I just love it. Wrote an update query and did a mass update of thousands of records only to learn afterward that I had written the query wrong. Failed to take something into consideration. The result? The database is filled with conflicting information and I am probably going to have to redo the past two days' work. Oh, well. I've done it before.
That's the problem with shortcuts. Sometimes they go wrong. And often (when one is overconfident and refuses to take the time to make a backup) there is no way to get back to the original problem. That is not quite true in this case. I am able to go all the way back to the start and begin again. Pity. I wasn't that far from finishing this phase.
The good news, of course, is that this is the easy part. I'm now beginning again for the third time. Hopefully, my enthusiasm won't dwindle beyond recovery.
It's not a big problem. When something is important to me I will start over as many times as it takes. This is important to me. I rewrote Swords of Fire: Book I so many times I no longer know the count. The task does not daunt me.
Do you have stories like that? Stories that so need to be told - by you - that you dutifully return to the beginning to start anew when things go wrong? That's the thing about telling a story. Even simple stories have things go wrong. And Swords of Fire is hardly simple.
Sailors on the Sea
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Picking Who's In and Who's Out
Hello. Thought I would provide a bit of a status report on my work with Swords of Fire military history. Sorry for the dry topic, but you were warned: I find this absolutely fascinating.
My original efforts were not producing as I liked, so I gave them up. Those were in Excel, copying my database records there and then sorting them. Not a complete waste of time. Now I know how NOT to do things. But sometimes the best way to get ahead is to go back and start over. No point in walking a road from which "you can't get there from here".
My current approach is to remain in the database. First, I set everyone's military status for every year of their life to TRUE. Then I changed it to FALSE for years in which their age was less than 26 and more than 100. Then I changed it to FALSE for years in which they had a child, and for five years following. Then I changed it to FALSE for years in which a character was married to someone under the age of 26.
The family, although a warrior family, is still family orientated, I hope you note. No one under the age of 26 is allowed to officially join military forces. What they are is part of the Village Defense Forces, which is the last resistance should the family be overrun by war. Young marrieds are granted their time together, and if they begin a family right off they do not serve. For those family members who are not exceptional with their fighting skills, it is not unheard of that they never officially serve.
Young children get both their parents until age five. Then they get one (generally, the lesser warrior) until sixteen. After sixteen, they only lose their parents to the military if their parent/s is/are exceptional warrior/s. Or, if they belong to DEFENSE.
The family's Main Attack Force ranges in age from 31-70. Don't get shook about 70-year-old warriors. The family lives within the boundaries of healing waters, which delays age and promotes health. The average age at death for family members is well above 100. A 70-year-old family member would probably equate to a forty-year-old or fifty-year-old in ours. And a healthy one at that.
The Reserve Force consists of 71-100-year-olds. They have the experience, and most still have the strength of younger warriors.
The next two groups tend to work together. They are the very old and the very young. Warriors past 100 years and warriors 30-years of age and younger. These make up the village defenses. The thinking is that the old are weaker and have earned their respite, and the younger represent the family's future. These groups need to be protected at all costs.
Right now I am working on determining which parent remains with the child/ren during the youngest's years of 6-15. In most cases both parents will be home. But not always. There are 23,407 records to navigate - one at a time. I am currently on record 4,775. Tried a couple of ways to do this, but am reasonably happy with my current method.
I ran a query for mothers, with their husband's records alongside. I see their line, their age, and their sword skill. When one parent belongs to DEFENSE and the other doesn't, the choice is immediate: the parent belonging to DEFENSE returns to the military. When both belong to DEFENSE the stronger warrior returns. When neither do, I look at sword skill. More than half the family will top out at level four or weaker. Unless one belongs to DEFENSE, one does not continue in the military at those strengths. Only levels five and higher continue. So that's what I'm doing now. Once I've completed the 23,407 records I will have determined who is in the military when. At that point I will copy the records to Excel and begin grouping them according to their villages in order to set up companies and commands. From there I will use age and sword strength to determine promotions.
I suppose I could finish in July. Not really counting on it, but it could happen.
Don't you just love detailed work?
My original efforts were not producing as I liked, so I gave them up. Those were in Excel, copying my database records there and then sorting them. Not a complete waste of time. Now I know how NOT to do things. But sometimes the best way to get ahead is to go back and start over. No point in walking a road from which "you can't get there from here".
My current approach is to remain in the database. First, I set everyone's military status for every year of their life to TRUE. Then I changed it to FALSE for years in which their age was less than 26 and more than 100. Then I changed it to FALSE for years in which they had a child, and for five years following. Then I changed it to FALSE for years in which a character was married to someone under the age of 26.
The family, although a warrior family, is still family orientated, I hope you note. No one under the age of 26 is allowed to officially join military forces. What they are is part of the Village Defense Forces, which is the last resistance should the family be overrun by war. Young marrieds are granted their time together, and if they begin a family right off they do not serve. For those family members who are not exceptional with their fighting skills, it is not unheard of that they never officially serve.
Young children get both their parents until age five. Then they get one (generally, the lesser warrior) until sixteen. After sixteen, they only lose their parents to the military if their parent/s is/are exceptional warrior/s. Or, if they belong to DEFENSE.
The family's Main Attack Force ranges in age from 31-70. Don't get shook about 70-year-old warriors. The family lives within the boundaries of healing waters, which delays age and promotes health. The average age at death for family members is well above 100. A 70-year-old family member would probably equate to a forty-year-old or fifty-year-old in ours. And a healthy one at that.
The Reserve Force consists of 71-100-year-olds. They have the experience, and most still have the strength of younger warriors.
The next two groups tend to work together. They are the very old and the very young. Warriors past 100 years and warriors 30-years of age and younger. These make up the village defenses. The thinking is that the old are weaker and have earned their respite, and the younger represent the family's future. These groups need to be protected at all costs.
Right now I am working on determining which parent remains with the child/ren during the youngest's years of 6-15. In most cases both parents will be home. But not always. There are 23,407 records to navigate - one at a time. I am currently on record 4,775. Tried a couple of ways to do this, but am reasonably happy with my current method.
I ran a query for mothers, with their husband's records alongside. I see their line, their age, and their sword skill. When one parent belongs to DEFENSE and the other doesn't, the choice is immediate: the parent belonging to DEFENSE returns to the military. When both belong to DEFENSE the stronger warrior returns. When neither do, I look at sword skill. More than half the family will top out at level four or weaker. Unless one belongs to DEFENSE, one does not continue in the military at those strengths. Only levels five and higher continue. So that's what I'm doing now. Once I've completed the 23,407 records I will have determined who is in the military when. At that point I will copy the records to Excel and begin grouping them according to their villages in order to set up companies and commands. From there I will use age and sword strength to determine promotions.
I suppose I could finish in July. Not really counting on it, but it could happen.
Don't you just love detailed work?
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Different Kind of Venting - The Tired Kind
Progress. Hmm. Well, that's a matter of perspective.
Swords of Fire: Traitor has been sent to a beta reader.
Quest has been sent to a beta reader.
The query for Traitor is written. I'll submit it to Evil Editor once my courage rises.
The Animal Kingdom has not been worked on since I said I was going to work on it. But I seem to recall saying I might not begin until after the weekend. And I had forgotten about the marathon dentist appointment this morning. I live forty miles from my dentist, and it was decided to do all of the work at one time instead of having me make multiple trips.
Why do I travel so far to go to the dentist? Because he's the only dentist who doesn't hurt me. That's worth forty miles. And it's nothing compared to the guy who comes from New York State. This dentist is good. He's so good, in fact, that he doesn't work on Fridays, Saturdays, or when he's got a good tee time at the course.
Haven't written anything storywise since I submitted my hero story on the Legion Blog. Speaking of which, Mad Smart Pirate #2 posted today. You really must go read it. Blogless Troll wrote it, and it's absolutely hysterical. Well, it's funny anyway.
I've written a new poem, but I'm not going to post it. Not now anyway, despite April being poetry month. I wrote what I want it to say (for once), but I'm not sure it's good for everyone to know what I wrote. Suffice to say it was touching and meaningful, and I felt good for having written it. I don't want to lose that feeling by getting unfortunate reactions from others reading it.
Even having a difficult time writing for my blogs right now. Oh, not A Voice in the Wind. I'm old enough that I can usually find something from my past to write about. And SOF-The People is easy right now, too. I've posted from Tavaar's Background Story 22 days in a row. That makes 56 total posts about Tavaar, and I'm not even halfway through. I wrote several hundred thousand words about Tavaar. I love Tavaar. But more than that, I used Tavaar's Background Story to hide all kinds of information about The Great Sea, Madatar, Khirsha, and how things work. Because of Tavaar (you're not supposed to begin sentences with 'because', are you) I know how the Window works. I know who Madatar is. (I always did, but now I REALLY know.) I know why Hawnka's potions work and how she got her knowledge. I know how Abrin (Khirsha's grandfather) always knows things which are seemingly impossible for him to know. I know all of these things, simply because I invested a year writing Tavaar's Background Story.
How's that for shameless marketing? I guess I'm feeling bad because I don't think anyone is reading it. SOF-The People has probably the least ability to capture a reader's interest. I suppose it's because I seldom (if ever) reveal me on it. Not that I'm so interesting, but you know what I mean? Everyone who blogs tends to show themselves at whiles in their posts. Some do it a lot. Some only every so often. But that's what creates the connection between blogger and reader. SOF-The People is just contains a draft of a story which will probably never get published. After all, it's just background. A giant information dump.
The Legions Blog I needn't worry too much about right now. We've got four stories scheduled, and I believe Whirlochre will soon be adding another episode. With eight authors posting (together) three times a week I think we're fine.
So, for someone who's just been moaning about not having anything to write about, I've just written about three or four hundred words. Yeah, I must be off. On a good day I can post over a thousand words. Must be this weight loss thing I'm on. Using up all my energy.
Don't worry, Mother Hen. I'm taking care of myself. You do the same.
Swords of Fire: Traitor has been sent to a beta reader.
Quest has been sent to a beta reader.
The query for Traitor is written. I'll submit it to Evil Editor once my courage rises.
The Animal Kingdom has not been worked on since I said I was going to work on it. But I seem to recall saying I might not begin until after the weekend. And I had forgotten about the marathon dentist appointment this morning. I live forty miles from my dentist, and it was decided to do all of the work at one time instead of having me make multiple trips.
Why do I travel so far to go to the dentist? Because he's the only dentist who doesn't hurt me. That's worth forty miles. And it's nothing compared to the guy who comes from New York State. This dentist is good. He's so good, in fact, that he doesn't work on Fridays, Saturdays, or when he's got a good tee time at the course.
Haven't written anything storywise since I submitted my hero story on the Legion Blog. Speaking of which, Mad Smart Pirate #2 posted today. You really must go read it. Blogless Troll wrote it, and it's absolutely hysterical. Well, it's funny anyway.
