C.S. Marks's Blog, page 4

What’s WRONG with us?

What’s wrong with us?

So, the 23-year-old physiotherapy student, who was gang-raped in Delhi, has died. Her intestines had to be removed due to damage from the iron rod they used to sodomize her. She suffered brain damage and heart failure (no kidding!). Six men–SIX–have been charged with the crime.

Her father, a poor farmer from the north of India, sold all his land to help pay for her education. The family has endured incredible deprivation as a result of this sacrifice–so that they could allow the first member of their family to have an education. Their dream has been brutally destroyed by six vicious animals masquerading as men.

Anyone who has ever read one of my books knows how I feel about the subjugation, suppression, and persecution of women. But there’s a darker part of me–a vengeful part–that only appears when the level of brutality toward innocent women strays into the subhuman. There are no words to describe what those “men” did. There is no possible justification–no defense of it.

I want them put up against a wall. NOW.

What does that say of me? We are told that enlightened people try to forgive, that they don’t exact retribution, that they must never take a human life. The death penalty, we are told, runs counter to the principles of enlightened people. Usually, I agree with them.

Then some evil, twisted, reprehensible excuse for a human being turns all that on its head by perpetrating a crime SO vile that, in my opinion, there is no death painful enough. These evil creatures need to be eliminated from society–they have forfeited their rights as humans in my mind. There’s only one way to ensure that no one ever suffers at their hands again.

I’m sure that, once I’ve had time to reflect on it, I’ll sag back into the complacent, understanding mire of tolerance. And that’s probably a good thing…I guess. But, if those six “men” were placed against a wall in front of me right now, and I were handed a firearm, could I pull the trigger?

If the answer is “yes”, what does that say of me?

After Christmas Sale

Greetings! I hope the holiday has left you still glowing with the spirit of the season.

We know that many of you likely got new ereaders/tablets for Christmas this year so we are having an after Christmas sale on Elfhunter.  You can download Elfhunter from Amazon for $2.99 for a limited time.

Happy reading

Get Elfhunter for $2.99 Click Here.

~Nancy

The Blizzard of 2012

So, I’m sitting here in the great room (what a living room is called in a log house) as the snow piles up around me. Wind is howling–really. Trees are shuddering under the weight of heavy snow and the buffeting of wind. I just dug the barn out so I could feed the horses, who are annoyed at their confinement. Well, they can be annoyed–I’m not letting them out until the storm ends in three hours or so. Our power has been off all morning, but we have a generator. Unfortunately, my computer upstairs isn’t hooked up to it, and I could not continue revising Fire-heart without a VERY long extension cord.

I thought about it, but decided it was a sign that I should take a step back, relax, and reconnect with the “real” world. I made some cocoa (the microwave IS on the gennie), invited Bob (my Border Collie) into my lap, and just. Kept. Still.

I love a good blizzard.

The power is back on now…back to work for me. But I’ll still listen to the wind, watch the snow fly, and maybe have some more cocoa. I need to keep revising…I know. But my heart longs to get back into Book Five. After all, the characters are stuck in the middle of a blizzard right now.

Later, friends!

Short cuts…

OK, so I decided to bake Christmas cookies. Mom used to make these wonderful little cookies out of flour, butter, sugar (naturally), almond extract, and baking powder. I don’t have the recipe, and I’m in “revising hell” at the moment (deadlines loom, y’know?). So I think to myself: Hey, those really sound like sugar cookies with almond extract in them. Wonder if I can cheat a little?

So I purchase a roll of sugar cookie dough (recommended by the Doughboy), and mix in some almond extract. I roll them and bake them. Hmmm…they don’t look quite right, but maybe they taste okay. So I eat one.

Y’know, Mom had it right. Real butter makes a HUGE difference, as does the lack of “dough conditioners” and preservatives. Best part–our cookies had no egg in them, so YOU COULD EAT the raw dough. It was perfectly safe!

No more short cuts for me, sister!

Amazon Pre-order Notice

Amazon Pre-order Notice

If you pre-ordered a hard copy of Elfhunter  through Amazon, you likely have received a cancellation notice.  Due to the change in publishers Elfhunter’s street date for the print version has been postponed until mid 2013.

