Dear Reader,
As I mentioned yesterday, I'm planning on posting more content going forward. The locale feature of the blog talks about different settings in the books I'm writing. Some of them are general and some of them are specific places. My earlier work on locations in here was pretty general. I'm trying to get more specific and hope to have a few maps up for you to view. As I know absolutely nothing about map making, you'll have to give me a few months to figure this stuff out.
Here's a recap of all previous posts regarding locations. Some of them may look familiar if you have been reading the serial stories Dacia's War and The Iron Lily. There will be more about random locations in the world and major sites of the books (and the back story) going forward. My plan is to cover as much as I can. As I have said, this is my sandbox but I invite others to come play with their original characters.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Monday, October 29, 2018
Flora et Fauna: Review!
Dear Reader,
In the coming month, I will be posting prompts. I'm also going to attempt to get back to posting content that's more than a weekly update on how my NaNoWriMo project is going. In case you missed it or you're curious what this 'section' of my blog is about, the Flora et Fauna posts talk about the lifeforms you can find in the world of Evandar. I have a side project that is currently stalled to make an herbal/bestiary featuring the plants of the world. I'm going to make it a priority to draw pictures for it on a weekly basis.
Here's a link to everything I've got up so far. I also cover my world building approach. Hence why I have so much stuff about plants and what not. I'm one of those writers who build worlds as well as just tell a story. And I encourage other people to join me in my sandbox with their own original characters. Fun should be shared and most of this stuff is fun for me.
Writing is painful at times. But it doesn't have to be.
Dear Reader,
It is something they don't tell you. Writing is painful at times. Here's the thing, writers are not supposed to be tortured artists. No artist is supposed to be tortured. Writing is difficult and requires a lot of effort. It can be exhausting. But if it is torment, stop and look at what is going wrong in the process.
Sometimes, you may be like me and getting in your own way. I have an anxiety issue and I tend to stumble over my own feet (literally and figuratively, but the literal part is just because I'm clumsy). In my anxiety, I go back to my research over and over again with this obsessive need to make sure that everything is perfect. It's exhausting and painful. There's only so many times you can look at the same facts and say "Yep, that's accurate."
Creativity is like sex. If you are doing it right, it is a lot of work and ends with a lot of pleasure. (No one mentions how much work sex is, but it is work. One of the reasons why they say it counts as exercise.) Sometimes, it is a lot of work and it is challenging. That's like trying a different position and such. It is when it hurts that you have to stop and say "Wait, something isn't working properly here." Even a masochist has limits and has to say "Stop, this isn't working."
So, what do you do when writing is painful?
It is something they don't tell you. Writing is painful at times. Here's the thing, writers are not supposed to be tortured artists. No artist is supposed to be tortured. Writing is difficult and requires a lot of effort. It can be exhausting. But if it is torment, stop and look at what is going wrong in the process.
Sometimes, you may be like me and getting in your own way. I have an anxiety issue and I tend to stumble over my own feet (literally and figuratively, but the literal part is just because I'm clumsy). In my anxiety, I go back to my research over and over again with this obsessive need to make sure that everything is perfect. It's exhausting and painful. There's only so many times you can look at the same facts and say "Yep, that's accurate."
Creativity is like sex. If you are doing it right, it is a lot of work and ends with a lot of pleasure. (No one mentions how much work sex is, but it is work. One of the reasons why they say it counts as exercise.) Sometimes, it is a lot of work and it is challenging. That's like trying a different position and such. It is when it hurts that you have to stop and say "Wait, something isn't working properly here." Even a masochist has limits and has to say "Stop, this isn't working."
So, what do you do when writing is painful?
- Take a break. Maybe you've been working too hard.
- Re-write your work from your last save point.
- Work on a different project for a little bit.
- Do something completely different if you're stuck. (Coloring books count!)
- Edit your outline and look for what is missing.
- Review your notes and look for what is missing.
- TAKE A BREAK. (Drink a nice cup of tea!)
- Do something boring and mundane (like wash the dishes after having that cup of tea).
- Read your own work out loud to a disinterested third party (a lamp counts.)
- Stop writing for a time and do something completely different for a set period of time.
Thursday, October 25, 2018
Deamon's Kiss (pt. 4) (NSFW)
This is erotic horror. This is NSFW. Read at your discretion.
