyes. Trepidatious eyes. Happily, it has been my experience more often than not that all the fear and self-doubt are misplaced. That what you expect to be risible garbage is actually not half-bad, in fact pretty damn good. All those essential components you think you neglected to include or minor bits of verisimilitude you came up with in the middle of the night a couple weeks after “The End” are actually already in there; your first draft self already thought of it.

So, we’ll see. Right now the first draft demons are advocating a steady regimen of despondency and suggesting I learn to code. Getting to work on the next project will send the little bastards scurrying. I’d best get to that.

But first, the next entry of Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary. And before that, I will propose that you buy something of mine that did turn out not half-bad, in fact pretty damn good. That’s for you to judge, of course. Here, take a look at a selection.

Right. Without further ado, here is:

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 21.

��If you encountered a sleeping bear in the woods what would you do, dear diary? Poke it with a stick? Throw rocks at it? Wave a hunk of venison under its nose? No, none of these. You’d move on and let it sleep.

Why is it, then, that every time people stumble across a slumbering entity from the icy vastness of the outer void they invariably insist on waking it up? If I could address the world, I’d like to say, ���Listen, people, if deep within the earth you find the massive bulk of an elder god contentedly snoring through its fifth or sixth eon while it dreams of strange skies, cosmic gulfs, and sweeping clean the earth in an orgy of fire and blood, let it sleep!���

I bring this up because in the course of stealing the ruby eye of Naga from deep within the bowels of the temple of Marduk I happened across the high priest and a couple of acolytes readying a sacrifice to some tentacled Horror from Beyond. A girl ��� stretched supine and fettered hand and foot ��� lay on a marble slab incised with weird glyphs. She wore naught but a gauzy wisp of skirt and brass breast cups. (Odd garment, that metal brassiere. Doesn’t look comfortable or supportive, and must be damnably cold first thing in the morning.) The acolytes were chanting and the high priest held aloft a curved dagger while he intoned a prayer to this obscene thing quivering in a pit gaping behind the altar. The being ��� god, devil, whatever ���evoked in me a revulsion and primitive terror. It was in all ways alien.

Its sluggish movements hinted that it was as yet only semi-conscious, still awaiting the blood sacrifice to rouse it. (Where do these things get a taste for human blood? Are we considered delicacies at nightmarish cocktail parties in the far flung depths of space and time?)

Well, of course I mastered my dread of the supernatural, slew the acolytes and their boss, wrenched free the fetters with main strength, thus rescuing the girl from tentatively groping tentacles at the last second, and then (thighs bulging and sinews creaking) toppled the massive altar into the pit atop the loathsome monstrosity. All in a night’s work, really.

All well and good, but now I’ve got real problems. I have a terrified girl to see to. She’s only just stopped clinging to my neck and whimpering. Not that I minded: supple, rounded ��� though those infernal breast cups dug into my ribs. Enjoyable as this generally is, I’ve still got to deal with her. From what I’ve gathered between sobs she is a slave girl who’d dearly love to get back to her people. So I’ve that to sort out. But more immediately there’s this: I’ve slain the high priest of Marduk. I’ll have the rest of his clergy out for blood and I can’t be certain no one saw me.

No, I think it may be time to show Bandahar my heels. I’ll sleep on it, dear diary.

Magnus Stoneslayer.

AKendix N. Plus Savage Journal Entry 20.

What books made you who you are today? What is your personal Appendix N? [NB: Appendix N is a recommended reading list for players of Dungeons and Dragons, writers that influenced Gary Gygax in his approach to the game.] That is, what sources molded the mental clay into the person you became? I’ve been pondering that question. What is my aKendix N?

This is a different question than asking what authors influenced my writing. There will inevitably be some overlap, but they are two distinct subjects. For example, Elmore Leonard is a strong influence. And yet his novels did not in any appreciable way affect my outlook, interests, or character. So far as I know. Bear in mind also that this is a rather superficial look. This is my web log, after all; not known for its depths of analysis. Don’t look for any scholarly excavations. I’m not going to examine what the Founding Fathers read, though unquestionably what they read influenced the composition of the United States and, Q.E.D., strongly affected me in all facets. No, this will exploration will barely ruffle the surface. Just because I don’t list one of your favorite authors doesn’t mean I’m dismissing him. He may well be a particular favorite of mine as well. But this isn’t a list of favorites any more than it is a list of those who influenced my scribblings.

