Imposter Syndrome vs. Book 7.

Dear Reader,

As you may have noticed from how irregular my posts have been, I've been struggling to get back into daily posting. Some of this is due to life circumstances, such as my children having back to back snow days due to this biting cold weather. Some of this is due to my struggling with the feeling that I am not half as competent as I think I am on a good day. Imposter syndrome is a big thing and a lot of people struggle with it.

Right now, the only area that I feel comfortable expressing myself is with yarn. That makes working on a manuscript rather difficult. Granny squares are fairly simple and, in the grand scheme of things, very utilitarian. I struggle with writing because I was taught that it was a waste of time and told that I had no talent. (I'm not naming names of who said these things to me. As you may have observed in my anecdotes for the Artist's Way exercises I share with you, I have been keeping names and identifying qualities of the persons reserved. It is enough to say that at crucial, formative periods in my artistic life, I was taught some horrible things and for a long time believed them to be true.

It is very challenging for me to engage in things like sketching now because I struggle with the concept that my art is legitimate and valid. It is very difficult for me to write narratives that are reflections of myself due to trauma that has happened in my past surrounding things like keeping a journal. These challenges meld together and turn into the smothering mass known as imposter syndrome. And it is smothering, let me tell you. I look around at everything and second guess myself horribly. I question my competence and wonder when some 'expert' is going to step in and declare all of my faults before ruining my life.

This is making book seven particularly hard to write. Not because it is a fictionalized autobiography, though it would have been pretty cool if there was a dragon in my life when I was a kid that was kind and wise and stuff. No, I'm having a crisis of confidence as to if I can even finish this book. I'm not giving up. But I am taking a day off from working on it because I'm so muddled up that I can't think straight.

The Iron Lily part 22 - The Unquiet Field

Freystein lifted an arm and pointed to an open space among the trees. "THERE LIES MANY BONES. GRIFF SAID A GREAT BATTLE WAS FOUGHT ONCE. THE BONES OF MEN AND BEASTS LAY THERE SUCH THAT GRASS WILL NOT PROPERLY GROW," they said. Halthor resisted the urge to pull himself up to standing to attempt to peer over the mountain troll's head at where they pointed. "I HAVE WALKED THAT FIELD. THINGS ARE STRANGE THERE. I LIKE IT NOT. EVEN THE WIND BLOWS QUEERLY."

"Can you bring me there?" Halthor said, remembering the Blue Lady's talk of the battle where Count Olerand's great-grandfather had fallen in. Freystein turned their head and peered over their shoulder at Halthor. "Or at least bring me near enough I have safe passage?" Halthor asked. Freystein turned their gaze back at the snowbound field.

"I WILL BRING YOU TO THE TREES BUT I WILL NOT GO IN THAT FIELD. SOMETHING EVIL LIES THERE, WAITING FOR SOMEONE." Freystein answered. The mountain troll followed a wide path beneath endless evergreens. It seemed only a few paces and then they were at the edge of the field. Halthor carefully climbed down Freystein's side as the mountain troll stooped. They straightened and looked at the snow covered field. "I ADVISE YOU NOT TO TRESSPASS ON THIS CURSED GROUND, YOUNG HALTHOR." Halthor looked up at Freystein.

"I'm not so young," Halthor answered and the wind began to blow across the field. The sounds of combat met his ears. Halthor looked over and saw only the white expanse between the trees. Uncomfortable with this clamoring where there appeared to be none causing it, he slipped his hammer from its carrying loop. Freystein took a step back deeper into the treeline. "That is the sound of men," Halthor said, "Of many men in battle."

"I LIKE IT NOT. I WILL WAIT HERE IN THE SILENCE OF THE TREES," said the mountain troll. Halthor looked down at Elwis. The dog seemed untroubled by the clamoring of phantom soldiers. Deciding that if the dog wasn't troubled, he would just ignore the noise and walk the field, Halthor stepped forward. A sound like a great rushing wind rolled over him. Then the world moved sideways and the season changed. Halthor found himself standing at the edge of a great battle.

A banner with the white flower of house Olerand on sable ground flapped near him. The carrier lay bleeding on the ground, having used the last of his strength to stab the pole end into the earth. Deciding that Olerand's great-grandsire had to be somewhere near by, Halthor walked towards the doomed battle. A horse came clattering towards him and Halthor jumped out of the way. The builder looked up to see a tall man wearing plate armor rush past. Halthor watched as the rider clashed with another rider. Halthor saw a group of horses in a tight formation about a central rider under heavy assault. Halthor tried to see through the group to who was in the center of the knot of roiling violence. A flash of black and white told him that a noble of house Olerand was there.

Unsure of what to do, Halthor looked over at the banner planted beside him. He grasped the haft of the pole to free it and his passed through it as though it were but a shadow. Halthor turned and walked towards the combat and he heard the sound of the phantom arrow before it passed through him. The strange experience assured him that he was as safe as he could be walking through the field. He approached where the knights and their lord struggled. None saw or noted his passing, it was as though he was as much of a phantom to them as they were to him. Halthor carried the hammer in his right hand and tried to will the tension out of his shoulders. The constant noise of combat made him uneasy more than the phantoms of the combatants. He reached where the man wearing the colors of Olerand was on his horse.

A shield of a sort that Halthor hadn't seen before was on his left arm. Square and emblazoned with a stylized white lily and the white flower of Olerand on black, it was a striking sight. And then that sight dropped to the ground as an axe hewed the arm from the shoulder. Halthor tried to will himself to go into the melee to retrieve the shield. The sight and sounds of horses screaming along with those of men made him break out into a cold sweat. Elwis nudged Halthor and he looked at the dog. Reassured by the dog's presence at his side, Halthor reached out and grasped at where the shield would have fallen. His hand met snow. Halthor dropped his hammer into its carrying loop and began to dig in the snow. All around him the battle continued on in some kind of endless chaos.

Halthor's hands met metal that was bitingly cold. As soon as he did that, the illusion fell away and the sounds of combat turned into the moaning of the wind. Halthor dug in the snow and freed the shield. Beneath it, the bones of the former owner crumbled to dust. He pulled it up and an eerie feeling rolled over him. Halthor slipped his left arm through the straps of the shield to find that they were sound. The feeling that something was watching him grew stronger. Elwis whined at Halthor's side. Halthor looked around.

Upon the field, which was now properly snow covered, Halthor could see there was a shuddering over the snow. "Time to go," he said to Elwis and bolted to his feet. Though the shield was awkward to carry on his left arm, Halthor proceeded to run. Behind him, skeletons begain to rise out of the snow. Halthor paused as he reached where the banner of Olerand had once been and looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the skeleton army lumbering towards him. "Freystein!" Halthor shouted, "Time to go!"

The mountain troll came forward with a large log in hand. "NO, TIME TO FIGHT," they pronounced solemnly. Halthor groaned.

"I should have known you were going to say that," he muttered as he pulled his hammer from its loop and turned to face the horde.