He lifted his head, licking her blood from his lips like an animal. His pointed, almost canine looking teeth made the smile he gave her horrifying. Astrid inwardly begged the gods to rescue her from her situation. She closed her eyes, finding this was the extent of the control she had over her body. She dove deep within herself as he laughed softly.
Astrid attempted to put her mind to focus on moving through the sword forms that her father had taught her, that she drilled herself on each morning. She had very nearly succeeded in separating her awareness from that of her body when the terrible, terrible cold that wreathed them suddenly stormed through her awareness. She opened her eyes to see her dark haired 'husband' shift his attention from herself to a blond haired man walking through the frozen forms towards them.
Astrid dared to hope that it was a savior coming. The blond man looked down at the pair with a dispassionate look on his face. He delivered a savage kick into the ribs of the man over her. As he rolled off of her, the man snarled at the interloper, who drew the sword at his side. The cold, unnaturally black metal seemed to steal the light from about it, somehow making the environment become dimmer. "Go Byroniac," the blond man said, "Leave this place."
Byroniac rose up to his hands and knees, giving his brother a dire look. "She's mine," he hissed, "Mine, Maigren." Maigren turns his cool gaze to Astrid, watching as her skin turned mottled and her lips moved towards an almost orchid color from the cold. Byroniac reached to pull Astrid over towards him when Maigren moved. Burning fluid splashed across Astrid's chest as Byroniac's hand fell to the ground. The wounded deamon howled.
"Not any more," Maigren said, stepping forward. Byroniac scrambled back away from his elder brother. As the elder made ready to bring his weapon to bear again, the younger made his way to his feet and retreated. Maigren sheathed his blood dewed blade and took the cloak off of his shoulders. Carefully, he helped Astrid to her feet and wrapped the heavy, fur lined fabric about her. Astrid shuddered in the chill, noting that the blood that had come from Byroniac's wounds was liquid still despite the bone gnawing cold.
"Come," the deamon prince said, "your place is with me now." Astrid allowed Maigren to gather her close, allowing the first of her sobs to escape. As the Maid began to weep against his shoulder, the deamon prince allowed himself a smile. His plan to capture this prize had gone far better then he had anticipated.
~ Fin ~
He lifted his head, licking her blood from his lips like an animal. His pointed, almost canine looking teeth made the smile he gave her horrifying. Astrid inwardly begged the gods to rescue her from her situation. She closed her eyes, finding this was the extent of the control she had over her body. She dove deep within herself as he laughed softly.
Astrid attempted to put her mind to focus on moving through the sword forms that her father had taught her, that she drilled herself on each morning. She had very nearly succeeded in separating her awareness from that of her body when the terrible, terrible cold that wreathed them suddenly stormed through her awareness. She opened her eyes to see her dark haired 'husband' shift his attention from herself to a blond haired man walking through the frozen forms towards them.
Astrid dared to hope that it was a savior coming. The blond man looked down at the pair with a dispassionate look on his face. He delivered a savage kick into the ribs of the man over her. As he rolled off of her, the man snarled at the interloper, who drew the sword at his side. The cold, unnaturally black metal seemed to steal the light from about it, somehow making the environment become dimmer. "Go Byroniac," the blond man said, "Leave this place."
Byroniac rose up to his hands and knees, giving his brother a dire look. "She's mine," he hissed, "Mine, Maigren." Maigren turns his cool gaze to Astrid, watching as her skin turned mottled and her lips moved towards an almost orchid color from the cold. Byroniac reached to pull Astrid over towards him when Maigren moved. Burning fluid splashed across Astrid's chest as Byroniac's hand fell to the ground. The wounded deamon howled.
"Not any more," Maigren said, stepping forward. Byroniac scrambled back away from his elder brother. As the elder made ready to bring his weapon to bear again, the younger made his way to his feet and retreated. Maigren sheathed his blood dewed blade and took the cloak off of his shoulders. Carefully, he helped Astrid to her feet and wrapped the heavy, fur lined fabric about her. Astrid shuddered in the chill, noting that the blood that had come from Byroniac's wounds was liquid still despite the bone gnawing cold.
