The Ghostreader Speaks

Way back when... well, in January at least, I decided to edit instead of rewrite Freeborn and Freegiven. And immediately proceeded to do nothing about it. Which is understandable, considering I was just starting a new semester of college and writing two other books. But now college has settled into a steady routine (Three cheers for only one class!), I've laid one of those books aside until I can do the proper research (Grudem's Systematic Theology, anyone?), and Feather and Fang's plot is sufficiently intertwined with that of Freeborn to enable me, nay, require me, to actually begin editing my first true novel.
Now, as most of you readers (who also happen to be writers) are probably keenly aware, editing is a lengthy process involving multiple rereads, countless mark-ups, and almost always several other editors who assist the author with a fresh set of eyes. And while I fall back on these tried and true methods soon, I think I've discovered a method that will allow me to edit mostly on my own.

The trick? Get someone to read it to me.

But, wait... you just said you were going to edit it alone...

I am! The reader I speak of is a ghost, or rather, a Ghostreader. This nifty program (for Macs only, I'm afraid), has some of the best computer voices I've ever heard. Basically, they doesn't sound like a computer. Period. Now, the actual program costs $40, but you can get a free demo for fifteen non-consecutive days (Which is a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me). But, enough of product placement, how exactly does this help me?

Well, first of all, having a British person read your own story back to you is simply awesome. And the best part is, she reads all the typos and doesn't read the words I forgot to put in! So now I can listen as I read, and catch all the mistakes my eyes gloss over or my brain fills in automatically. And second, I'm editing instead of reading, so things move a lot quicker. And not having to focus on picking out every single comma misplacement or missing word means I can pay attention to how the pacing flows, how dialogue moves, and any continuity errors.

For instance, I'm currently editing a scene where Farjag is captured by a shieldsfell Containment patrol. Originally, they just came barging in, surrounded him, and immediately set about Containing him. But what I realized is; if he's one of the last freeborn still uncontained, then the shieldsfell aren't going to suspect that he still has the ability to alter. Their commander keeps sending them out on these patrols, but none of them really believe there are really any more freeborn out there who haven't been contained. Also, they way I portray the shieldsfell during the rest of the book didn't really match with how I was drawing them here. So I drew out the scene a little bit, got some banter between Farjag and Patrollen Slarx, and in general reworked the shieldsfell into a little more of the shape they appear at the end.

And it's way better. What about you? What methods do you use to edit your writing?

"Whatever You Do"

So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. Give no offense to Jews or to Greeks or to the church of God, just as I try to please everyone in everything I do, not seeking my own advantage, but that of many, that they may be saved.
1 Corinthians 10:31-33 (ESV)


These are the verses that come to mind whenever I think about my writing. As I have drawn closer to God in the past year and a half, I have come to realize that every single one of my passions, desires, and pursuits should and must conform to God and be solely for His glory. And writing is at the top of that list. Why? Because it's the hardest.

Serving God with my violin isn't that difficult. Music played to Him and His glory has always been at the forefront of my mind as I have learnt and played this instrument.  But writing... that is something much more difficult.

You see, anyone can write. You need only a keyboard or pen and paper. However, not many can write. In other words, not many can write something worth reading. But I, as a Christian and son of the Author of all creation, have a still higher calling. I am called to not only write something worth reading, but something that glorifies Him in the process.

"So whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God."

But here's the really tricky part.

"Give no offense to Jews or to Greeks or to the church of God."


Not only does my writing have be good, worthy of reading and glorifying to God, but it must also be above reproach from without.

Now, this varies slightly based on the audience, of course. If I am writing strictly to a Christian audience, then my writing is going to be largely geared towards them and the common knowledge we all share. But if I am writing both to my fellow Christians and the world, then it must also accessible and grabbing to those who do not share my love of Christ. How can I do both? How can I share the Gospel truth (literally!), while not turning away those whom I am trying to reach?

Well, Christ Himself has given us a strategy in His word.


"Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves." Matthew 10:16 (ESV)

Boom! Right there. If I can write a tale that grabs my reader from the beginning, starting them out on an innocent little roller coaster of a tale, and then pull the ground out from under their feet, then I will have done all I can do. Every book, movie, or song is a journey for those who read, watch or listen to it. I only hope my books take them on a journey that leads them somewhere worth going.