 

The good news: if you have an e-reader or tablet the e-book version is now available for purchase here on Amazon.com (the link) and soon on other e-book reseller sites.

 

If you are still interested in purchasing a hard copy of Elfhunter, please click here and fill out the form. You will be notified when Elfhunter is available for purchase, and you will receive a coupon towards your purchase on Amazon.

 

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused, and we look forward to bringing Elfhunter to your bookshelf!

A Gift for my readers–a short story for the Holidays…

Heart’s Desire

C.S. Marks

Newspaper really isn’t a very good insulator, but it’s marginally better than frozen cardboard. He had surrounded himself with as much newsprint as he could find, wadding it loosely to trap as much air as possible, because his cherished cardboard carton had been soaked by a sudden thaw. It softened and collapsed into a flat rectangle while he was out foraging in the afternoon. It had then frozen solid when the temperature had dropped from a very unseasonable fifty-five degrees to an equally unseasonable fifteen.

It was even colder than that now.

He huddled in the corner of the recessed doorway, hoping to catch the slightest drift of warm air from beneath the door of “Lindy’s Chocolate Emporium”. He had chosen this spot because the doorway was narrow, but set back several feet from the storefront, providing a better wind-break than wider double-doorways did. He might have sought refuge in the alley—he often had before—there were plenty of items to break the wind there, including the tall buildings themselves. But tonight he just didn’t feel like fighting with the other lost ones—the ones like him, who had nothing and now fought for the barest of necessities. His flat, frozen carton was there, but it would do no one any good tonight.

Besides, he loved the smell of chocolate; it was one of the best things about being off his meds. His sense of smell came back and his stomach didn’t lurch at the thought of food. Now that the fog had lifted he could also bask in the glorious, multicolored light and festive sound of the holidays. In this neighborhood the shops closed at ten, but the lights were still on, the plastic Santas still glowed, and the sound systems still sent forth holiday music of all kinds, from his favorite classics to the modern drekky stuff they made nowadays. He wasn’t a fan of anything modern, though he had to admit it–the tiny led lights were beautiful. He remembered the old ones his father had strung around the little spruce in the front yard, together with its doomed cousin in the front room of the house. Enormous by modern standards, the bulbs would burn your fingers if you touched them once they had been lit for a while.

I could use a string of them right now, he thought, longing to burn his fingers on anything at all. But they would probably catch his newspapers on fire. Wouldn’t that be something?

He had always loved Christmas. He loved everything about it—the reading from the Gospel of Luke, the decorations, the treats his mother and sister made, and, of course, Santa Claus. Christmas was a time when you really didn’t feel guilty about asking for your heart’s desire. You knew you might not get it—a live koala bear, for example, was out of the question, though his sister asked for one every year anyway.

Whenever reality became unbearable he would turn to the memories of his boyhood, back before things went south. Before the deaths, the violence, the betrayals, and the catastrophes of his life had begun to turn him into what he was today. And what am I? A vagrant? A bum? A societal parasite? There wasn’t really a proper word for it.

Christmas memories were the best, though. This was the one time of year when the hardened crust that enveloped most of the people he met began to crack a little bit. It was a time when love, compassion, and introspection had a chance in hell of prevailing over self-interest. There were more smiles, people were more generous, and even the predators seemed to ease up a little. He took fewer beatings and suffered fewer thefts…not that he had anything worth stealing, but in his world, the smallest asset could have the greatest impact. For example, he was being kept alive by newspapers that others had thrown out.

One of the few unpleasant recollections of Christmas was the day he finally accepted that Santa Claus was not a real, single individual human being who maintained a workshop full of elves at the North Pole. He had hung on to that notion for the first eight years of his life, unlike his sister, who wised up quickly when confronted with a Santa at every major department store. Mom told us they were Santa’s helpers, and I believed her.