AW:M1 Ex 4

[Redacted] was supposedly trying to help me. They looked at my journals and the things I was writing in the midst of a crisis. A few months later, [Redacted] used what I had written down - my innermost thoughts and my desperate attempt to keep my sanity through my writing - in an attempt to split up my family. It took me years to start journal writing to the same extent as I did before. Even now, I get afraid that some one is going to take my work and try to destroy my happy life that I have today.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[Redacted] was another 'kind soul' trying to help me. They were domineering and attempted to dictate what I was supposed to be writing. They got angry when I didn't listen to their 'advice' and dumped a lot of emotional garbage on me for not being the perfectly obedient child. [Redacted] started telling me that what ever I wrote was going to hurt the family. They told stories of people getting death threats and having bricks thrown through their windows for writing the wrong material. They told me that no one was ever going to want the things I was writing and that there was never going to be a market for it. [Redacted] told me that they were the only one who could help me make a career out of writing because of their business degree and that some how, magically, meant that they knew more about the process of writing and selling a book than I could ever learn. [Redacted] tried to pigeon hole me into writing children's fiction because I was young and I couldn't possibly, in their mind, write anything for someone like an adult to read.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Between [Redacted] and [Redacted], I have difficulty even today promoting and writing anything. I get afraid that my work is not good enough. I get afraid that my work is too taboo and an angry mob is going to show up at my door to destroy my life. I get afraid that everything I write, regardless of if it is fiction or not will be used against me to destroy my life.

Flora et Fauna: Research everything for world building.

Dear Reader,

In some ways, I have a mild advantage over a few others when it comes to world building. I grew up on a farm and I learned a lot about how plants grow and some about animal husbandry. (The primary crop on the farm was corn, soybeans, and peas. We had a few chickens for a while as I was a young kid. The neighbor across the way had cattle.) In the process of learning through immersion, I got a reasonable layman's education about how to keep a garden and the basics of modern food preservation.

When I started thinking about world building for the Umbrel Chronicles, I started asking myself questions about what kind of tools they used and what level of technology they had. I started asking myself what kind of food they ate and what kind of food they didn't eat because of cultural reasons. I asked how they grew and acquired their food. The reason why deer figure so heavily is because I have vivid memories as a child of my father and uncle hunting deer to supplement our winter pantry. one good sized deer provided enough meat to keep the whole farm (four households that made a total of 13 people) relatively well supplied for a few weeks.

I researched the butchering process and thought about including it in some of the books but then changed my mind when I realized I was going a little too deep into the world at that point in time. Still, I have the notes for if I need them earlier. Because the process of butchering a large animal in the fields are generally pretty similar for different large animals. And I know that the research process can have ideas churning away in the background for a while until I'm at a point where it would make sense for them to be inserted.

I have a stack of notebooks seven notebooks deep of research notes, plot drafts, and scenes. I draw a lot of material out of them, often using it in ways that I hadn't planned on in the beginning. It is a process that keeps me out of trouble because I'm always busy, but it is also a process that keeps feeding me new ideas and material to work with. This is why I think that world building, even on a limited scale, should be a part of writing fantasy fiction. It is an endless source of inspiration.

Sure, no one is going to be interested in the root system of a random plant. But when that root system becomes a plot device, you are going to want to have something about it worked out. Even if it is just a rough sketch on the back of a napkin that you've tucked into your notebook.

Craft of Writing: Know Your Limits (3/3)

Dear Reader,

Picture from Pexels.com

This is going to be a brief post. When you have hit that point where fear stops you, take a break. When you have hit that point where you just don't have the energy to push forward on that project, take a break. And when you have too many things going on in the day to make time for the project, take a break.

Writing is part of your life. That means that it is not the sole reason you live. You have to stop working to eat, sleep, and tend to your bodily needs, after all. When life gets in the way of writing, it is alright to take a break and attend to the matters of life that are in the way. In my case, it was doctor's appointments last week and chronic migraines this month. Things happen that keep us from hitting word count every day.

We must remember we are not machines. And we must remember that even machines breakdown from overwork. If you have reached your limit, take a tactical withdrawal and attempt an end run around it when you are ready. Because the well always fills up again with water when you are patient enough to stop drawing long enough to let it fill.

The Iron Lily: part 21 – Lord Stone, the Foundling

When Halthor woke, he found himself feeling stiff and uncomfortable. He moved to stretch and realized that the fire's smoldering ashes were near his feet. He looked up at Freystein's face. By the light of day, he could see that craggy face was a bit more humanoid than it seemed in the dark. With their eyes closed, the mountain troll seemed a carved statue, perhaps a grotesque that would have graced one of the high arched roofs of the temples. The mountain troll was perfectly still. Halthor questioned of the mountain troll was perhaps sleeping. He carefully stood up and found himself at eye level with the gigantic head that was resting upon a forearm, creating something of a roof over him to shelter Halthor, the dog, and the fire from the gently falling snow.

Halthor questioned how the mountain troll knew his name. He wondered what they had meant when they had said that Griff had sheltered them. More questions came to mind as Halthor looked about, first being how exactly was he going to relieve himself with out offending the mountain troll. Halthor turned around and found that Freystein had opened their platter sized eyes. "I WAS HOPING YOU WOULD WAKE SOON. WE HAVE FAR TO GO. WE MUST BREAK OUR FAST AND THEN PREPARE TO GO ONWARDS." Freystein boomed. Halthor's ears rang and he nodded in agreement. Freystein opened their arms and arose to their feet. The snow that had drifted up against their right side collapsed upon itself into a pile that nearly threatened the fire. Freystein reached out an enormous finger and carefully moved the entire pile of snow aside, revealing the grass hidden down below.

"Just what do you eat?" asked Halthor, doing his best to keep his sudden bout of nervousness out of his voice. Freystein smiled and gestured towards a tree. "You eat trees?" he said in confusion. Freystein chuckled and walked over to a gnarled, dead oak. Gripping the trunk at its base, with a grunt, the mountain troll pulled it free from the ground. Dirt fell off of the roots and scattered everywhere as Freystein walked back to Halthor.

"TREES FEED ME, I FEED THE TREES," they said. "MEN EAT FLESH AND GRAIN. TROLL KIND EAT TREES AND STONES. THE STORIES OF TROLLS EATING MEN ARE MOSTLY UNTRUE." Halthor squinted at Freystein. After an awkward moment, Halthor realized that the mountain troll was making a joke and shook his head. Halthor walked over to a clump of bushes and attempted to discreetly attend to his bodily needs. As he was doing so, Freystein said, "MEN ARE LIKE CATS AND HIDE THEIR LEAVINGS. YOU STILL REMEMBER BEING PREY. IT IS WHY YOU SURVIVE." Elwis had the audacity to piss on Freystein's right leg. The mountain troll looked down as it turned the tree in its hands around so that the roots were upward. Halthor found himself deeply concerned that Elwis wasn't long for the world but then Freystein laughed. "DOGS DO NOT CARE ABOUT POLITENESS, DO THEY?"

