Archer of Sherwood

Archer of Sherwood

Sunset on Nottingham
Light glimmers through the trees
The birds start their singing
All seems well at peace

But in this quaint little town
Evil festers deep
Leaders spin their dire plots
Darkness enshrouds sheriff's keep

Countryfolk kept in fear
Taxes bearing down
Henchmen on the prowl
Deep despair engulfs the town

But a few bowshots away
Sherwood forest looms golden-green
And within it shady glades
Freedom can finally be seen

Outlaw band dwells therein
Merry men one and all
At their head a archer bold
Fearless sounds his horn call!

Archer of Sherwood
Champion of good
Yeoman of the forest
His name is Robin Hood!

A contest

In lieu of my Wednesday post, here's a cool contest I was directed to. Soundtracks are the bread and butter of my listening tastes, so I thought it was pretty awesome. Check it out!

http://inkslingerblog.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/soundtrack-giveaway-2011/

An Ending

My apologies for the late post, being on vacation in the mountains does not lend itself to being on schedule.

A few days ago I printed out the entirety of what I written in Trust Hole, in the process reminding myself I needed to actually finish it. So that night I sat down to write what I thought would be the last two or three chapters. I finished out the climax, quite to my liking, and starting to write the first few sentences of the ending. But as I did so, I quickly realized finishing the book with a classic ending, i.e. explain how everyone ends up, what happens afterward, etc, was simply not going to work. All that information is nice, but wouldn't help the story in any way. So I simply stopped. The climax was over, the plot resolved, and the problem taken care of. And the ending is much simpler and much more effective that way.

A Retelling...

God rest you merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remeber Christ, our savior
Was born this sacred day
A king has come to lowly earth
To slay the serpent fey
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy

From God our heavenly ruler
The call to war is here
Rising from the heavens
The angel hosts appear
Swords of fire lifted high
Nowhere there is fear
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy

Saints of God, now gather here
Gentlemen, heed the call
Stand strong, you men of God
Righteous warriors all
Do not give into lies
Satan will surely fall
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy

The battle lasts throughout the age
Until Christ does return
And until then we will keep on
Forward, straight, do not turn
But remember most of all
The vict'ry 's already won
And we can rest merry
As sons of God, gentlemen
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy
Oh, tidings of wonder and joy
Wonder and joy

Music In Writing

When I am writing, I am usually listening to something. I find it helps me drown out the noises around me, and locks me into the world I am creating. Previously, when I was writing my Primorlen novels, epic music was the genre of choice. Thomas Bergensen's Illusions album has some of the most beautiful, sweeping, epic, but not overly intense music I've ever heard. Movie soundtracks are also sometimes helpful, though if I am quite familiar with the movie the music reminds me of the scenes during which it plays, rather than whatever I'm writing at the moment. However, as I began writing The Trust Hole, I found that epic music I had been listening to didn't quite cut it when helping me focus in.
Sweeping orchestras did not fit in with the grungy, dystopian, off-kilter world I was creating. So I broadened my musical horizons, searching for soundtracks and other music that would fit. For instrumental, I rediscovered the Inception and Dark Knight soundtracks (which I already had), and found the gem of the Tron: Legacy soundtrack. These had the slightly electronic, deep and brooding but still epic feel I was looking for. For vocal music, I found Red's Until We Have Faces to have the same qualities, especially their quieter tracks. And the lyrics fit spot on... every song seemed to mirror a theme in Trust Hole. Feed the Machine, Not Alone, Who We Are, Hymn For The Missing; each spoke to one of the threads I was weaving together.
At the same time, a few nights I simply turned the music off and wrote in silence. Ten o'clock at night is usually pretty quiet, so the only sounds were the tapping of my keys. It was curiously epic in itself, just throwing the story forward on the wings of silence.

Try it sometime, turn off your carefully constructed playlist of writing music, and find a quiet place to just write. You might be surprised by the results.

Musings

Note: In the following weeks, Monday posts will be about The Trust Hole, simply because that's what I'll be working on rather than anything in Primorlen.

Why The Trust Hole? What was so enticing about the little business card I made up that sent me speeding away on the express train of NaNoWriMo, far away from my previous ideas? What caused me to ditch weeks of careful plotting and re-plotting, character outlines, my preferred genre, and a character I was thrilled to be writing about again? What about Alen and his dystopian world grabbed my attention and held it securely for an entire month of frantic noveling?