And finally:


"just as I try to please everyone in everything I do, not seeking my own advantage, but that of many, that they may be saved."


I do not write because I want to be recognized, or because I somehow feel that the world deserves my writing. I write because God has called me to do so. And if He uses it to bring people to Himself, then to Him belongs the glory.

"If at first you don't succeed..."

"Fry, fry, a hen."

Ahem.

Anyways... my latest project in my architectural design class involves designing a dune crossover for a nearby seaside community. Basically, it's a glorified boardwalk. With something on it. Something monumental. Something eye-catching. Something defining. Something worth remembering.

Work has proceeded as follows:

1. Sketch out site map
2. Diagram foot traffic, wind and sun patterns, and sundry other information
3. Come up with words or themes that are important to the town
4. Sketch out concepts
5. Repeat last step
6. Repeat last step

Oi. To date, I have come up with roughly thirty separate and distinct ideas. All of which must fit in a 26 x 26 foot square and be no more than 50 feet high.

I'm ready to fry some hens.

Think about it! I must create something out of the ordinary, something that will grab people's attention, but still fit in with the surrounding landscape and have a underlying concept that has something to do with the surrounding area. Sure, a twisting pillar of fire would be cool... but that won't go over so well with the local populace. And some ideas might fit, but not be appropraite. I.e hurricanes. Yes, they come from the sea. Yes, they have a easily used form. No, I doubt people want to be reminded of them.

Where's those chickens?

No, a dragon will not work no matter how much you tie his fire to the sun or his wings to the wind, his horns to the sea oats or his scales to the dunes. No, a giant hourglass is too literal. Who would want to walk under a giant wine glass filled with half a ton of sand?

I'm gonna find those... *static*


Let's apply this, shall we? Oftentimes in life we find ourselves trying to accomplish something and failing time and again. We keep falling over in our attempts to stand up. We throw ourselves again and again at the iron gate of our problem, but it does not budge. And so what do we do? We give up. We throw up our hands and holler quits.

And as the gates of our problem totter and splinter, we turn away in despair, little realizing just how close we were. Because here's the thing. Someone's already gone through those gates and broken Himself to break the lock. All we have to do is ask Him to show us the combination.

So next you or I find ourselves smashing our heads against a iron gate, just remember, the locks have already been broken. And when we stop making a racket long enough to hear His voice, He will whisper to us the combination.


Anyone care for some Quartorlen Fried Chicken?

The World of Quartorlen

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you....

Quartorlen

To the northwest is Thunderfell of the chalk cliffs and blue downs while to the northeast liesWhitefall, with its soaring white peaks and icy seas. To the east the Sinkfells, that misty land where the very ground has sunk into itself, divides Whitefall from Deepdale, whose green forests and grassy plains stand tall against the turquoise of Jadewater Sound. In the southeast, Flamehope's volcanos spew lava even during the snows of winter, and the land grows ever more rocky until it reaches Taeltongue peninsula. And in the center of this colorful lands lies what was once Brightdown. But now it has been renamed Darkdell and is enclosed with a stone wall known as the Stonesunder. Here the shieldsfell reign paramount, centered around the Arcpeak and the tyrant who rules from within. 

But no mortal, even a tyrant such as the Titan-mage, has an arm long enough or eyes quick enough to scour the land of all his enemies. For deep in the Tanglethorn lies a small glade covered with small white flowers. Paelglade is its name, and the name of the freeborn who dwells there is Farjag, Tiger-claw. Soon the time will come when he is forced from his hiding to do what must be done. For not until the Titan-mage is slain will he stop his forward-marching tide of conquest, and soon not only Quartorlen, but the entirety of Primorlen and even worlds beyond may fall beneath his vengeful iron fist. 

Soldier's Words

This is a song me and one of my best friends have been working on; he wrote the music and I the lyrics. We're still looking for someone to sing it...

