Rabia Gale's Blog, page 15

2013: the year ahead

I’ll ‘fess up.

I was planning on being all bubbly and cheerful about looking forward to 2013. But the reality is that I have mixed feelings about this year.

2012 was a year of many big changes, and we’re still seeing the ramifications–both good and bad–for our family. I alternate between being thrilled about the new direction of my writing career (good reviews! sales! strangers who like my books!) and being scared stiff (meh reviews, lack of sales, strangers looking down on me for self-publishing, complete and ever-lasting ruination of my career).

And–this is very superstitious of me–I can’t feel quite comfortable with a year that has a “13″ in it. I keep expecting it to go all puckish and slippery on me.

However. January is as good a time as any to work on positive changes in my habits and attitudes, no matter what else life might bring. So, without further ado, here are some things I’m keeping in mind for this year:

Do New Things

I’m a rule-follower. Always have been. And that’s not a bad thing (imagine driving out on the roads with everyone doing their own thing *shudder*), but I take it to an extreme. When I started writing seriously, I crossed all my t’s and dotted all my i’s. I read the right blogs and books. I joined a critique workshop. I parroted Show, don’t tell and Down with passive verbs! I dutifully submitted short stories to ‘zines and queried agents with my novels.

And the truth is that while this was a good path to follow–one many people successfully take to publication–I did it more because of fear that if I didn’t do everything–everything–exactly right, my hopes would be forever and truly quashed.

I let fear rule my writing far too long. This year I’m trying new things–whether it’s writing different forms and genres, exploring new ways to reach readers, or working on quirky, interesting projects. I have some ideas that I’ll be asking opinions about soon!

Recharge my creativity in different ways

These days I wear two hats–homeschooling mom and self-publishing writer. It doesn’t leave me a whole lot of time for other things, but I do need to get out of the box sometimes. So far, my non-writing, non-schooling plans may include:

Artist Trading Cards
Play piano (I miss it, I really do *sigh*)
Draw every day for a month, using prompts from Every Day Matters
Doodle class
Doodle Stitching
30 Days of Flash Fiction (yes, this is writing, but not my usual style–I’m thinking of doing this in April, which, yanno, is a thirty day month)

Any other suggestions for fun, low-key ways to recharge creativity?

Diversify my reading

I say this every year, but… more classics! This year I’m going off NPR’s Top 100 Speculative Fiction books. I haven’t, for instance, read Dune, the Foundation trilogy, or any Heinlein.

And more non-fiction. I say this every year. One of these days it will stick.

Miscellaneous

There are a few other things I want to work on, some of which are more personal and some which I should work on but don’t have a plan for as yet (like exercise, *sigh*). Oh, and this year I want to be better about tracking my writing, to see what my base-line productivity actually is.

What are your goals for 2o13? How are you going to get there?

 

Mourning Cloak’s here!

Kato Vorsok is a man deserted by his god. A failed hero living in exile, he wants nothing to do with his old life.

Until the night he encounters a wounded mourning cloak—a demon that can walk through walls, dissolve into mist, and spear a man’s heart with a fingernail.

She calls him by name. She knows his past. She needs his help.

And she is his key to redemption.

Mourning Cloak is a science fantasy novella of about 22,000 words.

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords

***

To celebrate the release, a number of bloggers are going to be talking about Mourning Cloak for the next week!

Today, I’m at Snarky Bird Book Reviews, talking about the cover design process.

3 Reasons Why You Should Subscribe To My Newsletter

You guys! I was just working on my first. ever. newsletter which is going out on Monday. And yes, I’m going to encourage you to sign up for it.

Why? Three reasons:

1. Never miss out. If you enjoy my work, make sure you don’t miss out on any of my upcoming releases. Let’s face it. Sometimes life gets busy; we drop out of Twitter and nuke our RSS feed readers and disappear from the Internet. My low-frequency newsletter delivers news of my published fiction right to your Inbox. Your time is valuable, and so is mine. My newsletters will be short, sweet, and come out no more than once a month (realistically, more like once a quarter–a fast writer I am not!).

2. Coupons! I love to thank my readers with coupons for my work, which you can use at Smashwords.

3. Exclusive content. This will mostly be short fiction, though I’m open to other suggestions (character interviews, for instance). The newsletter exclusive for this month? A short story set in Highwind, featuring a girl who sets off into Deep Night to rescue her sister from wither women.