Halthor settled his clothes and rubbed his hands in the snow to clean them. He then walked over to where his pack sat beside Freystein. "GRIFF FOUND ME AS A YOUNGLING, A VERY SMALL YOUNGLING." Freystein said as Halthor rummaged around in his pack and pulled out a flask of ale and a loaf of bread. "HE KEPT ME IN HIS HOUSE UNTIL I WAS AS BIG AS HE WAS. HE THEN BROUGHT ME TO THE FOREST AND TAUGHT ME TO FORAGE. GRIFF WAS A GOOD FRIEND. HIS WIFE CALLED ME HER STONE BABY." Freystein smiled and took a bite out of the rootball of the tree. A noise like stones grinding together came from their mouth. "WHEN I HAD GROWN BIGGER, THEY CALLED ME LORD STONE. I TRAVELED FROM FOREST TO FOREST. I CARRIED NEWS FROM TRAVELERS TO GRIFF." Freystein said around a mouthful of roots and rocks. They swallowed and looked down at Halthor. "WHY ARE YOU NOT EATING?" Halthor looked down at the loaf of bread in his hand and shook his head slightly, as though waking from a dream. He broke off a section of the loaf and tossed it to Elwis. The red eared dog began eating the bread with a small growl. It was clear that Elwis wasn't pleased with the loaf of bread portion for his meal. Elwis finished tearing at the bread and began to sniff the ground. After a few moments, the dog began to trot in the direction of a rise in the snowy ground. It began to dig and soon a rabbit came popping out of the ground at a place near Halthor.

Freystein dropped a hand down around the rabbit. Halthor winced as his stomach roiled, fairly certain that the rabbit was nothing but red ruin. Elwis came over to Freystein's hand and began to dig under it and there was the muted sound of a scuffle shortly after under Freystein's hand. Freystein continued to leisurely chew on the tree in their other hand. They lifted their left hand from the ground and revealed Elwis tearing at the freshly killed carcass of the rabbit. "You've done that before?" Halthor asked.

"ELWIS AND I HAVE TRAVELED TOGETHER. GRIFF SAID THAT HE IS A SPECIAL BREED. ELWIS IS SMARTER THAN MOST DOGS. BRAVER THAN MOST TOO." Freystein replied. "GRIFF TOLD ME TO FIND ELWIS WHEN THE BAD MEN CAME THROUGH WYE. I RETURNED TO WYE AS GRIFF WAS DYING AND WYE WAS BURNING. HE GAVE ME THE DAUGHTER OF ALYRIN. HE TOLD ME TO BRING HER TO THE BLUE LADY AND THAT I WOULD FIND YOU THERE. HE SAW YOU IN THE BLACK MIRROR AT THE FAIR HOUSE." Freystein chewed on the middle portion of the tree and looked at Halthor. "YOU DID NOT KNOW GRIFF WAS A HUNTSMAN, DID YOU?" Halthor shook his head.

"HE SERVED THE STORM LORD AS YOU DO NOW," Freystein said, "WE SHOULD LEAVE NOW. A STORM WILL COVER OUR TRACKS IF WE DO." Freystein crouched down and held an arm out beside their side. Elwis whined and Freystein looked down at the dog. "NO, THIS IS BETTER." Halthor didn't have to wonder what the elf-dog was complaining about. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of riding on the mountain troll's back again either. Still, with a sigh of resignation, Halthor picked up Elwis and clambered up the mountain troll's side after putting on his pack. "YOU DID NOT EAT MUCH," Freystein said as they began to walk. The rolling gait of the mountain troll covered ground faster than Halthor could at a run, but it was enough to make him feel mildly sick as he swayed from side to side slightly with his arm and legs wrapped around the sapling growing from Freystein's shoulder. "ARE YOU WELL?"

"I'll be fine once I'm on the ground again," Halthor answered. Freystein's great head bobbed up and now and it seemed to make the world rock a little harder. Halthor's stomach clenched. Deciding it was best not to engage the mountain troll in conversation as they traveled, Halthor held on and watched the trees and meadows pass by.

Flora et Fauna: What about the plants of Earth?

Image courtesy of Pexels.com

Dear Reader,

I enjoy creating the concept of exotic plants and animals. At the same time, I am not a botanist and I am not in the profession of creating worlds entirely whole cloth. As such, I do use many familiar plants from our world, Earth, in my fantasy world. I treat the exotic plants I create as interesting niche plants that grow where similar flora would be prevalent.

I try to keep things as logical as possible. I have two reasons for this. First is because it makes my life easier writing "They were sitting beneath the elm trees." and letting the sentence lie as it is. If I had to describe every single type of tree, plant, and creature that the characters encountered, I would never get as far as writing anything about my plot.

My second reason is because it is easier for my readers to move through the story as they encounter that which is familiar to them. I then only must describe things that would not be familiar such as archaic textile manufacturing or the workings of a medieval grain mill, if it is relevant to my plot. I have fun with the concept of creating new and wonderful things. It is part of the reason why I spin, knit, crochet, and otherwise work with my hands when I am not writing.

The fantastical elements like the plants that can not possibly exist in this world are there to embellish the story and remind you that I am not writing something that is set within Earth's history.

Craft of Writing: Know your limits (part 2/3)

Image from Pexels.com

Our bodies have an excellent mechanism for warning us of danger. The limbic system is responsible for this and when it alerts us to potential danger we feel all the sensations of panic, terror, and anxiety. (The 'lizard brain' is responsible for the four 'F's of life: fighting, fleeing, feeding, and fucking. I will never forget psych 101 and the professor dropping the F-bomb so casually. Everyone was stunned. I burst out laughing. It kinda set a tone for the rest of that semester. It was a fun class.)

Fear is popularly known as:

False
Evidence
Appearing
Real.

That's just plain nonsense talk. As someone with an anxiety disorder and a laundry list of other related issues, I can tell you that fear is fear. Now, your logical brain may try to cram the emotion through its filter and come up with false evidence for why you're experiencing fear. But, fear is an irrational emotion and one of our warning signs from the limbic system that something is wrong. Way back in the ancient, olden-days of yore, when we were theoretically dodging brontosauruses and sabertoothed bearcats, fear was vital to keeping us safe. It told us from past experience that something was a danger. It told us that an approaching experience was a danger. And it made us very aware of when a present moment turned dangerous. Fear focuses your attention on the target of it so that you can handle it.

So if ancient, olden-days of yore Deb was having an encounter with a sabertoothed bearcat, the fear that I'd have experienced would have made sense to the logical brain because the sabertoothed bearcat ate everything it could. Ah, but what about fear that happens today? We're not dodging brontosauruses, though I'd argue that dodging traffic when crossing the street is close enough. Humans are social animals and the sense of fear that comes up about the prospect of going against social mores (which ever ones hit you the hardest, take your pick there are literally millions of them) and how you were raised is just as hard hitting as the fear of the wild sabertoothed bearcat. Where the sabertoothed bearcat may have eaten you, social punishment for breaking taboos is in many ways a fate worse than death. You die only once but can be humiliated, harangued, and harassed countless times.

As such, fear is a pretty common warning that you are approaching a limit of some sort. It may be a fear that your work is not going to be as good as you wanted it to be or an absolute terror that some maniac is going to come burn your house down for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. The worst part about fear is in the moment, the terror of the theoretical maniac is just as bad as the fear that your work won't measure up. (This is where that 'False evidence appearing real' gets thrown around by lots of folks.) The trick is not dismissing your fear as something foolish. Something very real has laid the basis for this fear to rise up and it must be met with compassion.

When you are afraid, take time to reassure yourself. Take time to gently explore your fear and determine if it is pointing at a present problem, a past problem, or an anticipated problem. Only after you have determined what kind of problem the fear is pointing at do you decide your course of action. If it is a present problem, consider the resources you have available to solve it. If it is a past problem, make a note to address the concerns at a time when you feel safer to process the past issue so that it does not continue to be a source of fear. And if it is an anticipated problem, consider the weight of the potential problem and plan for how to handle it, provided it is a realistic looking future problem.

