Unspoken Truths in the Fantasy Genre.

Who here doesn’t love the fantasy genre? (What’s that? You don’t? … Um, you may be following the wrong blog, sir/ma’am.) It’s got everything, doesn’t it? Heroes and villains, epic adventures, luscious romances, battles and glory; in a way, it encompasses nearly everything that entertains us. And with such a massive, widely-known, and widely loved genre as it is, at this point in its history there are, quite simply, certain unspoken (or sometimes spoken) truths and rules to it that are kind of set in stone. I’d like to take a look at a few of them today.

   (The following truths are in no particular order.)

Despite what people say, they’re far more likely to connect with the familiar than something out of left-field.

   

If it’s not broke, don’t fix it. I’ve mentioned this point briefly in another post on this blog, but it’s worth saying again. People are attracted to those things that are similar to whatever other thing they experienced that made them feel. Yes, just feel. How many of you had a favorite T.V. show that you used to watch ten to fifteen years ago that’s been long discontinued? Ever thought or remarked, Man, I really wish they would make a series like *whatever your show was*. That was a great show. But hold on! Aren’t you saying that they should *gasp* do something that’s already been done??!! What happened to making things fresh and new?? HOW COULD YOU!!!

   But, yeah, that’s exactly what you’re saying, and that’s exactly what people mean in general when they say things like “fresh and new.” At this point in time, there is literally no completely new story that anybody can tell. It will somehow at some point cross paths with another story that has already been told. All we want is for the story to be presented to us in a different way. A way that makes us feel those familiar feels that we’ve felt before, but also makes us see things from a different perspective.

   That is so largely what fantasy fans thrive on. There’re more hero-goes-on-epic-quest tales, assassin/thief-antihero tales, magical-being-and/or-told-from-the-point-of-view-of-what-are-usually-considered-bad-guys-such-as-orcs-or-whatever-serpentine-anthropomorphic-being-one-decides-to-come-up-with tales than there are realms of the earth! But so long as people get the “feels” from the story and it makes them think or see things in even a slightly different light, they’re more than happy.

Your novel ain’t no novel if it’s under 80,000 words long.

   

Do you think I’m kidding? Check out this list from Goodreads of the “Best Fantasy of 2018.” (https://www.goodreads.com/choiceawards/best-fantasy-books-2018) Now click on any of those books, any of them, and check their length.

   It’s basically an unspoken rule these days that one’s fantasy book must attain unto a certain length to even be considered epic in the proper sense. This has had some interesting effects on the author’s community. On one hand, there’s a nice niche for those who prefer to keep their books to a more compact length (novellas are a big thing, you know). On the other hand, those with the pluck to find, wrangle, capture, and subdue 80,000 words or more into a single, flowing narrative find that they have attained a nod of recognition from the fantasy powers that be.

   People like novels of any length, generally speaking, but I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t a large swath of fantasy book readers that preferred novels of longer length. Personally, I think that this is due to the fact that since we read fantasy to get lost in a new and intriguing world, we want our experience in that world to be as long as entertainingly possible. Neither of my novels (available for purchase here!) are below 100,000 words. But that’s not because I set out to reach a great and lofty word count, but because the story I wanted to tell required its proper space (and I haven’t heard many complaints about the length so far, just sayin’…).

Fantasy authors are almost never “normal.”

Now before anyone jumps to any conclusions here, hear me out. Name five, no, three of your favorite—key word—favorite fantasy authors. Now answer the following questions: Do they write under their own name, or a pen name? How is their biography worded? How do they present themselves in their bio photos? What are their social media accounts filled with?

   If the answers to at least two of these were unconventional ones (to say the least), then you probably see what I mean. Fantasy authors are the ones who prattle on about ancient cultures and the connections to mythic realms within real ones. Our drinks of choice are either coffee, tea, or wine (take that one to the bank). We say weird things on social media and in real life, and all our friends think we’re…let’s just say odd. But that’s just who we are. We’re the eccentric individuals in a mass of norms, and we output that in our writing. I always say to people who ask, that, “The best way to get to know me is to read my work.”

   Truthfully though, it’s our job to be weird, contemplative, disorganized, and peculiar as authors. It’s what gives us our zing. And what’s so bad about that?