He had been devastated. Santa was, for him, the embodiment of generosity, kindness, comfort, and hope. Hope most of all. He had never been a particularly religious man, but he just figured that Jesus had something to do with Santa Claus. Jesus was always trying to get people to give things away, to love other people. That’s what Santa Claus did, right? The one thing he reckoned Jesus never did was keep a “naughty” list. Or at least, if he did, you could get out of it in the end. All you had to do was be nice one time—right before you died.

Santa must have done that too, though…I know he forgave me more than once when I was naughty. And I know a whole lot of other folks who seem to do awful well at Christmas who never had a kind thought or a generous motivation in their lives. He shivered, shaking his head, rustling amid the newspapers.

There wasn’t any use in trying to make sense of it–Santa wasn’t real. He shook his head again as if to banish the thought, drifting off, filling his mind with thoughts of generous, smiling people, and Santa gazing into his crystal ball, or magic mirror, or whatever he used to keep tabs on everybody. The Santa in his dreams was always smiling.

The bell in the steeple of the nearby Catholic church chimed four.

He had stopped shivering an hour ago. He opened his eyes, seeing the blur of the red, white, and green Christmas lights through a film of tears. He hadn’t wanted to wake up…not again. There was nothing in his life but despair—no joy for him anymore. And the worst of it was that he couldn’t be generous, as he had nothing to give away. He couldn’t provide help, or comfort, or even love, because no one would look at him. No one would speak to him. He saw troubled souls walking the streets around him and he could do nothing to help them. All he could do was take—from the meals at the Mission to the nickels and dimes he begged from passers-by—and he despised himself for it. He had left his pride behind long ago, and that was fine; pride was a sin, right? But he had never had the luxury of generosity. Not since things went south.

His sister was married now, last he heard she lived up in Poughkeepsie with some rich SOB she married. She had not contacted him in ten years. Maybe she had kids by now; he wondered if she let them believe in Santa Claus. Her last words to him were a harsh expression of disapproval for not taking his meds. Then she had closed the door and left him to his fate. She wanted to be rid of him, to wash her hands of him, and who could blame her? All he did was take from her, and she would never help him again. “Tough love”, she would call it. Mustn’t be an enabler. The last words out of her mouth—“Get help.”

At least he wasn’t really cold any more. He closed his eyes again. It was early morning on Christmas Eve–time to make his Christmas Wish. Last year he had wished for an orange, and a kind lady had given him one. It was the best day of the whole year.

What is it you would wish for?

He heard the voice, but could not open his eyes to look around for the source. Who wants to know? He felt a stab of fear. Voices after midnight, either in your head or not, weren’t good.

Don’t be afraid. Open your heart and tell me what you would wish for.

A feeling of wonderful security drew around him like a soft woolen blanket. I wish it would snow…

Open your heart and tell me your heart’s desire.

He thought for a moment. Is this a trick question?

He had the sensation of laughter then. He didn’t exactly hear it, but he felt it. The voice was amused. I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want for Christmas, it said patiently.

No one cares what I want for Christmas.

I do. Tell me.

Am I dead, or what?

Just tell me. I promise not to laugh again.

He drew a small, rasping sigh. No…not dead, obviously. This is because I’m not on my meds, isn’t it?

What do you have to lose? Don’t you feel wonderful at this moment?

I do, actually.

Then tell me. Don’t question what you don’t understand…just open your heart. I’ll know.

He squeezed his eyes tight, and made his Christmas wish.

I can’t give you that. You DO know that Santa Claus isn’t a real person, don’t you?

Well, I kept hoping, y’know? Tears of shame and disappointment welled behind his closed eyelids, but the voice came again.

Sounds like you’ve seen that episode of “Twilight Zone” one time too many. I can’t make you Santa Claus, but I can grant you something better.

What could be better than being Santa Claus?

Come with me…you’ll see.

~*~

Where are you taking me? What place is this?

This is your first stop tonight. Mrs. Lopez in 3C–remember her? Her mom passed away last month, and she needs you. This is a hard time when you’ve lost a loved one.

Me? Who could need me? Needs me for what?

Just go on…help her. You’ll know what to do. Go on, now.