Just that. Alen himself and his off-kilter world. There was something wonderfully appealing in the idea of a completely normal boy thrust into a not-so-normal world. But a familiar world. And perhaps that is what caught me. Alen and Molson City exist in the modern world. There are Russians, and Poles, and Swedes; shotguns, grenade launchers, and Glocks; old cars, squeaking screen doors, muddy streets and broken street lamps. But at the same time they exist somewhere beyond time and space. There's a talking tiger, a man with a bionic eye, fighting robots, an entire complex that operates night after night without attracting police attention.
And in the cross-section of normal and not-so-normal I found something wonderful. In the conflux, there arrives the question: what makes normal? And as a extrapolation, what makes different? In a place where freaks fight robots for a living, what defines freakishness? What defines specialness? And that is the key to the entire riddle.
For the minute I wrote Alen's first lines, I knew he was special. He was unlike any other character I had written before, far more introspective and quiet. Pride was something he struggled with only occasionally. Whereas in my last novel, Freeborn and Freegiven, each character struggled to realize they couldn't go it alone, and had to face their pride and do what they did not want to, Alen's struggle delved into the very depths of worth and purpose.
And in the theme of worth I found my greatest message yet told. Being in our own world, Christ was real and tangible, and in the filth and grime of the Hole, His light shone out clear and cold.

Changed Land

Changed Land

A gentle breeze upon the grass
Rippling the lake, before like glass
Tree boughs swaying rythmically
Verdant leaves fluttering loosely

Hollow wind across the land
All is dead, life is banned
Dead tree's skeleton blasted
Death and decay, all that has lasted

Stately castle upon the hill
Shining out light and good will
Many colored banners flying
Breaths of wind, sighing

Darkness reigns, all is dead
Ruins across the lands do tread
Red stained water speaks of blood
All hope has been ground into the mud

Why this awful change?
Why does such evil range?
Who could have caused such desolation?
What could have created such devastation?

No invading army caused this blight
No usurper came with deadly might
The fault lies with the dwellers, us
We have destroyed our God-given trust

Back from Hibernation

*yawn*
*blinks sleepily*
Well, December looks nice! Let's see... how long have I slept? Oh wow, 12 days!

Not really :P I had a final that kept me from sleeping for the first week, but now that that's over... vacation!!

*Sigh of relief*

NaNoWriMo's over, the college semester is over, about to take vacation off of work... what am I going to do with myself?

Write. Lots and lots o' writing. And here's where it begins!

Anyways, I hope to set myself a blogging schedule (not every day), but at least three times a week. Here's how I hope it will work:

Monday- Tales of Primorlen: Posts about my fantasy series (which is what I will be working on mostly as far as writing goes)

Wednesday- Inkspots and Crumpled Papers: Posts about writing in general, editing, various literary techniques, etc. Anything and everything I've learned as a writer. (This is for me just as much as it is for you readers, telling someone else something is one of the best ways to learn it for yourself :P)

Fridays- Poetry: Exactly that! Whatever poetry I've written, whether two days or two years old.

In addition, I'd like to post movie/book reviews, musings on the awesome majesty and epicness of God (who is so epic I have to make up a word to even try to describe Him!), and possibly fun stuff involving all of you readers! (Bear with me on that one, I'm still rather new to this whole blog thing)

Anyways, that's the plan! We'll see how long it lasts! :P

Until next time,
Farjag

Finished!!!

I'm done!!! 50,000 words in 30 days, done and did!!

*crazy headbanging and screaming*

Rawwww!

........

Anyways, check out my certificate! (Never fear, detailed post to follow, along with a steady blogging routine again)

Caught Up!!

I've caught up!! *shouts silently so I don't wake anyone up*

30,139 of 30,00!

Also, a quote to keep you excited:

“Every one is important, not for who they are, but in spite of who they are”

Characters; Gotta love 'em

Well tonight I introduced another main character, one who wasn't in my original idea, but will probably play a key role in this second half of the book (Which I have reached! 27,207 done! I should be at 28,333, but that's all right. Catching up slowly!)

Anyways, this takes place right after Alen has a run-in with a gang and gets severely beaten up. 

He groaned, turning his head to look around the small room he was lying in.

It wasn’t much different from the room he had used to sleep in at Aunt Silphie’s, with a iron frame bed in the center of the room, peeling wallpaper on the walls, an old rusting desk in one corner and a rocking chair in the other. To his left was a small kitchen, with walls lined with cabinets and a few old appliances gleaming in the harsh light of a unshaded lamp.

The girl stood at the stove, stirring something in a metal pot. She was wearing a pair of old worn jeans rolled up at her bare feet, a plain t-shirt, and a shawl thrown over her shoulders. She turned to look at Alen questioningly, the smear of brown crossing her cheek giving her an almost comical look. Alen guessed her to be just a year or so younger than him

“You all right? You look awful.”

Alen smiled in spite of himself at the girl’s bluntness. “I... don’t think I have any b...roken bones.” He touched his jaw gingerly. “T...hough everything hurts like I did.”

The girl smiled sweetly, turning back to stirring her pot. Alen took another glance around the room. Most of the furniture looked to have been painted white at some time, but they were all so worn and flaking it was hard to tell. The only light came from the lamp on the kitchen counter, and a bare lightbulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling above him.