I've written a new poem, but I'm not going to post it. Not now anyway, despite April being poetry month. I wrote what I want it to say (for once), but I'm not sure it's good for everyone to know what I wrote. Suffice to say it was touching and meaningful, and I felt good for having written it. I don't want to lose that feeling by getting unfortunate reactions from others reading it.
Even having a difficult time writing for my blogs right now. Oh, not A Voice in the Wind. I'm old enough that I can usually find something from my past to write about. And SOF-The People is easy right now, too. I've posted from Tavaar's Background Story 22 days in a row. That makes 56 total posts about Tavaar, and I'm not even halfway through. I wrote several hundred thousand words about Tavaar. I love Tavaar. But more than that, I used Tavaar's Background Story to hide all kinds of information about The Great Sea, Madatar, Khirsha, and how things work. Because of Tavaar (you're not supposed to begin sentences with 'because', are you) I know how the Window works. I know who Madatar is. (I always did, but now I REALLY know.) I know why Hawnka's potions work and how she got her knowledge. I know how Abrin (Khirsha's grandfather) always knows things which are seemingly impossible for him to know. I know all of these things, simply because I invested a year writing Tavaar's Background Story.
How's that for shameless marketing? I guess I'm feeling bad because I don't think anyone is reading it. SOF-The People has probably the least ability to capture a reader's interest. I suppose it's because I seldom (if ever) reveal me on it. Not that I'm so interesting, but you know what I mean? Everyone who blogs tends to show themselves at whiles in their posts. Some do it a lot. Some only every so often. But that's what creates the connection between blogger and reader. SOF-The People is just contains a draft of a story which will probably never get published. After all, it's just background. A giant information dump.
The Legions Blog I needn't worry too much about right now. We've got four stories scheduled, and I believe Whirlochre will soon be adding another episode. With eight authors posting (together) three times a week I think we're fine.
So, for someone who's just been moaning about not having anything to write about, I've just written about three or four hundred words. Yeah, I must be off. On a good day I can post over a thousand words. Must be this weight loss thing I'm on. Using up all my energy.
Don't worry, Mother Hen. I'm taking care of myself. You do the same.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Home: Not Always Far Away
In honor of my new friends, of who I have been thinking since originally posting this, I have deleted this and replaced it with this. (Are you following?) I'll edit it in a bit.
For any few who have actually read what was originally posted, I apologize. But know this. You (and those who did not read it), helped me pick myself up a bit. Knowing you are there is making a difference in my life.
Thank you.
NEW POST
Stumblin' In, by Suzie Quatro. It's a happy song with a sad twist in that it relates back to a time when I was young. Young and unaware.
And of course I'm being interrupted. Please wait twenty minutes while this goes on.
A girl so young and a boy so dense
Two children of love who sat on a fence
The girl was pretty and the boy very strong
The love that they shared they knew it was wrong
Caught in the feelings they shared all they could
Passion and flames became their new food
He danced on her string and she played him a tune
But the love that they shared ended too soon
Miracles, by Jefferson Starship. A song of passion, desire, and reckless abandon. A memory of a moment gone by. Fear is the enemy which clouds the mind.
Back down in pillows and weight on my chest
Kisses so dear now you dream the rest
Arms holding bodies and hands touching faces
Kisses so fast we were off to the races
The touching of bellies the touching of skin
Enjoying it slowly and then do it again
My heart reaching out and cries from my mouth
You love me I know for now there's no doubt
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg. A love song of double meaning for me. It was the end of one love and the beginning of another. A love which has lived thirty years.
When I was young I was alone
I dreamed of love but none could be found
There were pretenders and users and those who would lie
They used me and hurt me and I thought I would die
But life does go on and lonely endures
It's chronic and fatal and knows no quick cures
The past is a mist and a fog and noisysome smell
When it's pain that's recalled then life has become hell
Stuck on You, by Lionel Ritchie. The past is like a troublesome friend. Sometimes its influence is one of poor choices and slow behavior. But it is a friend. The painful memories mingle with joy. Sometimes there's more hope in the past than the now. Sometimes. Like when we're tired. Like now.
A hole in the wall is a dark place to live
To hide darkly unseen with nothing to give
To watch others walk and to watch others fly
Is a pain of the future and wishing to die
To respond to a voice and dare to step out
And find there a friend makes a heart leap about
But the daylight is scary and fear makes me hide
And the fear is just this: that my joy has just died
Not so, says my friend, it is just a respite
The past's always with you and sometimes it will bite
It hurts and caresses and fills you with peace
It takes and gives strength and offers new lease
So live with your past and visit it often
Remember I'm here and the pain it will soften
Cry out with your pain and know I will hear
I'll tell you it's fine for I hold you so dear
A bit better than the original post, I think.
For any few who have actually read what was originally posted, I apologize. But know this. You (and those who did not read it), helped me pick myself up a bit. Knowing you are there is making a difference in my life.
Thank you.
NEW POST
Stumblin' In, by Suzie Quatro. It's a happy song with a sad twist in that it relates back to a time when I was young. Young and unaware.
And of course I'm being interrupted. Please wait twenty minutes while this goes on.
A girl so young and a boy so dense
Two children of love who sat on a fence
The girl was pretty and the boy very strong
The love that they shared they knew it was wrong
Caught in the feelings they shared all they could
Passion and flames became their new food
He danced on her string and she played him a tune
But the love that they shared ended too soon
Miracles, by Jefferson Starship. A song of passion, desire, and reckless abandon. A memory of a moment gone by. Fear is the enemy which clouds the mind.
Back down in pillows and weight on my chest
Kisses so dear now you dream the rest
Arms holding bodies and hands touching faces
Kisses so fast we were off to the races
The touching of bellies the touching of skin
Enjoying it slowly and then do it again
My heart reaching out and cries from my mouth
You love me I know for now there's no doubt
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg. A love song of double meaning for me. It was the end of one love and the beginning of another. A love which has lived thirty years.
When I was young I was alone
I dreamed of love but none could be found
There were pretenders and users and those who would lie
They used me and hurt me and I thought I would die
But life does go on and lonely endures
It's chronic and fatal and knows no quick cures
The past is a mist and a fog and noisysome smell
When it's pain that's recalled then life has become hell
Stuck on You, by Lionel Ritchie. The past is like a troublesome friend. Sometimes its influence is one of poor choices and slow behavior. But it is a friend. The painful memories mingle with joy. Sometimes there's more hope in the past than the now. Sometimes. Like when we're tired. Like now.
A hole in the wall is a dark place to live
To hide darkly unseen with nothing to give
To watch others walk and to watch others fly
Is a pain of the future and wishing to die
To respond to a voice and dare to step out
And find there a friend makes a heart leap about
But the daylight is scary and fear makes me hide
And the fear is just this: that my joy has just died
Not so, says my friend, it is just a respite
The past's always with you and sometimes it will bite
It hurts and caresses and fills you with peace
It takes and gives strength and offers new lease
So live with your past and visit it often
Remember I'm here and the pain it will soften
Cry out with your pain and know I will hear
I'll tell you it's fine for I hold you so dear
A bit better than the original post, I think.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
And Something From My Grandma
If writing is something one inherits, then I love to write because of my grandmother. My mother also writes, but she has never been so prolific as grandma.
Grandma never made any real money writing. I don't know that she tried to. But she was published. She put together a book of poems, and twice her writing was part of a larger story collections compiled into a book. And newspapers published some of her stuff, too.
While packing away books Spouse came across one which contains a story grandma wrote. The book is called Memorable Doll Stories. There is no ISBN number and I can't find the publisher (Creative Writers Connection) on-line, so I'm guessing they have gone out of business.
It's a short story, so I'm going to post it here in its entirety. I think Grandma would be very happy to know it's being read again by so many. This would have been published within a couple years of Grandma's passing on.
The Faith of a Child
by Amy Mulnix
Eighty-two years have passed since the memorable time when my childhood desire was for a one-and-only-gift--a beautiful, expensive doll. In my childlike innocense, I had no idea that the doll I longed for was beyond my parents' financial ability to provide. The doll in question was not just a common china doll, but an imported German beauty. Many of my classmates whose parents were better off than mine, had already been given one of these coveted dolls. My desire was all-consuming.
Dolls were expensive even back in those long-ago days. I've seen several in my mature years priced at hundreds of dollars. Back then, I expect they were at least ten dollars, an unheard of, as well as unthinkable amount of money for my parents to spend for a doll.
As Christmas drew nearer, I asked Mama, did she think if I wrote to Santa Claus he would bring me one of those dolls? I knew exactly what I would name her. I could just see her in my mind. Her name would be Dorcus.
Mama said, "That's a pretty name, but Santa Claus has so many requests he may not have enough dolls to go around. Wouldn't you like a pretty white fur muff? I know Santa has lots of those."
I shook my head no. I wanted the doll. I wrote a letter to Santa and gave it to Mama to check and make sure I had worded it right. Dear Mother. How her heart must have ached knowing the disappointment in store for me. I, however, knew once I wrote to Santa Claus, my request would be filled. Oh, the faith of a child!
My father was a self-employed contractor and it had been a bad year. Many who owed him money were unable to pay. Consequently, my parents were having a difficult time making ends meet. I had no inkling of my parents' financial problems, and my mother probably had no more than ten dollars to spend on gifts for all four of us children.
It was one of those years when snow was late in coming. The iron-hard, frozen ground remained bare. Everyone was saying, "We must have snow for Christmas," but no snow came. I betgan asking God in my prayers every night to please send snow for Christmas.
Our neighbor girl Edna asked me what I was getting for Christmas. I said, "One of the dolls like the other girls have."
She said, "Betcha don't."
I said, "I will too. I've written and asked Santa Claus."
Edna said, "You dummy! There ain't no Santa Claus!"
She made me mad so I stuck out my tongue at her and ran home crying. Then I told Mama what Edna had said. Dear Mama. She wanted t ocomfort me, yet she knew t doll was beyond her means. She dried my tears and told me even if Santa didn't bring me the doll, she was sure he would have something nice for me. But I knew Santa wouldn't fail me.
Shortly before Christmas my aunt and my mother took the morning train to Waverly. Every day the Illinois Central Railroad ran four passenger trains each way from Waterloo, Iowa, to Albert Lea, Minnesota.
Mama and Aunt Clarissa returned home on the afternoon train. Mama had many interesting-looking parcels that she took to hers and Papa's bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Then she hurried to the kitchen to prepare our evening meal. When Papa came home to supper, I couldn't help but notice how happy and cheerful Mama was. I figured she and Aunt Clarissa had had a really nice day in Waverly.
