D. Wallace Peach's Blog, page 122

The Melding of Aeris arrives with the rain

The Melding of Aeris showed up today down by the barns, wrapped in plastic against the rain. We live out in the boonies and that’s as close to the house as anything in the back of a delivery truck is likely to get. This is the time of year in Oregon when the faucet turns on. The rain literally pours, like in buckets, and it will do so for the next eight or nine months. We have fifty different words for rain out here and at least a dozen for the rays of sunshine that occasionally burst through the clouds. Back east we had rain showers; here we have sun breaks.

This is the season of moss too, thick squishy moss on roofs and fences and anything else left outside. A local photographer takes pictures of old junk cars covered in decades of moss. There’s one that catches my eye – a car so encased in its emerald cloak that it appears as if there’s a steering wheel in a secret green cave. I could crawl in through the window and pretend I’m a hobbit.

Our summers are so short that we pack a year’s worth of outdoor chores, vacations, picnics, festivals, gardening, and hikes into three months (that’s if we’re lucky). The arrival of rain usually accompanies a massive sigh. Light a fire in the woodstove, put on a pot of tea, back bread, swallow 500 mg. of vitamin D, grab a good book, and enjoy a forced respite from the frenzy of summer. And it’s good sleeping weather by the by. We open the window and listen to the rain pound on our metal roof. I love the rain this time of year. But I won’t tell you how I feel about it come June.

The Melding of Aeris is now available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Writing Inside-out or Outside-in.

The internet brims with advice on how to write (this little blog included). I most enjoy reading the wonderings of those of us who are still exploring the mystery of this craft, this art. So few absolutes exist in the realm of creativity. How wonderful that we all possess distinctive voices, styles and stories to tell. To me, writing is organic and personal. I believe we need to discover, encourage and play with our own inner muses.

Lately, I’ve read a number of blogs and how-to narratives that outline the steps for developing character and plot. Some offer great wisdom, while others (often those written by the “experts”) strike me as incredibly formulaic. And I don’t mean general guidelines with a few obvious rules. I mean fill in the blanks! To me, these strictures feel deadening, and I worry that new writers in particular will unwittingly lose the opportunity to discover the unique storyteller within.

I wrote my first book without a clue as to what I was doing. And despite the painful drudgery of endless editing to address my ignorance and learn the craft, I’m glad I did it that way. Because I loved the creative process. I love writing from the inside out. I’m not sure if I would have come to the same conclusion writing a fill-in-the-blank book with fill-in-the-blank characters.

As I finish final edits on my current project, I’ve begun to stir the cauldron and will soon enter the contemplative process of conjuring up the next story. That’s what it feels like to me…magic. That spark of inspiration bubbles up from inside me, not from a formula, and when it arrives, it’s mine.

In his book, Eternal Echoes, John O’Donohue, the Irish poet and author, writes: “The natural and ancient creativity of soul is being replaced by the miserable little arithmetic of know-how.”

I would second this bit of wisdom and the attendant advice. As artists, we may relish our rules-of-writing consciousness, but inspired writing rarely springs from a formula. Writing is alive with subtlety, impression and intent. Listen, learn, revisit, and then find your own way. You are the artist.

Map Making

I seem to be needing maps for several of my latest adventures in writing. Actually, I’ve always create hand-drawn maps as part of my world-building, but they’ve been for my reference only. As far as amateur maps go, some turn out rather nicely, carefully crafted, while others are horribly scribbled.

Now I have a few books in the works where I think the maps may be of interest and helpful to the readers. The stories take place in sweeping landscapes – islands in the case of Dragon Soul and a whole continent for Sunwielder. The hand-drawn artwork isn’t going to cut it.

So I invested in a map-mapping program, designed for games, but suitable for books. Don’t ask me how that works quite yet, as I haven’t moved that far into the process. However, I did make a map!

I went with Profantasy, available at a decent price and with good quality. I got scary warnings about downloading the user’s guide and haven’t taken that step, but there’s an awesome youtube tutorial as part of the “help” function. I watched the tutorial, paused, drew a coastline, watched another segment, inserted mountains, watched… you get the idea. In about five hours, my first attempt at a map was done! Supposedly this is a very basic map, but not too shabby.

The map is for Sunwielder. 

Cover Art – The Melding of Aeris

The Melding of Aeris is getting closer to release. The cover art is done, crafted by the very talented Jamie Johnson at Mockingbird Lane Press. The book is due out this fall. Stay tuned.

