Cedar Sanderson's Blog, page 265

The Marinated Writer

Looks like I’m good with marinade for a while…

I know what you are thinking, and no, that’s not what I was marinating in. We did have a beer with dinner last night, and that’s as much as I’ve drunk in a week, so I’m not *that* kind of writer. What I am is one gathering flavor for my writing by reading. In this case, because I am writing a climactic scene for Pixie Noir, I’m reading Mickey Spillane. I’d picked up a couple of pulp paperbacks in a used bookstore a few weeks back, anticipating this need to add some flavor to the story at some point. I’ve read a bit of noir, over the years, and watched some, but a refresher to keep the language and tension level in the story is occasionally needed.

He may not be considered great literature, but he could tell a story, and that is what counts. That, and characters that walk off the pages and snarl in your face, or vamp you with his vivid descriptions of the dames his anti-heroes try not to love. I stopped a couple of times to read passages out loud to my partner because they stuck me so strongly. There’s no attempt at a message in his writing, but the enduring impression is of vitality and gritty realism. I’m trying to capture a little of that in my writing. I’m a red-headed hack, who wants to give you a little escapist literature, and maybe you’ll remember the characters and world I’ve built out of these flavors, soaked in from reading and squeezed back out on the page.

And if you don’t remember, I’ll fade back into the fog, with a tip of my hat as I go, for what was meant to be and didn’t pan out…

Meanwhile, I’m writing today, and I’ll share a little snip of Pixie Noir, written after a short marinade with The Deep, a Mickey Spillane novel published in 1962.

Pixie Noir

Georgio’s was literally a haunt, too. The tall man was a ghoul, and I don’t mean that in a metaphorical morbid guy sort of way. He lived by eating dead bodies, and there were enough forgotten ones in the back alleys to keep him alive, in a manner of speaking. He refused to go Underhill, and we had a deal. I left him alone, he left the living alone, and he provided me with supplies when I was in town.

It was foggy, no big surprise in Seattle. The world was a smear of colors from neon and headlights, and then we pulled into the back alley behind Georgio’s, and when I had it in park, I closed my eyes. Bella nudged me.

“I can do that.”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was pale in the dim light, but even so, I could see the determination written on her face. I nodded. It would speed my reaction times up if she could do the watching with the Sight and I could stay in the real world the whole time.

“Thanks.”

She closed her eyes. “I see a flare of magic in there,” she pointed without opening her eyes. “Sort of greenish.”

“That’s Georgio. Anything else?”

She concentrated for a moment longer and then shook her head. “No, no more magic.”

“Want to stay here?”

She opened her eyes and winced slightly. “No, I’d like to stay with you.”

I got out of the car and she followed on my heels as I rapped at the heavy steel door. It swung open almost immediately. He’d been expecting me. He was almost seven feet tall of bad road, with a side order of roadkill that you smelled right away. When my eyes started watering, I choked out, “Georgio, remember we talked about soap?”

“You threatened me with a pressure washer, last time.” He grinned, and I could feel Bella’s flinch at the sight of ghoul teeth. Closely related to sharks, I sometimes thought, rows of sharp, serrated things. They shed them like sharks, too, he’d given me one, once. I’d bleached the hell out of it when I got home, and it still smelled faintly of death and rottenness.

He looked at her. “Welcome, Lady. Come into my humble abode, please.” He made a little bow stiffly, and we followed him up a short, dim hallway into a large, dim room. Ghouls are not overly fond of bright light.

He spoke to her again, rather than me. I was mildly amused. Women were a rare commodity to him, and he was enjoying this, although I doubted Bella was, she seemed to have a normal sense of smell.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?”

“Oh, no…” I could tell she was torn between graciousness and horror at the idea of ingesting anything from his pantry. I intervened.

“No time, Georgio. I need to get back on the road.”

I saw a flash of disappointment, and then he shrugged. “Sure thing, Lom. I have it for you.”

He reached behind a dusty sofa and hoisted out a leather satchel that had seen the last century – maybe two. “Everything you asked for, boss.”