AW:M1EX4

Time Travel: Select and write out one horror story from your monster hall of fame. You do not need to write long or much, but do jot down whatever details come back to you [...]. Include whatever rankles you about the incident. [...] You may find it cathartic to draw a sketch of your old monster or to clip out an image that evokes the incident for you. Cartoon trashing your monster, or at least draw a nice red X through it. ~ The Artist's Way. Pg. 38

I was fourteen. I was full of hope and dreams. [Redacted] was a monster in more ways than just figurative. [Redacted] was eighteen. They thought they had the rights to me in all ways because I was dating them. When [Redacted] discovered that I was a writer, they laughed at me. They mocked me in front of their friends. I didn't dare do anything about it because I knew that [Redacted] would hurt me later for it, badly. When [Redacted] realized I was better at English than they were, they tried to pressure me into writing their papers for them. I refused. After our next 'date', I was sporting a matching pair of hand prints on my upper arms from when they grappled me and insisted that I was being an uppity 'slut' because I didn't do what they wanted. That was the week I learned from one of [Redacted]'s ex-girlfriends how to use concealer to cover up bruises.

I stopped talking about my interests and my grades began to slip as I tried to play 'dumb' so that [Redacted] wouldn't hurt me. It didn't work so great. [Redacted] still hurt me. And I got in trouble for my grades slipping.

I still have a picture of [Redacted] in a scrap book. I threw away [Redacted]'s gifts to me and things when I broke up with them. But I have that picture to remind me that [Redacted] didn't break me. I'm probably going to burn the other pictures before my children see them. Or something.

Postscript: The list of 'monsters' that I have is long and varied. All of it continues to haunt me. Which is part of the reason why I write. Because then it is out of my head and down on paper.

Serial Story: Deamon's Kiss

This is the tale of a sword-maiden's misadventure with a deamon. It contains adult themes and is not safe for work, small children, or the small minded.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

Books Update.

Dear Reader,

I'm still figuring out how to market my first trilogy. (I am still over the moon thrilled I can type that in all honestly!) I have been posting things on Twitter and Facebook. I made a few sales this week. It's really exciting.

I am almost finished with the line edits on book four. It is looking just about ready. I need to double check a few consistency things between book four and book five. I'm now in the process of considering how I'm going to make the cover for it. I like the cover creator for Lulu and the cover creator for Kindle Direct Publishing. At the same time, I want to make a cover that continues the theme of showing where the majority of the story takes place and the selection of images is beginning to get a little challenging.

I was looking things over with Dacia's War and realized that I'm almost to a novel's length. I am going to take the first part of Dacia's War (the section that comes before Lady Al-Uzza is sent north) and turn it into an ebook after I clean it up some and smooth out the transitions. I will update you all on how that process is going.

I will be also starting to put together recipes again and making a little ebook cookbook to go with these books I'm writing. Why? Because I'm a weirdo like that. :) All of the recipes will be something I have made and eaten, so only the GOOD ones go into the book. They'll have their own little story to go with them too.

Dacia's War: Part 29 – A Whisper of Trechery

Al-Uzza thought about the mission she had been given by the Empress. "What are these rumors that you have heard?" she asked. Sindal folded her hands primly before herself and had a look of long suffering cross her face for a moment at the question. "If I have learned anything, it is that sometimes a rumor holds greater truth than the speaker realizes," Al-Uzza said in a matter of fact tone, "For the rumors to have reached your ear, they must have been significant. Which makes them quite likely to be more than a mere rumor. Either they are fact or deliberate misinformation."

Decebal absentmindedly rubbed his jaw with the back of his left hand. "The most egregious of them is that Govenor Bastizia intends to give the city over to the invaders from the high reaches. They say that he strangled his wife and murdered their son." Sindal shook her head slightly. Decebal shrugged. "Others say that the son murdered his parents and intends to turn the city over to the invaders. None of the people coming have seen Bastizia but they are the lowest of the low. They'd have no place in the govenor's palace."

"And yet you have spoken to them," Al-Uzza said mildly. Sindal set a restraining hand on her husband's wrist before he spoke. Al-Uzza watched this with some interest. "Lady Sindal, what news have you heard through the whispers of the priestly orders?" Sindal glanced briefly at the acolyte in white. "I have come to make inquiry into this matter, not to place on display her Serene Highness's acolyte, it would be wise to answer the question. And, for that matter, why is it that Erlion has not attended this meal and council?"

"Brother Erlion watches the sand mirror for news of Acidavia. Strange things have been imprinted in the mirror and he has been attempting to interpret them." Sindal answered. "I can not read the mirror but even I was alarmed when the sand cast itself out of the bowl when Sarben fell."

"The sand of the mirrors is delicate and sensitive to many things. Was the bowl disturbed in any fashion or a breath of air through the room?" Al-Uzza asked, finding herself thankful that her time as a librarian and secretary meant that she had some familiarity with the magical communication devices of the priests of Ashur.

"Lady Al-Uzza, the bowl was undisturbed and the air was still. The sand lifted up and then cast itself out as though the bowl was thrown to the ground," Sindal said. Al-Uzza squinted at her. "Come, I shall show you the mirror chamber. Perhaps Erlion has learned something from the movement of the sands. Or perhaps brother Althos can help read the sands." Decebal nodded in agreement with his wife's decision.

"Then he can tell you what he has seen. As for the poor, their rumors reach me because I walk the city. Sometimes in disguise and sometimes with the guard but I walk the city daily as a consitutional and to measure her health. Midloth is a small city, I can make the circuit by midday on a busy day and still conduct business. I take different routes through different neighborhoods. The wealthy are quick to pay homage, the merchants are quick to offer goods, and the poor are quick to speak."

"Most unusual, Govenor Decebal," Al-Uzza said, "I had not heard of such a custom before." She and her party followed Sindal and Decebal through a small doorway and down a corridor. Two doors stood at either side of the corridor. One opened on to a monk's cell. That door stood partly open. Al-Uzza glanced briefly in and could dimly see a desk piled with parchement beside a cot.

Sindal opened the closed door and gestured Al-Uzza and her party in. For a moment, Al-Uzza questioned if this were an elborate trap of some kind. Iona, the acolyte of the Silent Sisters who stood right behind her, coughed softly. Al-Uzza gave a small sigh, resettled her veil on her shoulders, and stepped through the doorway. Beyond the door there was an antechamber with curtains hanging across the second doorway. "Brother Erlion, what have you seen this day?" Sindal asked as she approached the curtained door way and the others entered the room. They could see the glow of torches beyond the fabric of the curtain but the antechamber was gloomy and dark, especially after the door to the corridor was shut.

Once the door into the corridor was shut, Sindal parted the curtains and passed through. As Al-Uzza followed, she realized that Decebal remained in the antechamber. Iona and Althos passed into the chamber behind Al-Uzza. Brother Erlion was a gnarled looking man of some age. She was surprised he was the one to watch the mirror for the last person she had seen so stooped with age was blind. He leaned heavily on a cane as he walked around the bowl on a pedastal. The bowl was black obsidion, known by the common people as dragon's glass. Within it, Al-Uzza knew would be a layer of black sand from the distant sands where the bowl had been fashioned. The four torches in the room threw a lurid light that glinted on the sand.