Good fantasy always makes better books than movies.

This might be a hard one to accept for some people, but it is so truly the case. Good, solid fantasy, stories that pull us into new worlds that we believe in, whose characters speak with voices that we can hear, whose adventures keep us up late at night turning pages, never measure up the same way on the big screen. Why, you may ask? I’d say two reasons.

   One is that no matter how true a director tries to stay to a story, the creative license that is taken to turn a book into a workable film is always vast. As awe-inspiring and tremendously well-done as the Lord of the Rings films were (we are NOT talking about The Hobbit films), so much creative license was exercised over the source material that it’s not funny. It worked and succeeded so well, however, because the director did his best to stay true to the original story. But the changes were made, and even though most of them (most) were done for reasonable reasons, there were still a surprising number of people who actually were not happy with said changes.

   Which brings us to reason number two: No matter how well done a movie made from a novel is, it isn’t going to make you feel the same way that the novel did. Why? Because with the novel, the author guided your mind with his or her writing to see the story for yourself. All of the joys and triumphs, sorrows and failures, love, hatred, and departures with no return were seen through your own mind’s eye. With a movie, you are watching a director’s interpretation of the story. One of the greatest examples of this truth is just how many people complain at whatever actor is cast to play a main character from their favorite stories. “That’s not what Sheila Hammerfist looks like! Her hair is red, not blonde!” “Why did they cast a kid to play Kerrin? He’s seventeen in the book!” “I can’t believe the guy they chose to play Tarr the Warrior. Tarr’s got muscles on his muscles. That actor looks like he couldn’t lift a sandwich!” And so on and so forth.

   But this is one truth that I, for one, quite like. Let the books, the original creations of the authors, stand proud in the strength of their tales and love of their fans. It is the things that affect us the deepest that we remember the longest.

   
   Anyway, those are some of the more prominent unspoken truths and rules of the genre. Do you guys agree or disagree? And what do you think are some others?

Keep Strong!

The Coldest Heart of All (Part 1)

Greetings, everyone.

   So, those who know me (the number of which I hope is growing *ahem*) will know that I quite like good poetry. I am, of course, partial to the olden style of it, such things as the beauties scattered throughout the Lord of the Rings novels, some of the works of Robert Frost, and the Lays of Beleriand (a special favorite!). I am also partial to rhyming verse. I mean really; if one is going to work so hard at a language as complicated as English, one may as well exercise the full use of it. In the long labors of my own writing, and the numerous talks I've had with other writers and poets, I've come to realize that good rhyming verse, really good rhyming verse, is often much harder to produce than non-rhyming verse. In a way, you set bonds about the realm of your creativity, because you must establish a discernible flow and keep to it, you cannot continuously use the same ending words line after line, and what's more, it is often the case that the last word in a line that you really wish to jot down simply doesn't flow with the last word in the line above it! But in my humble opinion, there are few things as rewarding as sitting back and reading over a well crafted rhyming poem. It lifts the mind when read silently, and lightens the tongue when read aloud.

   I have decided to share a rhyming poem of mine with you all today. I am going to split it into two parts (did I mention that I am also a fan of lengthy poems that tell stories? Epics, some call them, but I rarely use the term.). Unlike others I've shared in the past this one does have a title. Now, beware, it's a bit long, but I put a lot of work into it, and it rhymes! (How about that?) Hope you all enjoy.

The Coldest Heart of All

                                                Hear now a tale of woe.

                                                A story that a heart quite old did know

                                                When she gave of her love long ago

                                                On an endless night of moon-swathed snow.

                                                A house there was upon a hill,

                                                Which sheltered a woman most strangely ill

                                                Who warmed by a fire of ice and snow

                                                In a land that was, so long ago.

                                                Enchantment she wove about her domain

                                                To fend off sunlight, wind and rain,

                                                To stay the beasts, and to keep a chill

                                                Within this house upon a hill.

                                                A chill that suffered no warmth of breath,

                                                A chill that promised naught but death

                                                To those shrouded beneath its folds. And so,

                                                We shall hear what tale from long ago.