Convinced? Sign up below! I respect your privacy, and will never sell or share your email address.

Your NameFirstLastYour Email*Mailing Lists*RSS (receive each blog post in your email)NewslettersSign up for one or both!

***

Speaking of Highwind and Mourning Cloak, my early reviews are all asking for more stories set in this world. My muse has obligingly handed me about four more Highwind stories, including a direct sequel to Mourning Cloak. I guess I’d better get cracking!

Mourning Cloak, second excerpt

One more week until Release Day!

Kato Vorsok is a man deserted by his god. A failed hero living in exile, he wants nothing to do with his old life.

Until the night he encounters a wounded mourning cloak—a demon that can walk through walls, dissolve into mist, and spear a man’s heart with a fingernail.

She calls him by name. She knows his past. She needs his help.

And she is his key to redemption.

Mourning Cloak is a science fantasy novella of about 22,000 words.

 

Excerpt

(Read the first excerpt here)

I snap awake in the dark. Pressure on my chest, pressure against my ears, pressure on my eyelids, squeezing them shut. I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t breathe.

My limbs won’t obey me.

Pop! Ears clear, chest heaves, eyelids fly open. The room takes a deep breath. I swear the walls expand outward in relief.

Then it hits me.

Magic. Someone’s worked magic.

Right next to my shop. My rooms. My bed.

I erupt from the sheets. Jab feet into slippers, grab the loaded bolt gun from the side table. A bedpost trips me up; I stumble and swear in the darkness. I find the doorknob—or it finds me when I run into the door. I wrestle with it and burst from the room, shambling and hairy-chested, muttering threats in a sleep-deep voice.

Sera used to say I was part bear. For a moment, she flits at the edge of my memory, her voice teasing at my ears, her hair in shades of bronze and gold sliding into view. I push her away.

But because I thought of her, I step into the small room that serves as my office and take the sword. I hold it by the sheath and manage to buckle it at my waist without touching its hilt.

That sword cost me more than money or blood. Every time I use it, it drains me even more.

But I need it. Just in case I have to kill the cloak.

I step over my powder line—oh so carefully, so it can ward my empty bed and financial papers and beverage bottles —and thrust open the outer door.

I was always a fool.

But no one –no one–worked magic that close to my shop and got away with it.

***

The banish light is off, the alley clothed in shadows. The residue of magic—cinnamon and burning—lingers. I taste it on the tip of my tongue.  Too herbal for kana rats, not flowery enough for wither women. Not the ozone taste of eerie men, nor the sickly-sweet rot of the smaller demons.

But there is a taint of something dark in there—the hint of rain on the wind, the foreboding of a storm. Earth smells, like that of eilendi magic, but with an electric zing.

At least three kinds of magic happened here. I can be sure that only one of those was from my wards.

If Toro or one of his do-gooders has been here, if this is one of their maggoty notions of helping me… My fists clench, I half-raise the bolt gun as if an eilendi were about to jump out at me, spouting prayers and pious exhortations to return to the fold.

I had needed eilendi help before. I had vowed never to ask for it again.

Static raises my hair.

I growl out a pass code, then jab the button on the wall to force more current into the banish light. It stirs, flickers, settles into a sullen glow that oozes into the street.

There. Darkness within darkness. A shape, huddled against the wall.

I put my hand on a sword-hilt molded for my grip. A hum of recognition and pleasure threads from it and into me, but I ignore it. It’s not time for those games.

I walk over to the shape, turn it over with my foot.

The mourning cloak’s face is pale amidst midnight hair and black wing-cloak. Her hands are reddened, crooked into claws, one of her wings ripped to shreds. Pale amber blood seeps from the slash at her throat.

Good. She’s dead then.

Let the scavengers deal with her body. I shift my feet, ready to go back to my interrupted sleep.

Her eyes open. The black has receded, showing hints of white.

In fact, her eyes are not black at all, but a deep brown. A warm, human brown.

She keeps her burnt hands cradled against her abdomen. She cannot move, not like this, but her eyes say, Help me.

My hand tightens on the hilt, and the sword sings into eager, bloodthirsty life. Use me, wield me… together… red tides of blood… Warmth blazes down its length, draws a line against my thigh.

I should not have kept it.