There was an old sewing machine on the desk, duct taped together it looked like, and the stub of a candle melted over an upside down cup on the nightstand next to the bed.

But what caught his eye was the stuffed animals placed all around the room. They lined the edge of the bed, sat in the rocker, were set up in a line in front of the sewing machine, peeked out of cupboards and were strewn about the kitchen counter.

Alen blinked once or twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. He wasn’t.

The girl stopped stirring, and shut the stove off, before reaching up on tiptoe to pull two glass bowls from one of the cupboards.

“Move, Chewy,” she said simply, brushing a stuffed bear further down the counter to set the bowls down. Alen watched her bewilderedly as she picked up the pot with a pair of oven mitts and poured its contents into a tall tea kettle. Two spoons were produced from a drawer, and then bowls, spoons and tea kettle were brought to the nightstand at Alen’s right.

The girl set them down gently, brought the rickety chair from the desk over, and proceeded to pour the contents of the tea kettle into the bowls.

“Here you go,” she said simply, handing Alen the bigger one. Alen set the cooling hot pad down on his lap and took the bowl somewhat apprehensively, peering with one eye at the liquid substance.

“Don’t worry, it’s just matzoh ball soup. Though, I don’t have a matzoh balls. So just soup, I guess.”

Alen sniffed the bowl, and found it to smell quite good, so he took a sip. It was hot, but good.

The girl smiled, and began to eat as well, alternating between taking her own spoonfuls and offering some to the one-eared rabbit that sat on the nightstand

“What’s your name?” she asked, after a time.

Alen blinked. Her bluntness was quite abrupt. “A… Alen. I’m Alen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Alen. I’m Mirra.”

An Excerpt

I've reached 19k in The Trust Hole (Only one thousand words behind!), so I thought it was high time to post an excerpt. Enjoy!

As they sat at their table, Watson listed for Alen the actual things that made the men he knew different from what they appeared. The Hole wasn’t just a haven for the out-of-work, it was a refuge for those driven from normal life by their abnormalities. Mendel had been a cook in a French cuisine until it was discovered he had a minor case of dyslexia after one of his desserts sent fifteen guests to the emergency room with food poisoning. The mark on his record had kept him out of a job for three years before Nick found him.
Watson grinned wryly. “If fifteen illegal fighters get sent to the emergency room for food poison, who’s to care? But that’s why the big guy always has someone else in the kitchen with him at all times, to make sure he doesn’t do it again.”
Nick, of course, had his size. It was hard enough to get work these days and being too short to do much than office work did not help. Brian was actually color blind to everything but black and white, which made most jobs out of the question. Blue’s body produced nearly three times as much electricity as a normal human’s, so anything electronic would fry whenever he touched it, or sometimes just got close.
Watson actually laughed out loud when he mentioned this. “Oh, you should’ve been there the first night he showed up. A group of us were watching TV in the break room and he passed by. The whole screen went all static and fuzzy for a few seconds, and when it went back to normal, it had switched channels! None of use knew what was going on, so he kept doing it! He must have passed us a dozen times before Martin caught on that it happened whenever he walked past. We all laughed so hard.”
Alen grinned broadly, then grew serious again. “What’s Martin’s… problem?”
Watson frowned. “Martin has… Martin’s brain operates differently from most people’s, but it’s not a disease like schizophrenia or anything. He takes longer to understand some thing than normal people, but others he picks up without even trying. It’s like some parts of his brain are underdeveloped while the rest got overdeveloped. I mean, he can operate fairly normally in the day-to-day stuff, it’s mostly memory and comprehension that I’m talking about. He can take one look at any weapon and know how to use it like a pro, but he can’t add or subtract anything over twenty to save his life. He’ll remember your face for as long as he lives, but he might forget your name within a few days he’s only met you once. One time he forgot if the earth revolved around the sun or vice versa, and only asked me because he remembered something Brian had said about shadows a month before that didn’t make sense if the sun revolved around the earth!”
Watson shook his head incredulously. “He’s an odd specimen, that’s for sure. Incredibly moody, and his condition makes him not as social as most of the other men here.”
Alen nodded, thinking back on his time with Martin on the road here. A lot of his strange behavior was explained, but there was something beyond that in the tall man as well, a glimmer of emotion that had shone through that afternoon in Alen’s room. He had seemed very normal then.
Watson went on to describe most of the other men in the room, pointing them out as he talked about them. There was Bjorid, the Swedish giant, who stood eight feet tall and spoke hardly five words of english; there was Albert, the slightly insane Pole who could make a weapon out of duck tape, paperclips, and an electrical outlet; Vladmir, the deaf Russian strongman; Tecal, the hypersensitive Cherokee with lightning-quick reflexes (Watson warned Alen never to walk up quietly behind the full-blooded Indian when he was eating, since doing so might end with a fork in your gut, unless he was lucky); Pepe, the Puerto Rican whose whistle was so high it could shatter glass; and Cory, the redneck from Alabama who had never passed third grade but could box like Rocky Balboa.
Altogether it was a curious lot...

