Author: G. Derek Adams

Author of Spell/Sword. Trouble maker.

Sea of Secrets / The irony is not lost on me.

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Yeah, yeah — I know I ranted yesterday about the sins of the flesh, and the evils of money.

But today – buy my friend’s book!

Sea of Secrets – by Amanda DeWees

I’ve known Amanda for a long time, and she is super-classy and dripping with charm and a certain delightful malevolence. I haven’t read the book yet [other than the excerpt on Amazon], because I plan to obtain a copy clandestinely from the author herself under the cover of night, while wearing a dashing cloak.

Think of it as karma, wrapped in chocolate. The nicest thing you can do for a new author is buy their work, with actual money. Think how happy a waiter is when you give him a nice tip — this is easily like 4.3 times that exciting for the author. Or 80% as exciting as when you get a new puppy.

How can you keep such joy out of another human’s life? Do it!

Click on the [tastefully designed] picture of the cover, and you can purchase this book on Amazon in Kindle or print formats.

I know this period is a favorite for a bunch of you — and you will definitely enjoy Amanda’ style.

 

 

Forget about the money.

G. Derek Adams12 Comments

There’s a difference between writing a good book, and writing a marketable book.

A marketable book is designed to make you money, get you out of your day job, pay back that Manticore that loaned you 40 gold pieces to open your inn.

A good book is written for itself. For no other reason than to exist. They are the linchpins of the cosmos, just like any Imagepiece of art. Little thumbtacks constructed of human energy, that keep us from spinning out into oblivion.

I’m not saying that a good book can’t be marketable, or that a marketable book can’t be damn good.

I’m saying — think about who you’re writing for. Quit beating yourself up trying to match the current trends, or make your story fit into the YA framework, or the paranormal romance, or the corporate thriller — just so it can one day sell some copies on Amazon.

Because here’s the truth — we’ve all got stories inside of us. No one can tell that story but you — stop chopping off pieces, or grafting on new ones to make your unique contribution to the human race easier to sell. I read so many posts here on WP of people agonizing about making their books more marketable, or suiting this market, that market.

You are not going to sell any books.

Accept it — you are not going to sell any books.

So, why write for the extremely small probability of selling something? Write for the much larger probability of actually producing a piece of art that is a benefit to the human experience.

And,  yes, I realize the irony of this statement — coming from an author who’s first novel includes a fight against a brachiosaur.

It’s a human failing to gauge success by money — I’m just as guilty as anyone else, sitting in the tub dreaming about the book-money, the me-money, the my job is to write-money.

Make your art. Make it.

Don’t let anyone else tell you how, or why, or when. Worry about selling it later, or never sell it at all.

The creation is the reward.

And trust me — I have to keep reminding myself of that, every time a check bounces.

Make better art, that’s the goal. That’s what keeps you going — not dreaming about publisher advances.

So make your art — make it!

When you’ve made your art — when you’ve made it the best you possibly can. Then you can worry about selling it.

[Sorry for the rant — this is directed mostly at myself.]

Teatime.

G. Derek Adams3 Comments

“To every world, a teapot.”

“Professor! Put down the rifle, please — you’re scaring us!” Grace edged around the corner of the bookshelf, hoping that Mesopotamian Theology and Sumerian Agriculture were well-researched, thick tomes that could slow down a bullet.

“To every world, a TEAPOT…a teapot..a teaPOT…” Professor Wilkins sobbed.

He was half-naked — stained evening-shirt tucked into sweaty undergarments, suspenders flapping off one shoulder as the other side strained to hold.  Cans of paint were strewn everywhere across his corner study, reds and greens pooled. The academic’s hands were stained blue, and behind him on the wall was scrawled the crude outline of a teapot. It had a simple spout, and C-shaped handle — the lid handle was shaped like a leaf. Around it immaculate drawings, calculations, and words in forgotten tongues had been etched with a butter knife. Blue and green dripped from his white goatee.

Grace peeked over the rim of books. “Please. let us help you, Professor!” She gestured imploringly across the aisle to the red-coated soldiers. Their captain rolled his eyes, and added “Indeed, sir. We simply want to figure out what is bothering you so. Please put down the rifle, and allow us to assist you. I am Captain Marcus Landon of Her Majesty’s forces, and you can be certain that my word is good.”

The brass astrolabe above his head exploded as the rifle went off. Captain Landon ducked, and shot Grace a murderous look. “Get him to put the rifle down, or I will order my men to shoot.” he hissed.