But like I said, I am a fool. I’ll keep the sword, if only to show that it is no longer master of me.

“Call your own kind to take care of you, mourning cloak,” I say. My voice is rough with sleep and anger. Can she understand me, this demon in humanoid form? I could kill her now, but it would be a crueler end to leave her to the predators of the night.

Let the cloak suffer, as Sera had suffered.

Her lips move, shape themselves into impossible words. I stiffen, then stoop closer to her face. Her breath smells sickly-sweet, a mix of honey and blood.

“Kato Vorsok,” she says. “Kato Vorsok.” She repeats it like a litany, as if my almost-forgotten name, my deep dark secret, were no more than a nursery rhyme. “Kato Vorsok.”

Kill her,whispers the sword—or the part of me the sword brings to the fore. Be rid of the evidence. I glance around, as though passersby lurked in the alley to hear that Kettan the drink-mixer was once Kato Vorsok, Taurin’s Chosen.

No more. It is past. It is behind me. I am no longer a hero.   

The mourning cloak suddenly arches her back, hisses in pain. Her eyes are almost normal, almost intelligent, almost aware. “Kato Vorsok,” she insists. The blurry buzz in her voice is gone, and she’s looking right at me.

She’s nearly human. She knows my name.

I growl, low and tortured in my throat, drop my hand from the hilt, cutting off the sword’s bloody croon from my head. I bend, swing the mourning cloak into my arms. She is light, as if made from cloth and skin, and her thin gold blood is sticky on my hands.

“Kato Vorsok?” A question. Hope in her eyes.

One cannot run from the past. It always finds you. Catches you up. Trips you in places you least expect it to.

“Yes,” I say, and carry her into my house.

 

The Hobbit

I finally get to see The Hobbit this weekend!

In the meantime, here is Peter Hollens singing Misty Mountains (this sends tingles down my spine):

 

2012: the year in review

Last year was full of changes in both my personal life and my writing career. Here are some of the notable aspects of 2012.

From Vermont to Virginia

Up until last year, I’d spent pretty much all of my adult life in one area, encompassing parts of both Vermont and New Hampshire. I went to college there, I got married there, my husband and I bought a house and had three children there.

And then we moved to Virginia. It was a huge change for all us, but I learned that I still had to contend with the old me.

Some of the things we miss about Vermont (besides leaving many of our friends behind): Smoke-edged, leaf-crisped fall days. The farm stand down in town. Strawberry-picking and jam-making in the summer. A continual supply of real Vermont Grade B maple syrup. Snow! (At least, my children do).

Some of the things we like about Virginia: Living close to work, church, and activities. A great neighborhood. Level sidewalks for new bikers. An awesome library system. Warmer weather for longer in the year (children might disagree–see above).

Brave New World–Online

I took Kristen Lamb’s blogging class, We Are Not Alone, early in the year and recommitted to consistent blogging. Through the class, I met a great group of fellow bloggers-writers that I hang out with on Facebook and Twitter. I learned to tolerate–if not love–Twitter and finally got the hang of hashtags. I also had a brief, passionate, and unhealthy affair with Pinterest but decided we were better off being friends (which is working out well so far).

I also spent time in the dark side of the Internet and read a book that caused me to think deeply about my relationship with instant connectivity.

The Write Stuff

I hit a writing milestone when I went away to my first-ever writers’ workshop! It was taught by David Farland, and I got five days of great teaching, helpful critiques, and lots of time with other writers.

I’m terrible at keeping track of my wordage, but last year I worked on three novellas, wrote a handful of short stories, and started two novels. I also wrote my first-ever collaboration with my good friend Jo Anderton, and was delighted to have it accepted for publication. Look for the news of Sand and Seawater’s release some time this year!

Reaching Readers

Last year, for reasons enumerated here, I self-published two collections, one short story, and one novella. I received my first fan email (that sent me over the moon). I got lovely reviews from bloggers like Tehani Wessely, Sean at Adventures of a Bookonaut, and Ivana at Willing to See Less–not to mention the thoughtful reviews left by readers on Goodreads, Amazon, and other sites. Because of my self-published work,  I received an invitation to submit to an anthology.

I got a lot of support from my family, including my husband David, who beta-reads and e-formats my books, and my sister-in-law Robin Cornett, who also gives me story feedback, makes my website pretty and functional, and designed my first three covers. Later in the year, I had the opportunity to work with cover designer Ravven, who did an awesome job with my novella covers.