Thinking out Loud

I think a lot. Recently, it’s been about life, more than the creative writing side of my brain, because I’m still in a transitional stage. I do plan to write about 2000 words today, however, because I need to kickstart the writing side of my brain. Last night we were talking about something, and I was reminded that I have so many stories I want to tell. But if I don’t hurry up and write them down, they will be gone. That’s how my brain works. If I write it out in an outline form, just to quickly capture an idea before it slips away, I can’t write the story. It’s like the completion of it, in however sketchy a format, satisfies my storyteller urge, and it evaporates.

Of course, I also have to worry about work, and my family, and the housework… it’s never-ending, and a lot more pressing than my writing down flights of fancy. Today I talk to a college again, hoping to get a favorable answer to my questions, and when classes start this fall again my whole dynamic changes yet again. So I have the summer to write stories.

In Pixie Noir, I have hit another slow point in the action, which is, I think, why I have stalled out on it. I have Lom watching over Bella as she absorbs a whole library, magically, and he’s bored out of his mind. Did I mention they are stuck on a ferry for three days? I think maybe I should skip ahead to when Bella regains her grasp of reality, and the shenanigans are beginning again. I have writing ADD, maybe… but I still think if I’m bored with it, the reader will be, too.

And now breakfast is being made for me, so I shall go and talk sweetly to the maker, since I appreciate his efforts very much.

The nifty hat, which inspired a story about a Mad Librarian, yet another tale I’d like to write down this summer…

The Dwarf’s Dryad

There’s a new story available from me! It’s a fantasy short, something a little different.

You can buy it here now, it will be up on Amazon in a few hours.

It’s up now!

The cover for the story

Excerpt:

The Dwarf’s Introduction

The blacksmith first met her in his shop. He had not seen her come in, hidden in the shadow of her Lord. The burly noble towered over the smith, and had a nasty habit of looking down his nose at the smaller man. He held out a scrap of paper.

“Make me this. When can you have it done?”

The smith took the paper and walked over to the window. He studied the drawing for a moment, and then looked up. “What is it for?”

She stepped out of the shadows, and with a sidelong glance at the Lord, answered, “It is a device for controlling my climbing ropes. Please, it must be as smooth as you can make it.”

The Lord cuffed her and she flinched back into the shadows. The smith held his tongue. Literally, between his teeth. He loathed the way women were treated in this country, but until he was free…

Between gritted teeth, he addressed the shadowy girl. “Lady, it will be smoother than glass.”

The Lord raised his brows. “Lady? Hah – call her Gardener, more like. When will it be done?”

“By tonight.”

He boldly turned his back on the big man, ostensibly to study the drawing once more.

When they had left the shop, he sighed and set to work on the design, deceptively simple conjoined circles, but with a little set of horns projecting at the rear… In the heat of the forge and the familiar rhythms of his work he finally relaxed again. His day passed pleasantly, and he had all but forgotten the mysterious woman.

He was seated at the table below the window, working in the last light of the sun,  when a tap on his shoulder startled him. He whirled, knocking over his stool, to face the Gardener.

“I am so sorry.” She was pale, one hand to her throat in her surprise.

He caught his breath and straightened from his half-crouch. “My fault, Lady. I was  thinking of other things.”

She regarded him for a moment, and he wondered what she saw. She was caught in the light from the window, and the setting sun gilded her hair and reflected from her eyes, like a fire was lit in her brain. She smiled, finally.

“Thank you for your words, Smith. I am rarely acknowledged, much less addressed.”

“Women in my country are not treated like animals,” he replied stiffly.

“Oh, it is more than that with me.” Sadly, she smiled at him. He realized that they were eye to eye. He had gotten so used to craning his neck to talk to anyone, men and women alike… He looked her up and down, from head to toe, and the warmth in her cheeks had nothing to do with the sun’s light.

He turned and picked up a package from his worktable. “Here you are.”

She took it from him, and with a shy look through her lashes at him, opened it.  She pursed her lips and slid her hand through the larger opening, feeling the smooth finish. He noticed for the first time that her hands were rough and cracked.