                                                Enchantment the more this woman had,

                                                For though in mortal form she was clad

                                                She ensnared age, the decay of years,

                                                And locked it in a bottle of silver tears.

                                                And though all seasons might come and go

                                                Neither dim nor failing durst her eyes grow.

                                                Neither bent of back nor gray of hair,

                                                But tall and slender; cold and fair.

                                                Fair as a hilltop crowned with rain;

                                                Fair as white mist in a darkened plain;

                                                Fair as a stream of calming flow,

                                                But colder than the coldest night may grow.

                                                Now on a night she gathered food for meat

                                                She heard, as it were, the sound of faltering feet

                                                And, turning about, she beheld a form,

                                                Stumbling upon her hill where was no thing warm.

                                                ‘Twas a man, haggard, grim, and worn;

                                                In his eyes a look most forlorn.

                                                Scarce a moment later he staggered and fell,

                                                As though smitten by a sudden, crippling spell.

                                                Then she arose and went to his side.

                                                ‘How came ye here?’ she asked. ‘By tide

                                                Of magic? Enchantment’s grace?

                                                Whither came ye from your own place?’

                                                In her words was neither anger nor scorn,

                                                But rather likened to a murmur borne

                                                On a wind that drifts without a care.

                                                A wind that warmth may never share.

                                                His eyes uplifted. He beheld her face.

                                                ‘By magic?’ said he. ‘Enchantment’s grace?

                                                Nay. But cut off from my company have I been,

                                                By a storm that ravaged, but was not seen.

                                                Many days have I wondered, seeking aid,

                                                Stumbling ‘neath the trees whose casting shade

                                                Has hemmed me in. My hope was lost and I was ill,

                                                Yet from afar I descried this house and hill.

                                                And with the last of my strength up I strode,

                                                Seeing no path or walking road.

                                                And help, most truly, I would now ask of thee,

                                                For death has sought, and is seeking for me.’

                                                ‘And death shall find you,’ she, answering, said.

                                                ‘Even here, where thou layest thine head.’

                                                ‘Those words are cruel. Cruel indeed.

                                                To withhold help from one in need.’

                                                ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘to those who know

                                                Whither to walk and where never to go.

                                                For none venture here and none return,

                                                Though for warmth and day they may ever yearn.’

                                                ‘In truth I tell you,’ he bestirringly said,

                                                ‘That when first my eyes opened, I thought myself dead.

                                                For I looked on a sight of beauty unbound,

                                                A loveliness most profound.

                                                But your heart is cold and without regret.

                                                This is not the aid I thought to have met.’

                                                ‘Perhaps, perchance, but your thoughts are not mine.

                                                Little good will it do thee to beg and pine.’

                                                ‘A barter then, a covenant true,

                                                An unfaltering oath shall I swear to you.’

                                                Then reaching weakly to his breast,

                                                As though it were some enfolding nest,

                                                He drew out with care a band of gold

                                                That flared to silver in his hold.

                                                ‘Lo! My greatest treasure ever won,

                                                Gained in battle under scorching sun.

                                                To thee I offer it in return

                                                For the help I asked that you did spurn.’

                                                As she looked upon his band of shifting hue

                                                The desire to possess it swiftly grew.

                                                For many things could she do with silver-gold.

                                                ‘If in truth you make me an offer so bold

                                                Then enter now my delicate home.

                                                Fear no longer in pain to roam.’

                                                Into her abode she led him by hand,

                                                Her eyes ever lighting upon his band,

                                                And there she tended him in his pain,

                                                She who had nigh afore been his bane.

                                                She laid him upon a couch of cold,

                                                But he cried: ‘Nay! Even now the hold

                                                Of death draws nigh.

                                                Do not chill my blood with beguiling ply.’

                                                ‘How then shall I warm you, o weakling dire?’

                                                ‘Bestir a flame. Rouse a fire.’

                                                At this bidding she drew swiftly back.

                                                ‘That alone of the arts I lack.’

                                                ‘I doubt not that such a thing would be lost

                                                To she who hems herself in with frost.

                                                But I cannot weather such clinging freeze.

                                                I shall keep my band you think to seize

                                                If you will not hearken to me in any wise.

                                                I shall bear it beyond the boundless skies.’

