Agony is...

Agony is the author who has no voice. (Literally for a few days in my case.) Agony is the ideas slipping out of your fingers and vanishing into vapor as you attempt to scribble them down. Agony is the torment of attempting to write something, anything for your audience and continually finding yourself staring at a blank page as words refuse to form.

Honestly, I find myself feeling a measure of despair over how hard it has been to get any writing done. Even my journal entries have been difficult. I know that being sick tends to make me get depressed. Being depressed makes it very hard for me to write. All of this, however, feels like tawdry excuses on par with the ancient 'the dog ate my homework' line.

I wish I had an eloquent apology for my lapses. I wish that I could show you all the effort I put in trying to produce work for you. Sadly, words fail me and I ... I find my attempts so utterly unworthy of the light of day that they wouldn't be merely a dusty heap at the bottom of a proverbial waste basket. No, I would be the one who lit them afire and buried the ashes in the desperate hope that no sign of their existence was known.

I may have a problem with being a perfectionist. That gets in the way a significant amount of the time as well. In giving myself permission to write poorly, I find myself often taking that work and hiding it from the world. Someday, long after I have departed this life, I am sure someone will take an interest in the volumes of material that I have sitting around that never made it into my books. Hopefully that person in the future will forgive the fact that it is not as high quality as what made it to print.

Long story short, I apologize for my silence. I have been unwell and it is making pretty much everything difficult right now.

Posting Delays.

Hi folks,

I'm recovering from a nasty cold that had me sick in bed all weekend. I am going to do my best to get something posted up here every day this week. I confess, I am most likely not going to be successful. Between a doctor's appointment later this week, a parent-teacher conference, and catching up on housework, I may have a hard time finding time to post this week. I will, however, do my best. I just wanted to keep you appraised and let you know I haven't forgotten about you.

Thank you for your understanding and patience.

♥

A question for the Readers.

Hi everyone!

I am a little bit under the weather right now. This is making it difficult for me to concentrate to get quality writing up here. It is also making inspiration something that is in short supply here. I wanted to ask you all to help me out with something.

One of the things that really inspires me when I am writing is music. In the comments, please recommend the music that you feel is best suited to writing high fantasy (or any other genre, I'm not picky). With your recommendation, please state what you like about the work you are suggesting. I am looking to build a new writing playlist and I am somewhat overwhelmed by what is out there.

Also, I am doing something of an informal poll. Should my next serial story be folklore of Evandar or should it be something more like Dacia's War, a longer story that is told in a series of snapshots. Again, note your feelings in the comments on the post. I am torn between the two options and I need your help to decide what is going to be next.

Book Status Update!

Hi everyone.

It has been a rough couple of months. I am temporarily stalled on my work for the continuation of the story of Thora and her companions. I have book six sitting in limbo waiting for me to finish the first draft. Book three is still in the process of editing (which is proving more challenging than I anticipated). I am, however, working of background material and in the process of drafting out the plot for the prequel trilogy. I anticipate that I will be beginning work on that in March.

I am reaching a point where I have books one and two one step away from e-book publication format. I will post links to them here when they are ready. I am also at the point where I am starting to look at what I will use for cover art for book three. I am seriously considering drawing something up. I'm just not sure how to transfer it to digital format. I am excited to have new materials to be sketching out.

As a part of my effort to improve my mental flexibility, I am going to resume painting in the near future. I am honestly not sure what I will be doing. I hope, however, to get a painting finished every two weeks. I will share pictures of them when I do my updates on Thursdays.

Until next post, have a wonderful day and thank you for supporting my work.
~ Deb

Floods in the Desert.

The city of Dacia and the village of Asser burst into celebration as word of the victory at the Black Sands of the south came. Mina continued to sleep within her chamber. It was six days that she had lain unconscious. The best of Julara's healer priestesses attended her and did their best to wake her but nothing came of their efforts. They brought water from the sacred river Is, the very tears of Julara herself, and sprinkled it upon her face, but Julara's daughter did not stir.