The Plot Thickens...

“Humans enjoying inflicting pain. If they can't do it themselves, they will pay to see it done”

Witness The Action!

     

  The dark lingered a second longer, then was obliterated in a flood of warm yellow light. The wall was lit up by hundreds of small spotlights, each shining on a framed poster or giant photograph, all of them advertising the same nightly excitement at “The Hole” that the business card in Martin’s hat had.

But the content of the posters was what caught Alen’s eye; giant robots locked in combat with strange costumed figures, each labeled with such colorful titles as “The Firefly,” “Whiz-bang,”  “Crackerjack,” and “Fist.”

He walked slowly down the wall, eyes going from one intense poster to the next. He found the one for “Brother Paul,” a man in a trench coat and fedora leaping up to meet the hulking tower of steel poised over him...

The Story Continues!

The first of many...

“They didn't pay to see you win! They came to see a fight! And I just gave them that!"

9,183

Well, I think I've finally gotten into the Nanowrimo groove, writing every night from about 9:30 to 12:00. Early bumps aside, I'm doing quite well, and am steadily catching up to where I would like to be. The newest additions are up on Google docs, so feel free to check it out! And now everyone who I invited can comment, so feel free to do that as well. (Hey, additions are legal editing here!) So basically, if you see something you want expounded on, let me know! :)

Running the engines at full steam,
Farjag

The Trust Hole

Well, my Nanowrimo got a bit of a strange start. Two writing sessions in, I decided that Silver and Sable wasn't the story I needed to be writing. I was hit with an idea unlike any other I had had before, a dystopian, slightly off-kilter modern fantasy starring a young boy named Alen, and set in the dog-eat-dog world of robot vs. freak cage-fighting.

The synopsis: Alen Croxale has had a rough if sheltered childhood, getting dumped on old Aunt Silphie's doorstep when the nearby orphanage closed, living with hand-me-downs for clothes and shotgun fanatics for neighbors. So when a stranger arrives to take him somewhere far away, he is more than willing to go. His destination? A complex of buildings known as the Hole deep in the slums of Molson City. The Hole houses the Most Dangerous Game, a secret, illegal form of amusement not many know about and even fewer speak of. For the Game is haven to the world's bizarre and unwanted, those with traits about them which other people fear and do not understand. Here you can find midgets, giants, ex-circus performers, prison escapees, mad sharpshooters, talking animals, out-of-a-job actors and one-eyed veterans, all looking for one last hope of redemption before they die. And the Game pits them against robots, recyclable fighters whose only programming is to destroy their enemy. Colorful characters abound in the white halls of the Hole, but only a few survive. And what is Alen's purpose there? What is so special and bizarre about the young boy of sixteen? Only time will tell, unless the Game gets him first.

That was on the fourth. I spent the drive to church this morning really delving into what the story would be about, by way of quotes (Which I will post on here as teasers fairly frequently). Now I know where the story is headed, and am really excited (not the right word, but it will have to do) about where it will take me.

So, now I've hit my rubber to the road, am well on my way to catching up to where I need to be, and The Trust Hole is up on Google Docs for your perusal.

Insane, Crazy, and totally Right

I bet someone knows what's coming next!

Time

Well, I haven't exactly gotten off to the rip-roaring start I was hoping for with Nanowrimo, as I'm sure at least someone has noticed. But it's no fault of my book or writing skills. You see, the night before last I stayed up till 4:00am, working on this.

In case any one is wondering, it's a 3d design project focusing on organization. I designed the 2d image first with certain shapes, and then made the 3d transformation. 

So, no time at all for writing on the 2nd. I thought that would be ok, though, since I had written almost 700 words extra on the 1st, so it shouldn't be too hard to catch up. But then last night... I didn't get started till 10:00 (Courtesy of design class) and I was falling asleep at my computer barely 400 words in. So I decided to get some much need rest.

So now I'm a few thousand words behind, but don't worry! I can and will catch up (hopefully by the start of next week). Watch for the next three segments of Silver and Sable when they appear shortly!

It has Begun

The first 2,305 words are up! They actually went quicker than I expected, I think I've improved in writing speedily since last year. (Probably due to all the writing I've been doing lately. Doing something a lot usually helps with the speed, don't you think? :P )

So, for this first half chapter, I tried to really focus on setting up the... setting. I tried to give a brief look into the culture Rogart is from, what the people are like, what he is used to. This is important, because fairly soon we won't be seeing it anymore, so there has to be a solid groundwork for Rogart to pull from later on. I also wanted to show some of Rogart's relationship with Chain, the man he is apprenticed to. This also will disappear shortly, but it plays a key role in the end of the book, so there has to be something to go on. Until next time,

A fairly excited,
Farjag

P.S. If anyone wants to follow along as I write, shoot me an email!