Verse 1

Tonight, I stand
On fields of red
All around
The music’s dead

Softly, now
Unbidden, they come
Memories of old
The tears now run

Hope's fire fades
Sure and fast
Will this battle
Be my last

Valkyries come
To take me away
Will I leave

Or will I stay? 

Chorus
Keep marching strong!
Keep moving forward!
You must move on
Till the battle's over

Hold high your sword
Honor My name
Carve out your hope
In eternal flame

Verse 2
Tonight, hope is gone
The battle
Draws closer
There is no dawn
For those who die
Fear comes still nearer

Bridge
Carved in stone, carved in flame
The words of my king
Telling me to be strong and face
The danger facing me

Chorus

Verse 3
Will I fall or will I rise?

Will I turn or will I flee?
Will I see dawn’s golden light?
I must finish for my king

Now we meet in full array
I stand hard with all my might
Lord, help me to never sway:
I will see dawn’s light!

Chorus 2 
Keep marching strong!
Keep moving forward!
I must move on
Till the battle's over

The sound is strong:
I’m given vict’ry
I will move on
To heaven’s glory

Our Outcry

This morning's service at church was a prayer meeting. We as a body got on our knees before our Heavenly King and prayed together. And as I prayed, my thoughts took form and meter, and this is what emerged. May it encourage you as it encouraged me.

Our Outcry

We stand in the dark
As chaos lies all around
We cannot stand on our own
We wait for Your Voice to sound

We cannot understand
And so we doubt in fear
We cannot see Your master plan
Oh God, draw ever near

Roll back the clouds, oh God
Let Your glory shine
Turn back the approaching dark
Draw Your dividing line

Stop up the waves of despair
Smash in pieces the encroaching fear
Protect your chosen people
Cast away our sins from here

Pour out instead Your loving grace
Spill out Your wondrous love
Wash us in Your holy power
Turn our eyes to You above

Keep our eyes fixed on You
Let Your people feel your peace
Kings may fall and countries tremble
But Your mercies ever increase

We tremble in Your presence
We fall on our knees in praise
We wait upon Your tender mercy
We rely on Your saving grace

Our outcry rises to Your listening ear
You reach down with loving care
You will always and forever hear
Oh God, draw ever near

Writing to the world

I recently let one of my coworkers read the preliminary draft of Trust Hole, and just the other day she finished. I didn't get a chance to ask her what she thought of it that moment, but a few days later I worked up enough courage to ask, "So? What did you think?"

Now, The Trust Hole is blatantly Christian, (though hopefully not in a bad way). In other words, I preach Christ Jesus and Him crucified pretty hard, but in a way that makes sense to the story. I.e. my main character does not go to a church where he hears a pastor talking... etc. He hears about Christ through those around him, and slowly realizes his need of this Savior his closest friends seem to rely on so much. The way I see it, I exaggerate things in my stories, blowing up small things into bigger things. And when dangers become bigger, worlds stranger, surviving harsher, Christ shines through all the more. People feel no need for a Savior when their lives are going pretty well. It it only when they realize their own inability to cope and their great and utter need for someone to rescue them that they begin looking for someone to turn to. So I blast my characters through the worst I can imagine, sucking my readers (Christian and non-christian) into this roller coaster of a story, and then tie them so strongly to the characters and their journeys that they cannot put the book down, even if I am saying something they do not agree with. In the end, God-willing, it will have effected them in a way they weren't expecting.

So, naturally, I was a bit nervous about hearing what my non-christian co-worker had thought of the book.

"I really liked it! Couldn't put the book down when I first started reading it. Your writing is really clean and moves along nice. I kept thinking as I was reading it what a good movie it would make."
"Any suggestions?"
"Well, the pacing was really fast up to about the last third, then there were about four chapters of Christianity, and then it picked back up again. So maybe work on the pacing there."
"Thanks! That's really helpful"
"Well, you're welcome. Oh, and someone else was wondering if he could read it too. I told him, 'There's the words Jesus Christ in it! You might get saved!'"

We both laughed. But her critique was true, and I went back and checked the story. It could definitely use some pacing around those four chapters; it's a lot of character development, Gospel, and not much action. So I'm going to work on that. I want to "Show, not tell," but at the same time I don't want to be afraid to hold back the truth. It's a fine wire to walk, just as most everything in this life is.