"Come," the deamon prince said, "your place is with me now." Astrid allowed Maigren to gather her close, allowing the first of her sobs to escape. As the Maid began to weep against his shoulder, the deamon prince allowed himself a smile. His plan to capture this prize had gone far better then he had anticipated.
~ Fin ~
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Wednesday Rambling
Dear Reader,
I've transitioned from writing the manuscript by hand to typing it because the notebook is literally falling apart as I have been working in it. I have discovered that in the course of three days writing by hand, I can write approximately five thousand words. I'm of mixed feelings about this. I am highly annoyed by the fact that I am redoing work I had already finished, but I can't just start writing where I stopped in the notebook. It's a minor hiccup in the whole process but it has me highly annoyed.
I'm not pleased that the serial stories are a bit stalled right now. I wanted to move them along a bit more but the Iron Lily is plodding along slowly and I've hit a wall with Dacia's war. Al-Uzza is a terrible person but I'm unsure how to demonstrate that because she's not a violently awful human being. I lost my notes when the desktop computer died yesterday. On one hand, I'm glad that it was just a outline of a few character notes that I can mostly remember. On the other hand, I'm annoyed that I can't use the desktop computer as a backup storage device for my plethora of documents.
I haven't done any sketches or drawings recently. If I haven't been writing, I have been doing housework. If I am not doing housework, I am working on presents for the holidays. I have one sweater finished, another about a quarter of the way done, and a blanket that I'm currently working on adding to. It's the blanket that is the hard part because one round takes an hour of crochet. This thing is big.
I'm working again on book seven of the Umbrel Chronicles. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the formatting for the first trilogy that I can't get it up as ebooks right now. I'm tempted to download somebody's template and just start to copy-paste until the whole book is reformatted into something that will actually upload properly. That, however, would be a lot of cut and paste. Book four will be out as a novella. I'm only going to release it as a paperback because of how much difficulty I'm having getting things sorted out right now. Sometime in the future I'll have everything out as ebooks. I hope.
Tomorrow is the last installment of the Deamon's Kiss. Still NSFW but if you read the other three installment's you're already aware of that.
I've transitioned from writing the manuscript by hand to typing it because the notebook is literally falling apart as I have been working in it. I have discovered that in the course of three days writing by hand, I can write approximately five thousand words. I'm of mixed feelings about this. I am highly annoyed by the fact that I am redoing work I had already finished, but I can't just start writing where I stopped in the notebook. It's a minor hiccup in the whole process but it has me highly annoyed.
I'm not pleased that the serial stories are a bit stalled right now. I wanted to move them along a bit more but the Iron Lily is plodding along slowly and I've hit a wall with Dacia's war. Al-Uzza is a terrible person but I'm unsure how to demonstrate that because she's not a violently awful human being. I lost my notes when the desktop computer died yesterday. On one hand, I'm glad that it was just a outline of a few character notes that I can mostly remember. On the other hand, I'm annoyed that I can't use the desktop computer as a backup storage device for my plethora of documents.
I haven't done any sketches or drawings recently. If I haven't been writing, I have been doing housework. If I am not doing housework, I am working on presents for the holidays. I have one sweater finished, another about a quarter of the way done, and a blanket that I'm currently working on adding to. It's the blanket that is the hard part because one round takes an hour of crochet. This thing is big.
I'm working again on book seven of the Umbrel Chronicles. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the formatting for the first trilogy that I can't get it up as ebooks right now. I'm tempted to download somebody's template and just start to copy-paste until the whole book is reformatted into something that will actually upload properly. That, however, would be a lot of cut and paste. Book four will be out as a novella. I'm only going to release it as a paperback because of how much difficulty I'm having getting things sorted out right now. Sometime in the future I'll have everything out as ebooks. I hope.
Tomorrow is the last installment of the Deamon's Kiss. Still NSFW but if you read the other three installment's you're already aware of that.
Iron Lily: Part 18 – Sanctuary
The wind began to howl outside and Halthor looked uneasily at the door. "The shadow riders will not reach you in here. Even if I opened the door wide and stood aside, they could not enter. My home is inviolate and a place of sanctuary," the elf woman said as she checked on her bubbling pot of broth. "You have gained three days of travel by one walking the ancient paths. It is only right that you spend at least one of them in rest. The journey from Starhaven has been hard upon you. Tell me, does Elrian still sit upon the throne or has the unrest stirred up by the priests of the defiler reached the crown?"