NaNoWrimo!

The long awaited day is here! Tonight I shall begin my second annual 50,000 words in 30 days marathon! I shall be living and breathing Silver and Sable for the entire month of November, so blog posts will probably decrease, however what I've written each night will go up on google docs, (hopefully) so if you're interested in following along as I write, email me!

The Sound of Battle...

I wrote this excerpt for a forum a little while ago and thought it might be a good idea to post here with some additions and editing. (Saves me from having to write a whole new one!)

On how to make large-scale fantasy battles interesting, especially how it relates to being told from one character's point of view:

"There are multiple factors to consider, many depending on the setting.

 The first thing to define is the ground. If there is any height involved, someone might have a good view of at least most of the battlefield (useful for getting a clear idea of what's going on). Ridges make good defensive locations, while valleys make for good ambushes. The rougher the ground, the harder it will be to root an enemy out. 

Perhaps next most important, what kind of technology is being used, and how will it effect the battle and the watcher's line of sight? Dragons, airplanes, gryphons or hot air balloons would get a literal bird's-eye view, thus helping troop movements on the ground below, while dragon's fire, cannons, muskets or explosions would create smoke dense enough to obscure everything. (Dust from the ground could also do this).

Technology directly effects how information is passed from man to man, and thus how the reader learns  what is going on. Aide-de-camps, radios, messenger pigeons, wig-wag signals, bugle calls, all are different methods for transmitting information quickly across large amounts of space. For mainstream fantasy, a tried and true method is to relay information by couriers, this wing calls for aid, this wing sends word it is advancing. This keeps the characters at the forefront, while maintaining a good overall picture of what is going on.
Tactics also play a major role: someone laying in ambush might only hear what is going on until his signal comes, an air strike would provide an excellent overview of what is happening, snipers would be in better positions to observe much of what is going on.
The last factor to consider is who your pov character is in relation to the battle. A general might be more aware of the battle as a whole, a simple foot soldier only of what's directly in front of him. A calvary/dragon rider would see more of the battle, but would be less in direct combat, whereas a archer/siege weapon worker might have more time to watch the battle as it progressed after their projectiles were exhausted or rendered useless by troop movements.
And finally, the most important thing to include is the feel of the battle. No matter how detailed the troop movements, the thoughts of the combatants or the originality of the tactics, it all comes down to what the reader comes away with afterward. Did they sense the chaos, smell the dust, see the price paid by those who gave their lives, hear the whine of arrows, the clash of swords, the roar of beasts? Did they cringe as the flights of arrows came whining down? Did they cheer with the embattled soldiers as the reinforcements came thundering in?

If they answer is a resounding "Yes!" from your readers, then you, the author, have succeeded.

A really good author for making large scale battles interesting is G.A. Henty. He wrote historical fiction during the late 1800's, retelling nearly all the great battles of history in over 120 novels. His method of choice was usually to tell the battles from a bird's eye view, detailing troop movements, then go back and tell what his main character saw of the battle and how it affected him. He was also a master strategist, (if you want any information on guerilla warfare throughout the ages, his books are the place to go). His battles, even told from a historian's pen, accurately convey the chaos, tactics, strategy, mistakes, heroism, and scale of many of history's greatest battles.

Now, I'm no expert in this field, and I haven't written a full-scale battle in some time, (so I'm not sure how my current writing style will affect the final product) but I hope my musings and experience gained from my own writing and reading help someone else.

Passing on what I have gained from others,

Farjag

Beautiful People

As I've made the rounds of a few fellow Christian writers' blogs, I discovered this little gem of an exercise in character development. I think it's a brilliant idea, and so I have decided to jump in headfirst (the way I normally do things), and challenge my self with this month's... challenge! At the same time, I thought four days away from November might be a good time to transition from Feather and Fang to Silver and Sable. Wouldn't you? :) So, for starters, Rogart, Fox-grey shall be the character whom I dig into first. In the end, I will probably have learned more about young Rogart (who, coincidentally, happens to be my oldest real character ever!) than you have! Enjoy!



What is his full name? Rogart, Fox-grey

Does his name have a special meaning? His title, 'grey', was given to him at birth because of his fur color

Does your character have a methodical or disorganized personality? Probably disorganized, he's pretty headstrong and brash, so he wouldn't have time to be methodical

Does he think inside himself more than he talks out loud to their friends? Well, he doesn't have any friends (See below), so I suppose he would talk to himself. I know I do. :P

Do they have friends? Not really. (leastwise not at the beginning of the story). His life is nomadic at best, so he never stays anywhere long enough to make friends.

Is there something he is afraid of? A cage. Being locked up to where he cannot decide for himself what he wants to do.

