D. Wallace Peach's Blog, page 121

Liebster Award

I usually don’t get too excited about awards – probably because I’ve never been a winner (in that sense at least). But it sure feels great to have my little blog noticed after 2-1/2 years of posting.  So…first things first, thank you to Erynn (http:www.erynnwrites.files.wordpress.com) for nominating me for the Liebster Blog Award! I’m honored.

Of course, there are a few rules I’m now obligated to follow:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eleven short random facts about me:

I don’t like chocolate. Go figure.
Yesterday I ate a whole watermelon in one sitting.
I was a theater major in college—a very useful degree.
I’m a big fan of moss.
I can’t cook – it just doesn’t make sense to me.
I didn’t go in the ocean for 15 years after Jaws hit the movie theaters.
Then I became a scuba diver and wouldn’t get out.
I used to rock climb, but will never jump out of an airplane.
My biggest fear is dentists.
I dress like a bag-lady.
I always try to choose love over fear…

Now for Erynn’s questions:

What kind of music do you listen to while writing, if any at all?

New age instrumental, if at all.


What is it about writing that keeps you going, even when you’re not sure you want to continue?

I haven’t reached the saturation point yet. Very little I’d rather be doing.


Who is your favorite author?

That’s a tough one!!! Here are three I’ve enjoyed recently: Patrick Rothfuss, Mark Lawrence, and Joe Abercrombie (fantasy authors).


What genre do you read, but swear you’ll never write?

I’ve been reading a bit of spy, counter-intelligence, action novels lately, but wouldn’t have a clue how to write one.


What do you do when you tell yourself something along the lines of “I’ll only procrastinate a little bit longer?”

Like with housework? I set the timer on the stove so my procrastination has a limit.


What brings you right into a writing mood, and how do how keep it that way?

I wake up and stay awake. That’s all it takes J.


Favorite series and favorite stand-alone?

How about the most influential? Tolkien’s Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, because those books opened the world of reading to me. And Earth Abides by George Stewart written in 1949. I never forgot that one.


Have you ever seriously screwed up your sleeping schedule because of a book? Was it worth it, and what were you reading?

Yes and yes, many times. Most recently? Tequila Assassin: Malinalli Way by Greg Prosmushkin (a new author).


What do you do to remember those ideas you come up with when you’re not able to write?

I make notes – phone, tablet, napkin. If I don’t at least jot the idea down, it’s gone.


Are there any books or series that you thought were great and then the ending just ruined everything for you?

Sure, but I don’t like to rag. Usually they are books where the end doesn’t grow organically from the story, like when a character explains the plot at the end, or when new elements are added out-of-the-blue at the end to wrap things up.


Why do you write?

I’m a little addicted to writing. Can’t imagine doing anything else.

Here are my eleven nominations. I don’t follow too many blogs, but these are some great sites that I regularly visit:

www.Organizingchaosandothermisadventures@wordpress.com

http://injaynesworld.blogspot.com/

www.TLGRAY.BLOGSPOT.COM

www.BLOG.TERICROSSCHETWOOD.COM

http://www.sherizeck.com/my-blog.html

http://killaley.wordpress.com/

http://audreydriscoll.com/

http://writersotj.wordpress.com/

http://www.danielarenson.com/

http://www.scifibookreview.com/

http://mistressandhermuse.wordpress.com/

And here are my questions for you talented writing bloggers:

What are you working on right now?
Where do you write and why?
What’s the first creative piece you remember writing?
Where do you find inspiration?
Was there a moment in time when you decided to become a writer? What happened?
What book(s) has most influenced you as a person?
What book(s) has most influenced your writing?
Why did you choose your genre?
Is there a book you would love to see in film?
What are you currently reading?
In 2-3 sentences, give us your elevator pitch on something of yours you’d like us to read!

As always,

Happy Writing!

Writing for the audience of…me.

Days before my latest book hit the press, my publisher emailed me a question. “Sunwielder has a little of everything: war, romance, love, friendship, violence, and humor. What audience did you write it for?”

Good question.

It’s a blessing she and I communicate by email, or she would have seen the clueless, dumb-ass look on my face, my mouth forming my snappy, cutting-edge reply, “Uh…Oops.”

Without a doubt, the inquiry got me thinking, and to be honest, it wasn’t the first time I’ve contemplated the idea of writing with an audience in mind. I suppose many authors do, and from a marketing perspective, having a target consumer in mind is…um…what’s the word…imperative?

But I can’t write that way, at least not intentionally. My stories feel more organic than that, coalescing in the puny nutshell of my brain and suddenly cracking open into consciousness. I can only write from the inside out, and therefore, I wonder, is the audience…me?