Stick around after for Savage Journal Entry 20. But first, marketing. Buy my stuff. How about Thick As Thieves?��That’s a good one. Anyways, on to the non-alphabetic list.

Mark Twain. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, et. al. Twain is a seminal influence. I can barely remember far enough back to a time when I wasn’t reading Twain. I absorbed our enormous The Family Mark Twain. Some may wonder why I chose Twain. Isn’t he merely (merely?) the guy who Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn? What about all that science fiction and fantasy stuff? Isn’t that the sort of material that molded you? To which I reply with a derisive snort. Come on, no one is that superficial or one dimensional. Twain put his stamp of Americana deeply in my psyche. Riverboats, adventures in the West, unscrupulous politicians, etc. On the other hand, Twain also wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven, and The Mysterious Stranger. He more than dabbled in speculative fiction.

 

Robert Louis Stevenson. The Black Arrow, Treasure Island, Kidnapped. Oddly enough, I didn’t read Jekyll and Hyde until my thirties. But boys adventure formed a large part of my reading diet. One might also throw Walter Scott into this mix.

 

J.R.R. Tolkien. You know the drill. I first read The Fellowship of the Ring at age 11. I didn’t realize it was the first third of the overall work and began to worry (sometime after the fellowship left Lothlorien) that they’d never make it to Mount Doom in the few pages remaining. Countless re-reads have woven Tolkien’s vision into the fabric of my life.

 

The Marys. Mary Renault, Mary Stewart, RoseMARY Sutcliff. The King Must Die, The Bull from the Sea, The Mask of Apollo, The Merlin Chronicles, Sword At Sunset. These women created and cemented my love of history, myth, and the juxtaposition thereof.

 

Howard Pyle. The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. Before the Marys, there was Howard Pyle. Robin Hood was a gateway into all manner of interests and enthusiasms; history, legends, adventure stories, etc.

 

Alistair MacLean and Ian Fleming. The Guns of Navarone, Where Eagles Dare, et al.; James Bond series. These men provided the notion that adventure wasn’t limited to the historic (or semi-historic) past, but that recent events and (extrapolating from there) contemporary life are also valid arenas for adventure. Who knows what life might hold?

 

Robert A. Heinlein. Do I need to enumerate these? Heinlein made me think.

 

Glen Cook. The Garrett Files. Glen Cook is an influence on my writing. But he’s on this list because of Garrett. Though rather later in my personal development, Garrett became a sort of imaginary life coach, a spirit guide, a louche role model. As a bonus, Garrett also offered access to some of the classic American hardboiled detectives that I hadn’t already read. (And Cook, along with Steven Brust and Roger Zelazny formed my personal triumvirate of first-person smart ass writers. That sort of mindset and internal monologue developed independently, but these guys sure reinforced it as I grew older.)

 

L. Sprague de Camp. Lest Darkness Fall, The Complete Enchanter (with Fletcher Pratt) et. al. de Camp’s detached, tongue-in-cheek approach to pretty much everything has indelibly ingrained itself in me. And that attitude often expresses itself at inappropriate times.

 

John Myers Myers. Silverlock. Myers annealed my abiding appreciation for the commonwealth of letters. I’d not have followed so many rabbit holes of obscure literature were it not for him. And I think I’m the better for it.

Doubtless I’m missing some. I’m sure names will occur to me later, probably waking me up in the middle of the night. But I don’t think the above is a bad aKendix. Who comprises your Appendix N?

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 20.

��

Tonight dear diary, I would like to discuss pain. Pain is the constant attendant of the itinerant savage warrior. The endless leagues walked, the innumerable battles fought, the cliffs scaled by fingertips all lead to a life acted out against a backdrop of continuous, persistent ache. Or (to further abuse the theatric metaphor) pain ��� whether a dull tremolo, a throbbing beat, or a shrieking crescendo ��� provides the thematic music or leitmotif of the barbarian swordsman.