The days dragged nearer to Christmas. We had pieces to speak for Sunday School and had to practice every afternoon at church. I already knew mine so I spent a good part of my time at practice telling everyone about the doll Santa was going to bring me. Someone asked, "How can you be so sure you'll get that doll?"
I said, "Why, I asked Santa Claus. He knows how badly I want it, so he will bring it."
Christmas Eve was very cold with a damp, biting wind. But who minds the weather when treats are in store? I can still feel the thrill as we marched to the front of the church and sat until it was time to speak our pieces. A big, bushy red cedar tree stood at the left side of the pulpit. Lots of gifts were piled around it. Then, o glory be, the door from outside opened and in came Santa. He was all in red and had long white whiskers. I felt prickly with excitement.
He ho ho hoed and said, "I expect you have all been good children?"
We all nodded because who would admit otherwise? He said his reindeer had a hard time pulling the sleigh due to the lack of snow. Then he asked some of theboys to help him distribute the gifts.
Soon the gifts were all given out, but I didn't have my doll. I sat there expectantly because I knew Santa was fooling me. I knew he had my doll. My faith never wavered, but Santa started to leave. Mama got up and touched his sleeve. She said, "Santa, you forgot Amy's doll."
"No, I'm sure I didn't miss anything," Santa replied.
Mama said, "Won't you please go back and look once more?"
So he did, and there, stuck in the branches of the busy red cedar tree, was Dorcus. My beautiful Dorcus.
As we lef the church, big, soft, featherly flakes of snow were coming down. God and Santa had heard my prayers.
Years later I learned of the miracle behind this story. On that fateful shopping expeditio nto Waverly, my dar mother and my dear aunt had gone from store to store trying to find a suitable substitute doll for me, but none could be found. At the last store the storekeeper was very irate. He said, "Did you see that woman who went out just as you came in?"
My aunt and my mother said, "Yes, we saw her."
"She pulls the same stunt every year," the storekeeper continued. "She puts something on layby. Then when she is sure it's too late for me to get another buyer, she'll come in and say she has changed her mind and doesn't want it. Later she will come back and say, 'Oh, if you lower your price, I'll take it.' She is sure it's too later for anyone else to buy it. Well, this year I'll fool her. If anyone will take this expensive doll off my hands for even a fraction of what it cost me, I'll sell it."
Mama bought the doll.
Grandma never made any real money writing. I don't know that she tried to. But she was published. She put together a book of poems, and twice her writing was part of a larger story collections compiled into a book. And newspapers published some of her stuff, too.
While packing away books Spouse came across one which contains a story grandma wrote. The book is called Memorable Doll Stories. There is no ISBN number and I can't find the publisher (Creative Writers Connection) on-line, so I'm guessing they have gone out of business.
It's a short story, so I'm going to post it here in its entirety. I think Grandma would be very happy to know it's being read again by so many. This would have been published within a couple years of Grandma's passing on.
The Faith of a Child
by Amy Mulnix
Eighty-two years have passed since the memorable time when my childhood desire was for a one-and-only-gift--a beautiful, expensive doll. In my childlike innocense, I had no idea that the doll I longed for was beyond my parents' financial ability to provide. The doll in question was not just a common china doll, but an imported German beauty. Many of my classmates whose parents were better off than mine, had already been given one of these coveted dolls. My desire was all-consuming.
Dolls were expensive even back in those long-ago days. I've seen several in my mature years priced at hundreds of dollars. Back then, I expect they were at least ten dollars, an unheard of, as well as unthinkable amount of money for my parents to spend for a doll.
As Christmas drew nearer, I asked Mama, did she think if I wrote to Santa Claus he would bring me one of those dolls? I knew exactly what I would name her. I could just see her in my mind. Her name would be Dorcus.
Mama said, "That's a pretty name, but Santa Claus has so many requests he may not have enough dolls to go around. Wouldn't you like a pretty white fur muff? I know Santa has lots of those."
I shook my head no. I wanted the doll. I wrote a letter to Santa and gave it to Mama to check and make sure I had worded it right. Dear Mother. How her heart must have ached knowing the disappointment in store for me. I, however, knew once I wrote to Santa Claus, my request would be filled. Oh, the faith of a child!
My father was a self-employed contractor and it had been a bad year. Many who owed him money were unable to pay. Consequently, my parents were having a difficult time making ends meet. I had no inkling of my parents' financial problems, and my mother probably had no more than ten dollars to spend on gifts for all four of us children.
It was one of those years when snow was late in coming. The iron-hard, frozen ground remained bare. Everyone was saying, "We must have snow for Christmas," but no snow came. I betgan asking God in my prayers every night to please send snow for Christmas.
Our neighbor girl Edna asked me what I was getting for Christmas. I said, "One of the dolls like the other girls have."
She said, "Betcha don't."
I said, "I will too. I've written and asked Santa Claus."
Edna said, "You dummy! There ain't no Santa Claus!"
She made me mad so I stuck out my tongue at her and ran home crying. Then I told Mama what Edna had said. Dear Mama. She wanted t ocomfort me, yet she knew t doll was beyond her means. She dried my tears and told me even if Santa didn't bring me the doll, she was sure he would have something nice for me. But I knew Santa wouldn't fail me.
Shortly before Christmas my aunt and my mother took the morning train to Waverly. Every day the Illinois Central Railroad ran four passenger trains each way from Waterloo, Iowa, to Albert Lea, Minnesota.
Mama and Aunt Clarissa returned home on the afternoon train. Mama had many interesting-looking parcels that she took to hers and Papa's bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Then she hurried to the kitchen to prepare our evening meal. When Papa came home to supper, I couldn't help but notice how happy and cheerful Mama was. I figured she and Aunt Clarissa had had a really nice day in Waverly.
The days dragged nearer to Christmas. We had pieces to speak for Sunday School and had to practice every afternoon at church. I already knew mine so I spent a good part of my time at practice telling everyone about the doll Santa was going to bring me. Someone asked, "How can you be so sure you'll get that doll?"
I said, "Why, I asked Santa Claus. He knows how badly I want it, so he will bring it."
Christmas Eve was very cold with a damp, biting wind. But who minds the weather when treats are in store? I can still feel the thrill as we marched to the front of the church and sat until it was time to speak our pieces. A big, bushy red cedar tree stood at the left side of the pulpit. Lots of gifts were piled around it. Then, o glory be, the door from outside opened and in came Santa. He was all in red and had long white whiskers. I felt prickly with excitement.
He ho ho hoed and said, "I expect you have all been good children?"
We all nodded because who would admit otherwise? He said his reindeer had a hard time pulling the sleigh due to the lack of snow. Then he asked some of theboys to help him distribute the gifts.
Soon the gifts were all given out, but I didn't have my doll. I sat there expectantly because I knew Santa was fooling me. I knew he had my doll. My faith never wavered, but Santa started to leave. Mama got up and touched his sleeve. She said, "Santa, you forgot Amy's doll."
"No, I'm sure I didn't miss anything," Santa replied.
Mama said, "Won't you please go back and look once more?"
So he did, and there, stuck in the branches of the busy red cedar tree, was Dorcus. My beautiful Dorcus.
As we lef the church, big, soft, featherly flakes of snow were coming down. God and Santa had heard my prayers.
Years later I learned of the miracle behind this story. On that fateful shopping expeditio nto Waverly, my dar mother and my dear aunt had gone from store to store trying to find a suitable substitute doll for me, but none could be found. At the last store the storekeeper was very irate. He said, "Did you see that woman who went out just as you came in?"
My aunt and my mother said, "Yes, we saw her."
"She pulls the same stunt every year," the storekeeper continued. "She puts something on layby. Then when she is sure it's too late for me to get another buyer, she'll come in and say she has changed her mind and doesn't want it. Later she will come back and say, 'Oh, if you lower your price, I'll take it.' She is sure it's too later for anyone else to buy it. Well, this year I'll fool her. If anyone will take this expensive doll off my hands for even a fraction of what it cost me, I'll sell it."
Mama bought the doll.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
How I Write - Part I
Was reading someone else's blog the other day and they wrote about how they wrote, beginning with the story idea all the way to the end. Her style was very impressive. Very professional. Very much a different way than my style.
My stories NEVER begin with what I think people want to read. Including me. They begin with a scene which comes to my mind. It can be about anything. Most often it involves one of the stronger emotions, such those associated with love, battle, achievement and failure.
This scene will replay in my mind dozens of times over a period of days or weeks. As it does, I expand it. Who is/are this person/these people anyway? How did they come to be in this scene? What happened next?
That's how Swords of Fire was born. Several unrelated scenes kept playing out in my head. As I developed them in my mind they grew, like ripples expanding in a pond when one tosses a stone. Only I had tossed several stones this time, and as the ripples began to bounce against each other - they melded. I suddenly realized my main character in all the scenes was really the same person. This helped me identify just who he was and how he came to be in all of these scenes.
Each of these scenes became "sticks in the sand". Markers which I could point to from a currently unknown beginning.
That was the hard part! Deciding where to begin the story. I restarted many times before finding myself comfortable with Khirhsa and Kelso standing trial for yet another misdeed. Now I knew where the story began, and I wrote with the markers in mind.
The original story s*cked. I hate admitting that, but I tried reading some of it when I opened The Archives last month. It s*cked. But unlike all previous writing, I didn't drop Swords of Fire and move on to another project. (I did start many other projects. I just didn't drop Swords of Fire.) What I did was learn more about Khirsha's family history, and world history. I learned about who these people were and why things were important to them, and why they were afraid and why they made the mistakes they made. I discovered my "heroes" were far from perfect. (And my "villains" were far from completely bad.) Even those with the greatest knowledge suffered from ignorance. Those with the greatest power suffered from weakness. All of this knowledge helped me write in a manner which (I believe) brought Khirhsa to life. It made his conflict meaningful, and believable.
The story takes place in a fantasy world out in space beyond our galaxy. To be specific, in a star system located in the constellation Perseus, under the string arm. But the fantasy world is not the story. In Traitor, which opens the series, the only thing about the world which would reveal it is different from our reality are a few references to things. Otherwise, the story is in the background.
I think I've kind of veered from this post's original premise, so perhaps it is best if I just shut it down. I've been behind nearly all day. Our sump pump quit working at most inopportune time. We tried bailing the water, but it refilled almost instantly. Had to make an investment into a new sump pump, which we were not able to install, so we had to bring in a plumber. And I've been sick. And, and, and, and, and. Lots of stuff going on today. Not much of it was fun.
FairyHedgeHog had an interesting post this morning.
My stories NEVER begin with what I think people want to read. Including me. They begin with a scene which comes to my mind. It can be about anything. Most often it involves one of the stronger emotions, such those associated with love, battle, achievement and failure.
This scene will replay in my mind dozens of times over a period of days or weeks. As it does, I expand it. Who is/are this person/these people anyway? How did they come to be in this scene? What happened next?