He was in the darkened kitchen of a small apartment with a middle-aged, dark-haired woman. He did remember her–she had given him the orange last year. She looked tired, even by his standards. A feeble attempt had been made at decorating; a bedraggled string of lights dangled from the small window over the sink, which was piled with dirty dishes. Mrs. Lopez had not really been herself this season. Her sorrow had shadowed every corner of her life. She felt alone…alone and worthless. She lowered her head to the table, burying her face in her folded arms.

His first impulse was to go to her, to comfort her, but he hesitated. This was a private despair, and he felt awkward and slightly guilty.

Don’t worry…she can’t see you. She won’t realize you’re here, but her spirit will hear you. Go on, now. Do what comes naturally!

He drew near enough to reach out to her with both hands, allowing her sorrow to flood into his soul. To his amazement, he knew just what to say to her…it just came to him. Remember the Christmas when you and your mom made all those almond cookies and gave them to everyone? You were the most popular women in the neighborhood. She loved giving those cookies away–making those people happy–and she was so proud that you felt the same…remember? It’s all right. You’re not alone.

She didn’t move for a few minutes, and he wondered whether she had fallen asleep. Then she raised her head and looked over at the sink full of dishes. Her eyes strayed to the sagging string of tiny multicolored lights shining bravely at the window, proclaiming the joy and light of Christmas in spite of everything. Some tears came, but they were brief. She rose from her rickety chair, crossed to the sink, and began to run water. Then she reached into a nearby cabinet for a metal cookie sheet. As she did so, a shadowy figure–an older version of Mrs. Lopez–shimmered into life around her. It looked over at him and smiled. Thank you.

He wanted to stay and watch Mrs. Lopez make cookies with her mom, but the voice came: Well done. Now, let’s go…there are a lot of people in need of comforting tonight.

Can I really do that? Can I help them all?

The voice “laughed” again. Only Santa gets all around the world in one night, right? No…you will only give a few gifts tonight. But you should know that there are lots of us. Do what you can. Go where you are most needed.

Who ARE you?

I’m just like you…one of the lost ones. We couldn’t give while we were alive, but because we yearned to help others, we are blessed now. You will help those who are lonely and in despair–those who have given up. You’ll help them find joy again, and you get to give your gifts every night of the year! Me, I like to hang around the hospital on 3rd street and the retirement home on Lincoln avenue. Now, isn’t that better than being Santa Claus?

I’d still feel better if he was real…

Who said he wasn’t?

YOU did!

Did I? I may have been mistaken. Now, get to work…and Merry Christmas!

~*~

Officer Langley shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, reached down with a gloved hand, and patted Benjamin’s neck affectionately. Ben shook his head and blew through wide nostrils, the curb chain on his bridle jingling, his breath steaming forth in two jets of white vapor. Ice had formed on his whiskers and the long hairs above and below his bright, brown eyes. He was better equipped to withstand the cold than Langley was–Ben was a half-draft, his body stout and his winter coat more than adequate–but he still wasn’t happy about the sudden return to the subarctic.

“Come on, boy…let’s get moving. Maybe a nice, brisk walk will warm us both up,” Langley muttered, barely audible through the dark blue muffler he had pulled up over the lower half of his face. Ben moved forward obligingly, his heavy-shod hooves clopping out a pleasing rhythm on the icy asphalt. Langley regretted not putting Ben’s rubber boots on, but it was too late now. He wasn’t too worried; even the criminals kept off the streets when the temps dropped this fast. As a nod to the season, a single brass sleigh bell had been attached to Ben’s breastplate. Langley liked the sound it made, and so did Ben. He nodded his head a little more than usual, long ears “flopping to the beat”. The sound of the bell was a reminder. “Hey, buddy, it’s Christmas Eve! We’ll both have the day off tomorrow…”

Langley turned the corner, passing the Catholic church, crossing himself as he did so. “Here’s hoping we can have peace on earth, at least for tonight.” It would be nice to have a break from the drunk, the disorderly, and the deceased. He always worried about the local vagrants in weather like this–those who could stand the company went down into the tunnels beneath the city, but the meeker ones were afraid. They often stayed above in the cold. So much for inheriting the earth…

Ben snorted, slowed, and stopped, turning his head to look intently at the doorway to Lindy’s Chocolate Emporium. Langley sighed–Ben wouldn’t stop and stare at a bunch of newspaper unless there was someone inside it. He caught sight of a pale hand protruding from a dark sleeve, and his spirits sank. Ah, nuts. Not again…not on Christmas Eve.