As an unalterable fact of life it is simply one more thing I must deal with. I accomplish this primarily by ignoring it. If I am not incapacitated or hindered by something then it is merely an inconvenience, like the weather. I can, for example, sleep in a blizzard without cloak or blanket. Just the same I can endure the stabbing pain of recently set broken fingers, snapped back into alignment and immobilized with rawhide cords. The body can handle it; it is the mind that must be mastered. The will of the barbarian is trained to this discipline from birth by that harshest of tutors, nature. (Nature generally gets an assist by barbarian parents who do not understand the concept of molly coddling.) Thus pain quickly becomes as accepted a fact of life as breathing. It is seldom something a barbarian gives thought to.

I gave some thought to it tonight as I removed an arrow from my thigh. The target of tonight’s attempted burglary had one more guard than my informant had indicated. I must remember to address that oversight with him soon.

Now, there are several ways to remove an arrow from the body, depending on location, depth of penetration, type of arrowhead, and other factors. One constant ��� they all hurt. This particular arrow possessed a broad, partially barbed head, and the shaft had been driven only about a quarter of the way through, missing any major arteries by a comfortable distance (using the term ‘comfortable’ loosely, given the circumstances.) The barbed head meant I couldn’t simply tug the arrow out without unnecessarily exacerbating the severity of the injury. The relatively slight penetration meant I couldn’t push the shaft through to the other side of my leg. No, in this case I must use my dagger to cut a channel either side of the arrowhead to ease its passage back out the way it had entered. So, I swallowed a mouthful of fiery, twice distilled red wine, poured a measure over the wound, and commenced to cut.

I worked through gritted teeth and did not give vent to the scream that seemed to well up from the wounded leg and jet directly to my throat. It wouldn’t do; someone might be listening and I have a reputation to maintain.

But it is safe to confide to you, dear diary, that tonight, I hurt.

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

A Thanksgiving Repeat. Plus Savage Journal Entry 19.

The web log has been traveling. MBW, the HA, and I just returned to my fastness in the outskirts of Houston from spending Thanksgiving with my sister in Nebraska. Accordingly the web log will be broadcasting a repeat instead of new programing. Also, the next entry in Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary.

But first, the obligatory self-promotion. A spin of the marketing wheel, and…buy Under Strange Suns. It’s an out of this world blast of adventure. People seem to like it.

An Aquilonian Thanksgiving

���By Mitra, this bird is as plump as a Zingaran concubine,��� quoth Conan.

Conan slid his broadsword free of its shagreen wrapped hilt and skewered the turkey. He raised his sword one-handed, hoisting the bird from its silver platter without a tremor of strain displayed on the corded forearm projecting from the sleeve of his royal robe, despite the additional twenty pounds weighing down the three foot length of steel.

���Now, who shall carve this beast?��� the king asked. ���Certainly not thou, Valeria,��� he said, addressing the she-pirate seated to his left. ���Carving is man���s work.���

Valeria bristled. She rose, plucking a dirk from the top of her cuffed boot. ���No man tells Valeria what work is fit for a woman, Conan. Be he king or no.���

Pallantides cleared his throat from Conan���s right. ���That may well be, Lady Valeria. Yet perhaps a boot knife is not the ideal tool for the task. And perhaps not the most cleanly.���

���Do you question my hygiene, man?��� asked Valeria.

���Thou���rt as clean as a Cimmerian autumn morn,��� Conan interjected.

The she-pirate scowled, plainly turning the comment over in her mind to ascertain its meaning, whether compliment or insult.

���What we need,��� Conan continued, ���is carving music. Rinaldo, have you a suitable lay?���

���Yes,��� asked Valeria, her expression shifting from a scowl to a raised eyebrow and quirked smile as she fixed her gaze upon Rinaldo, ���have you a���fitting lay?���

The minstrel rose, immaculate in tight-fitting hose and plumed cap. He bowed to Conan and doffed his cap to Valeria. ���Perhaps something saucy would befit such���an exquisite bird?���

Rinaldo produced a plectrum and began to strum upon his lute, drawing the full attention of Valeria.