Cover Art

The Trag

Lately there’s been some interest in the Trag. Originally his history was included in Myths of the Mirror, but space constraints took precedence and his little scene went the way of many others. I always loved his story though and saved it. Here it is:

The Trag

By the time Treasa toddled into her second year, Mirah longed to acquire a small dragon. Captured in the balmy vales of the Tradelands, far across the western sea, little dragons lay beyond her means. Perhaps aside from the governors, not a single family in the village could afford one. Yet, she set aside a copper or two when she found one to spare, feeling alternately hopeful and discouraged by her progress.

In the end, it was Wyn, who on a summer’s morning, filled her pockets with copper coins and shushed all objections. “It’s time you’re off to Riverglenn,” she said as little tow-headed Gae clung to her apron, hiding a shy smile in the folds. With Treasa in her arms, she handed Mirah a flagon of water and basket with brown bread and ripe plums wrapped in a soft cloth. She then proceeded to prod her out the door, barely giving her time to hook the clasp of her cloak. With a sigh of both relief and resignation, Mirah set off south, knowing Wyn spoke the truth.

For a full day, she walked the narrow track through forests of fern, velvet with moss, and wildflower meadows blooming with thistle, snapdragon, and wild rose. And when evening descended, she watched the lamplights of Riverglenn wink to life in the distance, stars on a blue silk horizon. Wrapped in her cloak, she rested deep in a field of bread grass and thought of Morfael, her heart’s desire. She understood why she needed this dragon; as if by holding it in her heart and hearth, she could regain a piece of the love she’d lost. Morfael’s legacy and Treasa’s birthright, a dragon connected her daughter to a dead father … however obliquely.

Her basket on her arm, she wound her foot-worn way through the cobbled squares of Riverglenn, the town a rambling patchwork of quaint homes, trellised gardens, and brightly adorned markets. She wandered past shops selling oddities she’d never before noticed: feathered cloaks and wind-wheels, hanging pots, and all sorts of plumed hats and curiously shaped shoes. She saw no merit in most of it and shook her head wonderingly at the trifles on which people wasted their copper. Unlike Dragons? She smiled at her senselessness, her pockets jingling with another woman’s coin.

The shop Mirah entered lay wedged between its larger neighbors, squat and narrow with a noticeable scent of foul wrinkling her nose. The frowning proprietor stood behind a rough counter, his black cloak and broad-brimmed hat in better condition than the old man who donned them. A frighteningly jaundiced fellow with a brittle gray beard, he cast one steely eye at her, while the other slightly bluer version gazed loosely to her left. She allowed herself a respectfully brief glimpse and attempted to focus on the one sizing her up.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and, brushing away the sticky cobwebs lacing her hair, she studied the contents of six filigreed cages. They crowded the grimy front window  and lined one wall on a long low bench, each bearing a tiny winged dragon. The scales on two of the dragons appeared solid in color, the smaller one silver with emerald eyes, the other jasper, almost russet with black tufts sprouting from the tips of its ears. The other four dragons were dappled with watercolor scales flowing down their backs, wings mottled in the hues of dragonflies, so magnificent Mirah envisioned jewels set out to glitter in the sun. The dragons chirped, prooked, and hissed at her, snapping their tiny tails against the wire bars.

“Are they friendly?” she asked, worried that perhaps she’d made a mistake.

“They just don’t know ya,” the man explained. “Take no time to get ‘em where they need be.”

With a sigh of relief, she walked along the bench, bending down and peering into the cages. An exquisite amethyst dragon with green tourmaline wings drew her eye, strutting in its cage, webbed wings fanned as if well aware of its own beauty. With every step, the light from the front window glinted off the deep purple scales. “How much is this one?” she asked.

“She’s a keeper,” the old man said as he opened the cage and stuck a gnarled hand inside. The little creature hopped onto his wrist and he drew the dragon out. It clung to his sleeve, webbed wings lifting and stretching as it searched for balance. It gazed at Mirah and blinked, its forked tongue flicking at the air. “She be ‘bout sixty silver,” he stated.

Mirah’s face flushed with embarrassment, disappointment, or foolishness, she couldn’t decide which one or whether all three tore at her heart. Her hands slipped into her pockets, clutching her fistfuls of copper. No need to count it, she knew she held nothing close to sixty silver coins. She wondered what she’d been thinking.