That's how Swords of Fire was born. Several unrelated scenes kept playing out in my head. As I developed them in my mind they grew, like ripples expanding in a pond when one tosses a stone. Only I had tossed several stones this time, and as the ripples began to bounce against each other - they melded. I suddenly realized my main character in all the scenes was really the same person. This helped me identify just who he was and how he came to be in all of these scenes.
Each of these scenes became "sticks in the sand". Markers which I could point to from a currently unknown beginning.
That was the hard part! Deciding where to begin the story. I restarted many times before finding myself comfortable with Khirhsa and Kelso standing trial for yet another misdeed. Now I knew where the story began, and I wrote with the markers in mind.
The original story s*cked. I hate admitting that, but I tried reading some of it when I opened The Archives last month. It s*cked. But unlike all previous writing, I didn't drop Swords of Fire and move on to another project. (I did start many other projects. I just didn't drop Swords of Fire.) What I did was learn more about Khirsha's family history, and world history. I learned about who these people were and why things were important to them, and why they were afraid and why they made the mistakes they made. I discovered my "heroes" were far from perfect. (And my "villains" were far from completely bad.) Even those with the greatest knowledge suffered from ignorance. Those with the greatest power suffered from weakness. All of this knowledge helped me write in a manner which (I believe) brought Khirhsa to life. It made his conflict meaningful, and believable.
The story takes place in a fantasy world out in space beyond our galaxy. To be specific, in a star system located in the constellation Perseus, under the string arm. But the fantasy world is not the story. In Traitor, which opens the series, the only thing about the world which would reveal it is different from our reality are a few references to things. Otherwise, the story is in the background.
I think I've kind of veered from this post's original premise, so perhaps it is best if I just shut it down. I've been behind nearly all day. Our sump pump quit working at most inopportune time. We tried bailing the water, but it refilled almost instantly. Had to make an investment into a new sump pump, which we were not able to install, so we had to bring in a plumber. And I've been sick. And, and, and, and, and. Lots of stuff going on today. Not much of it was fun.
FairyHedgeHog had an interesting post this morning.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sometimes the Past is a Fuzzy Place
This may be my last post until Sunday or Monday. I will be away from my computer for a bit.
This is supposed to be a "What am I Learning" day. Not sure I know what I am learning. Got something else to talk about anyway. The song I chose for Music of the Day.
Remember how I've talked about music affecting me in ways not always intended by the writer, or performing artist? This song kind of falls into that realm in a bigger way than most. The song is a kind of transporter device. Every time I hear it I find myself back in 1975. I am a teenager again, and I know no more than I did back then. I am the same person, without the years of experience to aid me. And I relive something which - I know this sounds crazy - I'm not even sure even happened.
Have you ever lived through an experience which was so surreal you wondered if you weren't dreaming? You need the confirmation of those who were with you to assure you that it really did happen.
I recall hearing an old soldier from WWII talking about walking through a city in Europe which had been blasted apart by one side or the other. He walked around a corner and found a building which had the outside wall blown away, but the rest totally intact. It was like a doll house. Inside, at the kitchen table, was a family of four, sitting as pretty as you please with their breakfasts. All dead. The concussion of the blast had killed them without inflicting visible damage. Afterward, he struggled with the memory because he wasn't sure it had actually happened. It wasn't until he attended a reunion with some buddies that it came out they remembered it too. Then he knew it had been real.
The same can be true with dreams. Ever have a dream so vivid you wake and wonder if it wasn't real? Only the lack of confirmation from those in the dream proves it wasn't real.
Well that's what this song does for me. Only there was only one other with me, and I can no longer find them to confirm the reality or fantasy of the incident. After thirty-four years I still can't make up my mind whether it happened or not. It's troubling, because I don't think there is any other instance in my life where this has happened. And I'm not always sure what I want to believe. I know what I should want to believe, but to h*ll with that. I just want to know.
The song brings me back. I'm listening to it now and part of me is again struggling with the reality - or lack thereof - of what happened. Or didn't happen.
If it was true, then someone did love me - until it was over. If not, I was as alone as I remember. Both have their own level of painful recollection. To lose someone's love is more painful than anything else. Save, perhaps, never having tasted that love in the first place.
I know current love is supposed to supercede past love, and the pains of youth are supposed to fade away and be replaced with the joys of adulthood. I guess I never made it to adulthood, for the pains of youth remain as real to me today as they were back then. And while I am immeasurably comforted by the love I have today, I cannot forget the love which went before.
I guess that means there's something wrong with me. But this song haunts me like no other. Most of the time when I hear it on the radio I will change the station. Yet here I am listening to it on purpose, wishing - it were real. Today I wish it really happened. But I don't know. I just don't know. I guess I really am crazy, huh?
This is supposed to be a "What am I Learning" day. Not sure I know what I am learning. Got something else to talk about anyway. The song I chose for Music of the Day.
Remember how I've talked about music affecting me in ways not always intended by the writer, or performing artist? This song kind of falls into that realm in a bigger way than most. The song is a kind of transporter device. Every time I hear it I find myself back in 1975. I am a teenager again, and I know no more than I did back then. I am the same person, without the years of experience to aid me. And I relive something which - I know this sounds crazy - I'm not even sure even happened.
Have you ever lived through an experience which was so surreal you wondered if you weren't dreaming? You need the confirmation of those who were with you to assure you that it really did happen.
I recall hearing an old soldier from WWII talking about walking through a city in Europe which had been blasted apart by one side or the other. He walked around a corner and found a building which had the outside wall blown away, but the rest totally intact. It was like a doll house. Inside, at the kitchen table, was a family of four, sitting as pretty as you please with their breakfasts. All dead. The concussion of the blast had killed them without inflicting visible damage. Afterward, he struggled with the memory because he wasn't sure it had actually happened. It wasn't until he attended a reunion with some buddies that it came out they remembered it too. Then he knew it had been real.
The same can be true with dreams. Ever have a dream so vivid you wake and wonder if it wasn't real? Only the lack of confirmation from those in the dream proves it wasn't real.
Well that's what this song does for me. Only there was only one other with me, and I can no longer find them to confirm the reality or fantasy of the incident. After thirty-four years I still can't make up my mind whether it happened or not. It's troubling, because I don't think there is any other instance in my life where this has happened. And I'm not always sure what I want to believe. I know what I should want to believe, but to h*ll with that. I just want to know.
The song brings me back. I'm listening to it now and part of me is again struggling with the reality - or lack thereof - of what happened. Or didn't happen.
If it was true, then someone did love me - until it was over. If not, I was as alone as I remember. Both have their own level of painful recollection. To lose someone's love is more painful than anything else. Save, perhaps, never having tasted that love in the first place.
I know current love is supposed to supercede past love, and the pains of youth are supposed to fade away and be replaced with the joys of adulthood. I guess I never made it to adulthood, for the pains of youth remain as real to me today as they were back then. And while I am immeasurably comforted by the love I have today, I cannot forget the love which went before.
I guess that means there's something wrong with me. But this song haunts me like no other. Most of the time when I hear it on the radio I will change the station. Yet here I am listening to it on purpose, wishing - it were real. Today I wish it really happened. But I don't know. I just don't know. I guess I really am crazy, huh?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
What Came Before May be What Comes Next
Spouse is happy. My Archive boxes were taking up about a quarter of the shelf space in the utility room. Had an accident down there, too. I moved a small box containing delivery receipts (from when I delivered pizza for my keep) which was resting on top of an Archive box. I put it on something else on a different shelf. The whole thing, box and receipts, weighed less than five pounds. In the morning, the shelf had collapsed from too much weight. Talk about the straw!
But The Archives have been opened and rudimentally examined. This means I have found things to get rid of. That makes Spouse happy. Spouse loves to throw things away. Especially if they are mine or Son's.
Just a couple of minutes ago Spouse hailed me from another room, "Doesn't it make you feel happy to be going through all of that stuff and finding things you forgot about?" Yes, it does. Very happy, in fact. I'm so glad I kept it all. I can see where I was ten, twenty, thirty, and even forty (not quite) years ago. I can see I am not the same person I was. My writing has improved dramatically. I see momentos from the plays I was in. Notes, awards, trophies. All kinds of stuff. But since this blog is supposedly about writing - fantasy writing - I will try to stick close to that.
I think I may have found the Original Swords of Fire. Wrote about it on SOF - The People. See The Roots are Still Intact. These handwritten pieces are nearly forty years old. A lot of things have changed. The original story, The White King of Ladondo, is a far cry from Traitor. And as things stand now, there is no way to reconcile the two stories. Pity. I like the title, White King of Ladondo. Sounds cool.
Looking at a legal-sized legal pad with two versions of The Monsters in it. Neither finished. Both were attempts to re-write the original Monsters play, which no longer exists. The first is a story version. It's only four pages. The second is a play version of nine pages. I wish I could recapture the spirit I had when I wrote the original. I remember it was when I was attending Bethel College in Arden Hills. I would go to the student lounge and write instead of attending class. It went quickly, and I believe I finished it within a couple of weeks.
The Monsters is a comedy play. A melodrama, I suppose. The premise is simple.
Three young college students are out driving the New England countryside one warm afternoon. Their car breaks down and they walk to a nearby mansion to seek help. (By now it is dark. It's always dark.) The students (STEVEN, SUSAN, and SCULLY) are met at the door by WANETTA. In the background, we see a shadowy figure we can't quite make out. (This is BLAGDEN.)
WANETTA explains there is no telephone, but the three are welcome to spend the night to avoid the coming storm. (There's always a storm.)
While sitting in the parlor speaking, SUSAN and SCULLY begin seeing the "monsters". STEVEN is too engaged speaking with WANETTA to notice. The first monster is MUMMY, who walks across a balcony. DRACULA appears next, coming down the stairs and exiting before STEVEN can see. He is followed by WOLF MAN. At this point, SCULLY and SUSAN run in terror. They return to the door and open it, only to find FRANKENSTEIN's MONSTER barring their path.
After a series of comedic encounters, in which all of the monsters show up to bar SCULLY and SUSAN's escape, FRANKENSTEIN MONSTER speaks. (British accent) "I say! Have you ever seen the like?" DRACULA (Swedish accent) "Most strange indeed." WOLF MAN (Texas drawl) "Rightly scared the whiskers off my face. - to STEVEN - Mind explaining all of this, son?"
Turns out the house is a retirement home for the 1930s film monsters. Only SCULLY and SUSAN can't quite accept that. WANETTA runs the house now that her father has died. But there is a problem: the mortgage is overdue and they are to be evicted. If only her father had told her where the fortune was he had hid.
The villain of this plot is a greedy woman who's name I forget. (Haven't found those notes yet.) She has the inevitable toadie. A timid young woman.