Conan set the turkey back down upon its silver platter, enjoying the music and the company of a few close companions within the drafty expanse of his grand feasting hall. He considered for a moment, then sent the servants around to refill his guests goblets to the brimming point. He unsheathed the wicked length of his Zhaibar knife, its edge ground to a razor���s sharpness, and pressed its point against the body of the bird, watching the juices gather and drip.

���So, then, my king,��� asked Pallantides, when Rinaldo had strummed his last chord, and all had drunk deeply to honor the music, ���who shall carve? You?���

���It occurs to me,��� quoth Conan, ���that a man known for carving a Pict can certainly be said to have picked up carving.���

The clatter of silver goblets about the high seat of the king accompanied Conan���s roar of mirth.

 

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 19.

��

�������������� “Which do I prefer, dear diary, to cleave a skull in twain or to hew a head from the neck.��� Ridiculous question, isn’t it? After all, why can’t I enjoy both equally? Why do people insist on designating favorites? On establishing rankings where no objective criteria for preference exists? Some legitimate judgments can be made. I, for example am stronger, tougher, faster, and deadlier than other men. This can be (and frequently has been) empirically proven. An avowed preference of me over another man is thus quite justifiable. But declaring, say, undying loyalty to one color over all the other hues of the rainbow is absurd.

Cities seem to grant people more time to ponder such ephemera and to settle upon favorites: favorite chariot racing team, favorite poet declaiming frivolous verses in the palace square, favorite sedan chair porters, and so forth.

Today, dear diary, I strolled along the Street of Temples, gawking, without appearing to do so of course; slaying the disrespectful becomes tiresome, and in a large population center such as Bandahar leads to complications I’d rather avoid. I stopped to listen to a priest declaiming to the pious (or curious) gathered at the foot of the temple stairs. I gathered that this particular edifice was dedicated to the goddess Inana. I gathered much more as well about Inana and her preferences and peccadilloes, none of which made a great deal of sense to me, but I suppose the ways of the gods are of necessity beyond the ken of mere men.

Across the way a similar crowd grew about an acolyte of Marduk as he described the glories promised the god’s faithful. Now, exactly how it occurred, I don’t precisely recall. But standing as I was between the two proselytizers, I found myself the unwilling focus of both men’s attention as each attempted to persuade the ignorant barbarian (me, natch) that his deity provided the one true path to enlightenment and happiness.

I tolerated this for some time, more amused than anything. But even the patience of a savage can be tried. When at length the advocate of Marduk asked ���In the moment of crisis, upon which would you rely: the false hope of Inana or the certainty of Marduk?��� I’d had enough. I answered, ���Neither. I’d rely on this.��� And I drew my sword.

That seemed to nicely break up the false dichotomy, not to mention the congregations, the constituents of which appeared to suddenly recall other obligations. I decided to depart as well, dear diary, before the temple bully boys or the city watch made their presence felt.

One choice I will make: I remain faithfully yours, dear diary.

Magnus Stoneslayer

Rest. Plus Savage Journal Entry 18.

I have, I believe, completed the task of resurrecting the lost web log posts. I’ll examine the matter more closely later. But for now I’m tired. To quote Jimmy Buffett, “I must confess, I could use some rest.”

Rest is something we look for even in fiction. We want our characters to have a chance to catch a breather. Tolkien knew this well: Frodo and company interleaved dangers with places of repose. Who wouldn’t want to take a room in Rivendell for an extended break? I for one sympathize with Bilbo’s desire to stay there in peace and finish his book.

Fitting into fictional characters shoes, we want them to enjoy happiness, even though maintaining interest in the narrative demands the characters suffer and struggle. Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion(s) enjoy occasional periods of contentment, well-earned interludes of domestic tranquility. Those seldom take up much page space, but we readers feel the value of it, know it was deserved, and — even though that’s what we’ve paid our dime for — cringe when the inciting event drags the hero away from the bubble of peace.

I’ll be taking a rest of sorts myself. I’m taking a few days off and driving MBW and the HA up to Nebraska to my sister’s house for Thanksgiving. Of course I’ll still be writing, but at least I can take a break from the day job. I wish you all a relaxing Thanksgiving. Perhaps you might like something to read during the holiday. Any one of these ought to keep you entertained.