The answer in a way is “yes.” The stories and characters compel me to put them to paper; the themes invade the little globe of my life. They can’t help but reflect elements of my worldview, my real and imagined experiences, my despairs and hopes. If I consider this question logically, why would any artist intend to create a work of art she or he didn’t like?

As a person entering the last third of life, I spend a portion of my idle minutes musing over past choices and the myriad shifts they prompted in the winding path of my own story. This sunny-afternoon, garden-gazing pondering definitely informed Sunwielder. Those who most “get” the book, it seems, share this stage of life with me and the accompanying tendency toward reflection. So, yah, the audience is probably “yours truly.” Thankfully, I’m a fairly run-of-the-mill human being to which a few souls out there can relate.

So, why does Sunwielder have a little of everything? I suppose because that’s how I perceive the complexity and poignancy of an authentic life. What human life isn’t a conglomeration of different bits, a pie chart of multiple, disparate wedges forming a whole? Gryff Worden, the Sunwielder, needs to be relatable, and though the details of his story may differ from ours, I’d argue that the reality of the way choices sculpt his life is universal to us all.

The Zone

 

I don’t know about you, but for me, the creative process requires a lengthy visit to “the Zone.” If you’re an artist of any kind, you probably know what I’m talking about, surely sense the obsessive urge, the quiver of excitement at the prospect of exploring undiscovered shores. My creative muse resides there, tantalizing and intoxicating, and she demands my undivided attention.

I love my forays into the Zone, despite its consumption of my life. It’s creative gluttony, stuffing my face with words, gobbling down characters, disgorging pathos. When I dive into the Zone, I’m not myself. I’m immersed in my craft, drowning in a taste of pure manna like an addict. The rest of the world fades into the hazy horizon as the Zone awakens that right brain craving.

As a writer, this is especially true during my first draft when a story’s taking shape. Within the Zone, unfamiliar scenes tap from my fingertips and uncooperative characters demand a voice. A fickle wind pushes my plot, requiring vigilance to stay on course. As an adventurer, I’m on my own, trying to make sense of an untold tale before I return to my ordinary life, take a long overdue shower…wash loads of stinky laundry…vacuum blankets of dog hair…make dinner for a gaunt spouse surviving on snack food.

Fortunately, my visits to the Zone are temporary, and I recognize the pattern well enough now that I can plan ahead. “Okay, everybody,” I announce to the family, “I’m going to the Zone for a month. See ya.” My eyes droop and I make a pouty face as if I’m going to miss them, but inside I’m giddy as a new mom with a night out. Party time for me and my laptop!

Here’s a typical conversation when I’ve entered the Zone:

Husband: “Blah blah…dinner…blah blah…oil change…blah blah blah?”—long pause—“I might as well live alone.”

Me: “What?”

Sad, but true.

I’m starting to emerge from my most recent jaunt into the Zone. My latest creation, The Bone Wall, feels ready for a little breathing room. I timed my journey well this year, with spring on the way and the weeds in my garden whining for attention. The husband and house require a healthy dose of TLC too that I’ll sate over the summer…but, oh yes, you guessed it…in preparation for another spree into the Zone come fall. I can’t wait!

 

Big Hearts and Artists

I’ve heard through the rumor-mill that somewhere in the wide world there are writers who attempt to sabotage the work of others with snarky reviews, solely for the purpose of laying low the “competition.” If they exist, I imagine them sitting in dark caves, ruminating over their coveted creations like Gollum over his “precious” gold ring, too myopic to envision a world with thousands of well-told stories brimming with unique voices, colorful characters, vivid worlds, and artistic originality.

I’m happy to report this hasn’t been my experience. In fact, I’ve found within a big-hearted writing community little beyond open encouragement and a helping hand. This doesn’t translate to blind enchantment with everything I produce (I have my mother for that), but it does mean that I’ve encountered thoughtful honesty, generous support, and cheery enthusiasm for my passion and my desire to do something I love.

Writing is rarely a solitary effort. Of course, when I tap out a tale, I’m feet-up in my recliner, immersed in my own little fantasy bubble, but there’s a point when that bubble must pop, when a story needs fresh eyes and a little honest feedback. Every writer I’ve encountered in this process has willingly carved out scraps of time to help me better my craft, through reflection on what works and the constructive, pointed criticism that challenges me to look at my creation from a new perspective.

To me, art isn’t a race, a scramble for the top job or a sprint to the finish line. There’s no glittering tiara, no limit to the standing room on the podium. I can drool over the works of other authors and not feel diminished. I can rave over another’s talent and still have my own story to tell. Something kinda wonderful comes from sharing what you love to do with others, the wildly accomplished and the just starting out. Such is one of the pleasures of life.