                                                But lust overcame her wavering.

                                                The lust for so small and precious a thing.

                                                And with commanding voice but head bowed low

                                                She bid her fire of ice and snow

                                                Become a flame. And a reddened flame indeed up-started,

                                                And from it the chill swiftly departed.

                                                His limbs were heated, his blood was warmed.

                                                But in her there arose and a-sudden stormed

                                                An agony burning, and with it a dread.

                                                And, raising herself, the room she fled

                                                And afterwards returned not, save to visit his bed

                                                To soothe his wounds and provide water and bread.

Keep Strong!

Is It Truly Love?

So can we just stop with the meaningless romance that seems to have invaded every sub-genre of fiction now in existence?

   

   What? Who doesn’t love a good love story? I’m glad you asked, because the truth of the matter is (and it might be a little hard to swallow) a surprising amount of people don’t like love stories! These peculiar individuals live among us, going about their day-to-day lives, yet becoming increasingly frustrated with the worthless cuddles and feels that so many writers feel the need to inject into an otherwise decent (unless, of course, it was already bad) story! (Before we go any further, it must here be stated that I neither claim to be nor deny to be one of these individuals. And I will furthermore say that I liked the story of Aragorn and Arwen, didn’t mind the puppy love of Meg Murry and Calvin O’Keefe (FROM THE BOOK, NOT THE MOVIE), and am quite fond of a certain short-story titled “They Met Under the Glinting Stars” (ahem). Now then…)

   

   There is a set of people who are tired of the stupid, senseless, and totally unrelatable “love” that has managed to seep into almost every story—books and movies alike. It’s no secret that this is basically all that the YA genre is now. (To those worthy authors out there who still write good YA, I mean you no disrespect, but know that you are in a minority.) From the idiotic half-crush half-WHAT? of books like “Uglies” (good gosh!), to the sudden and absolutely unformulaic “romance” found in “Avengers: Age of Ultron,” to the literal eye-burning attempted cliché-bender in “The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug” and “The Battle of Five Armies.” What is wrong with the world?? What happened to romance that built naturally between the characters, that was understandable, that was relatable? What good is a cliché bender if it’s rubbish? What good is a kiss snatched under the moonlight if the readers or audience are just left rolling their eyes?

   

   I fear that we, as a society, have lost touch—or perhaps patience—with true love. Wow. That sounds really bad, but humor me. How many books or movies that were written or produced within the last five years do you remember to have told a true, a natural, and really relatable love story? Lots of folks are tired of the same old, “hateful-and-petulant-and-selfish-and-under-eighteen-year-old-girl catches the eye of dark-or-green-eyed-muscle-bound-but-quiet-and-secretive-probably-troubled-and-also-under-eighteen-years-old-guy, they both meet in an academy or something, exchange a couple sentences, and three chapters down the road they both just totally neeeeed each other.” Enough!

   Now in the interest of ensuring that this post is informative—instead of just, I don’t know, some kind of unhinged rant—I would like to list a couple (or maybe three) things that matter, ACTUALLY MATTER, when putting romance into a story. 

#1. Romance can’t be forced.

   Sounds like a no-brainer. But seriously, people need to stop thinking that it’s daring to just shove two characters who have no chemistry whatsoever together because…plot. It’s not daring, it’s annoying and unbelievable.

#2. It has to be both relatable and realistic.

   Do you remember the names of all those lovers and such that the Greek and Roman gods had? Of course you don’t, because who cares about the love-lives of the Greek and Roman gods?! In order to appreciate romance between your characters, your audience/readers must first feel for the characters themselves, and then be able to imagine themselves or someone they know in the situation you’re presenting, or at least believe in total absolution that your characters really are in love and not just smooching because…plot.

#3. A hateful character, or a character that doesn’t belong where they are, always ruins the feels. Always.

   I don’t think I really need to go into this one all that much. Suffice it to say that there is a certain red-headed elf that appeared in a certain movie concerning a certain hobbit whose presence therein—and lack thereof in later installments—can never be either explained, nor forgiven. I mean it.