"The king of Ranyth is the son of Elrian, Hogarth and he is an old man now. He is child less and has yet to publically declare an heir. He is sending me to count Olerand with this gem and nothing else," Halthor answered. The elf woman nodded her head slightly. "The black priests move through the kingdom stirring up trouble left and right. King Hogarth refuses to ban them, saying they are holy men, but the priests of Sigurt are beginning to vanish in the night. King Hogarth and the high priest Orian have argued bitterly in the chamber that Alaric and I were building for the king. Something about the actions of men are a reflection of the actions of gods. I don't know much about it, I spent my time on wood work."
The blond haired woman dressed in blue gestured towards her table where Halthor found a generous array of food before him as fine as would have been served at the king's own board. A stool sat beside the table. Halthor eyed it with some uncertainty. It was not as stable as he would have prefered but the other choice was to stand, for the fireside chair was too heavy for him to move. As he lowered himself to the three legged stool, he discovered it was more sturdy than it had looked. A bowl of steaming broth sat before him with a small round loaf of bread. Between he and his hostess was a roast bird of some kind glistening with juices. And a small bowl of apples sat on the table in a curious shade of yellow and red that he had never seen before, much larger than the ones he knew were put through the press for cider.
A cup carved from stone sat beside the bowl made from pottery filled with water so clean and clear that it shimmered in the light, which he only had seen rarely in the city of Starhaven. For the wells of Starhaven had a suggestion of iron in the water and in high summer a faint tinge of red to them. The Sweetwater was fouled by the city's sewer and no one dared to draw water from it. The pure streams that he could have found on his journey were covered in snow and ice. Thus, it was in the home of the keeper of the rivers and streams of the forests of central Ranyth that he experienced truly clean water for the first time. He sipped it like it was wine and marveled. There was no taste of iron or anything else in it. It had no scent of any kind to it. And in some way, it seemed almost sweet to him. "You say this is water, but it is unlike any water I have ever known," Halthor said. The elf-woman waved a dismissive hand.
"Water is water. The problem is what you put into it," she answered. Halthor looked at her curiously. "If the water is not fouled, drawn from the ocean, or tainted ground, you can drink it. You must clean the water if it is drawn from unclean sources. I would teach you this, but you can not stay long enough to learn how. Perhaps you shall return, Builder, and I will teach you another thing to build for the good of men."
Outside the wind grew loud and Halthor could nearly swear he heard voices in it. "I was waiting for them to arrive," the elf-woman sighed, "They travel faster than men because they ride the winds. They're an annoyance. A menace to good and decent people. And tragic souls that have become trapped between worlds who vent their fury upon the living." She began to eat her soup as Halthor tried to ignore the sound of a voice pleading for entrance.
"Can you send them beyond to where their souls would have peace?" Halthor asked. The elf-woman shook her head. She gestured at the food before them and Halthor resumed eating.
"Only a necromancer can do that," she answered, "But all of the necromancers I have ever known were more interested in trapping the souls to do their bidding. I doubt there is one who does not serve the darkness. All of them seem to be tangled up in the Defliler's work. If there were but one who was not, I am sure they are hiding so that the others do not come and destroy them for freeing the damned from their tragic fate."
"The king of Ranyth is the son of Elrian, Hogarth and he is an old man now. He is child less and has yet to publically declare an heir. He is sending me to count Olerand with this gem and nothing else," Halthor answered. The elf woman nodded her head slightly. "The black priests move through the kingdom stirring up trouble left and right. King Hogarth refuses to ban them, saying they are holy men, but the priests of Sigurt are beginning to vanish in the night. King Hogarth and the high priest Orian have argued bitterly in the chamber that Alaric and I were building for the king. Something about the actions of men are a reflection of the actions of gods. I don't know much about it, I spent my time on wood work."
The blond haired woman dressed in blue gestured towards her table where Halthor found a generous array of food before him as fine as would have been served at the king's own board. A stool sat beside the table. Halthor eyed it with some uncertainty. It was not as stable as he would have prefered but the other choice was to stand, for the fireside chair was too heavy for him to move. As he lowered himself to the three legged stool, he discovered it was more sturdy than it had looked. A bowl of steaming broth sat before him with a small round loaf of bread. Between he and his hostess was a roast bird of some kind glistening with juices. And a small bowl of apples sat on the table in a curious shade of yellow and red that he had never seen before, much larger than the ones he knew were put through the press for cider.