When the sword-bearers of Ashur passed through the city gates, they were given a hero's welcome. The general was greeted with equal exuberance but he was indifferent to it. Zalaz was tired from his journey and wanted to go home. He wanted to sink into Yaeli's arms and sleep until he was no longer sore from riding. As they drew closer to the courtyard before the temples of Julara and Ashur, Zalaz found himself suspicious for reasons he couldn't place. Something about the celebration seemed off to him.

They entered into the courtyard and were met by the Silent Sisters, the lower order of priestesses of Julara. There were many veiled women in white about the courtyard. Zalaz was surprised by the sight, recalling that the last great congress of the priestesses of Julara came when Mina's predecessor was fatally ill. Marcos saw the priestesses and his heart clenched with fear. Sorenan, who didn't understand the significance of the number of priestesses in the courtyard, was filled with annoyance that he couldn't just ride across to where one of the acolytes of Ashur would take his horse and he could get a cup of wine to quench his dust dry throat.

Marcos dismounted halfway across the courtyard. Sorenan followed his lead, as did Zalaz. They lead their horses through the press of women. Three priestesses dressed in blue so dark it may as well have been black stood upon the steps of the portico of the great temple of Julara. Their veils were richly embroidered about the hem with a recurring pattern of water droplets and lilies. The healer priestesses had come to greet the sword-bearers of Ashur when an acolyte had seen them enter the courtyard.

As Marcos's little party stopped at the steps of the temple, Sorenan looked towards the temple of Ashur. The eldest of the blue priestesses walked down the steps and looked solemnly up at Marcos. A small woman, the wrinkled hands with their blue tattoos seemed as though the size of a child's as she reached forward to take Marcos's hands. "She sleeps," she said, "but Julara's daughter will not wake. She has slept now for six days. You must come to her. If it is her mother's will, the Empress will awake for her Emperor." Sorenan's attention had snapped to the priestess when she spoke.

Now he looked troubled. He started forward when the old priestess fixed him with a dour glare. "He comes," Marcos said in a tone that would have no argument. The priestess scowled but said nothing. Zalaz took the reins of the horses and watched as the husband and the lover of his Empress went to her. As he did so, Zalaz felt a tremor of fear for what would become of the empire of Mina died.

Sorenan struggled with the urge to push the priestess aside and sprint to Mina's bedchamber. The sedate pace the old woman had set had more to do with the length of her legs and the frailty of her bones than any desire to irritate the man in his dingy white armor. She couldn't help, however, a sense of satisfaction as she watched his frustration grow out the corner of her eye. As they walked, Marcos had fallen silent. Sorenan attempted to ask questions and the priestess refused to speak a word to him.

At the doorway to Mina's bedchamber, the two men found other blue priestesses. One held a bowl of blood to be cast away. The other had fine linen bandages in her hands, stained with Mina's blood from an earlier bloodletting. Sorenan's anger rose up white hot. He found himself ready to demand to know why the healer's were slowly killing his lover when Marcos looked over. He gave a slight shake of the head and Sorenan glowered, but said nothing.

Within the bedchamber, Mina lay upon a narrow bed covered with a thin blanket. Her hair was fanned out over the pillow beneath her head. Upon her left arm, a bandage was wound over where the elderly priestess had done the bloodletting earlier. Her right hand laid upon her stomach, ominously still. Marcos walked to the head of the bed and leaned over. He spoke quietly in Mina's ear. Mina gave no signs of hearing him, she did not stir or make even the slightest of sounds.

Sorenan thought of the man who died in a fashion similar to how Mina appeared to be. He was struck upon the head and fell to the ground unconscious. The man died after six days of sleeping sickness. Sorenan looked at Mina, seeing how still she lay, and he felt his strength fail him. Sorenan hit his knees at the foot of the bed. He reached blindly forward and grasped Mina's left foot. Speechless with grief, the mercenary bowed his head and silently wept.

Sorenan didn't lift his head at the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder. He covered his eyes with his left hand and shook with the force of his ruthlessly repressed sobs. Marcos, however, straightened abruptly at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He was painfully aware that it was but the three of them in that chamber. Thus, when a cool hand fell on his shoulder, Marcos turned to face the one who touched him. Marcos's eyes widened at the sight of a slight woman with dark hair, olive skin, and dark eyes looking at him. Her gown was almost iridescent and threw abstract reflections of the candle light about the room.