And that’s all I have to say on that for now. Maybe somebody will actually briefly consider what I had to say (ha!), or maybe not. But I said it, and even as true love doesn’t repent over its existence, neither shall I repent over these words. But I’d like to know what you guys think. Let me know!

Keep Strong!

AT LONG LAST!!

Days went by; I labored long. Weeks became months; still I labored. Months stacked into years; I labored the quicker.

   Now at last, at long, long last, I have done it. I have finished it. I HAVE DELIVERED.

TOILS OF THE VALIANT

BOOK TWO OF THE CHRONICLES OF VRANDALIN

The epic conclusion to the widely-loved adventure of Strife of the Mighty! 

DOOM COMES. FAITH WAVERS. HOPE HANGS IN THE BALANCE. 

The battle for Darfrandor is over, but there is neither time nor mood for celebration. Having received word of the approaching power of the Dread Palace, time is yet again in short supply for Brandegan, Allon, and Merch—and all of Vrandalin with them. 

Heeding lessons learned from before and during the battle with the Morkathleam, Brandegan decides to leave Darfrandor without delay. Though he renders a stark warning to the people of the capital that there can be no victory in the fight against Ezirg Haur without the intervention of the Ayestærè, he begins to feel in his heart that the Vellneranians will never again have faith. Urging them to flee south on a desperate journey to Krandarmain Ilse, he leaves them to their choice. Yet the journey south will present Brandegan himself with hard choices to grapple, and force the silver-haired man to confront not only perils of the future, but burdens of the past. 

For Allon Bracken, the way forward seems both clear and clouded. His will knows that he is not the same man that fled Varalel, yet his heart will soon discover that some wounds remain tender long. He must come to terms with both shortly, for in this time of final deeds, the hurting and the lost, the fearful and the hopeless, commoner and noble alike, will need someone to lead them. 

As for Merch Provender, his difficulties come in many forms. From the worry over his home village, to the increasingly constant necessity to kill or be killed…to the often withheld thoughts and feelings of a new traveling companion. Yet all these difficulties must be overcome, for the clock is counting, and ale won’t last forever. 

But for Parma the healer, leagues to the south in the proud city of Mariz, darkness has already arrived. Only newly loosening the grip of cold policies enacted against the southeasterners by Governor Parfidy, she is forced to push back against the malice of mysterious bandits who threaten the lives of those she protects. But in doing so she discovers a sinister plot against Mariz itself, and soon finds herself fighting the ghosts and foes from a past wrought with heartache. It will cost her bitterly. 

Sacrifices are made, bonds are broken, and the powers of the realm are shaken in this kingdom-rending conclusion to the tale that began in Strife of the Mighty. Let the faithful keep strong.

*Sniffle* It's so beautiful....

   You guys have waited long for this one, and so have I! As promised, the tale that began in Strife of the Mighty concludes here...whether in good or evil. I did not split up the story into a trilogy. To celebrate this momentous occasion, I'm putting the Kindle versions of both Toils of the Valiant and Strife of the Mighty on sale for $0.99! To grab your copy of Toils of the Valiant click here! (Or here, if you prefer paperback.) To grab Strife of the Mighty, click here! (Here for paperback.)

   Thank you all for bearing with me through all of this. I strove extra hard to make the story extra gripping, extra meaningful, and extra awesome! Tell me what you think! 

Oh, almost forgot: I've released a new design in the Lael Marketplace!  Check out A Wilder Shape! This particular design was wrought especially for Toils of the Valiant. (And yes, it comes in men's styles, too.) I'm working very hard for you guys (really). 

Happy reading! Happy wearing!

Keep Strong!

Fantasy Stereotyped

I know, I know, this might rub a few people the wrong way, and for that I’m sorry (I guess), but it’s something I’ve kinda been thinking about both previously and lately. So here goes:
 
    Fantasy is great, ain’t it? Ain’t it grand? The wondrous escape that it provides to our desiring psyches, while at the same time (if done well) presenting viewpoints and/or troubles that we face and question in our own world in a thought-provoking manner, simply can’t be beat. So many, many, many (many many many) different fantasy tales have been written and told through the passing of the years, that it is truly impossible to keep track of them all. However, all follow a common thread or two—or five or six, depending on the author. This is all well and good; I mean, after all, there’s nothing new under the sun, right? But (there’s that word again) there is something—one of the threads I mentioned, if you will—that rather bugs me from time to time: The generic uses of certain fantasy races along with the “stereotypical” actions and attitudes thereof.
 