The Bone Wall

With a few books wading through the publisher’s queue, I’ve started my next fantasy novel, titled The Bone Wall.

What possessed me (literally) to pen this dark tale is a mystery to me. I’m a nice person. A mom, granny, volunteer, and past-mental health counselor who worked with grieving children. I baby my pets, cherish my hubby, and haven’t a violent bone in my body. I get teary at the occasional TV commercial and that’s pretty darn maudlin if you ask me.

Yet as an author of works of fantasy, I travel often down the road of “what if.” Sometimes that journey is light-hearted and happily-ending, and other times, when the news of the day makes me fear for our world, the path I wander is much darker. This is one of those grim trails.

The human journey through time is sunbathed and shadowed with remarkable advancements, some clouded with secret and not-so-secret costs. What if we continue to poison our land, water and air in the name of progress and profit? What if we continue to blast our way through conflicts on a global and personal scale? What if we abandon compassion, no longer our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers? What becomes of us when righteousness is blind?

This book is a work of fantasy in a world without vision or concern for consequence. A broken world.

The Bone Wall – Prolog

My sister stands by her window in the moonlight, the only light in the stone chamber. Carved of alabaster, she’s a statue whittled by a master’s artful hand, naked skin pale, shadowed, wraithlike in its translucence. Her hair gathers moonbeams, corn-silk draped over shoulder-bones, free of the blood staining her face and hands. Gray eyes honed with steel study a landscape of gnarled trees, skeletal limbs clawing with broken fingers from a dead land. All around her the world dies. She is blind to the fragile greenness of new leaves.

Her clothes lie in a heap on the floor, the reek of battle, sweat, and blood thick in the folds, threads of terror woven into the very fabric. She will dream in blood, wear those clothes without respite, glory in the gore of shredded flesh. My sister is demon-born, exquisite in her purity, and Death’s Devil has his grips on her.

I am her twin, one and the same, and this is her story.

My tale begins in Heaven…

Sunwielder – off to the press

Tomorrow Sunwielder heads to the printing press and a couple weeks after that it arrives on my doorstep. These are thrilling moments in the life of a writer – another book birthed, another soul-bearing to the world.

Sunwielder came out of my own musings. How many times have I gazed back at the path of my life and wondered how one small decision, one minute choice or event changed my course. Waitressing in a diner at age sixteen led to a number of years in  the restaurant business, which led to meeting my first husband, which led to a daughter and a new career, which led to my second husband who encouraged me to write. Even mistakes and disasters can inform our lives. The tragedy of 9/11 sent me off on a new career path after 18 years with one company, swapping business for human services. My brother’s murder in 2003 will run its ripples through my life and my writing for the rest of my days.

What if we could go back and remake our choices? Avoid our miseries? Make better decisions and new mistakes that open wonderful doors? That’s the magic of Sunwielder.

Sunwielder

In a land on the brink of war, Gryff Worden finds his life slaughtered in the farmyard. Mortally wounded he stumbles upon a timekeeper, a woman who tracks the infinite paths of each life. She offers him a sunwield, a medallion that returns him to the critical choices that altered his life’s journey. Now his life remakes itself through the sunwield, returning him repeatedly to moments of decision and death, his old life gone, the purpose of the medallion around his neck forgotten. As he uncovers the power of the sunwield, new choices lead him on an epic journey through war, death, friendship, life, and love.

Available in March 2014. Check for print and download options on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and ibooks. 

 

Winter’s Creative Gift

The holidays come to a hectic close and my favorite time of year ambles in. Here is Oregon, if you gaze out the window at the January weather, you’ll find a misty, drippy, icy, foggy-soggy mess, at least through May. That gives me five whole months of lighter obligations and a complete lack of guilt for not “enjoying the weather.” In a climate boasting only three months of sunshine, the Vitamin D police are checking every household for us slackers.

For quite a few creative sorts, our pursuits get back-burnered by other more pressing responsibilities – jobs, violin lessons, soccer practice, staining the deck, grocery shopping, sorting socks…it’s amazing that anything in the world ever gets painted, composed, sculpted, or tapped out on the keyboard.

We, who aren’t independently wealthy or already famous, squeeze precious moments for inspiration from the cracks of our crowded lives. We hide in our cubbyholes, our converted attics, our bedrooms and garages. (Oh, I’ve written in the bathroom too). We rise before dawn with a steamy cup of coffee, kiss our lovers goodnight and stay up with the stars. A weekend alone isn’t a time for melancholy wishes; it’s a little taste of heaven with a neglected muse.