And now, for those of you following Magnus Stoneslayer’s exploits and commentary, here are a few of his observations on tavern brawls.

 

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 18.

��

���������������������������� A solid hunk of beef bone provides a pretty decent makeshift cudgel, dear diary. A heavy wooden or pewter tankard isn’t bad either, though a trifle unwieldy. A torch can be quite effective too. Any given torch might lack a certain heft, but the flames always prove a deterrent. A serving platter can serve as both club and shield, ungainly in either role, but one can’t always be choosy. Then there’s crockery and glazed pottery dishware to smash over heads ��� usually quite substantial in their pristine state and afterwards an abundant source of sharp implements. Oh, the list of weapons ready to hand is infinite.

I have firsthand experience with this of course, having resorted to all of the above and more in my time. But what brings it up now is the tavern brawl that erupted around me this evening.

Two wine sodden wastrels started arguing over the favors of a harlot who wanted nothing to do with either of them to begin with. Their tussle became general when the wild roundhouse of one combatant so unbalanced him that he fell full length across a table, upsetting the wobbly board and spilling the assorted goblets and flagons on both the floor and the suddenly aggrieved drinkers. And so the fracas spread like a fever.

I sat alone at a small table in the center of the tavern, a vantage point reasonably well lit by the smoky torches and sputtering oil lamps set about the perimeter of the dank, low-ceilinged dive. Flailing arms, butting heads, and driving knees milled about me.

One brawler, bent backwards at the waist by the throttling hands of his assailant, groped blindly behind him, his fingers coming into contact with the ceramic wine bottle on my table. He turned his head slightly, shifting his shoulder to stretch farther, and his hand closed about the bottle. But at the same time his gaze met my glare. His clutching fingers released their grip, limply, then stiffened to claw at his antagonists groin and the pair reeled back into the melee.

So at length, after a fine entertainment enjoyed from the best seat in the house, I found myself essentially alone, surrounded by detritus: dented pewter mugs, beef bones festooned with clinging shreds of meat and blood (both bovine and human), broken crockery and broken heads.

And I, dear diary, sat and gulped wine betwixt smiling lips.

Until tomorrow, dear diary.

Magnus Stoneslayer

Anthologies: The Spell of Seven. Resurrected Post.

September 6, 2020Anthologies: The Spell of Seven

Another volume curated by L. Sprague de Camp, The Spell of Seven offers a stellar lineup of talent. Each of the seven tales features a Virgil Finlay illustration. How about that for lagniappe? Now, I���m guessing the cover looked�� better as a pencil and ink drawing. Colored, it looks more like the cover to an EC horror comic than the cover to paperback short story anthology. But that���s grousing and doesn���t in the least detract from the yarns behind the cover.

As I mentioned, the contributors are all stars in the Sword-and-Sorcery field. After an introduction from de Camp providing an overview of the field, Fritz Leiber leads off with one of the more memorable Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser tales, Bazaar of the Bizarre. This one is always fun. It is a reminder that the fictional universe of Nehwon is a strange place indeed. There is a razor-edged whimsy to many of Leiber���s stories of the duo. But Leiber was such a talented stylist that what might read as ludicrous from a lesser scribbler feels natural in the setting he created. Also, I always enjoy an appearance from Ningauble and Sheelba.

Clark Ashton Smith is next, providing one his macabre stories (The Dark Eidolon) that make one question whether or not it qualifies as S&S. I���m not going to quibble. It is too much of a pleasure to read Smith���s prose to split hairs. Let���s call it weird fiction and consider it close enough. Smith provides no one to root for here, in this tale that seems to owe its existence to 1001 Arabian Nights. The narrative goal of the story, it seems to me, is to see if each of the cast of malefactors gets his just deserts.

Lord Dunsany is next with a thematically similar story, The Hoard of the Gibbelins. Dunsany crafts a fairy tale with a crafty, forward thinking protagonist. One the reader does rather root for. But alas���It seems to me that the first three stories are all about overreaching, whether out of greed or lust for vengeance. The authors are examining the dark underbelly of the human soul. Entertainingly.