The play had a lot of fun and energy. It was deliberately cliche, but that's kind of how I view melodrama anyway. Just put it "over the top" so everyone can tell you meant for it to be stupid and it becomes acceptable.
I really need to rewrite this thing.
But The Archives have been opened and rudimentally examined. This means I have found things to get rid of. That makes Spouse happy. Spouse loves to throw things away. Especially if they are mine or Son's.
Just a couple of minutes ago Spouse hailed me from another room, "Doesn't it make you feel happy to be going through all of that stuff and finding things you forgot about?" Yes, it does. Very happy, in fact. I'm so glad I kept it all. I can see where I was ten, twenty, thirty, and even forty (not quite) years ago. I can see I am not the same person I was. My writing has improved dramatically. I see momentos from the plays I was in. Notes, awards, trophies. All kinds of stuff. But since this blog is supposedly about writing - fantasy writing - I will try to stick close to that.
I think I may have found the Original Swords of Fire. Wrote about it on SOF - The People. See The Roots are Still Intact. These handwritten pieces are nearly forty years old. A lot of things have changed. The original story, The White King of Ladondo, is a far cry from Traitor. And as things stand now, there is no way to reconcile the two stories. Pity. I like the title, White King of Ladondo. Sounds cool.
Looking at a legal-sized legal pad with two versions of The Monsters in it. Neither finished. Both were attempts to re-write the original Monsters play, which no longer exists. The first is a story version. It's only four pages. The second is a play version of nine pages. I wish I could recapture the spirit I had when I wrote the original. I remember it was when I was attending Bethel College in Arden Hills. I would go to the student lounge and write instead of attending class. It went quickly, and I believe I finished it within a couple of weeks.
The Monsters is a comedy play. A melodrama, I suppose. The premise is simple.
Three young college students are out driving the New England countryside one warm afternoon. Their car breaks down and they walk to a nearby mansion to seek help. (By now it is dark. It's always dark.) The students (STEVEN, SUSAN, and SCULLY) are met at the door by WANETTA. In the background, we see a shadowy figure we can't quite make out. (This is BLAGDEN.)
WANETTA explains there is no telephone, but the three are welcome to spend the night to avoid the coming storm. (There's always a storm.)
While sitting in the parlor speaking, SUSAN and SCULLY begin seeing the "monsters". STEVEN is too engaged speaking with WANETTA to notice. The first monster is MUMMY, who walks across a balcony. DRACULA appears next, coming down the stairs and exiting before STEVEN can see. He is followed by WOLF MAN. At this point, SCULLY and SUSAN run in terror. They return to the door and open it, only to find FRANKENSTEIN's MONSTER barring their path.
After a series of comedic encounters, in which all of the monsters show up to bar SCULLY and SUSAN's escape, FRANKENSTEIN MONSTER speaks. (British accent) "I say! Have you ever seen the like?" DRACULA (Swedish accent) "Most strange indeed." WOLF MAN (Texas drawl) "Rightly scared the whiskers off my face. - to STEVEN - Mind explaining all of this, son?"
Turns out the house is a retirement home for the 1930s film monsters. Only SCULLY and SUSAN can't quite accept that. WANETTA runs the house now that her father has died. But there is a problem: the mortgage is overdue and they are to be evicted. If only her father had told her where the fortune was he had hid.
The villain of this plot is a greedy woman who's name I forget. (Haven't found those notes yet.) She has the inevitable toadie. A timid young woman.
The play had a lot of fun and energy. It was deliberately cliche, but that's kind of how I view melodrama anyway. Just put it "over the top" so everyone can tell you meant for it to be stupid and it becomes acceptable.
I really need to rewrite this thing.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Had My Bonnie Ancestor Only Known How to Fight
I'm supposed to talk about other works of fantasy, but I don't have anything active right now. Even Traitor is finished. So, with no work in progress at the moment, I shall digress to family life.
Yeah, I know that belongs on A Voice in the Wind, but my life is kind of active right now and I don't really want to make five posts a day over there. Don't get too distressed, though. I can't not write for too long. At the least I will begin working on military assignments. Just think about it: 6,754 characters assigned to military duty. I could post about them one at a time. I would have something to write about for years!
Don't worry. While I will have to go through them all one at a time, I will not bore you with it. I don't like comparing myself with J.R.R.Tolkien (it's like an Edsel comparing itself to a Lamborghini), but he wrote something in his foreword I can now totally relate to regarding the interest of others in background story.
... I had little hope that other people would be interested in this work ... When those whose advice and opinion I souight corrected little hope to no hope, I went back to the sequel ...
I would have been interested. Very interested. In fact, when I began my senior year in high school I was planning on saving up money and traveling to England in hopes of perhaps meeting him. Then, right after school began, he died.
Hmm. I was going to digress to family life, and here I am talking about a famous author of fantasy. I did meet Clyde Kirby, who was a friend of Tolkien's and C.S.Lewis, at Bethel College, St. Paul, MN. That was back in 1976. I mentioned to him that I had hoped to meet J.R.R.Tolkien, but he assured me that would not likely have happened even had he not died. Should have saved my money and gone anyway. Always wanted to visit England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. I have ancestry in that region. No, really.
Back in the 1600s, some of my ancestors were Jacobites. These were people who wanted to put the Stuarts back on the throne of England. We're not sure, but we suspect we may actually be related to Bonnie Prince Charlie, who tried to take the throne by force. He (and my relatations) were soundly defeated by the English. The Bonnie Prince fled, disguised as a woman, and my relations were kicked out of the county. Hmm. A familiar theme. I'm being kicked out of my house. Only I didn't support G.W., and I'm not related to him. So why is this happening? What? Oh, Never mind.
Anyway. I've rambled a bit. I have so much more to ramble on about, but the microwave just told me my Minestrone is hot. Now it's time to watch a rerun of The Wild, Wild West with Son, who is home sick today. Which means it takes me three times as long to write anything. I've lost track of how many times he's interrupted me just during this post.
Oh, well. Lunch time.
Enjoy the day everyone.
Yeah, I know that belongs on A Voice in the Wind, but my life is kind of active right now and I don't really want to make five posts a day over there. Don't get too distressed, though. I can't not write for too long. At the least I will begin working on military assignments. Just think about it: 6,754 characters assigned to military duty. I could post about them one at a time. I would have something to write about for years!
Don't worry. While I will have to go through them all one at a time, I will not bore you with it. I don't like comparing myself with J.R.R.Tolkien (it's like an Edsel comparing itself to a Lamborghini), but he wrote something in his foreword I can now totally relate to regarding the interest of others in background story.
... I had little hope that other people would be interested in this work ... When those whose advice and opinion I souight corrected little hope to no hope, I went back to the sequel ...
I would have been interested. Very interested. In fact, when I began my senior year in high school I was planning on saving up money and traveling to England in hopes of perhaps meeting him. Then, right after school began, he died.
Hmm. I was going to digress to family life, and here I am talking about a famous author of fantasy. I did meet Clyde Kirby, who was a friend of Tolkien's and C.S.Lewis, at Bethel College, St. Paul, MN. That was back in 1976. I mentioned to him that I had hoped to meet J.R.R.Tolkien, but he assured me that would not likely have happened even had he not died. Should have saved my money and gone anyway. Always wanted to visit England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. I have ancestry in that region. No, really.
Back in the 1600s, some of my ancestors were Jacobites. These were people who wanted to put the Stuarts back on the throne of England. We're not sure, but we suspect we may actually be related to Bonnie Prince Charlie, who tried to take the throne by force. He (and my relatations) were soundly defeated by the English. The Bonnie Prince fled, disguised as a woman, and my relations were kicked out of the county. Hmm. A familiar theme. I'm being kicked out of my house. Only I didn't support G.W., and I'm not related to him. So why is this happening? What? Oh, Never mind.
Anyway. I've rambled a bit. I have so much more to ramble on about, but the microwave just told me my Minestrone is hot. Now it's time to watch a rerun of The Wild, Wild West with Son, who is home sick today. Which means it takes me three times as long to write anything. I've lost track of how many times he's interrupted me just during this post.
Oh, well. Lunch time.
Enjoy the day everyone.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Hodge Podge of History and Current Events
Down to the final chapter. Huzzah. I guess. It's going to go over budget. No stopping it now. I only have about 2,000-words remaining. To make budget I will have to cut 80% of the final chapter. Can't do it. Not that much. So I'm going to be over. Pity.
The bigger pity is the query letter. Oh, that is going to s*ck trying to write. I've never written a query letter yet that anyone liked, much less felt inspired to read my work because. Whatever. I'll deal with that next week. Some time today (or tomorrow, more likely) I will finish my latest revision of Traitor. It will be done. Finished. Complete. Until someone tells me I have to edit it again. Cr*p.
On a lighter note, here are a few things I found in the bin of old photographs, newspaper clippings, and other odds and ends. (Got a couple of old button hooks. That's what Mother said they are, anyway. People used to use them to help button up their shoes. They have to near one hundred years old. Kind of cool.)
Here are two poems my grandmother wrote. No idea as to when. They were written on 3"x5" pieces of paper. Not titles. Some corrections. Terrible handwriting. I'm not sure of some of the words and so have guessed.
Waiting
by Amy Holmes
Waiting the hours of my life spent waiting
Inside a car hot, tiresome I sit waiting
At Doctor’s office where others wait I too sit waiting
The hours the minutes crawl as waiting I sit
(The reference to the doctor almost makes me think this was a recent piece, and she should be known as Amy Mulnix.)
Where are They
by Amy Holmes
I saw it standing by the way
Sunken sills door away
Roof with shingles born away
Windows pane less sightless eye
The yard with brambles long over grown
Winter winds around it shrink and moan
A silo that had once held feed
For cattle’s milk production need
Now leans at an angle propping indicated
The barn collapsed where it had waited
Often I wonder as I pass
Where are they now who lived there last
For some reason, Grandma cut out a piece from a Sunday paper, dated August 7, 1938. (My birthday was on a Tuesday that year - or would have been had I been born.) The article is titled, "Stories of Famous Hymns: A Mighty Fortress is Our God", by Horace B Powell. Did a Google search on Mr. Powell and got no results. Must have been a local writer.
What I find interesting is not the article my grandmother saved. Rather, it's what's on the back. There is part of an article about England's treaty with Italy. (Remember, this is 1938. World War II.) The headline reads, "England's Bol". The rest is cut off. The sub title reads, "Britain's Treaty With Italy Based on Idea Fascists Plan About Face, But Does Mussolini Play a Deeper Game?" The article talks about a general war almost being inevitable, Germany "mobilizing her entire population on this assumption", Poland not remaining true to the French system of "collective security", Neville Chamberlain's believe Italy could be "won back". Only four paragraphs, but kind of interesting.