Julara gave him a kindly smile. Marcos looked over at Sorenan and found Ashur standing at the foot of the bed. "This is the first of the tests that shall come for you," Julara said behind him, "My daughter shall live, but she shall be changed. The change is working within her even now." Sorenan raised his bleary eyes and looked at Julara. He couldn't see the goddess clearly through his tears, but he didn't care.

"You have loved her as I have loved her mother," Ashur said, squeezing Sorenan's shoulder lightly, "This proper and blessed. As the next months move forward," the god continued, "Her weakness shall require your strength. Keep the blades sharp, for Temna will rise again. And they shall call your wild kinsmen to their support. She lives and shall for as long as Dacia remains free."

Marcos turned his gaze back to Mina. Julara reached past him and set a cool hand on Mina's brow. Ashur reached past Sorenan and set his warm hand upon her ankle. Mina's eyes flew open and she drew a deep gasping breath. As she arched beneath the weight of the gods powers, visions of the future and the past rolled through her mind. She collapsed back to the bed, shuddering. Sorenan bolted to his feet and rushed to the head of the bed. Mina turned her weak gaze upon Marcos and then Sorenan. She smiled.

"I have waited for you, my beloveds," she said.

The touch of the power of the gods was not lost upon Dacia. The wind rose up strong and blew in off the desert in what would prove a terrific storm that lasted three days and three nights. The river Is overflowed its banks, washing away the gardens of the wealthy. When the desert born storm passed away, a powerful rainstorm fell upon Dacia city. The people of the city noted these storms and feared for the future.

Flora et Fauna: Liar's Weed.

Liar's weed looks much like morning glory. Having similar shaped leaves and blossoms, it is a diminutive version of this plant with a bit of a twist for Evandar. Liar's weed is also known as bindweed, because of its propensity for the vines to grow over things and tangle among themselves as it grows. Liar's weed has blossoms that are prolific.

At two centimeters in diameter, the blossoms are not as visually impressive as some other plants that can be found in the regions of Evandar and similar climates. They have an ombre shading with the deepest color at the outermost tips of the petals and the lightest at the center. Most liar's weed has flowers that move from a deep red to an orange that is similar to what is found in tiger lilies. The central stamen of the flower extends a few millimeters beyond the edges of the blossom. It is white and the pollen is also white. The leaves are heart shaped and are a dark green. The vine is a green-purple, similar to the stems of chocolate mint. Liar's weed does not have much of a discernible scent.

Pollination of liar's weed is primarily done by bees. It is, oddly, not a flower that is frequented by humming birds. This may be because of the toxicity of the nectar. The blossoms are marginally edible after they have reached peak. They are bitter and if consumed in great quantity will cause one to have problems with diarrhea long before a fatal dosage is ingested. The leaves of liar's weed are toxic to humans but not to ruminant animals. The vines are similar to the leaves, though they are tougher to consume because of their higher fiber content.

The seeds of liar's weed form in pods that have four cells. In each cell, a pea sized seed forms. The seeds are not fatally toxic. When dried and ground to a fine powder, liar's weed can be mixed with alcohol to form a liquid that is functionally a truth serum. The effectiveness of liar's weed as a truth serum is not as effective as the folklore states. The quantity of the concoction that needs to be consumed for liar's weed to be a truth serum on par with what its reputation states is high enough that the person ingesting it will acquire alcohol poisoning. Putting a greater amount of liar's weed powder into the alcohol solution does not result in a stronger effect. Indeed, doing so can make the effects of liar's weed diminish after a saturation point is reached and one runs the risk of poisoning via the seed.

Poisoning by way of liar's weed blossoms before they have reached the stage they can be consumed is a more extreme example of what comes with over consumption when they are edible. Fatal dosage of liar's weed brings on abdominal cramps, diarrhea, vomiting, and increased blood pressure. It is the increase in blood pressure that causes death. Most often, people who have had a fatal dosage of liar's weed will die from a heart attack. In the rare cases that the sudden increase in heart rate doesn't equate to a fatal situation, the person poisoned will experience a lingering death by way of dehydration and starvation because of the other symptoms.