“Come on, Ben, let’s take a closer look.” Langley knew what he would find; he’d seen it before. He was a kindly soul, and this sort of thing got to him more than he would have admitted. No one should have to die this way–without the comfort of a single other person who gave a damn. “Whoa, Ben. Stand, now.” Langley prepared to dismount, a wave of sorrow washing over him.

Don’t be sorry for me. Wherever people suffer, I will comfort them. When they are dying, I will reassure them and help them find courage. I will be there to love them and help them, even as I am helping you now. It’s the thing I’ve always wanted most! Some have the joy of giving only while they live, but I will give love and comfort forever. No one will ever know my name, but they’ll be thankful all the same. Do you not feel better already?

Langley didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to speak to the empty air. “Yeah, actually, I do feel better.” And he did. He felt comforted–that wonderful security that comes from being loved, like he used to feel when he curled up in his father’s lap in front of the TV. He and his dad used to love watching old monster movies together; they were scary, but he knew nothing could hurt him.

Taking a deep breath, he dismounted, the pain in his half-frozen feet shocking him back into reality as they hit the sidewalk. His tall partner lowered his head, nuzzling at one of the crumpled sheets of newspaper that had blown away to expose the dead man’s face.

I know you can’t realize it, but you’ve just laid eyes on the happiest man in the world. Goodbye, Officer Langley–lots of folks needing comforting tonight. Merry Christmas…

“Merry Christmas,” said Langley in wonderment, looking into the gray, dead face of the man in the doorway. It wore a smile–the smile of a man who had been given his heart’s desire.

The Fire King is now available!

The first in the Alterra Histories series of novellas, The Fire King is the story of Aincor Fire-heart. I’m so excited to have it up for sale, and I’m jazzed about the series in general–it will allow us to explore Alterra as never before! The Fire King is loaded with action, with just enough romance to keep it interesting (right before it rips your heart out of your chest). And it’s an inexpensive way to take a trip into the world of Alterra–only 99 cents and you’re part of the adventure!

Aincor is a really interesting character–another complicated soul caught up in the folly of his own arrogance. Find out what happens to him, and those around him, as he is faced with the ultimate test.

I can hardly wait to take you there, worthy readers old and new!

http://www.amazon.com/Fire-King-Alterra-Histories-ebook/dp/B00AIBCBJE/

 

We’re Baaa-aaaack…

At LAST! We have a book (back) in print!

I’m very pleased to report that Elfhunter (the first book in the trilogy) has now been released for Kindle. This is the real deal, folks—newly re-mastered, with a first class developmental edit, absolutely stunning cover art and interior illustrations, and…well, you’ll just have to go online and see it for yourself! Here’s the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Elfhunter-Tales...

I’ve learned a lot recently about what it means to be traditionally published. The experience has often been frustrating, if not downright frightening, but it was certainly worth it in the long run. Were it not for the publisher, I would never have had the benefit of Leslie Wainger, 30-year veteran editor. Nor would my books be graced with the incomparable artwork of Hope Hoover. Nor would there be a new graphic novel of The Fire King slated for release in 2013. Nor would I be enjoying the energy and expertise of a really great publicist.

At the same time, we are releasing the first novella in The Alterra Histories, entitled “The Fire King”. I will be writing many more such novellas—glimpses into the history/back-story of Alterra and the myriad of characters introduced in the books. From you, my readers, I have gathered feedback as to which events/characters you are curious about, and have two new novellas on the drawing board.