Does he write, dream, dance, sing, or photograph? He whittles, carving thumb-sized sculptures from bits of wood

Switching Dialogue

One of the things I find myself doing often in editing is switching lines of dialogue between characters. I write the conversation one way, come back a month later and add a few more lines, often greatly increasing the depth and reach. But when I've finished adding those poignant sentences, I find myself with one character replying to himself. And it won't be easy to add in a line for the other character without messing up the flow of thought. So I just switch the lines around. Redpaw says what Crestlen was saying, and vice versa. Of course, the way they talk has to change as well, Redpaw is more blunt and simple, Crestlen more refined and articulate. So I switch a few phrases around.
Then comes the sentiments. What if Redpaw doesn't agree with what Crestlen was saying earlier? But I have found that switching sentiments oftentimes helps in the end, as you dig deeper into what each believes and how each reacts to different things.
Now, this probably wouldn't work with an old geezer and a young upstart, but with two trained hunters, it works quite well. At the same time, as I've separated Redpaw and Crestlen's characters, making them two distinct individuals, it sometimes becomes necessary to give one's lines to the other. For instance, Redpaw is more willing to forgive and move on, while Crestlen tends to muse on things, and keep them in his mind for extended periods of time. So when I find a line by Crestlen which doesn't seem to fit his character anymore, sometimes the easiest thing to do is give it to Redpaw, and see how the rest of the conversation shapes up.

They surprise me sometimes with the direction they take things.

When Posts Appear...

To help all you readers, and me, I think I shall begin to post later in the day, probably after dinner when I'm doing my other writing, homework, etc. So to make things easier for you, when you check in the morning, there will a brand new post, all ready to read. So you'll basically be reading yesterday's post, but it'll be more like I got up really early in the morning and posted one I had written the night before (which is what I would be doing if I wanted to post the day of).
So, I'm posting this at 6:00 tonight, which means you probably won't read it until tomorrow morning. That night I will write my next post, which you will read the next morning. Make sense?

Hopefully it does, cause I ain't changing it! :P
Farjag

A Reason to Write

When I sent last year's novel to one of my dear writer friends for critiquing, this was part of his reply:

"With a future story, I would like to see a little more meaning. The reason I stopped writing [my last story] was because I saw that in light of eternity I was writing a book that neither challenged my view of the world and God or the reader’s worldview. For your next story, spend time in prayer asking God what he would have you focus on in your story."

He went on to give more specific likes and dislikes, all of them very helpful, but none so poignant and deep-cutting as the first. I thought long and hard about his encouragement, but couldn't quite wrap my mind around how to really accomplish this in the fantasy setting I had created. (Probably because I didn't take his advice and seriously pray for guidance).
However, recently I was freshly convicted of this lack in my writing through the musings of several other writer friends on their blogs. Each had different styles, genres and advice on how to write well, but all of them pointed back to God in a way that cut deep. I hadn't been seeking to include my Maker in my writing as much as I should have been.
Since that time, I have been thinking deeply about this problem, and praying, asking the Lord for the guidance I realized I needed. And he answered me, as he always will.
The main problem I was having in my current novel, Feather and Fang, was that neither of my main characters were the kind of men who would point to the Maker with their actions and words. And if tried to change one of them into such a man, it would render them unbelievable as a character (as far as how I had written them so far goes).
But I believe I have finally worked out a solution which will not only fix that problem, but add another layer to the story as a whole and the character development which had been lacking before (see previous posts on Redpaw and Crestlen).
Basically, I decided that while Crestlen is self-proclaimed atheist, Redpaw believes in the Maker. However, he struggles with matching his duty to this country and his wish to honor his Maker. He is sent to get rid of a dangerous assassin, but when does his enemy become his neighbor? When does killing a foe become the right thing to do? He knows what is right, but is often hard pressed to actually do it.
However, his actions catch Crestlen's eye, especially his courage against all odds, and refusal to despair. As the two mortal enemies are forced to work together to survive, Redpaw's moral dilemma comes to a head. How can he let an enemy of his country live? When does mercy replace justice?
Meanwhile, Crestlen is struggling with similar questions. How can you kill someone who has shown you mercy? How can any conscience, however seared, not be affected by slitting the throat of the man who fought at your back?
Halfway through their journey, they will meet someone who challenges both of their beliefs and mindsets.  The questions he asks will give them both fresh perspectives on each other, and what the Maker desires of them. Other themes I hope to thread throughout are the true meaning of honor, courage, and what makes a man a man. When they exit the Brightgorge, they will be changed men, and whatever trappings of old habits remain will speedily be burnt away in the fires that await them beyond. 

Dark and Light

If you haven't noticed yet, I tend to write a lot about the contrast of light and darkness. It shows up in many of my poems, in my stories, even in my movies. This particular poem highlights that ongoing battle I so often take up the pen to tell about. And here is also is the little quote I tell myself whenever things look black: "When Darkness begins to fall, soon, Light will rise."