Below that is a Dorothy Dix column. I checked on Dorothy Dix, too. This is what Wikipedia says about her:
Dorothy Dix (November 18, 1861 – December 16, 1951), was the pseudonym of U.S. journalist Elizabeth Meriwether Gilmer.
As the forerunner of today's popular advice columnists, Dorothy Dix was America's highest paid and most widely read female journalist at the time of her death. Her advice on love and marriage was syndicated in newspapers around the world. With an estimated audience of 60 million readers, she became a popular and recognized figure on her travels abroad.
Her name is the origin of the term Dorothy Dixer, a widely-used phrase in Australia meaning a question from the floor that enables the speaker to make or strengthen a point he wanted to get across, especially in Parliament.
I don't have the entire question, nor Dorothy's complete answer, but it seems people were struggling with the redefining of male/female roles even in 1938. This is what I've got.
Dear Miss Dix - Does the modern man no longer expect to support his wife? I am a good-looking girl with a good job and I have had several proposals of marriage, but..." (no more)
The next section is in bold. It may, or may not, be Dorothy's reply. It is broken in two parts, or there are two separate bold sections.
"...supported herself before marriage can just as well do it after marriage, and that there is no reason for him to toil to pay for hte bread and butter of one who can perfectly well provide herself with cake. Also, he argues that their combined earnings will give them many more luxuries..."
"...woman can toil all day in an office or shop, come home and clean up the house, get dinner and be a bright and vivacious companion with whom her husband will enjoy stepping out of an evening."
Three stars, and then regular type. No bold.
"The old order was that the man should be the provider and the woman the homemaker. You..."
I would really love to get a copy of that newspaper. Unfortunately, I don't even know which newspaper it was. Based on the year, I am guessing it was a paper from Sandstone, MN, but I'm not certain.
This is really fascinating. Well, to me it is.
I love history when it's written by real people.
Have a great day.
The bigger pity is the query letter. Oh, that is going to s*ck trying to write. I've never written a query letter yet that anyone liked, much less felt inspired to read my work because. Whatever. I'll deal with that next week. Some time today (or tomorrow, more likely) I will finish my latest revision of Traitor. It will be done. Finished. Complete. Until someone tells me I have to edit it again. Cr*p.
On a lighter note, here are a few things I found in the bin of old photographs, newspaper clippings, and other odds and ends. (Got a couple of old button hooks. That's what Mother said they are, anyway. People used to use them to help button up their shoes. They have to near one hundred years old. Kind of cool.)
Here are two poems my grandmother wrote. No idea as to when. They were written on 3"x5" pieces of paper. Not titles. Some corrections. Terrible handwriting. I'm not sure of some of the words and so have guessed.
Waiting
by Amy Holmes
Waiting the hours of my life spent waiting
Inside a car hot, tiresome I sit waiting
At Doctor’s office where others wait I too sit waiting
The hours the minutes crawl as waiting I sit
(The reference to the doctor almost makes me think this was a recent piece, and she should be known as Amy Mulnix.)
Where are They
by Amy Holmes
I saw it standing by the way
Sunken sills door away
Roof with shingles born away
Windows pane less sightless eye
The yard with brambles long over grown
Winter winds around it shrink and moan
A silo that had once held feed
For cattle’s milk production need
Now leans at an angle propping indicated
The barn collapsed where it had waited
Often I wonder as I pass
Where are they now who lived there last
For some reason, Grandma cut out a piece from a Sunday paper, dated August 7, 1938. (My birthday was on a Tuesday that year - or would have been had I been born.) The article is titled, "Stories of Famous Hymns: A Mighty Fortress is Our God", by Horace B Powell. Did a Google search on Mr. Powell and got no results. Must have been a local writer.
What I find interesting is not the article my grandmother saved. Rather, it's what's on the back. There is part of an article about England's treaty with Italy. (Remember, this is 1938. World War II.) The headline reads, "England's Bol". The rest is cut off. The sub title reads, "Britain's Treaty With Italy Based on Idea Fascists Plan About Face, But Does Mussolini Play a Deeper Game?" The article talks about a general war almost being inevitable, Germany "mobilizing her entire population on this assumption", Poland not remaining true to the French system of "collective security", Neville Chamberlain's believe Italy could be "won back". Only four paragraphs, but kind of interesting.
Below that is a Dorothy Dix column. I checked on Dorothy Dix, too. This is what Wikipedia says about her:
Dorothy Dix (November 18, 1861 – December 16, 1951), was the pseudonym of U.S. journalist Elizabeth Meriwether Gilmer.
As the forerunner of today's popular advice columnists, Dorothy Dix was America's highest paid and most widely read female journalist at the time of her death. Her advice on love and marriage was syndicated in newspapers around the world. With an estimated audience of 60 million readers, she became a popular and recognized figure on her travels abroad.
Her name is the origin of the term Dorothy Dixer, a widely-used phrase in Australia meaning a question from the floor that enables the speaker to make or strengthen a point he wanted to get across, especially in Parliament.
I don't have the entire question, nor Dorothy's complete answer, but it seems people were struggling with the redefining of male/female roles even in 1938. This is what I've got.
Dear Miss Dix - Does the modern man no longer expect to support his wife? I am a good-looking girl with a good job and I have had several proposals of marriage, but..." (no more)
The next section is in bold. It may, or may not, be Dorothy's reply. It is broken in two parts, or there are two separate bold sections.
"...supported herself before marriage can just as well do it after marriage, and that there is no reason for him to toil to pay for hte bread and butter of one who can perfectly well provide herself with cake. Also, he argues that their combined earnings will give them many more luxuries..."
"...woman can toil all day in an office or shop, come home and clean up the house, get dinner and be a bright and vivacious companion with whom her husband will enjoy stepping out of an evening."
Three stars, and then regular type. No bold.
"The old order was that the man should be the provider and the woman the homemaker. You..."
I would really love to get a copy of that newspaper. Unfortunately, I don't even know which newspaper it was. Based on the year, I am guessing it was a paper from Sandstone, MN, but I'm not certain.
This is really fascinating. Well, to me it is.
I love history when it's written by real people.
Have a great day.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
You Can't Go Home - 100th Post
They saying is "You can never go home again."
Yeah. That's true. For me anyway.
The second picture is what remains of our neighbor's cabinet-making business. There used to be other barns in the background, but those were torn down by my brother and the neighbor's eldest son. My house would be behind and to the left.
The school where I went for grades two through six. It's not a school anymore, although it is still a government building. That roundish portion on the right is new. They tore apart the entire right side where I spent my last two years.
This shot show another round addition to the left. I wonder why they closed the school. There'a heck of a lot more people out there now than when I was there.
This is the house my parents built after the fire. It wasn't blue back in 1973. The siding was stained redwood. The people who bought the house from us thought it would look good to paint over beautiful redwood. They did add a porch. That wasn't there when we built the place. My room was in the upstairs left corner. Helvie's room was right below mine.
I took this shot just to show the gnarled trees which remain from forty-plus years. They are some of the few remaining trees from the fire. They survived from being so far away from the original house.
This is an original building to the farm. We called it the Root Cellar. It was actually in quite good repair when we left. Now even the bricks are falling away. This was our storm shelter in case of tornadoes. Dirt floor. No windows. No electricity. For some reason it seems sad to see it so decayed. The greenhouses used to be to the right, but Daddy and Mother destroyed those right off. Then we used the space for a garbage pit. The orchard is gone, too. A dozen fruit trees. All gone.
On the way back home I drove by Stephen's old house. It was about five miles from mine. When Stephen lived here the house was yellow. No trees. Stephen's room was in the basement, at the near corner.
Very little remains of the places I knew growing up. Ball fields are identifiable simply because the wooden posts which supported the backstops have yet to topple. But the screens are gone. The fields are overgrown with weeds and, in one case, two large trees. So many houses are gone. My own, included. We only lived in the house above for a little more than a year.
.
FairyHedgeHog suggested I might do a photo spread for my 100th post. I decided to do that, but with a slight twist: I wouldn't use pictures of my current neighborhood. Instead, I would return to the place where I spent most of my youth and take pictures there. I reference it so much, particularly on A Voice in the Wind, it seemed appropriate. It was a shock to return after so many years.
.
I generally go back there about every five years just to look around. It's been closer to ten now. Things have changed drastically. Lots of new roads, houses, and malls. Old roads are gone - or moved! They actually moved a road.
.
But what amazed me was how few buildings remained. Houses, stores, barns, and a host of other places just aren't there anymore. I had taken Son with me. I was going to show him all the places where various friends and such lived. So many of their houses are gone. Wiped from history.
.
And yet some of the most decripit places remain. They were decrepit when I was young forty years ago. They're still there.
.
This first picture is of the old creamery in the local town, just a mile north of my old home. It was an abandoned building all through my growing up years. We kids found a way to break in through the pipes and use it as a clubhouse. Doesn't look like it's used today. Yet no one tore it down. Seems odd. Especially when I discovered the local grocery store is gone. ALL of the businesses in town are gone. But the creamery remains.
The second picture is what remains of our neighbor's cabinet-making business. There used to be other barns in the background, but those were torn down by my brother and the neighbor's eldest son. My house would be behind and to the left.
The school where I went for grades two through six. It's not a school anymore, although it is still a government building. That roundish portion on the right is new. They tore apart the entire right side where I spent my last two years.
This shot show another round addition to the left. I wonder why they closed the school. There'a heck of a lot more people out there now than when I was there.
This is the house my parents built after the fire. It wasn't blue back in 1973. The siding was stained redwood. The people who bought the house from us thought it would look good to paint over beautiful redwood. They did add a porch. That wasn't there when we built the place. My room was in the upstairs left corner. Helvie's room was right below mine.
I took this shot just to show the gnarled trees which remain from forty-plus years. They are some of the few remaining trees from the fire. They survived from being so far away from the original house.
This is an original building to the farm. We called it the Root Cellar. It was actually in quite good repair when we left. Now even the bricks are falling away. This was our storm shelter in case of tornadoes. Dirt floor. No windows. No electricity. For some reason it seems sad to see it so decayed. The greenhouses used to be to the right, but Daddy and Mother destroyed those right off. Then we used the space for a garbage pit. The orchard is gone, too. A dozen fruit trees. All gone.
On the way back home I drove by Stephen's old house. It was about five miles from mine. When Stephen lived here the house was yellow. No trees. Stephen's room was in the basement, at the near corner.
Very little remains of the places I knew growing up. Ball fields are identifiable simply because the wooden posts which supported the backstops have yet to topple. But the screens are gone. The fields are overgrown with weeds and, in one case, two large trees. So many houses are gone. My own, included. We only lived in the house above for a little more than a year.
I went back expecting memories to flood. They couldn't. Nothing looked the same. There is so little left to trigger a memory. So now I will rely on smells and sounds, which inexplicably bring me back thirty and forty years in time. More than once I have said to Spouse upon walking outside: It smells like summer in 1965. It doesn't look that way any more. It never will again.