The man’s steel-gray eye seemed to track her thoughts. He placed his arm back in the cage, shook the stunning dragon loose, and snapped the cage door shut. Craning his neck, he waved her farther toward the back and pointed. “This one here, ya can have for forty.”

The cage held the sleek jasper dragon with the black-tipped ears. Mirah wiggled a finger between the wires and the dragon prooked at her, blinking with sunstone eyes. She would have purchased him, but she didn’t possess forty silver coins either; that amounted to a small fortune.

“He’s pleasant lookin’ in his own case,” the man added, seeming to sense her hesitation. “But that’s as low as I go,” he asserted, leaving her there as he returned to the front of the shop.

Her shoulders fell with a sigh and then, with nothing left to do or say, she thanked the shopkeeper and headed toward the door and her long walk home.

“Wait! Wait a one,” the grizzled man called, sinking down on a tall wooden stool by his plank counter. “Come back,” he said with a wave.

“I don’t have enough,” Mirah explained as she stood at the door.

The man dropped his gaze and shook his weary head. He sighed with resignation and slapped his hand on the counter. “Put it out,” he said, “and we see what ya got.”

“It’s not enough,” she repeated, tears welling in her eyes; she felt so completely heart-broken.

The slightly blue eye softened. “Come on, come on.”  He waved her over again. “Put it out. Down here. Come on.”

Her humiliation already as deep as it could burrow, Mirah sighed and walked to the rough counter. She dug in her pockets and pulled out every copper she carried, dropping them into a pitiful pile. The man inhaled a deep breath and adjusted his hat.

“You see?” she said. “It’s not enough.” Her fingers reached for the coin, ready to gather it up, her point clearly made.

A knotted hand rose to stop her as the old man silently counted the coin. “Thirty two,” he concluded and rose from his stool. “Must be I’m gettin’ old,” he muttered to no one in particular and headed to the back of the shop. He walked past the dragon with the black tufted ears and pushed through a creaking wood door.

Almost afraid to hope, Mirah waited.

The door squealed on its hinges when the man returned with a small wooden crate that he set on the counter. She peered inside and beheld a sapphire and emerald dragon. Its sea-shaded scales glittered, deep indigos and jade-greens in waves over its back, falling to a pale sky blue underbelly.

“It got decent color,” the man noted, “but it got a wreck wing. Never fly.”  He lifted a withered wing, half the size of its healthy twin. “A tragedy,” the man added. “Don’t want ‘em, can’t sell ‘em. Yers if ya want ‘em.” He pushed the crate toward Mirah.

The tiny dragon flicked its tail and blinked. “Prook,” it chirped and then hissed ferociously at her, its forked tongue fluttering.

“I’ll take him,” she stated with a determined smile. The dragon could have snapped off her fingertip and he’d still be hers. The remains of her bread stuffed in a pocket, she slung the half-empty flagon of water over her shoulder. With the cloth in her basket arranged into a comfortable nest, she instructed the man to lower the creature into the folds.

The dragon stood unsteadily and flapped. “Akakak, akakak,” it barked, catching its good wing on the lip of the basket.

Carefully, Mirah tucked the dragon in. “Stay there,” she cooed. Thanking the old man kindly, she headed for the lane.

“Wait there,” the shopkeeper called. “Yer coin.” He waved to the small pile on the counter. Mirah turned to face him, confused, afraid she’d misunderstood him. That was all she brought, she had nothing else to offer.

“I can’t sell ‘em,” the man repeated. “So take yer coin.” With a trembling hand, Mirah scraped the copper into a pocket, caught the man’s steely gray eye and began to cry at his kindness. He scowled and waved her away, as if he’d endured enough compassion for one day. “See to yer tragedy,” he called as she stepped through the door into the sunlight, and so the Trag was named.

 

Revel

Well, I wrote a blog entry earlier this month and never posted it. I was venting and who really wants all that negativity.

But that isn’t the real reason it never made it to the page. The honest reason for my lackadaisical effort this month is the arrival of a new human being, a tiny little boy, my grandbaby, Revel.

I love musing over the fact that everything living today originated in the primordial soup of an ancient planet. We are descendants of the ancient world, carrying within us the dna of first life, journeying back billions of years, a long unbroken thread.

The thread is yet unbroken.