In the previous entry of this series on anthologies, I mentioned that de Camp, as editor, had foregone including one of his own yarns in the book. He is not so reticent in this one, though he modestly leaves it up to the reader to judge if his story belongs in such prestigious company. As much of an admirer as I am of de Camp, I have to say that his contribution, The Hungry Hercynian, falls short of the mark. Not that it is a bad story. Far from it. It is an entertaining, amusing S&S story. I recommend it. But the bar is set pretty high in this collection. There is no shame in not clearing it. There is a certain weightiness to the other stories, even those written with a certain whimsical quality. De Camp���s story lacks the depth, real or apparent, of the others. Still, I was amused. Probably appropriate, given my lack of depth.

After the amuse bouche of The Hungry Hercynian, Michael Moorcock returns us to more serious fare with Kings in Darkness. My opinion of the Eternal Champion stories hasn���t changed. But there is no denying this is a classic Elric tale. I liked it rather more than some of the others. Elric���s head isn���t so deeply in his navel in this one, and the story is relatively straight forward. And I have a fondness for Moonglum, though I think his value as a character lies more in my imagination and faulty memory than on the page. Kings provides another story involving vengeance. Also ghouls, animated skeletons, chases, escapes, and sword play.

Next is the great Jack Vance, with Mazirian the Magician. We have here another story of overreaching. Lust seems the motive here. Since it is a Vance story, you know it will contain drollery, glorious archaic language, scoundrels and outright villains as main characters, and imaginative novelties in pretty much every other paragraph. The fecundity of Vance���s inventiveness is a source of never ending amazement.

Rounding off the seven is the man himself, Robert E. Howard with Shadow in Zamboula. This a solid Conan yarn, featuring several memorable scenes. As with most REH stories, the pace is headlong, seldom pausing for breath. We have multiple villains, all of whom overreach by underestimating the Cimmerian. There are cannibals, massively strong stranglers, an evil sorcerer, a beautiful, nakedl woman in distress, and the world���s worst innkeeper. Through strength, brawn, steel, and wit, Conan keeps one step ahead of all of them. A satisfying conclusion. Of course, you can���t really go wrong including a Conan story in an S&S anthology.

So, all in one slim volume, The Spell of Seven offers Leiber, Smith, Dunsany, de Camp, Moorcock, Vance and Howard. That���s a spell worth casting, don���t you think?

I���m not fool enough to think I measure up to those seven, but if you want to take a chance on at least mild diversion, check out some of my scribblings.

View more on Ken Lizzi’s website ��Like ������� 0 comments ������� flag Published on September 06, 2020 14:26

The Family Road Trip. Resurrected Post.

August 9, 2020The Family Road Trip

Last Monday, I packed up MBW and the HA for a road trip. I pointed the vehicle east and we headed for Yellowstone. We decided to take the journey in two stages. I���ve done eighteen and twenty hour stretches, and we could have made the trip in, perhaps, fourteen hours. But I doubted the HA would tolerate it well. So we stopped Monday night at a hotel on the Oregon/Idaho border. The HA played in the pool. Next day, bright and early, we trekked on, reaching West Yellowstone in the afternoon.

That arrival time allowed us plenty of daylight to begin our exploration of the park. It is, as doubtless you know, a big place. We had three and a half days. Time enough for the highlights and a few of the lesser known attractions, but I can certainly see spending a week or two there, with an RV, bikes, and fishing poles, for those inclined toward camping and outdoor recreation.

It is an inspiring place. I���m already plotting scenes for an upcoming book. But enough with the words. How about some pictures? (And if you want to watch Old Faithful, I uploaded the video here.)

View more on Ken Lizzi’s website ��Like ������� 0 comments ������� flag Published on August 09, 2020 09:42

Father’s Day 2020. Resurrected Post.

June 21, 2020Father���s Day

It is Father���s Day. I���m busy enjoying it, so this will be short. Let me just say that I can think of worse ways to burn a couple of hours than heading to woods with a minor arsenal and a hundred bucks or so worth of ammunition.

I hope your day is equally on target.

And now, time to start cleaning.

View more on Ken Lizzi’s website ��Like ������� 0 comments ������� flag Published on June 21, 2020 14:58

Kyrik Fights the Demon World. Hell Breaks Loose, By the Numbers. Resurrected Post.