I suppose I should take pictures of this town and save them. Son is going to need them when he comes back searching for a memory. I don't know what it will be like then, but it won't be like it is now.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Music as Inspiration
I have always been inspired by music. Sometimes by the lyrics, but mostly the sound. For fantasy, I particularly like haunting sounds, such as Are You Sitting Comfortably by the Moody Blues, and Eres Tu by Mocedades.
The earliest inspirations for Swords of Fire came from a combination of dreams, interest and music. Fernando, by Abba, was one of the earliest song inspirations. The song is about a war in Mexico fought with guns, but the lyrics were less important to me than the music. Fernando has both the necessary haunting sound for fantasy, as well as a powerful battle cry. That the song speaks of defeat made it even better, for the scene it inspired was a scene of defeat. There was a time when Madatar was actually called Fernando. I liked the meaning. Fernando means "world traveler". It fit. But eventually I abandoned it. It just didn't fit. Especially when I trashed the original story and began at another point in time. That first version, The White King of Ladondo, may never be written.
I wrote a funeral scene while imagining Eres Tu in my head. I had to keep wiping tears so they wouldn't fall on the paper. Without the music the scene was just silly.
Music creates mood - for me - and it can sustain the mood for a long time. It is not unusual for me to listen to the same song(s) over and over and over again while I write a scene. The Moody Blues are probably most often represented, although there are others.
I have written song lyrics a few times for Swords of Fire. Probably my favorite is Elven Wings at Rest, which is posted both here and on A Voice in the Wind. Perhaps others will read the song and think, "What dribble!" But I hear the music, and the music supercedes the words. I expect that is why I tend to be wordy in what I write: the music is always playing - in my head.
The earliest inspirations for Swords of Fire came from a combination of dreams, interest and music. Fernando, by Abba, was one of the earliest song inspirations. The song is about a war in Mexico fought with guns, but the lyrics were less important to me than the music. Fernando has both the necessary haunting sound for fantasy, as well as a powerful battle cry. That the song speaks of defeat made it even better, for the scene it inspired was a scene of defeat. There was a time when Madatar was actually called Fernando. I liked the meaning. Fernando means "world traveler". It fit. But eventually I abandoned it. It just didn't fit. Especially when I trashed the original story and began at another point in time. That first version, The White King of Ladondo, may never be written.
I wrote a funeral scene while imagining Eres Tu in my head. I had to keep wiping tears so they wouldn't fall on the paper. Without the music the scene was just silly.
Music creates mood - for me - and it can sustain the mood for a long time. It is not unusual for me to listen to the same song(s) over and over and over again while I write a scene. The Moody Blues are probably most often represented, although there are others.
I have written song lyrics a few times for Swords of Fire. Probably my favorite is Elven Wings at Rest, which is posted both here and on A Voice in the Wind. Perhaps others will read the song and think, "What dribble!" But I hear the music, and the music supercedes the words. I expect that is why I tend to be wordy in what I write: the music is always playing - in my head.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Oh, WOW!
Boy, did I call this one. Whew!
Today, Thursday, is my assigned day to talk about how Evil Editor and his Minions have responded to anything I have written. Well, New Beginning 584 is mine, and it was posted yesterday while I was taking a restless nap. I woke to find an enormous amount of constructive criticism. I spent several hours trying to take it all in. I took a break to visit another blog and provide a frivolous comment just to free my mind. After a few more hours I posted my thank you's and response. A wordy response.
The posting was the novel's first 150 words. I took it from what I called, First Interlude, which precedes Chapter One. The Interludes (of which there are four) are brief moments when I take the reader away from the main story in order to reveal activity taking place outside the story characters' knowledge. To spare you the trouble of jumping to Evil Editor right now (although I do recommend you visit his blog (http://evileditor.blogspot.com for more reasons than to just see my work critiqued) here is what I posted:
In the darkness he brooded. But it was not the darkness that oppressed him. Darkness was his ally. His image, when shrouded in darkness, terrified the so-called Free People even more than in light.
He looked at this thin, drawn and deathly grey hand. Frail in appearance, it was stronger than any creature on the Sea save, perhaps, the great dragons. But even they lacked his raw power. His face was a living skull with unblinking eyes and a taught, skin like covering pulled and stretched to reveal the form benath. to those lesser things across the Sea he was the living dead, and all but one would cower before him. This Other, though. Where was he and when would he appear?
Time moved forward. Time was he enemy. He was trapped in time. But to be anywhere else was to risk assault, and he was not ready for that. He was not invincible. Not yet. That had been a difficult lesson. Curse Kensington and his interference! How could he reclaim his advantage? Then he felt it! The feeling of new inspiration. With a quiet breath he summoned his servant.
I confess, I thought it was great. My big fear was that no one would comment. My fear was unfounded. So were my thoughts about greatness. If you know anything about critiquing then you have probably already seen at least a half dozen things wrong. The Minions certainly did. I counted forty-eight. And then there were three more postings.
Now the fear was I would take it all to heart and feel crushed and incapable. I did shed tears, but not tears of despair. When BuffySquirrel and Writtenwyrdd put in the final comments, I felt like I had just won the lottery. So much help! So much information. I just cried. These people are giving me a chance, and a chance is all any of us ever get. Some don't even get that. I don't quite feel inadequate, but I have a lot of work to do. A LOT of work. The end is so much further away than I believed. But I am being herded in the right direction for success. That, I believe.
May God grant me the time to get there. I have such a long way to go.
Thank you, Minions. I love you all.
I have received help from other Minions on other pieces, but here is a list of those who posted for this submission. I am thinking the best way I can say "Thank You" is to point others in their direction.
Writtenwyrdd - http://writtenwyrdd.blogspot.com
Evil Editor - http://evileditor.blogspot.com
BuffySquirrel - http://inthedarknesshiding.blogspot.com
Anonymous - sorry, no link to give
Dave F - http://fragments-fiction.blogspot.com
Chelsea - http://www.blogger.com/profile/16301150715189103602
Danceluvr - sorry, no link to give
Jeb - sorry, no link to give
Today, Thursday, is my assigned day to talk about how Evil Editor and his Minions have responded to anything I have written. Well, New Beginning 584 is mine, and it was posted yesterday while I was taking a restless nap. I woke to find an enormous amount of constructive criticism. I spent several hours trying to take it all in. I took a break to visit another blog and provide a frivolous comment just to free my mind. After a few more hours I posted my thank you's and response. A wordy response.
The posting was the novel's first 150 words. I took it from what I called, First Interlude, which precedes Chapter One. The Interludes (of which there are four) are brief moments when I take the reader away from the main story in order to reveal activity taking place outside the story characters' knowledge. To spare you the trouble of jumping to Evil Editor right now (although I do recommend you visit his blog (http://evileditor.blogspot.com for more reasons than to just see my work critiqued) here is what I posted:
In the darkness he brooded. But it was not the darkness that oppressed him. Darkness was his ally. His image, when shrouded in darkness, terrified the so-called Free People even more than in light.
He looked at this thin, drawn and deathly grey hand. Frail in appearance, it was stronger than any creature on the Sea save, perhaps, the great dragons. But even they lacked his raw power. His face was a living skull with unblinking eyes and a taught, skin like covering pulled and stretched to reveal the form benath. to those lesser things across the Sea he was the living dead, and all but one would cower before him. This Other, though. Where was he and when would he appear?
Time moved forward. Time was he enemy. He was trapped in time. But to be anywhere else was to risk assault, and he was not ready for that. He was not invincible. Not yet. That had been a difficult lesson. Curse Kensington and his interference! How could he reclaim his advantage? Then he felt it! The feeling of new inspiration. With a quiet breath he summoned his servant.
I confess, I thought it was great. My big fear was that no one would comment. My fear was unfounded. So were my thoughts about greatness. If you know anything about critiquing then you have probably already seen at least a half dozen things wrong. The Minions certainly did. I counted forty-eight. And then there were three more postings.
Now the fear was I would take it all to heart and feel crushed and incapable. I did shed tears, but not tears of despair. When BuffySquirrel and Writtenwyrdd put in the final comments, I felt like I had just won the lottery. So much help! So much information. I just cried. These people are giving me a chance, and a chance is all any of us ever get. Some don't even get that. I don't quite feel inadequate, but I have a lot of work to do. A LOT of work. The end is so much further away than I believed. But I am being herded in the right direction for success. That, I believe.
May God grant me the time to get there. I have such a long way to go.
Thank you, Minions. I love you all.
I have received help from other Minions on other pieces, but here is a list of those who posted for this submission. I am thinking the best way I can say "Thank You" is to point others in their direction.
Writtenwyrdd - http://writtenwyrdd.blogspot.com
Evil Editor - http://evileditor.blogspot.com
BuffySquirrel - http://inthedarknesshiding.blogspot.com
Anonymous - sorry, no link to give
Dave F - http://fragments-fiction.blogspot.com
Chelsea - http://www.blogger.com/profile/16301150715189103602
Danceluvr - sorry, no link to give
Jeb - sorry, no link to give
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
A Spearhead's Duty
Swords of Fire is a saga. It will go at least six books. (Two are already written, and a third has been begun. But none are "finished".) The Great Sea is a place. It has hundreds of stories which can be told as short stories, novels or epic sagas. I already know some of them.
Flames of Hatred (yes, I will rename it some day) has the honorable - and difficult - position of being the first book "out of the gate". It will introduce the Great Sea. It will present key characters. It will set the tone for the entire saga. But most importantly, Flames of Hatred must have: a beginning; a middle; and an end. Yes, the book must end, despite it being the first volley in a series. There is one other requirement for Flames of Hatred: it has to be interesting.
When I began writing Swords of Fire back in 1976, I had no thoughts about it ever being published. It was simply a logical progression of one of my favorite pastimes: writing stories. No one read them. Not ever. I completely understood the George McFly character (played by Crispin Glover) from Back to the Future when he tells Marty (played by Michael J. Fox) he never let anyone read his stories. What if they didn't like them?
It was by accident the story came to the attention of some people I worked with. They wanted to know more. I had to read it to them. Suddenly, I had an audience! And with an audience came responsibility. I could no longer afford to write just what I felt and leave it be at that. The writing had to at least make sense. (When writing for myself I will change names, places and events - sometimes in mid-paragraph.)
When friends, lovers and relatives began speaking about Swords of Fire becoming a published novel I made a closer inspection of the story. I had begun too late. I abandoned the project and went back in time to restart. I would do this three times before I came to the time of Flames of Hatred. Now I had to establish who was important - and why.
Ultimately, I chose Khirhsa as my POV character. I introduced Abrin, Shello, Klarissa, Khaiu, Tura - and Kelso. NO ONE liked Kelso as I originally portrayed him. I guess I don't blame them. But the truth is, I failed to present any of the characters well. I'm embarassed to admit I ever thought that version was worthy of publication. In my defense I will only say this: I wasn't alone.