I pray to God that He grants me the ability to craft a story worthy of telling His ultimate Story.

Since you insist...

Well, since everyone seems to be demanding more excerpts from Feather and Fang, and since I have forgotten the deep and mind-stimulating post I was going to write (I really should write these ideas down when I get them), and nothing new has come to me during the last ten minutes of staring at my blog header... I guess I'll post an excerpt!

But, there is reasoning involved here. Seeing as I have given you the set-up for Freeborn and Freegiven, it stands to reason that I should do the same for Feather and Fang. However, doing so in the straightforward, no-secrets-kept sort of way I did before would spoil a good deal of the last part of Freeborn. But to understand Feather, you need a least a little bit of backstory. So what I'm going to do is inform you in the same way any other reader would be informed: straight from the book. So you'll know exactly what you need to know, and not a cent more. *evil chuckle*

Anyways... the excerpt


The Blue Beard had the best ale for miles, or so it many patrons swore. Be that as it may, its warmly-lit windows and spacious common room looked especially inviting on a night such as this. The stranger strode up the wooden steps that led to the abandoned porch, knocking his boots against the railing to rid them of most of their mud. Then, pulling his wide-brimmed hat down closer over his eyes, he entered the building.
It was fairly quiet at the moment, only a few folk were out of their homes on a night like this. The stranger looked around carefully, taking stock of the room and its occupants before choosing a table in a corner next to the stone fireplace and sitting down with his back to the wall.
On the far side of the large room sat a low bar, with a portly man sitting behind it polishing spoons while four elderly men sat at table telling tales. Two young boys sat at a second table, playing a game of fourlens, and a third held two middle-aged men talking politics over their ales.
“They say the Featherwen faction’s planning to assassinate Flamehope’s Fanglen leader.”
“Scaeldren, Lynx-lord?”
“Aye, the very one.”
“Bah, you listen to every rumor you hear, Scratch. There isn’t an assassin good enough to even get close to the Lynx-lord! Why, he’s won the Fistfire matches every year for nigh on four years now!”
“Aye, but that’s why they’ve got the best assassin since before the Blood-Invasion.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “Tell me, did ye ever hear of Crestlen, Hawk-assassin?” 

(More after the break!)

A Dusty Chest

Sometimes a writer's work is a like a dusty chest hidden away in an attic. You come back to it again and again, filling it with things that are important, but you never sift back through what's there already.
As I've been working on Feather and Fang, I've been rereading what I've already written, checking for consistency, making sure my character's arcs are doing what they are supposed to, and fixing any small problems I find. And problems I found, trust me. If the story is a chest, then there cobwebs in certain corners that need cleaning out; nasty pieces of prose and dialogue that need reworking. But what I didn't expect to find were the gems hidden under the cobwebs.
When you've been working on a book for as long as I have (since early 2010), you tend to forget a good deal of what you've put in there. Today, as I was lengthening my timing from two days to a week (Another problem of being sporadic in writing; you forget you're still in the same day as the one you started in), I reached the fight with the bladesfell.
These bird-like creatures are feathered with metal instead of, well, feathers, and their scream carries terror with it. They hunt by freezing their prey with fear, and then swooping down to finish the job with razor beaks and talons. But when Redpaw and Crestlen become the prey, they keep enough presence of mind to run like scared rabbits for shelter. Maybe 'presence of mind' is the wrong way to say it. 'Self-preservation'? Anyways, they flee. But when the bladesfell come again, there is a very different outcome.

Then together the two monsters opened their fierce maws and roared, a roar filled with terrifying thoughts, fear and coming death. The night air whipped into a frenzy, driving towards Redpaw and Crestlen. All around them rotten roots snapped and exploded, leaves tore themselves from their branches, and the forest floor shot up in a torrent of dead leaves and branches as the twin roars blasted into the surrounding jungle.