The Fire King, of course, is the story of Aincor, the original Fire-heart. Next on the list is the “untold story” behind Gaelen and her beloved Rain, including a look into the blood-and-thunder of the Third Uprising. To go along with the release of the new Fire-heart, we have the story of El-morah (how DID a former assassin come to be running a coffee house in the middle of the desert while under witness protection?). “The Shadow-man” will be coming in 2013. Finally, to go with Ravenshade, you’ll get the story of Salasin, the cold-hearted, taciturn scholar who founded the Silver City—who might not have been so cold-hearted after all. Are you ready for some Adventure—Alterra-style?

Well, GET ready! J

The End of an Era?

The End of an Era?

 

Anyone who knows me is aware that I suffer from the incurable heredity disorder known as “equiphilia”. This condition causes one to be obsessed with horses from birth. Regrettably, the only effective management protocol is to surround the patient with horses and equestrian-related activities. Depending on the severity of the condition, which has variable expression, sufferers who are denied access to horses may be found “scoring” hits in downtown areas of major cities–petting carriage horses, approaching police horses with carrots, and other minor infractions. The more severely afflicted (rated on the Xenophon-Przewalski scale from 1-4 as a 3 or higher) will resort to more obsessive and life-altering behaviors.

 

On the X-P scale, I am a four. The only reason I’m not a “five” is that they haven’t yet described a category encompassing the full compulsion of the true equiphiliac. I have hidden my disease, though not well, by taking up a respectable profession that allows me to indulge it on a daily basis (I am a Professor of Equine Science). I have finagled a way to keep at least one horse since I was twelve years old. I have beaten my body to a pulp training for and competing in hundred-mile endurance races (an act which, on the X-P scale, automatically rates a “4”).

 

But the sad fact is that I am now growing older, I have become an avid fantasy/fiction writer, and I have less time to ride than I used to. Having pushed myself to the limit in endurance, which I no longer have the time or energy to pursue, can I now be content with the sort of riding the average equiphiliac enjoys? Can I learn to amble along a pleasant path without feeling the need for speed? Can I pat my horse affectionately if it is reluctant to climb a long hill without heaving a deep sigh and wondering if I’m going to “finish in good shape without time penalties”? Can I learn to SIT DOWN on the horse, fer cryin’ out loud?

 

Okay, so you might be wondering what prompted this angst-filled essay. The truth is that I have been horse hunting recently, having leased my wonderful, athletic Shagya to a younger, fitter rider because I know I won’t be going back to that level of competition. To do so I would have to give up writing, methinks. Too much time involved in both of those disciplines to do either one well if one tries to do both. And right now the writing is more important. I have readers waiting, and I must not disappoint them! So, why is this so hard?

 

Lord knows it shouldn’t be. I should simply smile and embrace the present–accept my choice to be a writer rather than a rider–and ride into the sunset of my life in the company of friends, friends I rarely saw in the past because I was riding too darn fast.

 

Yesterday I rode what could possibly be the horse of my dreams–a three year old Rocky mare. She is beautiful, well made, sweet, willing, easy…you know, perfect? I took her on a trail ride with two other Rockies. Only a few miles, and the footing wasn’t the greatest (the leaves are down and they can’t see where they’re putting their feet, so they can’t avoid stepping on rocks and such). The lovely mare, who was a joyful ball of forward fire on the road, became cautious, a bit hesitant, and I could tell she longed for flat ground. I had to leg her constantly to keep up, and I began to wonder whether I could be happy riding this perfect horse, who was so cooperative and easy. I wondered whether she would be happy, too. I remembered that she is only a three-year-old, and that she is not in any sort of condition. But the horses I have always loved to ride didn’t care–they relied on me to hold them back, not push them forward.

 

The Rocky is a gaited breed, which means they perform a broken amble rather than a trot. This is said to be nothing short of amazing to ride–the horses glide as if on casters and are not in the least bit bouncy. But when one is on the trail, with less than optimal footing and hills to contend with, this gait is impractical. Great on the flat–but otherwise one is relegated to walking. I’m not used to spending so much time sitting down–normally I am trotting most of the time and I ride in a half-seat. Feels wonderful because it’s what I’m used to. Honestly, I don’t know if I could handle walking for such a long time. Lots of people do, I know…and they seem to love it. Personally, I felt weird with my butt in the saddle all the time.