June 14, 2020Kyrik Fights the Demon World. Hell Breaks Loose, By the Numbers.

I���ve read a few of Gardner Fox���s Kothar books. So when I saw his name on the cover of Kyrik Fights the Demon World I didn���t hesitate to snatch up the book.

No one will claim that Fox was a master stylist. Take this paragraph from page one of Demon World.

And so Makonnon quested through spatial emptiness into lands that had known him, long and long ago. He sent his mind across unfathomable distances, seeking, hunting, searching for that which so infuriated him.

������seeking, hunting, searching������ Filling out your word count by sheer redundancy. I sought, hunted, and searched for a reason to keep reading. Well, that���s not true. I trusted Fox and kept going. And he didn���t disappoint. If you���ve read any Kothar (or, for that matter, any of the other Kyrik books: this one is apparently book two of a series) you know what to expect. Fox hits all the right notes. If you give me a book with a mighty warrior cleaving through ranks of monsters while two scantily clad, beautiful women vie for his affections, then I���m not going to pick too many nits.

But I will pick some. Uncritical praise is boring. Kyrik seems more a tool, a chess piece of the gods, rather than an independent actor in his own right. Sometimes I thought the title ought to be Kyrik and the Deus ex Machina. Still, he does have his moments of individual initiative, quick thinking, and heroism. And it isn���t unheard of in Sword-and-Sorcery tales for the hero to be the cat���s paw of some god or wizard.

Fox can conjure up an imaginative set piece. And he kept the pace brisk. He follows a bit of talky-talky in a tavern with a street battle against a horde of murderous cat-men. Then tosses in some vulture demons for good measure. What���s not to like? Fox makes good on the title, with Kyrik facing off against not one, but two Demon Lords, and hell-spawned armies. The action sequences at the end make me wonder if the creators of the Diablo video game franchise were Fox fans.

So, Demon World is hardly a quintessential component of the S&S canon. But it is a meat-and-potatoes-and-can-of-beer read. If I stumble across any of the other Kyrik books, doubtless I���ll pick it up.

I���d be remiss if I didn���t take a moment to mention that Warlord: Falchion���s Company Book Three is now available on Kindle and in print. The audio book is in the works. (The audio versions of Boss: Falchion���s Company Book One and Captain: Falchion���s Company Book Two are now available.) So, that���s the entire series done, for your reading pleasure. Is it up to Fox���s standard? That���s for you to judge.

View more on Ken Lizzi’s website ��Like ������� 0 comments ������� flag Published on June 14, 2020 12:05

Falling Down the Gravity Well. Resurrected Post.

June 7, 2020Falling Down the Gravity Well

I���d hoped to devote this web log post to an announcement. But circumstances under the control of third parties instead of mine must delay that announcement. Next week, knock on wood.

No use crying over spilled beer. No, not even spilled beer, though that is indeed tragic. So, instead, I���ll use this time to write about something else.

As have many of you, I���ve watched The Expanse. A good show, I think, though at times I can see the budgetary limitations. I���m finally getting around to reading the books. At least the first one, Leviathan Wakes. So far I am pleased.

Adaptation from one medium to another demands a number of decisions. The largest is whether to remain faithful to the source or rather to mine it for inspiration, getting the spirit of the thing rather than recreating as much of the original as possible in the new medium. The producers of The Expanse, as far as I can tell halfway through the first novel, opted for a faithful adaptation. I���ll see how long that holds.

Of course reading the descriptions of the characters does require a conscious decision: do I maintain the image of the characters from the show or attempt to create new mental pictures. I���m lazy, I���m sticking with the actors in my head. The casting team did a pretty good job, I think, though there are certain cosmetic differences. One limitation the show has is that we don���t have actors descended from people who���ve lived in low-gravity environments for generations. So the slender, long-limbed characters of the books will simply have to be played by tall, skinny actors. The differences between Earthers, Martians, and Belters simply doesn���t manifest in the show. Tattoos seem to be the shorthand the producers settled on to distinguish the Belters.

Anyways, so far so good. What did the rest of you think? No spoilers from the novels, please.

View more on Ken Lizzi’s website ��Like ������� 0 comments ������� flag Published on June 07, 2020 12:35