Creative time is sacred time, hours marked with inky conviction on the calendar that can’t be erased. As artists, we need to cultivate a belief in the importance of what we do, even when other duties jostle for our attention. We need to believe in the intrinsic value of our art, even when no paycheck arrives in the mail. We need to honor our creative calling and spirit of inspiration, even when the doubters tell us how nice it is we have a hobby to fill our free time!

In Oregon, the winter weather comes bearing the creative gift of unassigned hours. No matter where you live, dedicate a few empty squares of your calendar to nourish your creative soul and save the dates as you would for your child’s wedding. Be resolved. Happy New Year.

The Old Fish with One Wish – a children’s story

This is a bedtime story told by one of my Dragon Soul characters to his small son. I hope you enjoy it. Happy Holidays!

The Old Fish with One Wish

There once was an old fisherman who lived in old cottage with his old wife, and in the sand outside his front door, he flipped over his old cockleboat. Now, across the cove, lived a young fisherman with his young wife. They owned a grand house with a fine fishing boat moored in the deep water. Every day the old fisherman would row to sea and fish, and complain about the unfairness of life and how he wanted a pretty wife and a grand house and a fine boat.

Then one day the old fisherman caught an old wrinkly fish that he dropped in his leaky bucket. He thought nothing of the ancient fish until the fish raised its slippery head out of the salty water and offered the old fisherman one wish if the man agreed to toss him back to the waves. It was a magic fish, you see, of which there are very few left in all the green seas. Well, that proved a difficult decision, because he wanted three things and the fish would only grant one wish. He wanted a pretty young wife; he wanted a grand house on the bay, and thirdly, a well-rigged fishing boat. The old fish told him to think long about it; the fish wasn’t in any hurry.

Well, the old fisherman thought about it all day. He didn’t want a young wife who wouldn’t want an old fisherman; he didn’t want a grand house if he was too idle to patch the roof, and he didn’t have any use for a hold full of salty fish. So it happened as the sun set, the time came to finish his thinking and make a choice. The old fisherman peered into his leaky bucket at the old wrinkly fish, and said, “See’s as if me life is just fine as it is. You can have me one wish, you old fish!” Then he tossed the fish back in the sea and rowed home.

When he got home, he flipped over his old boat and realized he had just the right boat for an old man to flip. When he opened the door to his old cottage, he saw a warm fire and supper on the hearth, and he thought he owned the coziest home an old man could own. And when his old wife laughed at his tale of the wrinkly fish with one wish, he laughed because he loved the sweetest old wife an old man could love. And he knew then that the fish had granted him each and every wish.”

Happy Endings (or NOT)

When I first starting writing, I received wise advice: Read!

Unfortunately, reading was something I had few minutes to indulge in. I saved books for vacations, voraciously gobbling them down at the exclusion of other pastimes. That scrimping for minutes ended several years ago when I began writing fulltime. I tap out my own stories during the day and rabidly consume the books of others into the night’s wee hours.

I’ve been reading fantasy, my genre, and spoiling myself with completed series. I hate waiting years for the next book and, frankly, don’t have the memory for it. By the time George Martin comes out with the next installment of his A Song of Ice and Fire series, I’ll have forgotten all the details that thread through the story and make it a rich read.

Starting that series wasn’t the only mistake I’ve made. Patrick Rothfuss is killing me with his fabulous Kingkiller Chronicles. Never again, I say. It amounts to reader-torture. And, I’ll tell you, after this long wait, the story better end happily! Which brings me to the point of this post…

I just inhaled two trilogies, Mark Lawrence’s The Broken Empire series and Robin Hobb’s Farseer Trilogy. I loved both and highly recommend them (lots of stars). However – slight spoiler alert here – neither series ends on what I’d call a happy note. A sense of peace, yes, but happy? Nope.

A friend told me that we endure a large dose of wrenching evil in the books we read because we get that incredible high when our protagonists prevail. We like the white hats to come out on top, their pain and sacrifice rewarded. We want to savor that last page and shout, “Yes!” not, “Oh, well.”

Perhaps it’s the blight of our times that we don’t expect happily-ever-after, can’t imagine it, even in our fantasies.

Lawrence’s and Hobb’s trilogies are beautifully written, compelling, and emotionally loaded, the characters richly textured and unforgettable. The reality of the human experience plays out in their lives, despite the fantasy worlds they inhabit. I love that, truly, but once in a while, I wouldn’t mind closing a book with a smile.

My Biggest Fan

Revel just got to the good part in my latest book, The Melding of Aeris.