 

I’m too old for a “snot rocket”. A horse who shies hard or is difficult to stop would not be a wise choice, as I break when I hit the ground these days. But do I really want to go to the dark side? Am I ready for the equine equivalent of a rocking chair? Can I prevent my speed-obsessed brain from sabotaging the rest of my body? Being the “slow rider” in a group would destroy me. I have always been a pace-setter, and I don’t think I can be content otherwise, but this runs deeper than that.

 

Can I face my own mortality?

 

Let’s be honest. This is about lost youth, the surrender of mind and body to time and wear-and-tear. It’s about giving up the thrill of the challenge for the serenity which comes from acceptance of the inevitable. If the key words in that last sentence are “giving up”, then I’m not ready. Well, my brain isn’t. My body definitely is, and my readers want the rest of their books, darn it!

 

I haven’t decided whether to purchase this beautiful, perfect horse yet. I know she is safe (as safe as any horse can be), that she is eye-catching and showy, and that my friends will enjoy riding with me ever-so-much more. I trust her, and we’ll bond fast…provided she is willing enough. Both she and I will have to adapt to new conditions to make the relationship work, but I’m willing to try if she is. Adaptation is a necessary condition of survival, after all.

 

An era ends, and a new one begins. I’ll try to adapt as gracefully as I can…stay tuned!

In Praise of Winter

In Praise of Winter

As I was pulling the umptieth tick from one of my dogs this morning (the end of October, for cryin’ out loud!) it was easy to appreciate the value of a good, hard winter. Nature has a way of making me feel guilty for all the bad things I say (and think) about her–for example, after the worst drought in the history of our region, we were rewarded with spectacular fall color. In fact, walking in the woods this October was a real feast for the senses, as long as one didn’t mind pulling umpty-million ticks off afterwards.

I have always loved autumn. It triggers all my domestic “denning” instincts, and it gets me outside more frequently than any other season. I dearly love riding in an autumn woodland and sleeping with the window open on blustery fall nights under a full moon. Yeah, I love autumn. Many people do, but I so often hear them saying: “But then comes winter, and I HATE winter!”  While there are certainly things to dislike about winter–the cold makes everything more difficult, the roads are often treacherous, and so on–there are a lot of benefits, too.

Last year we had one of the mildest winters on record–almost no snow and really moderate temperatures, despite dire predictions that it would be severe. I had the sense that we would pay for it later, and I think we have. The armies of ticks (worst year I’ve seen lately) provided silent testimony to the value of a proper midwestern winter–evidence that things are out of balance without one. I fully expect to be griping along with everyone else when the really cold weather hits, but secretly I’ll be thankful for the benefit we’ll all reap later on. As I’m turning up the heat and trying not to shiver, I’ll be thinking take that, you wretched arachnids!

Many folks lament the loss of productivity in the winter, and I will confess that the long dark hours are one of my least favorite aspects (true of almost anyone who has livestock). It is difficult to get all those outside chores done when it’s dark when you leave for work and dark when you come home. However, winter is a very productive time of year for me. I do a lot of writing–in fact, I traditionally start new books in December, and this year will be no exception as I am beginning work on Shadow Man. I’ll also be revising Fire-heart and writing scenarios for the RPG. A nice, long winter is just what I need!

Seasonal depression can be a real problem, but not if you’re a fantasy writer! All I have to do is turn on the computer, fall into Alterra, and the dark, dreary days fall away to be replaced with adrenaline-pumping adventure, romance, intrigue…you get the idea. Yeah, I have to seek indoor exercise for my body, but my mind–my imagination–has no restrictions. It gets more exercise in the winter than at any other time. I hear the wind howling outside the window of my loft, hunker down in my old, squeaky chair, whip out my Alterran passport, and settle in for a long, productive visit. When I finish, it will probably be early morning–just time to grab an hour or two of sleep before getting up for work. I’ll come down the stairs happy, exhausted, and excited. The story is flowing–hallelujah!

Yes, there’s a lot to love about winter. And though I know I’ll complain about the cold like everyone else, at least I might not have to pull umpty-million ticks off the dogs next year.

–CSM