Darkness Falling

Darkness is falling

Light is failing

Hope is dying

All seems lost

Despair is rising

Evil is stirring

Fires are burning

All seems lost

Storms are brewing

Lightning cracking

Thunder crashing

All seems lost

Rebellion boiling

Sparks igniting

Armies marching

All seems lost

War is advancing

Battle is approaching

Death is nearing

All seems lost

Shouts are crying

Weapons clashing

Men are dying

All seems lost

Victory is at hand!

Darkness has fallen

Crashing, burning

Light has risen again!

How to explain...

Errg. Has anyone ever had the problem of trying to explain what they are writing about and why you think it is better than the average dime novel out there? I know I do. And fantasy is one of the worst genres with this problem. A writer says they're writing historical fiction, and someone's ears will perk up. But fantasy... meh. So, I have to go into a rather long-winded explanation of what my writing is, but more importantly, what it isn't. Conversations usually go something like this:

Friend: What's that?

Me: A story I'm writing

Friend: What kind of story?

Me: Fantasy. Though I really try to be original and stay away from elves, dwarves, orcs and the like.

Friend: Oh, that's cool.

Me: At the same time, I don't like stories which have the Aethereia riding Bjollen and living in Hoplathera. I try to keep things realistic.

Friend: Interesting... so you write original, realistic fantasy. Like with only humans?

Me: Well, actually I have the freeborn or alterers. They're something like shapeshifters, but they only have one form besides their human form, and they're not actually humans who can turn into animals. It's as much a part of who they are as sneezing is to us. They are not one or the other, or even both, but a single entity with the ability to choose between two of his forms. I only use the words 'human' and 'animal' because I couldn't describe it any other way.

Friend: Oh, ok.

Me: And I don't use magic, though I've been trying to bend physics lately. I'm still working with that.

Friend: So, is this another world?

Me: Yes, but it's connected to ours. Not sure exactly how yet, whether its out there in space somewhere, or if it's on some other plane of existence. But that's why there are the 'animal' names for the freeborn, they originally came from our world.

Friend: That's pretty sweet. So, how far are you along?

Me: Well, I completed a novel last November, 50,000 words, and I'm getting ready to do it again this year.

Friend: Woah. That's pretty impressive

Me: Thanks.


So, as you can see, it takes a bit of time to get them to see the whole picture of what I'm writing, and why it's different. And there's always the question: "So, it's like Lord of the Rings/Eragon/Dungeons and Dragons/manga/some other fantasy I haven't read ?"

No, not really. It's... my own.

Let it Burn!

Here's a fairly short one I wrote as a song... maybe I'll finish it and write music to it someday.

Let it burn!

Let it burn, let it burn!

All around the flames will leap

I don't care, I just want to yearn

To find my courage, take the leap

Let it fall, let it fall

All around it crashes down

I don't care, I just want to call

Upon my savior, catch me now

Let it go, let it go

Drop it down to the ground

I don't care, I just want to throw

My sin down to the ground

Let it spark, let it spark

A light to shine to other men

I don't care, I just want to mark

My way different from all other men

The Battle

Battle

Battle lines drawn up

Upon a field painted green

Silent, unmoving lines of soldiers

Waiting for the bullet's scream

The commander astride his muscled horse

The captain with his golden sabre

The sergeant standing with his men

And the private next to his neighbor

Across the rolling ground

The enemy lines come into sight

The slow forward march

Towards the approaching fight

"Fix bayonets!"

The command rings out

The clatter of sharp metal

Accompanies the resounding shout

The bugle sounds!

The advance is underway!

Quickly the charge grows faster

The victor will be decided today

Raw-throated yells

Guns held to the ready

Lines draw closer together

Both still steady

The crash!

Two armies collide

A wheeling melée of bodies and steel

Now is the time to decide

Who has the upper hand?

Tis imposible to tell

While one wing is hard pressed

The other is gaining well

The two opposing flags

Circle each other like hawks

As all around their soldiers

In bloody battle are locked

The screams of the wounded

The silence of the dead

The shouting of the still alive

And whine of flying lead

Ah, at last, some movement!

As one side gives way

But who the victor?

Even I cannot say 

Broken Sword

Broken

Jagged and torn

Splintered

Battered and worn

Shattered

Stained with blood

Cracked

Splashed with mud

Forgotten

Hidden from all

Abandoned

None remember the fall

Alone

Deep in a vault

Dust-covered

Whose the fault?

Discovered

Light breaking through

Reclaimed

Taken up anew

Heated

Shaped with blows

Hammered

The iron red-hot glows

Reforged

Pieces joined together

Remade

Hilt re-bound in leather

Sharpened

Blade gleaming cold

Restored

Again the glory of old

Wielded

In battle strong

Victory!