But most of all I’m thrilled that my stories are being enjoyed by real, live, actual readers!

Small Joys

We started our fourth (fourth?!) year of homeschooling this fall. I watched my middle child blossom into an independent reader. Raising children is both a joyful and terrifying experience–and never boring.

Did you hit any milestones or experience big changes in 2012?

Mourning Cloak excerpt

Two more weeks until Mourning Cloak comes out! In the meantime, here’s an excerpt. Enjoy!

Kato Vorsok is a man deserted by his god. A failed hero living in exile, he wants nothing to do with his old life.

Until the night he encounters a wounded mourning cloak—a demon that can walk through walls, dissolve into mist, and spear a man’s heart with a fingernail.

She calls him by name. She knows his past. She needs his help.

And she is his key to redemption.

Mourning Cloak is a science fantasy novella of about 22,000 words.

 

Excerpt

The mourning cloak flutters against my shop window, eyes dark and wide, mouth open in soundless desire. Her pale hands scrabble against the glass that separates her from my bottles—the opaque green of the darkly bitter clava, the translucent pinks and peaches of fruit mixes, the speckled earth tones of the nutty milks, all frosted from the alchemical ice vaporizing around them. She’s been here every night this week.

It’s the smell, I tell myself. The drinks, the pastries. She’s attracted by their smell.

And then her eyes, grey lurking on the edge of black, with no pupils or irises or whites, just dozens of hexagonal facets, look at me.

She looks at me. Sees me.

My hands and feet go cold. The glass I’m polishing slips from my fingers, falls on to the granite counter. Cracks.

She knows. Somehow, even after two years of keeping my head down and staying home at nights, she’s found me.

I’m a dead man.

The warding bells on my door jangle. A party of bright young things, cheeks red from the cold, sweep in with a dance of colored ribbons and sparkles at their throats. Lights flicker in the square behind them. Across the street, shadowy figures bubble out of the double doorway of the rhyme house. The taste of night is as bitter as sorrow on my lips. The smoky caress of death lingers on my face.

The bells clang together, the door crashes shut. And there is no more cold or night or death, but the warm honeyed scent of my shop and the tramp of shoes and the rustle of fabric and rhyme house bills as the young things throw off their coats and call out to each other and to me.

“…piss-poor performance…”

“… you having?”

“Peach paradise… could use it…”

“… cold as Gamina’s tits…”

The mourning cloak can’t have come for me.It’s been too long. I throw the cracked goblet in the trash, rim glasses with salt and sugar, uncork bottles, top with berries and sliced citrus, put on the affable smile of the drink-mixer.

But then, who knows why the cloaks come at all?

***

She’s still there when they leave for the trams, those young ones with the aliveness of milk in their skin and the future bright in their eyes. They don’t see the mourning cloak, thanks to the protection of their baubles and the embroidered ribbons woven into their hair. When they brush past her, she shrinks away from their vitality, paper-thin and chalk-white in comparison.

I’m not fooled. I’ve seen a mourning cloak slide through a wall and spear a man’s heart with a fingernail.

In all my nights of hunting, fueled by red rage and corrosive vengeance, I’d only ever managed to kill one of them.

My wards are all that keep me safe from this cloak.

***

She follows me from window to window as I stash bottles in the icebox, wipe tables, put up chairs and stools, mop the floor. She’s there when I turn the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, lock the door, twist the valves shut on my flow bottles and turn off the overhead lights.

She’s there, at the mouth of the alley, when I take out the trash under the yellow glare of the banish light. The last trolley of the evening sounds a low, mournful note on its horn as I slam the dumpster lid. I have wards all around my shop and my rooms at the back, but she doesn’t test them.

I’m a little disappointed. I pay good money and a monthly vial of blood for my wards. I’d like to see if the mourning cloak will flame and burn like the ward woman promised.

No such luck. She stands at the end of the alley, her cloak shivering all around her. She stretches her neck, stands on tiptoe, holds out those weak-looking fingers to me, as if pleading.

That helpless damsel routine may have worked for other men.

You know, the ones found with their bellies ripped open and their organs turned to ooze.