But in the center of the whirlwind Redpaw stood slowly, the wind of the roars whipping past him like a wave receding from a rock. The fear that he had felt before was suddenly gone as a sense of peace broke through the noise and chaos. A quiet voice within was telling him to be strong, to face the evil that now crouched in the clearing. No more would he cower in the dark. No more would he let fear rule his actions. Before he had fled, but no more. Now was the time to fight, to stand strong. The terror of before reached out for him again, but the freezing claws skittered away on the iron armor of determination and will Redpaw had been given.

Words came unbidden to his lips, tumbling forth like rain. First a mutter, then a battle cry; a song of defiance and courage in the darkest of hours.

Chaos all around,

But a Voice breaks through

Death will surround,

But these words are true

Let the evil flee!

Though terrors do roar,

We will have the victory!

Dark will come no more!

When life and it's chaos surrounds you, may the Voice of the great Peacemaker come whispering in your ear, telling you to be strong, to face the danger, to run with endurance the race set before us.

Sincerely,
Farjag

How Primorlen Began: Pt. 3

The one freegiven. Who is he? Well... let's just say his name is Rogchaen. That should give a clue as to his heritage. And the fact that he is their guide should let you know a little more about his character. But to fully develop who he is, we have to go back one hundred and three years to the Blood-Invasion.

One summer day in the year 1342, red-sailed ships crossed the horizon at a dozen points around the Quartorlen coast. And when they landed, they spat an army of massive, armored invaders onto the beaches and shores of the four provinces. These were the shieldsfell, a trained army thousands strong.
Reptillian in nature, their creature forms were hulking beasts with armored backs and clubbed tails. Their leader's name was soon whispered in fear across the length and breadth of the island; the Titan-mage. No one who ever saw him lived to tell the tale, but everywhere once could hear his name cursed and vows of retaliation for his deeds.
Resistance did not stand for long, however. Within days the ordered ranks of the shieldsfell army had swept fire through the four outer provinces, and were marching on the Lightpeak; the natural and political center of Quartorlen. Here, in the Hope-Chamber set in the peak of the dormant volcano, the Conclave met daily. Delegates were sent from each of the provinces, and together they formed the government of Quartorlen.
But the shieldsfell invader has different ideas, and the Hope-Chamber was stormed. That day the blood-red of the invader's cloaks matched the blood of Quartorlen's people as it was spilled in her defense. But all was in vain, and Quartorlen fell.
The Lightpeak was renamed Arcpeak, and the surrounding town leveled to make way for a permanent settlement built in the shieldsfell fashion. The lands that had once been Brightdown became Darkdell, a walled plain encircling the Arcpeak.
As soon as the shieldsfell had cemented their hold on the capital, they turned their attention back to the other lands, and the Containment began. The folk of Quartorlen would no longer be able to alter between forms. They were given a choice, live as a slave, or live as a beast. Many chose to live the free but dangerous life of a beast, but most kept their humanity and were forced to serve the invaders. Still others fled to the hills, forests and swamps, out of reach of the shieldsfell armies. However, this number slowly dwindled as the shieldsfell Containment patrols continued to sweep the land for years after the invasion, still searching for those who had managed to hide their ability.

One hundred years pass. The lands beyond Darkdell have fallen into decay and waste. A few slave-born still live in tiny hamlets and villages along the main roadways, peddling their wares to the patrols as they march through. Blackforge, the city that had wrapped itself around the Arcpeak, and a few port cities have become thriving metropolises sustained by trade with Theorlen. The slave trade, in particular has become profitable.
The shieldsfell have grown in number as more have crossed over from the crowded Dyrmlen. They live longer than the folk of Quartorlen, and so while the most of the slave-born are the third generation of those who were alive at the time of the Blood-Invasion, many of the older shieldsfell still remember those days. And some have begun to question the reasons of their leader. Conquering new lands for an expanding nation, and subsequent subjugation of a rebellious people made sense to their war-like minds, but a continual grinding underfoot of a folk long since defeated... that was going beyond war.

But no dissenters against a strong leader live long, and the Titan-mage quickly stomped out any mutterings against him. The rebels were sent on suicide missions, tried for crimes they did not commit, executed after mock trials. It was a doomed attempt from the start. But some escaped into the wilds. One such outlaw was a Macelen who abandoned his military title in favor of the Quartorlen naming system. Rumor spread among the villages of Deepdale of a vengeful shieldsfell ghost who wreaked havoc on patrols and had been known to snatch prisoners from under their noses.