A cup carved from stone sat beside the bowl made from pottery filled with water so clean and clear that it shimmered in the light, which he only had seen rarely in the city of Starhaven. For the wells of Starhaven had a suggestion of iron in the water and in high summer a faint tinge of red to them. The Sweetwater was fouled by the city's sewer and no one dared to draw water from it. The pure streams that he could have found on his journey were covered in snow and ice. Thus, it was in the home of the keeper of the rivers and streams of the forests of central Ranyth that he experienced truly clean water for the first time. He sipped it like it was wine and marveled. There was no taste of iron or anything else in it. It had no scent of any kind to it. And in some way, it seemed almost sweet to him. "You say this is water, but it is unlike any water I have ever known," Halthor said. The elf-woman waved a dismissive hand.
"Water is water. The problem is what you put into it," she answered. Halthor looked at her curiously. "If the water is not fouled, drawn from the ocean, or tainted ground, you can drink it. You must clean the water if it is drawn from unclean sources. I would teach you this, but you can not stay long enough to learn how. Perhaps you shall return, Builder, and I will teach you another thing to build for the good of men."
Outside the wind grew loud and Halthor could nearly swear he heard voices in it. "I was waiting for them to arrive," the elf-woman sighed, "They travel faster than men because they ride the winds. They're an annoyance. A menace to good and decent people. And tragic souls that have become trapped between worlds who vent their fury upon the living." She began to eat her soup as Halthor tried to ignore the sound of a voice pleading for entrance.
"Can you send them beyond to where their souls would have peace?" Halthor asked. The elf-woman shook her head. She gestured at the food before them and Halthor resumed eating.
"Only a necromancer can do that," she answered, "But all of the necromancers I have ever known were more interested in trapping the souls to do their bidding. I doubt there is one who does not serve the darkness. All of them seem to be tangled up in the Defliler's work. If there were but one who was not, I am sure they are hiding so that the others do not come and destroy them for freeing the damned from their tragic fate."
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Eyeballs deep in work.
Dear Reader,
Somehow, I got a bit off track over the last few weeks. As a result, I am eyeballs deep in work ranging from sorting out and putting away summer clothes to filing paperwork to working on my manuscript (complete with correcting yet more research errors). I am getting frustrated. I am starting to think that writing this manuscript out by hand is a bad idea. At the same time, I am 1/5th of the way through the notebook.
I'm just very displeased that I'm not farther along right now on everything. I'm procrastinating on a sink full of dirty dishes right now to complain about being busy. At the same time, things are looking up. It is starting to look like my blood sugar issues are headed in the right direction as is my other health issues. My boys are starting to get more involved socially at school and are doing well so far in their classes. My eldest just brought home a story he wrote where his father was the hero and saved people from a big scary problem. It is appropriately adorable hero worship.
This week is shaping up to be very busy. I'm quite possibly going to just be updating the Iron Lily serial and posting the final installment of the Deamon's Kiss. I hope that this is not what November is going to be like, because I want to blog more again. It's just been hard to make time.
Somehow, I got a bit off track over the last few weeks. As a result, I am eyeballs deep in work ranging from sorting out and putting away summer clothes to filing paperwork to working on my manuscript (complete with correcting yet more research errors). I am getting frustrated. I am starting to think that writing this manuscript out by hand is a bad idea. At the same time, I am 1/5th of the way through the notebook.
I'm just very displeased that I'm not farther along right now on everything. I'm procrastinating on a sink full of dirty dishes right now to complain about being busy. At the same time, things are looking up. It is starting to look like my blood sugar issues are headed in the right direction as is my other health issues. My boys are starting to get more involved socially at school and are doing well so far in their classes. My eldest just brought home a story he wrote where his father was the hero and saved people from a big scary problem. It is appropriately adorable hero worship.
This week is shaping up to be very busy. I'm quite possibly going to just be updating the Iron Lily serial and posting the final installment of the Deamon's Kiss. I hope that this is not what November is going to be like, because I want to blog more again. It's just been hard to make time.
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