   What do I mean, you ask? I mean that so many people who write fantasy often—not always, but often—conform the races that inhabit their worlds to the usual depiction. For instance, elves are likely hands-down the most often used race (besides humans) in fantasy tales. How many books have you read wherein the elves that were part of the story were physically superior to humans, so veeerrryyy much more beautiful and elegant than humans, and so much wiser and more skilled in magic than humans? More often than you can remember, I doubt not.
 
   This is great for some stories, and even more than some if the story is still good enough, but when this becomes the norm, the allure of having a new race involved in your story is diminished almost at once. Just how many times are we gonna read the wise elf—always older than our protagonist (and more beautiful)—lecture and lecture about how violent and uncouth humans are, while simultaneously doing a backflip and firing four arrows off a longbow??!! This kind of thing gets repetitive, and done without or with little skill, it’s just downright annoying.
 
   Obviously, it is no small thing to stand out and be separate from the crowd, yet this is what needs to happen more regularly in fantasy with regards to fantasy races. Now, there are some folks who have done some interesting things and broken off the beaten path; in my experience, it seems to be indies who do it most. To my most recent memory, author Michael J. Sullivan had what I thought was a most welcome original concept for the elves in his story. (I know that there are others, people, he’s just the one I could readily remember.) His elves were not as strong and beautiful as elves so often are, and they were, get this, slaves to the uncouth humans of the land for some time. A nice historical background that was. By the way, now might be a good spot to mention that it isn’t elves alone who fall victim to this problem. Dwarves, dragons, gnomes (meh), and, yes, even humans, have, and are still being, what I like to call fantasy-stereotyped. (That is now copyrighted. You can’t have it.)
 
   My fellow authors, it is a struggle to be original, yet it is our lot to struggle to be as original as we can be nonetheless. You know, there was a time that I thought that fantasy writers should just ease up on using elves and dragons and dwarves for a while altogether. Give them a break and use humans or something else. Yet I have since progressed to the reality that, while it still might be a good idea to give these creatures (especially those pretty-pretty elves) a break, it is not necessarily necessary. Just use them originally. It doesn’t even have to be totally originally, just make them different somehow. Make their ears point downward instead of upward, give them dark skin (and not just so that it can make them an outcast/oddity to the other elves), make them mutate into four-foot tall frogs with rabbit ears whenever they eat the peanut-butter soup of our protagonist. Just do something different that will stand out to the reader. You don’t know how huge a favor you’ll be doing to your readers, and to all elves, dragons, dwarves, gnomes, and other victims of fantasy-stereotype out there.

Keep Strong!

A Bit On Dialogue

Hey, guys! I’m popping by today (tonight, if I’m being truthful) to say a few words on dialogue. Nothing too extensive, just a tip or two to keep in mind.

     So, in a book, dialogue between people can’t happen like it happens in the real world. I mean, apart from the fact that you can’t have your characters say ‘um’, stutter, or repeat the same word(s) (or repeat the same word(s)) like everybody in real life dialogue does when talking, you must always remember to move toward whatever point the dialogue is trying to make. Furthermore, really good dialogue conveys information to the reader without having to rely on narration. Make sense? If you were to hear two people carrying on a conversation on the street or in the mall or in a café, it would probably sound something like this:

“Yeah, so after that I told her, like, just no.”

“You said that?”

“Yeah! What else was I gonna say? She just made me so…ugh!”

“I know, I know, but to be that way about it? C’mon, you could’ve had her just—”

“No, no, you don’t know how it was. Right there, I seriously thought my brain would start oozing or something. And it’s not the first time!”

“I hear you.”

“Like, my blood was seriously close to bubbling or whatever.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’m not usually like that, you know? I’m not!”

“Sure.”

“But she just…man!”