A line moved in the sand squirming left then right. As it reached the edge of the bowl, it turned and circled the bowl. Though no hands touched the sand, it moved of its on accord tracing shapes as though something were moving over the sand. Al-Uzza knew that the sand mirrors were attuned to each other and that which was done to the first would be reflected in the second. Thus, she watched the ceaseless movement in the sand mirror with some confusion.

Althos looked at the mirror. "That's no human hand," he grunted. Erlion looked over at him. "It's a snake. Where are you viewing?" Althos continued.

"Acidavia, of course," said Erlion.

"Someone has put a snake into the sand mirror and covered it. It is a trapped animal making these signs." Althos said.

"What makes you so sure of that?" Al-Uzza asked, looking expectantly at the monk.

"Because if I were going to kill the brother watching the mirror, that's what I'd do," Althos answered, "When did this start?"

"This morning," Erlion said, "Perhaps an hour after you signed that you were moving towards us."

"Were there signs in the mirror before then?" Althos asked. Erlion shook his head.

"Wait," said Sindal, "The sands moved as though someone was brushing away a message at dawn."

"Was there anything there before dawn?" Erlion sighed and shrugged.

"You were sleeping, at a time like now?" Althos said indignantly.

"I am but one man, one old man." Erlion sighed, "My apprentice went away to the war of the south." Althos swore.

"You believe someone wrote a message late at night and another person erased it before putting a serpent in the bowl and covering it?" Al-Uzza asked. Althos gestured towards the bowl. "Then it may be that Acidavia is compromised already," Al-Uzza said with a sour expression.

"Perhaps, but perhaps they haven't moved yet. Because the bowl continues to show signs of the serpent's presence." Sindal said in a hesitantly hopeful tone.

"We must leave tomorrow for Acidavia," Al-Uzza said briskly, "And a company of strong soldiers must come with us."

"I haven't the men to spare," Decebal said morosely.

"The Empire demands it, Govenor," Al-Uzza replied sharply. Decebal was silent. Sindal looked at Al-Uzza with an inscruitable expression.

After a long moment, she said, "We can not send away the city guard. There are, however, bravos for hire."

"Your coin pays for it," Al-Uzza said in a flat tone. Sindal gave a small nod.

"Althos, go with their messenger tonight and make sure they are sturdy," Al-Uzza said to the monk as she turned her gaze upon him. "Tomorrow morn, you may find yourself a war leader rather than a companion."

"How far is it to Acidavia?" Al-Uzza demanded, warming to the idea of bringing a company of soldiers to mete out the Empress's justice.

"A day's ride, if you push your horses and the weather's fair," Decebal answered.

"Julara's mercy is with us. It will be a day's ride regardless of the weather," Al-Uzza answered.

AW:M1EX3

Time Travel: List three old enemies of your creative self-worth. Please be as specific as possible in doing this exercise. Your historic monsters are the building blocks of your core negative beliefs. [...] This is your monster hall of fame. More monsters will come to you as you work through your recovery. It is always necessary to acknowledge creative injuries and grieve them. Otherwise, they become creative scar tissue and block your growth. (The Artist's Way, p. 38)

Enemy number one: [redacted]

They were a harmful and controlling influence over me when I was young. I think my creativity was viewed as a threat of some kind by [redacted]. They would always tell me what I was doing wrong in my writing, art, or performance of any kind. It was only when I got involved with color guard in high school that [redacted] got off my back to some extent because I drilled mercilessly in the routines which [redacted] didn't know enough about to criticize me on. There were backhanded comments about my writing on a fairly regular basis. [Redacted] was creative in their own fashion, aside from heaping pressure and verbal castigation in new ways. I think [redacted] just wanted to live through me and assume control over my creative life instead of living their own.

Enemy number two: [redacted]

[Redacted] and I were close friends in middle school. [Redacted] always laughed at my dreams of being an author. They treated it all like it was one gigantic joke. They would at times steal my notebook and read what ever I was working on aloud to the study hall. This never ended well because I was one of the most bullied kids in our grade. [Redacted] was just tone deaf or perhaps covertly malicious at that time. I don't know anymore. But, the way they made me feel when they read my poetry at full volume in the most dramatic style they could manage was humiliated. [Redacted] and I haven't seen each other in close to fifteen years. I don't think they even remember the goals I had to be an author and would justify their humiliation of me as 'all in good fun.' I stopped dealing with [redacted] after I came back from college and realized just how toxic that 'friendship' was. It broke my heart but I still think I made the right decision. I can't seem to write poetry with out feeling like it's all just something someone's going to laugh at.

Enemy number three: [redacted]

I confess, I admired [redacted]. I suppose you could say that I idolized them to some extent. They were brilliant. They were well studied in literature and poetry. They taught at a prestigious college. In many ways, [redacted] was who I wanted to be when I finished college. With a few books to their name, a rock solid career in their chosen field, and a genial demeanor, [redacted] was someone I respected highly. It made the shock of their literal crushing of a poem I wrote gut wrenching. They took it in hand, read it, and instead of handing it back to me, they crushed the piece of paper it was printed on (thank goodness I had enough sense not to give them the original), and told me that I was a hack who was aping the work of Edgar Allen Poe. It felt like I had been slapped in the face, twice when they threw the page away. I was half tempted to get it out of the waste bin. I didn't. I just mumbled an apology. As I was walking away, [redacted] called after me to comeback when I had some original work. After that, they graded my papers savagely. I wound up going to the head of the department after a particular paper got a grade that I knew wasn't fair. The department chair looked the paper over and adjusted the grade higher. [Redacted] and I never spoke again. I made a point of being silent in lecture where I had been an enthusiastic participant in discussions. I avoided them on campus and pretty much did my best to be the last one in the classroom when it was time for lecture and the first one out (making a point of having my work schedule changed so that I had to be at work immediately after class). After the experience I had with [redacted], I doubt pretty much everything I write. My writing poetry dwindled from four or five a day to one or two. After the trauma of 2003, I wrote maybe one poem a month. Then I just stopped.

The Artist's Way month one?

The Artist's Way is a self-directed program developed by Julia Cameron to help artist's find their voice when they've become creatively blocked. It's a 12 week program that I've gone through about once a year over the last five years. Usually, I pick up my copy of the workbook and start working on the exercises and such around the middle of summer. By the end of summer, I have completed the program and feel a touch more confident about my writing.

I have come to the conclusion that 12 weeks isn't quite what I need to get past the impact that the last few years of successive major depressive episodes have had on me. I decided to dedicate one month to each week's worth of work. One whole month. A month is a very long time to do the same exercises over and over.

I am not entirely sure if this was the best idea right now. I've spent the last two weeks doing everything but working on those exercises. I have also been doing a lot of therapy oriented writing to handle my complex post-traumatic stress disorder stuff and related matters. I get to the end of the day and I find that I haven't done the workbook stuff that I planned on doing aside from the morning pages.