Thus ends the song

Poetry

I was looking through my itouch's notes today, and found a great deal of poetry I had 'forgotten' about. Maybe misremembered would be a better word. Anyways... since I haven't had the time over the last few days to write anything new, I thought I'd just post a piece on here every day until I've written more prose, or I run out of poems, whichever comes first :P . Without further ado then, the first poem:

The Minstrel's Song

The night air was drifting

As I sat softly lifting

A song to the sky

As all around did fly

The music I was making

Voice lifted up in song

Notes drawn out long

Words coupled in rhyme

Foot tapping out the time

To the music I was making

Countless stars twinkled down

As firelight lit the background

In quiet streets, abandoned

My melody softly landed

The music I was making

Touched by the bow

Strings sounded low

Fingers catching notes

Like dancing little motes

For the music I was making

Softly ended the song

Silence following along

Fingers rested atop

As strings slowed to a stop

And ended the music I was making

But lo! A note in answer!

And following like a dancer

Came a trill sweet and high

Piping notes that did fly

Like the music I had been making

Soon there came in sight

Swiftly approaching the light

The piper, skipping along

Mirroring her merry song

The music she was making

Then, with a merry grin

I picked up my bow again

And touching bow to string

I began softly to sing

To the music we were making

Melodies intertwining

Harmonies slowly rising

Notes falling like rain

And bouncing back again

The music we were making

Then did the darkened street

Begin to resound with many feet

As folk began to gather round

And voices began to sound

A song raised to the sky

By many voices raised high

The music we were making!

An Old Grey Book

This, my friends, is where my writing career began. This humble, gray, cloth-bound notebook given to me by some dear friends of mine for my 14th birthday. I had just completed my first fictional story ever, On Grace Alone, and wanted to write again. So sometime in September of that year, on the way to a church camp-out, I pulled out my gray notebook and wrote these words on the first page: The Grey Warrior. 130 handwritten pages later, most of them fairly ineligible to anyone except me, I had written 11 chapters chock full of improbable occurrences, cliché situations, and no plot to speak of, as well as some dozen pages of notes, a prologue for the sequel, and one or two other random ideas.

Near the beginning... notice the neat handwriting?

Towards the end... not so much anymore :P

I had already begun to transfer most of this to the computer, and so work on The Grey Warrior truly began. Several years of intermittent writing, computer crashes, computer moves, rewriting, another 20 pages in my gray book, and I emerged with an incomplete story 27,790 words and 13 chapters long; which documented quite well how much I had improved from writing the title to the last never finished sentence. The Grey Warrior taught me how to write, specifically in the area of what NOT to do. :P
Several more years passed, with sporadic writing in other areas, two short stories and several false starts on other works. In 2009, I revisited my grey story, completely rewriting the first four chapters in a more realistic tone, and implementing something of a future plot-line. Unfortunately, there still was not enough of a solid arc to keep the story moving, and it too fell by the wayside. Then, in November of 2010, I discovered NaNoWriMo: The National Novel Writing Month. The goal: write 50,000 or more words in 30 days. I dove into the idea, digging among my dozen of unused ideas for one that I could keep running for that amount of time. I had already been toying with the idea of combining several of my worlds into one, but had discarded it (mainly because I had been using Terra, the Grey Warrior's land, for the jumping point, and it didn't have any room to add something more). The idea came back in full force, especially when I discovered that an outline I had named According to Power fit extremely well in my Feather and Fang world. A month of plot outlining and re-outlining followed, with only a few key ideas from the original concept ending up in Freeborn and Freegiven. Then came November, and I wrote furiously for 30 days until I wrote "The End" on the 30th. (Then discovered that I was just over a 100 words short... and had to find somewhere to add a few paragraphs :P) During that time, however, I frequently used my little gray notebook to continue writing when I didn't have access to my computer.
When that was done, I took a break from writing for a few months, then started again on Feather and Fang, the sequel. Now, November fast approaches again, and Silver and Sable is slated for full novel treatment. And my writing has come full circle. Once again will the gray notebook be filled with the hairbreadth escapes and daring adventures of Rogart and Dakar, this time in rugged land of Theorlen.

 And this time, with plot-line worth hanging on to!

Sharpening his pen,
Farjag

Thoughts... are like bubbles

I've figured it out!! As of last night (See below post), I was without a plot. But as of late last night, I had one! I had about an hour before my class got our turn with the professor, so I decided to see if I could visually work out my problems with my plot line. So I started bubbling, something I've actually never done before. I wrote out the main concepts I knew I wanted in the story, and then started to try to connect the dots... literally. Several concepts got broken down into smaller bubbles, many of the got moved around in the story arc, and a ton got added in. I even brought back one of my original ideas from my first draft! Some subplotting followed, and additional info along the margins, and, as I still had some room left, I finished off with listing some character weaknesses for each of my MC's. All in all, a very successful exercise.

Yea, it's pretty messy. And my handwriting isn't exactly what you would call neat. Who cares? No ones going to see it! Except... you. Oh, hmmm. Who cares? :P You could probably read it if you wanted to though, and discover what exactly is in store this November... Or you could just wait and be surprised! Your choice.

In Christ,
Farjag