And thus we meet Rogchaen, shieldsfell-outlaw, the one freegiven for the four freeborn. And thus we come to the beginning of the story. How all five are pulled together by unlikely means and set on their quest of finding their way into the heart of Arcpeak and slaying the Titan-mage.
If they fail, the shieldsfell armies will continue on, seeking out new countries to conquer, and beyond that, new worlds.

"This tyranny is only the beginning. There is a much more at stake here than your own petty pride! In the end, not only Quartorlen will be enslaved, but all the world!   ...and not only this world." 

Thoer, Otter-elder

Blogger Interview!

The Director over at Castles, Quills and Cameras is hosting blogger interviews, and I got picked as the first one! Go check the post out on her blog, or read the interview here after the jump!

How Primorlen Began: Pt. 2

So, where did I leave off? Ah, yes. Freeborn and Freegiven.

On November 1st, 2010, I began digging into Quartorlen and the characters who lived there. It was the first time I had written more than a few chapters since Grey Warrior. And the effect was undeniable. By the third week, I had grown more in my writing skills than I had in all the years before. It's the coolest thing to look back a your own work and see a progression in skill from the beginning to the end (though it makes for a lot of editing :P).

Perhaps the thing that I fell in love with about NaNoWriMo was the fact that I got to live thirty consecutive days with my story. There was none of the sporadicalness or choppiness in writing time that I had experienced in previous stories, and so there was a much more natural progression of character development and growth. When you meet your characters every night, you can track their progress far easier than when you only meet once a week. And the depth of character I achieved astounded me. Here were real people! Growing up on Henty and Tolkien (not a bad thing, by the way), my first characters tended to be models of perfection, ready for anything far younger than was realistic, and always distinctly good or evil. No one changed, there was no fall or redemption, no chance for the hero to grow.

When I first met the four freeborn, I knew immediately they had problems. Why else were the last of the freeborn hiding out in the woods and mountains? Shouldn't they be working to free their country? Or at least bringing some small measure of hope to their Contained brethren? And thus were my first character arcs created. Farjag was self-doubting. Nitiren was proud and bitter. Flashel was fearful. Ogel was dejected. Each blamed themselves or others for events in their past, and had retreated to the wilds to stay away from everyone and everything. Now, they were being called to a mission that was likely to end in their deaths. They would be risking everything for a country they had given up on. Needless to say, no one wanted to go.

And that was what I latched on to. In many of the stories one reads, the hero quite often wishes for adventure or excitement, and only when actually get what they want do they realize what such things really are. They come back wiser. Or perhaps they reluctantly take up the calling given them. But here were four folk who did not want anything to do with saving the world. Perhaps the premise is original, perhaps not. But the fact remains that each character had an important arc in front of them, and that they would end up much changed.

Form follows function, as a certain famous architect once said, and so the form of the story fell in place around the function. To change these characters, they would have to go through a series of trials that would test each as it tested them all, burning away the selfishness and fear they had been living under. There would be no wizard to help them, or give them cryptic answers to questions, or provide a convenient road map. Only a frail old otter-elder who somehow seemed to know each one well enough to know how to chafe each one into going. Once they started, it would be just them. Except for one small addition to their party. If there are four freeborn, then there must be one freegiven.

But that's going to have to wait till next time.

Until then,
Farjag

How Primorlen Began Pt. 1

I was thinking the other day (read: a few moments ago) about how I began writing the tales which take place in Primorlen, my brain child world.