I don't remember how, but I suddenly found myself in contact with a man who had once edited books at some big New York Publishing House. He agreed to read my book - for $25. Not knowing any better, I sent him the book with a check. That was on a Monday in January. The same week on Thursday he called me at my work (I didn't have a home telephone) to tell me he very much liked the book and read it in one evening. He lived in St. Paul, so we arranged a meeting at his favorite restaurant on Saturday. During the meeting he not only returned my check, but he told me that, while the book was clearly written by an amateur, the story had tremendous potential. It did need to be edited - heavily. Then he told me something completely unexpected. He told me to send the book to his friend: Lester Del Rey. No promises. The book needed a LOT of work. But if I used his name (I don't remember it, but "Demerest" sticks in my head. I have the documentation in the archives some place.), Lester just might be willing to take on the project. That was what he was willing to do for me.
I did send the book to Lester Del Rey. After what I considered to be an interminable amount of time he returned the manuscript. The story was good. Unfortunately, the writing was not, and it would take an inordinate amount of effort to make it good. Sorry.
That was twenty-five years ago. I have rewritten the story several times since then. The original story, Prophecies of Madatar, eventually was divided into two books: Flames of Hatred and Prophecies of Madatar. This past spring I had thought the story ready at last. I have since taken another painful lesson to learn that is not so. But now I am receiving some quality help in learning to present a novel length story. Flames of Hatred should be ready to go by spring of 2009 - with a new title.
When it is ready it will have a beginning, a middle and an end. It will be written well. The story will still be interesting. And the readers will learn about Khirsha, Kelso, Sayla, Avalina, Tavaar (I just love her), flameswords, the Great Sea and - Madatar.
Flames of Hatred (yes, I will rename it some day) has the honorable - and difficult - position of being the first book "out of the gate". It will introduce the Great Sea. It will present key characters. It will set the tone for the entire saga. But most importantly, Flames of Hatred must have: a beginning; a middle; and an end. Yes, the book must end, despite it being the first volley in a series. There is one other requirement for Flames of Hatred: it has to be interesting.
When I began writing Swords of Fire back in 1976, I had no thoughts about it ever being published. It was simply a logical progression of one of my favorite pastimes: writing stories. No one read them. Not ever. I completely understood the George McFly character (played by Crispin Glover) from Back to the Future when he tells Marty (played by Michael J. Fox) he never let anyone read his stories. What if they didn't like them?
It was by accident the story came to the attention of some people I worked with. They wanted to know more. I had to read it to them. Suddenly, I had an audience! And with an audience came responsibility. I could no longer afford to write just what I felt and leave it be at that. The writing had to at least make sense. (When writing for myself I will change names, places and events - sometimes in mid-paragraph.)
When friends, lovers and relatives began speaking about Swords of Fire becoming a published novel I made a closer inspection of the story. I had begun too late. I abandoned the project and went back in time to restart. I would do this three times before I came to the time of Flames of Hatred. Now I had to establish who was important - and why.
Ultimately, I chose Khirhsa as my POV character. I introduced Abrin, Shello, Klarissa, Khaiu, Tura - and Kelso. NO ONE liked Kelso as I originally portrayed him. I guess I don't blame them. But the truth is, I failed to present any of the characters well. I'm embarassed to admit I ever thought that version was worthy of publication. In my defense I will only say this: I wasn't alone.
I don't remember how, but I suddenly found myself in contact with a man who had once edited books at some big New York Publishing House. He agreed to read my book - for $25. Not knowing any better, I sent him the book with a check. That was on a Monday in January. The same week on Thursday he called me at my work (I didn't have a home telephone) to tell me he very much liked the book and read it in one evening. He lived in St. Paul, so we arranged a meeting at his favorite restaurant on Saturday. During the meeting he not only returned my check, but he told me that, while the book was clearly written by an amateur, the story had tremendous potential. It did need to be edited - heavily. Then he told me something completely unexpected. He told me to send the book to his friend: Lester Del Rey. No promises. The book needed a LOT of work. But if I used his name (I don't remember it, but "Demerest" sticks in my head. I have the documentation in the archives some place.), Lester just might be willing to take on the project. That was what he was willing to do for me.
I did send the book to Lester Del Rey. After what I considered to be an interminable amount of time he returned the manuscript. The story was good. Unfortunately, the writing was not, and it would take an inordinate amount of effort to make it good. Sorry.
That was twenty-five years ago. I have rewritten the story several times since then. The original story, Prophecies of Madatar, eventually was divided into two books: Flames of Hatred and Prophecies of Madatar. This past spring I had thought the story ready at last. I have since taken another painful lesson to learn that is not so. But now I am receiving some quality help in learning to present a novel length story. Flames of Hatred should be ready to go by spring of 2009 - with a new title.
When it is ready it will have a beginning, a middle and an end. It will be written well. The story will still be interesting. And the readers will learn about Khirsha, Kelso, Sayla, Avalina, Tavaar (I just love her), flameswords, the Great Sea and - Madatar.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
A Task Nearing Completion
I made a big push this past weekend and completed the latest - and longest - portion of housing assignments. Now, all 6,700+ people have been assigned housing for every year of their life. The next task? Move it into the database. I spent four months on this most recent push. I'm hoping to complete the next task by Thanksgiving.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Old Beginnings to New Endings
I often wish I still had the original map for Swords of Fire. It was a monstrous thing, drawn on the stiff paper covering for a double bed matress. When it was folded it was as thick as a book. I had hung it on my wall as a reference while I wrote.
It is gone now. Someone, perhaps even myself, tossed it one day while cleaning. It wasn't always on the wall, you see. The stiff brown wrapping paper must have looked no different than than any other packaging material to whoever was cleaning. (Statistically speaking, the likelihood I would have been cleaning was minimal. I'm just not that neat.)
I'm not even sure the original story remains. I remember the title: The White King of Ladondo. Perhaps it still lies hidden in one of the big computer boxes down in the utility room with all my other writing memorabilia. Most of the original Swords of Fire work is there. Some of it has been lost forever.
The map was not. I had been looking at it for so long I knew most of it without thinking. So, I redrew it. But it wasn't the same. I didn't have giant paper to work with. The White King of Ladondo was to be abandoned. My thinking was it was to be merely an interruption. I was progressing with it, and I even had an audience who pretended to listen rapturously while I read installments. (That's something I haven't done in thirty years.) But the story had awakened in me a desire to know about the history, and I found myself going backward in time to write a prequel. That led to me going back further, and further again.
I tried going back to the Beginning. I thought maybe that was what was needed. I wrote about Kensington, Draem and Zenophone, the first the Children of Fire who came to the Sea. I wrote about the birth of dragons, and unicorns and the other creatures which, by the time of Flames of Hatred, are viewed (at least, by Khirsha's family) as mythological, or historical at best. I wrote of Zenophone's descent into darkness, and his efforts to take control of the Sea to himself. I wrote of the Great War, in which most of the mythical creatures were destroyed, and the Sea itself came near to utter ruin. But this was not the beginning I needed. It was not the story begging to be shown to the world.
In time, I realized the best place to begin the world's education on the Great Sea was at the time Madatar (the One prophesied by the High King himself) and Shatahar (Zenophone's top Warlord) began to 'heat up' their fight to control the Great Sea. Which brought me to Khirsha, through who's eyes we would see this battle unfold.
It meant a new world. The one I had drawn first no longer fit. For many years, though, I still planned that the original world would come into play. Now I am not so sure. Events, as they have unfolded, have made that very unlikely. While I can see how to get characters to that world, I can find no reason to do so. Until they have a reason for going there, they cannot go.
That's the problem with starting over at an earlier point. One runs the risk of eliminating 'great' passages, places and events. My original ending for Book I was lost. The original Book I, Prophecies of Madatar, eventually was split into two books, Flames of Hatred and Prophecies of Madatar. But as the story unfolded the ending which filled me with such joy no longer had a place. It went to the computer boxes in the utility room. Amazingly, just a few months ago, I was inspired to see how that ending could be revived - in the very last book when the story finally closes. I hope to live to write it.
It is gone now. Someone, perhaps even myself, tossed it one day while cleaning. It wasn't always on the wall, you see. The stiff brown wrapping paper must have looked no different than than any other packaging material to whoever was cleaning. (Statistically speaking, the likelihood I would have been cleaning was minimal. I'm just not that neat.)
I'm not even sure the original story remains. I remember the title: The White King of Ladondo. Perhaps it still lies hidden in one of the big computer boxes down in the utility room with all my other writing memorabilia. Most of the original Swords of Fire work is there. Some of it has been lost forever.
The map was not. I had been looking at it for so long I knew most of it without thinking. So, I redrew it. But it wasn't the same. I didn't have giant paper to work with. The White King of Ladondo was to be abandoned. My thinking was it was to be merely an interruption. I was progressing with it, and I even had an audience who pretended to listen rapturously while I read installments. (That's something I haven't done in thirty years.) But the story had awakened in me a desire to know about the history, and I found myself going backward in time to write a prequel. That led to me going back further, and further again.
I tried going back to the Beginning. I thought maybe that was what was needed. I wrote about Kensington, Draem and Zenophone, the first the Children of Fire who came to the Sea. I wrote about the birth of dragons, and unicorns and the other creatures which, by the time of Flames of Hatred, are viewed (at least, by Khirsha's family) as mythological, or historical at best. I wrote of Zenophone's descent into darkness, and his efforts to take control of the Sea to himself. I wrote of the Great War, in which most of the mythical creatures were destroyed, and the Sea itself came near to utter ruin. But this was not the beginning I needed. It was not the story begging to be shown to the world.
In time, I realized the best place to begin the world's education on the Great Sea was at the time Madatar (the One prophesied by the High King himself) and Shatahar (Zenophone's top Warlord) began to 'heat up' their fight to control the Great Sea. Which brought me to Khirsha, through who's eyes we would see this battle unfold.
It meant a new world. The one I had drawn first no longer fit. For many years, though, I still planned that the original world would come into play. Now I am not so sure. Events, as they have unfolded, have made that very unlikely. While I can see how to get characters to that world, I can find no reason to do so. Until they have a reason for going there, they cannot go.
That's the problem with starting over at an earlier point. One runs the risk of eliminating 'great' passages, places and events. My original ending for Book I was lost. The original Book I, Prophecies of Madatar, eventually was split into two books, Flames of Hatred and Prophecies of Madatar. But as the story unfolded the ending which filled me with such joy no longer had a place. It went to the computer boxes in the utility room. Amazingly, just a few months ago, I was inspired to see how that ending could be revived - in the very last book when the story finally closes. I hope to live to write it.
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