I have been doing the morning pages religiously. They are journal entries instead of short stories or things written on the basis of prompts out of my prompt box. (I officially broke 300 prompts in the prompt box last week. I'm still adding to it.) I feel like I'm doing the morning pages the wrong way. I write about my insane neighbors. I write about the weather. I write about my arthritis and the fact that my back acts up now when the weather gets funny. In my morning pages I write about everything except for my writing. They are not creative. They are just rambling monologues of what ever is going through my brain after I put the kids on the bus to school.

I had this wild idea that I was going to make a big creative turn around this year and be super productive. I thought that doing the Artist's Way with each week's focus for a full month would make me a better writer or at least help me articulate this vague thing I feel I must write. Maybe even get me back to writing poetry. So far, it's not working like how I thought it was going to.

Rambling preface made, I am going to start posting some of the writing I do for the Artist's Way exercises (with names redacted and such to protect the identity of the guilty) in an effort to get back to posting more on this blog. They'll be tagged AW:M[number]EX[number] in the subject line and labeled AW. I'll be honest, some of this stuff is going to be ugly and raw. My history isn't pretty and some of it is going to be getting spilled on the page here. But, I think that sharing my journey forward may help some other writers and artists in their efforts to recover their voice and sense of vision.

I will still be doing my best to post the usual content that I had planned for the day as well. (After all, Halthor still has his adventure with the mountain troll to sort out and Al-Uzza needs to figure out if she's going to be a proper Lady or not.)

Books Update!

Hey there Reader,

It's been a wild week at my house. Aside from three days of migraines, I've been monkeying around with Kindle Direct Publishing. As a result, I now have the first trilogy of the Umbrel Chronicles up for sale in three different formats.

Book one: The Dragon's Daughter

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Dragons-Daughter-Umbrel-Chronicles/dp/1496027434

Kindle Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MC5Z8BP

Hardcover: http://www.lulu.com/shop/deborah-miskell/the-dragons-daughter/hardcover/product-22100157.html

Book two: The Dragon Child of Evandar

Paperback & Kindle Ebook:  https://www.amazon.com/Dragon-Child-Evandar-Umbrel-Chronicle/dp/1495954838

Hardcover: http://www.lulu.com/shop/deborah-miskell/the-dragon-child-of-evandar/hardcover/product-23848163.html

Book three: Shadow Fall

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1981701842

Kindle Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M81JHJK

Hardcover: http://www.lulu.com/shop/deborah-miskell/shadow-fall/hardcover/product-23450643.html

The Iron Lily: Part 20 – A Knock at the Door

Halthor was about to say something when an unexpected sound interrupted the pleasantries. Something struck the door of the stone house with enough force that it rattled on its hinges. Halthor reached for his hammer only to realize it lay across the room. The door was stricken again with the same degree of force. The voices outside had gone silent. Only the massive blow's echo and the crackling of the fire met their ears. The Blue Lady rose to her feet. Halthor was on his feet and striding across the room to grab his hammer from where it lay when the third blow struck and the wood groaned.

"The axe," the Blue Lady said, "Lend it to me. Me thinks the latecomer is more than a match for your hammer." Halthor held the axe out to her and picked up his hammer when a voice bellowed. At first the voice was so loud that Halthor couldn't understand what it said. Then it called out again as though thunder could speak, calling his name. Halthor took the axe and held it out to the Blue Lady. As she took it in her hand, an electric thrill ran up Halthor's arm. He took his hammer and stood beside her at the ready as she approached the door. The Blue Lady held the axe hidden in the folds of her gown as she opened the door.

A creature that seemed made of stone crouched at the door. It's face was as though partly carved and partly weathered out of a great slab of grey rock. Lichens were over its body and Halthor was almost sure he saw a sapling sprouting up out of its back. The massive arms were long enough that even if the creature stood at full height, the hands would be below its knees. The creature wore a rough garment of some kind, or perhaps it was just the play of shadows over the angular and jutted out lines of its limbs. "I COME FOR HALTHOR," the creature bellowed. The Blue Lady seemed unperturbed after laying eyes upon the creature.

"You were not due for two days from now," she said to the being.

"GRIFF OF WYE IS DEAD. I BEAR THE SISTER TO HER SISTER AND MISTRESS. HALTHOR MUST GO NOW."

The Blue Lady blinked. The creature opened its large hand and sitting in the hallow of the palm was the twin of the axe the Blue Lady was holding. She reached forward and picked it up.

"YOU BEAR THE TWINS NOW. HALTHOR MUST COME."

"Wait, Freystein, what happened to Griff?" she asked. Freystein shook their great head. "I am the destined bearer of the twins?" she said in confusion. Freystein made an impatient noise and gestured at Halthor. "Very well, but the man must sleep. He is not trollkin or of my folk. Leave at dawn."

Freystein glowered. "BAD MEN COME BEHIND ME. THEY RIDE SWIFT AND FOUND THE HIDDEN PATH." The Blue Lady's expression became one of alarm. She turned to Halthor and made a shooing motion.

"Go, gather your things. Leave with Freystein. They will bring you to the Unquiet Field. You haven't much time if they are on the road we have come." Halthor turned to take his pack when the sound of voices shouting came. The troll named Freystein turned to face the newcomers. Freystein gave a mighty roar. The rider's horses panicked. They had been trained for combat but not for mountain trolls.

Freystein picked up a fallen tree. Using the ten foot long broken pine tree as a club, the mountain troll smashed it into the ground in the middle of the company, flattening one unfortunate horse and rider. Freystein swept the tree to the left and another of the party died. His mount was not as lucky. The third and fourth members of the pursuit party turned to flee. Freystein gave another roar as they threw the tree after the retreating humans.They were knocked off of their horses. One was trampled. The other scrambled to his feet to run. Freystein reached him in a stride.

"NO MAN, I SHALL CRUSH YOU FOR KILLING GRIFF." The man in Freystein's grip gave an agonized cry as the mountain troll avenged his friend. Halthor watched the horrific violence of the mountain troll's wrath in mute terror. Freystein's hand was wet with blood and gore. The mountain troll wiped their hand on the snowy ground, leaving a shallow trench behind in the meadow.

"OTHERS COME. HALTHOR MUST LEAVE NOW." The Blue Lady nodded in agreement. "YOU HOLD THE REAR LINE." The serene expression that the Blue Lady wore earlier returned. She crossed the hand axes over her chest and gave a small half bow. Halthor picked up his pack and settled it on his shoulders. He had no idea what had become of the pony or the dog. For all he knew, the mountain troll could have eaten them. When Elwis appeared around the side of the building, Halthor gave a sigh of relief. The pony started to trot over when the Blue Lady held out an arm in a staying motion.

"YOU AND ELWIS CLIMB ON MY BACK. WE HAVE FAR TO GO BEFORE SUNRISE." Halthor slipped his hammer through the loop on his belt and an arm under Elwis. Awkwardly, he began to climb up Freystein's left leg. Freystein heaved a sigh. With unexpected grace and gentleness, the mountain troll reached back and helped the much smaller human. Halthor settled himself against the sapling growing up out of Freystein's right shoulder. With a lurch, the mountain troll began moving.

Halthor held on to the sapling for dear life as Elwis yelped in discomfort. Carefully, Halthor forced himself to relax his hold on the dog. The mountain troll did not move in a slow, lumbering fashion. It was instead this rapid, rolling gait that involved all four limbs. As Freystein clambered over hill and dale with ease, Halthor wondered what became of the night singers. "Where are the Shadow Riders?" he called to Freystein over the rush of wind.