It began some years ago (computer and formatting switches have rendered the "Created Date" useless), probably sometime in 2009, when I and a good writer friend tried to write a story together. Temporarily called According to Power, it consisted of little more than an outline and two prologue-ish snippets. The one that I liked the most, however, was this one:

The north wind blew cold over a brush-covered knoll overlooking the Aquer Sea. A young girl and her little brother were playing on the wind-swept rocks, gathering ferns and moss from among the crevices. Their clothes were not new and showed much wear, but the children did not seem cold. Their hair was shaggy and unkempt and the children looked almost like animals, scampering on the rocks and sniffing the moss before placing it the sacks they carried.
Suddenly the little boy cried out in excitement, “Sister, look! What are those?” he asked pointing far out to sea. His sister followed his finger, shading her eyes with her hand. Several white marks dotted the horizon. Her eyes narrowed as she sniffed the air, then widened. “Ships, little brother, ships!” “Shall we go tell mother?” the little boy asked. “Yes, lets. Come on, I’ll race you!” answered his sister. The siblings began to howl as the raced down the slope, their bare feet slapping over the rough stone.

Time, however decreed that our cooperative work was not to be, and the document fell into the dusty confines of my "Old Stories" folder. A couple months later, me and my brother had a wonderful game of imagination in the backyard, where I borrowed names and occurrences from the unused plot. What came out fit so well into the old story that I updated the plot to match. Now I had a usable story, but nothing happened... yet.

Some time later I began to play with the idea of 'alterers,' a race of beings neither human nor animal, but both. Their birth had been in that snippet above. So I began writing what would become Feather and Fang, a story built entirely on this idea, with these words:

The rain fell in torrents as thick as canvas curtains as lightning flashed and cracked in the clouds above...

As detailed elsewhere, when I was introduced to NaNoWriMo, I began pulling the various threads together. There was the general plotline from According to Power, the "alterers" and alliteration of the title from Feather and Fang. My last world had been an entire planet, which I thought was fairly original, but gave me the distinct problem of large distances and nowhere to grow. So I created the island of Quartorlen, with distinct boundaries, avoiding the "Mountains of Mysteriousness" so many fantasy writers use to create edges to their world.

For names, I fashioned all place names out of two words, usually descriptive, but also having a sense of place, as opposed to "Dark Forest." Thus were born Flamehope and Thunderfell and the other three provinces in Quartorlen. Character names were simple, easy to say, and different without being exotic. Farjag had been with me since According to Power, but Flashel, Ogel, Nitiren and Thoer were new. I set up several underlying structural rules I would follow in creating and plotting: namely a significance on certain numbers. Quartorlen was built on four and five. Five heroes. Four freeborn. Four main provinces, with a fifth in the center. I'm not sure if it's the best way of going about something like this, but it gives a certain foundation that lends to the credibility of a world. Everything connects to something else, much like on earth. Everything is named in our world for a reason, and has a meaning. Nothing is named because it sounds cool. So that's where that's kind of going.

Names are given as such: A first name, your 'animal' form, and a title you earn when you come of age. Thus "Farjag, Tiger-claw," is my namesake's proper name. A title can be an occupation, a character-trait, or a weapon if you are a warrior. Thus you can find "Thoer, Otter-scribe" and "Eppel, Eagle-cry" in the pages of my tales.

But our world is influenced by different countries and traditions. Different people groups view the world differently. So when I created the shieldsfell invaders and their fellow countryfolk, I sought to make them different then the folk of Quartorlen, but still have similarities. Germany and France are quite distinct, but there are parallels. So I gave the people of Dyrmlen a different naming system. Many of their titles and names  end with 'fell' or 'len', and their 'animal' half is reptilian, as opposed to the mammal and avian forms of Quartorlen. Their language is rougher and more brusque than the Anglic of Quartorlen, and the names reflect that. Names in Dyrmlen might be thus: "Rhalax, Commanderlen." "Drobax, Patrollen" "Rogchaen, Macelen"

It was with this structure that I dove into Freeborn and Freegiven, but more on that next post!

Blue Ink

Written for The Director's "Blue Ink" screenplay seed back in January.

Blue Ink

There’s a smudge of ink upon the page
A dot of blue on the writer’s stage
There’s a plant tucked nearby, sage
Still vivid though faded with age

The ink is blue, deep and cool
Seeping through both line and rule
Indelible, permanent the ink pool
A writer’s everlasting tool

Once penned, everlasting
Once written, ever clasping
Blue ink cannot be undone
None can erase, not one

For blue ink is forever
And it fades, never
What will you pen?
For it cannot be taken back again.

Why Tea?