Craft of Writing: Longhand vs typed

When I was younger, I did just about all of my writing longhand. One reason was because I didn't have much access to a computer. The other was because notebooks and journals are far more portable than those clunky monsters that we had in the 1990s and double aughts. I still do a considerable amount of longhand writing on a regular basis. I type a great deal now. It is not because I have lost my taste for longhand.

With a laptop computer being a lot lighter and more portable than they used to be, I am finding that my writing is increasingly being done from the digital format. Honestly, I think about 75% of my writing is done on the computer. I have come to the conclusion that if I am looking to produce a large quantity of writing, typing really is my best option. I type far faster than I write.

Still, longhand has a great deal of emotional appeal for me (and I'm sure for other writers). There is a romance to longhand writing that can not be denied. It is a far more intimate and personal format to produce written work. If you don't believe me, look at the difference between a handwritten letter and a typed one. That handwritten letter has subtle changes to the pen strokes and the pressure applied to the page as the author moves through their feelings regarding the subject matter. Items that are of emphasis are subtly made more so through the fact that the author will press harder into the paper and their script shifts in spacing and height. You can't accomplish this with typing unless you start playing around with fonts.

I find longhand to be something that I have a great deal of affection for. I have discovered that my writing in longhand tends to be more emotional and more visceral than my typed texts. I also have discovered that longhand allows me to adjust my work more quickly. I don't claim to understand how this works. It may just be a difference that I feel and it really is not there. Still, I do the majority of my drafting out ideas and concepts through longhand. I even get picky about what tools I use for what type of writing I am doing. It varies by subject and focus. There is a reason why I have a large collection of varied pens and pencils.

I don't have the same degree of flexibility in typewritten work. Still, I can sit down over the course of an afternoon and produce up to five thousand words in the same length of time that it would take me to write closer to one thousand longhand. I find that typewritten work is easier to edit. I also find that typewritten work is a lot less effort to get ready for publication. Longhand requires the entire body of work to be reproduced before you can really do anything with it. And at least one additional round of editing because of potential mistakes made in the process of transferring the work from your notebook to that text document.

Some day, I will write a full novel out via longhand. I know that filling up a 300 page journal is not going to equate to a 300 page typewritten text. The project that I am looking at right now, actually, is going to wind up in multiple notebooks as I work up the rough draft. I haven't decided if this handwritten project is going to go to publication. It really is something that I'm doing for the sake of my sanity. Still, as I sit down to work, I have days where I question if I should just be typing everything up. Then I get caught up in my writing and I find myself feeling a stronger connection with what I'm working on than I do with just about everything I have ever typed.

Longhand has its strengths. I am opposed to the idea of cursive no longer being taught in schools because so much communication is done through typing. One reason is because cursive is what will allow you to read historical documents. As someone who prefers going to primary sources as often as I can when I am doing research, I use my skills for reading and deciphering longhand a lot. I also find that longhand has a wonderful aesthetic quality that not even the prettiest type fonts can reproduce.

At the same time, typewritten work is very much a product of our era. And it will most likely be the primary mode of written communication in the future (as it is progressively becoming in our era). I would be a fool to dismiss it or its power. Skillful manipulation of type fonts and page format produces a different kind of aesthetic quality than what you get from longhand. It is a difference that is rather stark in comparison.

It is like comparing the work of the Dutch Masters to Pablo Picasso. They have both done portraiture and made impressive contributions to the body of work that is the visual arts. And just as these two different schools of art bring different ways to manipulate and present an image, so too does longhand and type. I am firmly of the opinion that there is an element to writing that is visual. Some people have declared me a bit weird for the fact that I find great satisfaction in just looking at well crafted sentences. I appreciate them on the level of seeing how the clean lines and the elegant combinations of glyphs can communicate a truly deep thing. I, however, may be something of an outlier on this front. This random aside done, I wish to close by saying that longhand and typewritten work both serve the same purposes, which is to communicate information. In the end, no matter how it looks visually on the page or how the author emotionally feels about the format they are using, they serve the same function and should be appreciated on that basis. The rest of it is just window dressing to the real craft of communication.