"WECK-IN-WOOD HAS THEM AT THEIR EVES," Freystein answered. Halthor's arms began to tire. The strength of panic had long since waned and Halthor was unsure how long he had to hold on. The biting cold making his limbs numb didn't help his confidence in his grip on either the sapling or dog. "WE SHALL STOP NOW. WE ARE TOO FAR FOR THEM TO FOLLOW NOW." Freystein seemed to crash to a halt in the middle of a small glade. "MAKE FIRE AND I WILL SHELTER YOU." Halthor unclenched his arm around the sapling. Elwis yapped at him and Halthor let go of the dog. With a bound, the elfin hound lept from the mountain troll's back to the ground and sniffed at the snow. Awkwardly, Halthor slipped and clambered down Freystein's side.

Elwis brought Halthor a stick. He reached to take it and the dog began to walk away from him. "Not now," Halthor groaned. Elwis looked over at him and snarled around the stick before walking again. Halthor followed the dog. Freystein followed Halthor. They found themselves on the leeward side of a thorny hedge. Elwis dropped the stick and gripped another, larger one in the hedge with a growl. Realizing that the dog had found dry wood and a place where the wind wasn't as harsh, Halthor reached into the hedge and pulled out more dead fall. Soon, there was a modest fire burning. Halthor sat as close to it as he dared. Freystein came up very close to Halthor.

"I SHALL SHELTER YOU AS GRIFF SHELTERED ME." The next thing Halthor knew, the mountain troll surrounded him with its body and limbs. It was as though it was an embrace but there was a gap in the middle where Halthor sat with Elwis and the fire. The fire was not the only thing that burned. Halthor's eyes ached with weariness. Freystein's body acting like a hearth and chimney, the fire grew stronger and soon Halthor was comfortably warm. Halthor looked up at Freystein's craggy face.

"Tell me, how did you know Griff and how did you know to find me?" The mountain troll's expression seemed to be a smile but Freystein said nothing. Cautiously, Halthor leaned against Freystein's leg.

"YOU SHOULD SLEEP. TOMORROW WE JOURNEY FAR. I SHALL TELL YOU A TALE TOMORROW." Halthor nodded and mumbled something about tomorrow before yawning. Unsure if the entire experience was a dream or not, Halthor shut his eyes for a moment to stop the burning sensation as Elwis cozied up beside him. That moment quickly turned into the remainder of the night.

Today's post is delayed due to migraine weather.

Dear Reader,

The expected update to The Iron Lily is delayed because I currently live where the weather is stupid and causing me to have a migraine. I will get that up for you tomorrow along with Wednesday's usual content.

Flora et Fauna: Pics.

Dear Reader,

I have finally gotten back to sketching things. Below are some plants I have mentioned either here or in one of the books. The first is Deadman's Tails. They grow in marshy ground where things have died and the soil is very nitrogen rich. As you may note, it looks a lot like cattails.

I tried to line this up to get a full shot of the pic with details but it didn't work out so great. But this is Fireweed. And the Llama of Judgment. Fireweed is a plant that grows in just about any kind of soil but thrives in poor rocky soil. It has properties that makes it great tinder because the fronds are very easy to collect and fluffy. That fluffiness makes them easy to burn. It also is a very spicy plant when you use the fronds in food and beverages. In the mountainous regions of Evandar and Ranyth, it is used with a few other herbs to make an alcohol infusion known commonly as Witch's Kiss. It would be similar to the famous Fireball whiskey with a bit of an herbal taste added to that cinnamon burn.

Craft of Writing: Know Your Limits (Pt 1 / 3)

Image from Pexels.com

Dear Reader,

I'm all for encouraging people to push themselves and grow. But there comes a point where that's harmful. Pain is the body's way of telling you something is wrong. You have to stop and check to make sure you are alright when it happens. It's the same with writing. You can push yourself to the wall and be working along just fine.

Then something goes wrong. Suddenly, your project is uninspiring. Suddenly you are finding yourself too busy to write, with things that are actually not important. (Reorganizing your spice rack by alphabetical order and then your pantry contents by color and size might be a sign that you are avoiding writing.) Or your just stop working all together.

This happens because something is wrong and causing you pain when you go to work. If you are finding that writing for an hour a day is too long, try shortening the time of your writing session by half. Or making it less frequent, like an hour every few days. If you are finding your project is hard to work on because you no longer feel inspired, give yourself a break from it for a little while and do something completely and entirely different. (I knit and clean when I get writer's block and when projects loose their edge.) Even a brief fifteen minute break can serve to completely reset your approach towards your project as long as you stop thinking about the project for that break. If I'm busy counting rows on a thing I'm making, I'm not worrying about how to get to my next plot point.

It is important to recognize when writing is painful. A little bit of pain is alright. If you're a little bored with your project and you push through it, that's ok. If you find yourself feeling like you're being tortured to death by watching paint dry on a wall every time you sit down to write, something is wrong and it needs to be addressed. Writer's block is a manifestation of pain and suffering in your work. It usually pops up when you've pushed a bit too far past your limit. Can you grind your way through it? Yes. It is about as pleasant as grinding your way through the workday with the flu. It can be done but it is better if you take a little time to rest and recover before pushing so hard again.

Next week, I'm going to share with you how to recognize limits before you run into them. Because there is usually some warning signs that you are approaching one. They may not be as obvious as a stop sign, but they're there.

Book Review & Reading Notes: A Slip of the Keyboard.

Terry Pratchett was a genius. Let's get the obvious out of the way here. I have decided that I must read the entire Discworld series now. I've read Wee Free Men and Maskerade. I thought they were fun books. Now that I am reading A Slip of the Keyboard and getting a glimpse of the man behind the books, I need to read them all. So, I guess that's my reading goal for this year. The whole series and any of the side books that go along with it. Fortunately, Beloved has it all loaded up on the Kindle for me.

As I am reading A Slip of the Keyboard, I am finding myself examining my own struggles and writing habits. It is surprising to find how much I have in common with him. I think that the first short piece in A Slip of the Keyboard describing a day's work did more than make me laugh. It made me say, "Hey, the pros struggle with getting stuff down on paper too. And they also struggle with shiny object syndrome and fall down rabbit holes of research too." (Shiny object syndrome is encountering an interesting idea or object and feeling compelled to investigate it at the expense of what ever you were working on to begin with. Started out as a running joke between my husband and I as he was playing games on the PS2 and he's getting distracted from the main theme of the game by collecting loot.)

Book Review: Wee Free Men

Title: Wee Free Men
Author: Terry Pratchett
Publisher: Harper Collins Date: Apr. 2003

This was a fun, no effort read that I was given by my mother in law as I was recovering from surgery a few weeks ago. If you want an easy read that's good for plenty of chuckles, I highly recommend it. This is obviously a juvinile book, but the story is well written and has enough charm to appeal to older readers as well. The character of Tiffany Aching is an exceptionally vibrant one and, as per Pratchett's usuall flare, an independant and bright character.

Put this together with the quirky Feegles and the general weirdness of the world that Pratchett created, you're garanteed a light and funny read.