In doing my rounds of fellow writers blogs, (due in part to Beautiful People and the Snippets thingy), I noticed there were two generalizations to be made. Generalizations, mind you, but enough to make me notice.

1st: Mostly girl authors. Now, I don't know if I just missed all the guy blogs, or if guys just don't blog... but I have only seen one other guy blog besides mine (Miguel, you rock!)

2nd: An overabundance of tea. Nearly every blog I visited had tea mentioned somewhere in the title, header, About Me section, or comments on the latest post! This is the one that caught my eye. All girl authors I can handle (maybe).... but tea?

I got a dislikin' fer tea. Now, quite a few of my good friends (male and female), like tea, and all of my multiple sisters sing its praises every day. And before anyone tells me to try it before I hack it, I have. Green, black, herb; you name it, I've tried it.

Now, the thing is, I'm not a coffee drinker either. (And everyone sings coffee's praises!). So, what's my point?

Why tea? What makes tea so important to the author? What are the delectable and all-important gifts of drinking tea that I seem to be missing?

But, I can hear you asking; "Farjag, if you don't drink tea (or coffee, for that matter), what DO you drink? What keeps your nerves and brain alive? What elixir or potion or ambrosia do you imbibe?"

I have the answer, my felicitous friends; Cider!! A good hot mug o' apple cider on a cold wintry day... there ain't nothin' better! When at Starbucks, instead of any of you mochas or fraps or lattes, it's a Caramel Apple Spice for me!

A little frothy on top, nice deep brown beneath, smells delectable from three yards off, reminds you of days gone by.... Mm-m. Ya'll mouth waterin' yet?

So here's to you tea-drinkers! May your teacups be ever so full, my mug's ever so bigger!

Farjag

P.S. Oh, and all you guy authors, get out there and start up a blog! The world needs ya somethin' fierce!

Snippets Of A Story

As if Beautiful People wasn't enough, here's another monthly mission... quest... thing... to do!

Basically, I post a snippet, (or two, or three, or...) and give no explanation. How awesome and evil is that?! All credit goes to Miss Katie S., at Snippets of A Story. Drop by her blog to read all the other snippets fellow bloggers be postin'!

Anyways.... the snippets.

From Railway:

Greetings, Rattlehead. Mind if we drop in?

A few miles away, Hatch’s garbled voice sounded out of an old black radio. Its antenna rose at a crooked angle into the air, and both speakers buzzed as they spat out the sound. Footsteps passing by stopped, and a shadow bent over the dented pile of knobs and switches.
“Did you hear that, brother?” came a voice from a little ways away.
“Aye, I heard it,” came the reply from the man crouched over the radio. “Came from channel 93.1.”
“No one around here ever used that frequency.”
“No, this one’s not from around here. Small group I’d say, he said ‘we’. Portable radio, if they’re paying us a visit. Fellow’s got spunk, to just announce himself out like that.”

From Feather and Fang:

Daegless's thumb twitched a little, plucking a string on the violin that sat, unused, in his lap. He sighed.

A soft footstep behind made him turn. "Oh, Korra, it's you."

The cougar-rogue smiled, her teeth flashing in the darkness. "Tis too beautiful a night to spend worrying, Tiger-brave."

Daegless smiled wryly. "I cannot help myself. There are too many thoughts flitting through my mind right now."

Korra nodded. "I understand." She motioned to the ledge below Daegless. "Mind if I sit below you? The stars are shining beautifully tonight, and I cannot see them from below the trees in the camp."

Daegless nodded. "Go ahead. Just don't expect me to talk."

Korra shook her head as she seated herself. "No, talking will not help you, I do not think."

Well, that's what I'm working on right now!

Sometimes...

Sometimes, silence is better than speech.

Sometimes, what a wearied soul needs more than anything else is the courtesy of quiet.

Sometimes, more can be said when nothing is said.

Sometimes, peace can only be found in silence.

At all times, God's voice is best heard when there is nothing to compete with it.

Stop. Ponder. Breathe deeply. Let God calm your frenzied soul.

Let the answers come of themselves, rather than seeking them out.

Let God whisper in your ear his loving mercies.

They are new every morning.