He turned back to the table, and picked up what he had been working on when she entered and scared the living daylight out of him. “Lady…”

He turned with it in his hand, but she was gone. He sagged back on his stool. Why had he thought of her, with this gift? He’d been paid for the climbing device, but the second item had been for her. She was the Lord’s thief, sent to take what was not his. Tonight she had been sent to steal rapunzel from the witch’s garden, he was sure. The witch and the Lord were allies, but in their twisted power games, minions were disposable. They often tried to get one up on the other, and the rapunzel’s healing powers would be an asset to the Lord.

Work of Art

Really, I think my stories are just that, stories. And I make pictures to go with them, sometimes. I’m still a little shy of calling myself an artist. But here’s the picture that goes with the fantasy short story I’m publishing this week. Still making up my mind on the title. It could be Wood and Iron, the Dwarf’s Dryad, or even the Garden Thief. I changed the main character’s name from Acer, the species name, to Maple, thinking most readers wouldn’t make the connection. What do you think?

The artwork that will grace the cover of a fantasy story.

Digging into Writing

My weekly post is up at ASM: Click Here

I compare two of my favorite pasttimes to one another, gardening and writing. Also, how editing is a lot like weeding!

Gardening feeds your family’s bodies, writing feeds your reader’s minds.

Imagination Rules

Simplicity, because sometimes we want to give our kids everything, when all they really need is their imagination.

Working on a title

I am getting ready to publish this short story, and I don’t have a name for it. Well, I do, but I don’t like it. I’ve been calling it the Smith and the Gardener. Which is accurate enough, I suppose, but cumbersome, and vague. So far the suggestions from beta readers have been good. I’m leaning toward the Dwarf’s Dryad, or the Garden Thief. I’m putting a snippet of the story below, so you can get an idea of what it’s about…

The blacksmith first met her in his shop. He had not seen her come in, hidden in the shadow of her Lord. The burly noble towered over the smith, and had a nasty habit of looking down his nose at the smaller man. He held out a scrap of paper.

“Make me this. When can you have it done?”

The smith took the paper and walked over to the window. He studied the drawing for a moment, and then looked up. “What is it for?”

She stepped out of the shadows, and with a sidelong glance at the Lord, answered, “It is a device for controlling my climbing ropes. Please, it must be as smooth as you can make it.”

The Lord cuffed her and she flinched back into the shadows. The smith held his tongue. Literally, between his teeth. He loathed the way women were treated in this country, but until he was free…

Between gritted teeth, he addressed the shadowy girl. “Lady, it will be smoother than glass.”

The Lord raised his brows. “Lady? Hah – call her Gardener, more like. When will it be done?”

“By tonight.”

He boldly turned his back on the big man, ostensibly to study the drawing once more.

When they had left the shop, he sighed and set to work on the design, deceptively simple conjoined circles, but with a little set of horns projecting at the rear… In the heat of the forge and the familiar rhythms of his work he finally relaxed again. His day passed pleasantly, and he had all but forgotten the mysterious woman.

He was seated at the table below the window, working in the last light of the sun,  when a tap on his shoulder startled him. He whirled, knocking over his stool, to face the Gardener.

“I am so sorry.” She was pale, one hand to her throat in her surprise.

He caught his breath and straightened from his half-crouch. “My fault, Lady. I was  thinking of other things.”

She regarded him for a moment, and he wondered what she saw. She was caught in the light from the window, and the setting sun gilded her hair and reflected from her eyes, like a fire was lit in her brain. She smiled, finally.

“Thank you for your words, Smith. I am rarely acknowledged, much less addressed.”

“Women in my country are not treated like animals,” he replied stiffly.

“Oh, it is more than that with me.” Sadly, she smiled at him. He realized that they were eye to eye. He had gotten so used to craning his neck to talk to anyone, men and women alike… He looked her up and down, from head to toe, and the warmth in her cheeks had nothing to do with the sun’s light.

He turned and picked up a package from his worktable. “Here you are.”

She took it from him, and with a shy look through her lashes at him, opened it.  She pursed her lips and slid her hand through the larger opening, feeling the smooth finish. He noticed for the first time that her hands were rough and cracked.