Originally published: 2/22/2007

Please forgive my bad spelling in this post. The content is lifted directly from my other blog as it was initially posted. My feelings on Wee Free Men and Terry Pratchett's work has only deepened. I've come to realize that the late Terry Pratchett wasn't writing just for children, though this was a book that I know that my children will enjoy if they decide to read it when they're in middle school.

I've reread it and I've come to see that the characters are all exceptional. I'm currently working my way through A Slip of the Keyboard and as I get to know Terry Pratchett better through his own words, the more I see that he was writing for everyone with this book.

Dacia's War: Part 28 – False Serenity

Lady Al-Uzza's discomfort was soothed away by Decebal's almost flattering presentation of honor. She sat at his right hand and was offered the choicest selections of the meal. At his left, his wife, Lady Sindal sat and chattered on about the various mundane details of the business of the priesthood in Midloth. Decebal interjected comments about the business of running the city but generally focused his attention on Althos for news of the war raging to the south.

The heavy set woman found her desire to comfort herself met by the exotic banquet of fruit, fowl, and other fare. The spice laden meal was not as rich as what she thought it would be but it was greater than the sparse meals she had grown accustomed to as a lowly secretary. She could eat and when she finished her first course a second appeared shortly there after. Al-Uzza decided that perhaps if she just focused on her food and waited, Decebal and Sindal would continue their prating until the meal was finished and she could go rest.

Instead, there were awkward pauses in conversation where Al-Uzza was in the middle of eating something and was expected to have something to say. There was times where Al-Uzza commented on the food when the conversation had gone quiet instead of adding something worthwhile. In whole, she proved herself to be a poor guest and a boor. Decebal marveled at this awkward, large woman's presence and questioned what reason she was sent north under priestess black. He tried desperately to figure out what Al-Uzza could possibly have to offer and quietly despaired while watching her eagerly eat everything put before her.

After the final course had been set for the meal, Decebal clapped his hands three times. This nonverbal command told his household to clear away the meal and secure the room for important business was to be conducted. As the servants took away the platters and bowls, Al-Uzza managed to restrain a small belch of satisfaction with finally being able to eat as much as made her content with out having to go through the work of bullying junior secretaries for portions of their meal. "You set an excellent table," Al-Uzza sighed. Decebal frowned. Sindal looked at Al-Uzza with something like disgust for a moment.

"What is your purpose for coming north, Lady Al-Uzza?" Sindal asked bluntly. Al-Uzza blinked with surprise. She had not anticipated a younger priestess to speak to her in such a tone. She had gotten used to the idea that as an elder secretary, she was treated with deference. Now, she discovered that this woman who was at least twenty years her junior spoke with boldness and bluntess she was unfamiliar with. "At last I knew, Al-Uzza was the Empress's head secretary. Now you are here in priestess black instead of librarian grey. I doubt that the Empress has need of a secretary conducting a census or learning what manner of delicacies are served in the North. What are you truly here about?"

Al-Uzza colored at Sindal's words but the look from the silent sister in white told her that her every word was being measured and quite possibly reported back to the Empress herself. "Govenor Bastzia has sent word south of the troubles facing him. News has come to her Serene Highness that there are those who would move against the order of the Lady and all who have pledged themselves to Her," Al-Uzza answered. Sindal's look of mistrust eased somewhat.

"Yes," the ranking priestess of Midloth said, "There is a movement of malcontents. They have been quelled in Midloth but they are still present. As you travel north, you will find yourself at the risk of encountering them. I would advise you to travel as I do, within a litter. They will think you only a wealthy traveler. Given the armed company that travels with you, I think they will be sufficient to keep you safe. There are those who believe that Julara is a false goddess and then there are those who believe that her Daughter has broken faith rather than fulfilled prophecy."

"And what do you believe?" Al-Uzza asked. Sindal looked at Decebal and to the acolyte in white. She gave a small sigh and turned her gaze back to Al-Uzza.

"Julara is our Mother. She provides the rivers and green fields that nourish us. Her Daughter is her presence in the world. All that she has done is holy and in her Mother's name. It is not my place to question our Serene Highness and her judgment. I am but her servant in all things." Al-Uzza nodded with a smile on her face that would possibly have been reassuring to someone less experienced. Sindal, who had become accustomed to the courtiers of Midloth attempting to connive her saw something of that in Al-Uzza's nearly pleasant expression. "I assume that you also hold this to be true," Sindal said mildly. Decebal shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Althos coughed to cover up a noise of surprise.

"As do all of the priesthood who have been blessed to serve our Mother and the lower orders," Al-Uzza said in an equally bland tone with her expression fixed in the falsely pleasant smile, "I am honored but remain a humble servant of our dear Lady. Glory is for the vain when the true joy is in our work." Sindal made a noise that Al-Uzza suspected was of disbelief but she was unsure. Instead of continuing to cross verbal swords with the younger yet more experienced priestess, Al-Uzza chose to focus on the matter of the malcontented. "You tell me that Midloth had quelled these upstarts. In what number did they make their presence known? Did they have aid from the outsiders?"

Decebal let out a breath he had been holding. He had expected his lady wife to get into an argument with the emissary of the Empress given her short temper for dissembling and decietful people. Relieved that the argument was not going to happen, Decebal turned to Al-Uzza. "They were not many. Only a small riot broke out in the market. The city gaurd put it down quickly and the instigators were all caught. When brought before us for judgment, they claimed that her Serene Highness had inverted the true order of things. It was heresy, plain and simple. The usual punishment was meted out."

Al-Uzza nodded. The punishment of heretics was the splitting of the tongue. It was harsh but served as a very visual reminder that they were serpents emboided. It was a mark of shame and the punished often found themselves ostricized. Al-Uzza had witnessed such punishment as a young village witch when a man who thought himself better than his wife was judged as wanting. His tongue was slit and his wife divorced him. He was cast out of the village and never seen again. Al-Uzza was sure that the man's arrogance was what lead him to think he could punish her for attending the market with out his supervision. He had come from a family of similar attitudes but they had never so openly touted them.

Caught in the memory, Al-Uzza almost missed when Decebal spoke about the outsiders. "They come from the high peaks. Usually it is to trade but the parties have come now seeking refuge. I have given them the land beyond the wall on the northern side. They stay in their village and pay honor to the Empire. But more of them are coming. The first arrivals had brought children with them and were in good health. They who come now are unwell. Some gravely injured and no children come with them. They speak of a great beast. It is unclear if this is a creature or a man that troubles them. And of an army that travels with this beast."

Decebal gestured towards Althos. "I have asked the brothers militant to request aid. I can only assume that your coming will help answer this question. News has been hard to get from the Govenor. Word has come that his Lady has died. Some say it was murder. I would believe it if the stories that I have heard are true. The city of Acidavia struggles because she is close to the border. Villages north have been razed to the ground. Bastizia has called for aid multiple times over the last few years. Since war broke out to the south, I have been unable to help him."

"Acidavia is cursed, they say," Decebal muttered, looking down at the table before him, "I know not if it is true. I do know, however, Acidavia has begun to have people leave her. They are not refugees for the city still stands. But any who is wise know that rats will flee a burning building at the first sign of smoke. The poor of Acidavia have come to Midloth. We have given them work, to the north is the beginnings of another wall. But I do not know if it will be ready when Acidavia meets Sarben's fate."