Grace grabbed a thick volume on cuneiform, and held it in front of herself like a shield. She winked at the captain and resolutely stepped out from behind the bookshelf.

“Professor, it’s Grace. Your niece, and woefully underpaid research assistant. You’re creating quite an uproar, and we’d all like very much for you to calm down, and explain to us what the problem is.” She kept her voice level and calm, while taking small steps across the paint-stained floor.

“Grace?  Is that you, Grace?” he stammered, the rifle shaking in his thick hands. “There is so much – the understanding of the world taught at Oxford is flawed beyond any reasonable assurance of repair. Worlds like the skin of an onion….”

Grace took another careful step, red paint squelched up the sides of her boot.

The professor slowly lowered the gun, and turned back to his artwork with a look of rapture. “But, like a needle pierces to the center of an onion — present in all the layers at once. And what’s more — binding them, holding them together, connecting them. And I’ve found it — found the link. I pour the tea, and he holds the cup, and she passes the crackers, and I eat the crackers, and we all sip. And he pours the tea, and she holds the cup, and I pass the crackers, and he eats the crackers, and we all sip. She pours the tea…”

Grace brought the book down on the back of her uncle’s neck firmly. He tottered to the side, and fell face first into a pool of green paint. She quickly rolled him over, and checked his air — the professor breathed evenly, his face slack.

“Good work, madame.” Captain Landon approached, two of his men pulling the unconscious academic up from the floor.

“He’s a brilliant man, Captain — tell your men to take great care with him.”  She scanned the insane painting. “If only I had sensed this mental break coming, perhaps I could have prevented it.”

“Don’t berate yourself, madame.”

Grace walked over to an overstuffed chair unmarked by paint, and flopped down into it. A serving tray was laid aside, crumpets and a tea bell were scattered. She idly picked up the metal strainer, and shook free a few tea leaves.

“The funny thing captain, is that my uncle doesn’t care for tea. Coffee in the morning, and cognac in the evening — I can’t imagine the source of this nervous fixation, if only..”

She stopped talking, her eyes locked on the tea leaf fragments falling onto the silver tray. They were green. Green leaves. She picked up on fragment, pinching it between her fingers and bringing it a hair’s breadth from her eyes.

There were no green leaves on Terra. Never had been.

[Story on Demand for Margaret. She’s an amazing artist, and you should check out her site and give her money for arts.]

Story on Demand: The Secret of the Ooze

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

It’s that time of the week again — give me an idea, and I’ll write a story.

It’s magical!

Remember, ideas are better than plots — my best pieces have come from one or two-word suggestions.

Drop it in the comments, and I’ll pick one tomorrow.

My main focus is fantasy — but don’t feel bound to that. You can suggest a genre too, if you like!

Whee!

Teardrop.

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Sam Bosma - Self Portrait -- sbosma.tumblr.com

The devil-kin emerged carrying the emaciated form of an old human man. His bones showed through wasted skin — silver hair, and a long scraggly beard. His tunic was rotting, and food spilled down his chin, crusted up in his beard. His eyes were tightly bound, with a surprisingly clean strip of white cloth. The man worked his mouth feebly, trying to come to grips with the sudden flood of light and abrupt jostling.

Amidst the wrinkles on his left arm, a faded tattoo could be seen. A white spiral, shaped like a teardrop.

Eve Forward by Neccessity

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Hey — anybody read this book? It’s awesome.

Why? That’s a whole ‘nother blog post — what I’m curious about is where the heck has the author, Eve Forward, disappeared to?

This book has been out of print forever, easily fetching over $500 on Amazon, and more on eBay and rare book sites. And I though “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if the author put out an ebook version, or ..hey, I wonder what she’s writing now?”

A rudimentary websearch turned up a nearly barren wikipedia entry, and a wordpress site that may not even be hers. http://www.eveforward.com

So, come on WP nerds — what’s the deal? Someone out there in the vast internet’s gotta know.

Lodestar Backstage: Iax

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Just some behind-the-scenes notes for Lodestar. I’m really jazzed about this setting, and if you can parse the nerd-arcana, I think you guys will find it pretty cool as well.

It’s been really interesting working on opposite ends of the same story — separated by a decade of in-world time, and thousands and thousands of words. I come up with ideas in That Thing, that echo in Lodestar — or a place or character that I can’t resist sticking into That Thing. If only the Lodestar crew knew….