He turned back to the table, and picked up what he had been working on when she entered and scared the living daylight out of him. “Lady…”

He turned with it in his hand, but she was gone. He sagged back on his stool. Why had he thought of her, with this gift? He’d been paid for the climbing device, but the second item had been for her. She was the Lord’s thief, sent to take what was not his. Tonight she had been sent to steal rapunzel from the witch’s garden, he was sure. The witch and the Lord were allies, but in their twisted power games, minions were disposable. They often tried to get one up on the other, and the rapunzel’s healing powers would be an asset to the Lord.

That this slight woman would attempt the witch’s walls… That was the only house he knew of with walls that would require the kind of gear she was using. He’d known what he was making. The high mountains and sea cliffs of his home often required such things for those who kept themselves safe with ropes on their way both up and down.

Rumor in the village had it that she was a vampire, from her pale skin and infrequent daylight appearances. He had never seen her until today, and now the Smith thought he knew better. She worked in the Lord’s great garden, and her lack of color was from the shrouding robes she must wear, or burn herself in the sun. And what kind of thief always left flowers to replace the taken items? Even in winter, delicately fashioned wood flowers had been found.

With a deep sigh, the smith stood and pulled his heavy tunic over his head. He still clutched the lady’s gift in his fist. The witch was a formidable opponent. He would see what he could do. He’d spared some magic in the making of this bauble, of what little he had left.

He walked out into the night, softly and surely taking the right path in the dark. His father’s blood ran in his veins, and he could see like a cat in the dark. He found her at the foot of the wall, near a tree. He actually found her by the sounds of her whispers.

She was dressed in black, in men’s clothing, and already the ropes were twisted in an elaborate harness around her, but she was leaning against the tree, one arm thrown around it, as though she were embracing her sister, and whispering to it.

“Lady?” he spoke very softly, not wanting to frighten her. Her eyes flew open, and she looked at him.

“Smith? Why are you … here?” she stumbled over her words.

“You left before I could give you this.”

He held out the bracelet in the palm of his hand, and her fingers grazed his skin as she took the delicate links. He saw the pleasure on her face at the beauty of the little thing, and then she sighed and put it back in his still outstretched hand.

“I cannot. I have no way to repay you.” She met his eyes fiercely. “I am no thief of my own will.”

Free Story and More…

I now have a Goodreads Author page. Not sure what I’m going to do with it. Ideas?

Plant Life is free for 24 hours only! In Amazon’s infinite wisdome (not really, but there are days…) the system would only let me do one day. So get it fast, even if you won’t have time to read it until later. It is only available in a single edition at this time.

And my weekly post at Amazing Stories Magazine is up, albeit a day late. I wrote oddly… not a surprise to you all, I would think. I was tired, and did a brief pastiche of thoughts and an old blog post.

I think that’s it. Not much progress in the writing department, as the house projects keep unraveling from one project into three. It has to obey the laws of entropy eventually, right? I did succeed in assembling and filling all my bookshelves. Which means I need another one. LOL

This was at the reading and signing last month.

Watch This Title

I am offering Plant Life, a novella about planetary exploration, free for a limited time. I’m doing this to provide you, my reader, with a chance to sample my work as I get ready to publish a new title, and to celebrate the publication of one of my stories by Naked Reader Press on or about June 15…

This is a very limited offer. It will start soon, and end as of midnight tomorrow. Wasn’t my choice, but I figure the price is right, you’ll take it!

Cover And Blurb Clinic

Reblogged from madgeniusclub:

Guys, with the understanding that I'm not wonderful, not even close to the best at this -- the best at this is Kevin J. Anderson, which is a good example of people getting natural gifts when (theoretically at least) they don't need it -- if you want to post your covers here, and your blurbs, and have me critique them and maybe change a few of them to show how to improve them, feel free.

Read more… 143 more words

I've submitted one of my covers for a much-needed critique. There are pearls of wisdom here, not only in the blog post, but in the comments, so keep reading to the very end.