As you can see, this dialogue is going nowhere and tells you nothing other than person #1 is upset with someone and is telling person #2 about it. Well, I say about it, but you don’t really know what it is, do you? This is what I meant by written dialogue can’t be like real life spoken dialogue, because you’d lose your readers the moment your characters started talking! Now most of you are probably thinking, Fool! We know this already! To which I’ll say, Great! I await reading some of your character dialogue! If you know this, good for you, but lots of folks, especially first time writers, don’t grasp this truth at first. Your dialogue can be as witty or prosy or artistic as you please, but if it doesn’t move anywhere it is a waste. You’re allowed more leniency in this when it comes to description, but dialogue is a tricky thing. Here’s the same conversation from above revisited as it might be written:

“Yeah, so after that I told her I was done. That was the last time.”

“You said that?”

“What else was I gonna say? She’s been on that stuff for too long. I don’t want to be caught up in that. This is drugs we’re talking about!”

“Well, yeah, but to be so mean about it? You could’ve—”

“Look, you weren’t there, you didn’t see her. But you do know that this isn’t the first, second, or third time! Seeing her like that, again, and arguing with her about getting the help she needs was infuriating! I refuse to fight with her about her own problem for the rest of my life.”

Katlyn didn’t say anything, but nodded her head in reluctant understanding.

Joyce shrugged and sighed. “So that’s it. I’m done.”

See the difference? The overall dialogue has been lengthened just a bit for the purpose of flow, but what were the big changes that made it readable? It moved forward, it conveyed information and key points through itself, and it was able to present, to a degree, the sentiments of both Joyce and Katlyn without resorting to the narration to do so. You weren’t told that Joyce was angry and frustrated and Katlyn was surprised at it, that was conveyed through the dialogue. And through that brief exchange, you even learned something about an unnamed third character.

     So there you have that. Just a little something to keep in mind when you’re writing conversations between your own characters. It’s such a valuable truth to keep in mind, and it saves so much time in the editing process later. (Trust me, I know.)

Keep Strong!

Sneak Peek At Book Two! (Because I Feel Guilty.)

A greeting to all of you! I am trusting that your new year has been favorable so far. If it has, great! If it hasn't, well, I'm sorry (but at least it isn't my fault....). This year is set to bring many changes, and many new things. We're going to have a new president, I'm going to get new shoes, hopefully Wal-mart will reconsider its change of new colors, and..... I will be releasing book two of the Chronicles of Vrandalin!

     Now, for those of you wondering the 'when', it'll be a bit later on in the year, towards early summer if my computer holds out (but hopefully before then). For those of you wondering furthermore, this will be the conclusion to this story. There will not, I repeat, will NOT be a trilogy. So anybody who was fearing that can rest easy. I'll be writing other stories for your reading pleasure afterward (of course) but that will be after this story. But I feel bad. Wanna know why? (*No, we don't, please keep it to yoursel--*)  You do?! Awesome! Okay, well, I feel bad because the sequel to Strife of the Mighty was supposed to already be out. But complications, deferred remunerations, and an illness or two, have gone on behind the scenes and, well, it's just a lot harder to write a book than it is to read one. I wish to conclude this tale with a bang, as it were, and not one or two surprises. So please believe me when I say that I am working hard to not disappoint (both you guys and myself).

     However, I do still feel bad for the long wait that many of you who've read Strife of the Mighty some time ago are being forced to endure. Therefore, to that end, I am posting, for your viewing pleasure, a sample of a chapter from book two! It'll give you guys an idea of what's going on, and hopefully leave you fired up for book two's release. Mind you, it is rough and still in manuscript form, so pray forgive any shortcomings.

(The sample is not really that spoilery for those who haven't yet read book one, but do keep in mind that it is mainly intended for those who have. If you've not yet read it, you can pick up a copy here)

"In the western end of the city of Mariz, crouching behind the brickwork of a partially broken wall, Parma the healer released a silent breath. The night was cool and dark around her, but very quiet, amplifying any sounds that disturbed it to a detrimental volume. To her keen ears at any rate. One of the loud, careless, and empty-headed persons that made up the city would probably not have noticed anything if a troop of peddlers wearing wooden shoes had tried to tip-toe by on the lane of stone. Such things were beyond them. Tonight held a watchfulness and the feeling of waiting.

     It was a hunter’s night, and Parma was hunting.