The trolley clanks away in the distance, the sound of metal on metal soon swallowed by the night.  I take the trash can inside and lock the door. I get my jar—the precious jar whose contents cost me half again as much as the wards did—and lay out a thin unbroken trail of white powder all along the inner walls of my shop and rooms.

And then I go to bed, and listen to the howls of eerie men and the snaps of cobble crunchers as I fall asleep.

Mourning cloaks are not the only reason I live behind my shop.

2012: a year of reading

2012 was an odd reading year for me. I went through a dry spell in the middle, and thought that I wouldn’t even hit my annual goal of 75 books (I made it to 77).

Without further ado, here are my notable reading experiences of 2012.

Blog-to-Books

I never thought I’d read a single blog-to-book, but this year I read four, including The Best of Catherine, Caffeinated by Catherine Ryan Howard and The Freelancer’s Survival Guide byKristine Kathryn Rusch. Which just goes to show: never say never.

Short Fiction

I read several anthologies, both single author and not. My comfort reads this spring (right after our move) were six volumes of L. M. Montgomery’s short stories. I finally tried out Margo Lanagan’s work by reading her collection, Black Juice, and yes,”Singing My Sister Down” is one of the most powerful and heartbreaking stories I’ve ever read.

Best YA Fantasy

Seraphina by Rachel Hartman

One of the most well-done treatments of human-dragon relationships I’ve ever read.

Best Book I Didn’t Expect to Like

Girl in the Arena by Lise Haines

This book is more about family dynamics and social commentary than action-adventure. A surprisingly moving read.

Best Worldbuilding-YA

Dark Life by Kat Falls

Two words: Undersea. Colonies.

Best Worldbuilding-Adult

The Serpent Sea by Martha Wells

This, and the third book of the Raksura trilogy, The Siren Depths, are just awesome. I love the depth of Wells’ world, with its mysterious flying islands, several sentient races, giant trees, and–especially–the Raksura themselves who are both so alien and so sympathetic.

Best Book That I Did Not Finish

The Brides of Rollrock Island  by Margo Lanagan

Beautifully written, but so emotionally wrenching that I had to put it down.

Book That Filled the Georgette Heyer Void in My Life

Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance by Lois McMaster Bujold

This book is a romp, featuring a marriage of convenience, eccentric family members, a search for treasure and a cute romance. Different from the books starring Miles Vorkosigan, but in the best way possible.

What were your favorite reads of 2012?

Related Post: 7 Favorite Books of 2012 (as of 9/24/12)

a belated merry christmas!

Hope you all had a lovely holiday! I didn’t intend to be late with a Christmas greeting post, but one does not think about blogging while catching up with family, eating awesome food, and–most importantly of all–playing Angry Birds Star Wars.

All the cool kids are playing this

On the way back home yesterday (long road trip, complete with cold rain, traffic jams, and boys gone wild in the backseat), I was thrilled to see these lovely reviews of Rainbird at Shelfspace Needed and Willing to See Less, both of which went immediately into my I-Don’t-Suck file.

Also, don’t forget that Rainbird is on sale till the end of January!

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Now back to work for me. Current projects include a novella set in Blackburn, the setting of Out of Shape, featuring Thad’s secretary Amanda; a short story set in Highwind, the world of Mourning Cloak; and a Secret Project that I’m not going to talk about yet *hugs it close*.  I also need to finish planning the next term of homeschool, and get my blogging schedule back in order. The time away was great, because I am excited to do ALL these things.

I love this time between Christmas and New Year’s. I love the quiet, the introspection, the comfort of the old, the excitement of the new.

What are your plans for the rest of 2012?

homeschool highlights

On Wednesday, the kids put on a series of short historical plays for David, as an end-of-term project. Much hilarity ensued, but this snippet from Henry VIII and His Six Wives was my favorite bit.

Sir I (as Henry VIII): Wife Number 4!

Miss M: I’m Anne of Cleves.

Sir I: You look like a horse! I divorce you.

Miss M: Well, you’re no looker yourself! *flounces off*

The Baron got bit parts, as a codfish, a Protestant prisoner, an executioner, a messenger, a builder and a captain in the Spanish Armada.

Eggnog was served after the show.

All in all, a wonderful end to the school term.

***

The fabulous Lisa Ahn invited me to be part of her Be Inspired blog series. Click here to find out how I came to break fairy tales.