     But from which way will the prey come? she thought. And when? She was very patient, of course, but she was on the outskirts of a rather large area. There were many ways from which a thief could secretly enter the quarter where the villagers of Varalel and Creath were housed. This had been proven several times— hence the reason why Parma crouched hidden in the dark against a cold, brick wall with a staff in her hand and a pouch at her side instead of lying asleep in a warm bed.

     Four bandits had now struck on three different occasions, making off with clothing, livestock, and food belonging to the villagers under Parma’s watch. The first incident had been taken as an ill surprise and a lesson learned, but when the agitators had struck again two days later there had been a brawl between them and a few of the southeasterners, the latter party taking the far greater injury. And now, only a few hours ago, Lora Billows had been threatened by a darkly dressed figure in a mask as she had been returning from the market. Parma had had enough.

     She guessed that it had now been about five hours since sunset and the beginning of her vigil, having made an attempt to keep up somewhat of a count as she had moved between vantage points. It was a large area to prowl, but she was not exactly on her own. Besides advising the folk of Creath and Varalel to institute watchers to help guard and protect their own, she had selected some to join in her effort. These were currently stationed in similar points of watch throughout that part of Mariz’s western end. Parma had been crouched in her current spot for about forty minutes, and in that time had seen and heard nothing unusual. She glanced at the sky, then rose to her feet and stretched. It was time to change position.

     Just then, there rose a collection of cries from within the villagers’ quarters. Leaping forward, Parma dashed down the lane back toward the inhabited area. Letting the yells guide her, she sped past buildings and houses in which lights were beginning to appear, rounded a bend, cut through an ally, and entered a torch-lit square. About ten Varalelans were there, wielding hatchets, brooms, or clubs, and yelling at the top of their lungs as they made sorties at four figures garbed in black hoods and cloaks. But though the strangers were outnumbered, it was immediately clear to Parma that they were in little danger.

     Three of them—men she realized by their bearing—brandished long swords, and these they used to deflect the clumsy attacks of the villagers with ease. The fourth held in either hand a short but curved dagger, and moved with greater aggression. Even as Parma hurried toward them she heard a cry of pain from one of the Varalelans and saw the man stagger back, clutching his bleeding side. But there was no mistaking the litheness with which this one moved; the person was definitely a woman.

     “Hai!” shouted the healer, and she sprang into the fray. Numbers were against her, but she went instinctively for the largest of the group. She struck her staff against his knees with a force that caused his whole body to jerk forward. Flicking her arm up, she cracked the end of the rod against his jaw. As his limp form fell, she swung at her next foe. He was fast, bringing his sword up to intercept her strike in a blink. But at the last instant, Parma twisted the staff in mid-air, jerked it to a barely perceived stop, and then rammed it straight down onto her opponent’s right foot. Toes crunched beneath it.

     Knowing better than to press her fortune, she leapt back and out of reach as the remaining two moved against her. “Form a circle!” Parma ordered the Varalelans. “Push them against a wall!”

     The villagers did their best to obey, rallying themselves into a more sound formation. At this, the postures of the hooded figures tensed, but they did not give ground. Even the man whose toes Parma had broken stood firm crookedly. For a moment the two groups faced each other in silence, neither seeming eager to engage its opponent. Parma frowned slightly. She had removed one man from the four, and somewhat crippled another, but it seemed he could still stand, and that meant that two swords were still in play. And two daggers, she thought, eyeing the woman. She stood with her knees slightly bent, one of her weapons held in plain view near her thigh and the other clutched in a hand hidden in her cloak. Parma’s frown deepened. She is the most dangerous.

     Then the healer spoke, raising her voice but keeping it heavy with threat. “Back down. You are outnumbered more than two to one.”

     The strangers gave no answer, but Parma heard the woman scoff. She clenched her teeth. If there had been but one proper warrior amongst the village-folk standing with her she would have felt more at ease. Or if she had been alone. But there was not, and she was not. If the brigands brought their obvious skill to bear, even outnumbered by eight Varalelans it was most likely that they could still cut their way free. Which left Parma one option. One that she did not wish to resort to before the eyes of the villagers.

Keep Strong!