IAX

[Knowledge:Local]
The underground city of the Shadow Elves is located approximately two miles below the surface of the southern part of the continent, Onis. A sprawling network of tunnels extend for miles, but finally lead to a vast cavern – and the city of Iax. The city rests on a grand disc of crystal connected to the cavern sides by various support beams, bridges and columns. The dark city is several miles across, gleaming in the faint light of thousands of crystals in a rainbow of colors.

They have been engaged in an intermittent offensive with the Illithid and the Dark Creepers since the fall of the Red Wizards of Thay.

[Knowledge:Religion]
Iax is named for the Lost God, a mysterious deity that all Tyr-Elves serve. His crypt lies at the center of the city, tended to by the priesthood and the Paladins of Iax.

A common religious saying of the Tyr-Elves is “By His Will”.

Tyr-Elves
[Knowledge:Survival]
All Tyr-Elves suffer from Light Sensitivity, and cannot abide direct sunlight, or any other bright source of illumination.

[Knowledge: Nobility]
The Tyr-Elves have a patriarchal society, fiercely regimented and controlled. Their leader is known as the Erl King – selected by right of combat, once very eleven years.

[Knowledge: Religion]
The paladins of Iax are known for their fierce loyalty to their race, and terrible ferocity in battle. The god, Iax, is believed to be devoted to Order. Most followers of Iax channel positive energy.

[Knowledge: History]
Long ago, before the coming of the Arkanics, before the birth of the dragons, and before the humanoid races of Aufero lifted themselves above base animal savagery – the High Elves ruled the entire world.

Little information survives that describes their civilization, but one thing is clear. They left.

As the High Elves passed into whatever strange fate awaited them – four families refused to leave. They loved this world so much, that they could not bear to part from it.

They traded their immortality and their grace for the chance to remain. One family loved the blue skies, the endless clouds – and they grew wings and became the Sky-Elves [Rus-Elves]. One family loved the blue sea, the endless waves – and they grew gills, and learned to speak with their minds, and became the Sea-Elves [Nai-Elves.] One family loved the great forests, the endless life of the planet – and grew swift and cunning, learning the gift of foresight, and became the Wood-Elves [Yad-Elves.]

The last family loved the earth, the endless caverns and secrets – and grew hard and quiet, and became the Stone Elves [Tyr-Elves].

Shadow Elves is a misnomer, affixed by land dwellers – who saw the dark skin and fierce black eyes of the Tyr, and were afraid. All Tyr-Elves live in Iax , and bow to the rule of the Erl King and the god, Iax. Those encountered elsewhere are exiles.

[Language:Undercommon]
Most Tyr-Elves can speak this tongue fluently, but view it with complete contempt. They prefer their own lilting tongue, which they refuse to teach to outsiders. Most Tyr can also speak Common.

Dra’Lusair
[Knowledge:Dungeoneering]

The entire prison is actually a giant teardrop of stone, dangling beneath the southern edge of Iax. The cells are natural geodes and caverns within, while the wardens mainly operate from the top of the stalactite. The way out is up.

The cavern wall to the south – the one that opened when Simon arrived – seems to be adjacent to a tunnel. Best estimation is that the stone on that wall is the thinnest of any of the other walls – approximately 3 feet thick.

[Knowledge:Local / Perception]
The walls of the caverns surrounding the prison, and all of Iax are shot through with a unique mineral called Balestone – or Bloodrock. It has the ability to block and negate all arcane abilities, and renders all magical items inert. It has allowed Iax to remain almost impervious to attack, as their main subterranean enemies are primarily spellcasters.

Drop-Cage
[Disable Device]
The cage has resisted all attempts to at breaking it, or the chain that lowers it down. It appears to be made of adamantine.

[Knowledge:Engineering]
The cage seems to operate on a simple pulley mechanism – suggesting that it is manned by an operator each time that it is lowered. There does not appear to be any mechanical device that lowers or retracts the cage. When pulled, the chain gave an extra two feet of slack, then stopped completely. The pulley only seems to have about 200 pounds of lift – when the Ghosts piled onto it and held onto the cage – the pulley simply stopped. Eventually, when they got tired of holding onto it, they let go. It sat in the cell for several hours before the operator checked again, and pulled it away.

Normally, when depositing food and water, the cage is only present for five minutes.

Crystal Moss
[Knowledge: Survival]
The crystalline moss is an plant – but it seems to be infused with a naturally occurring chemical reaction that provides the illumination. It appears flammable.

[Knowledge: Engineering]
The moss could conceivably be used as an accelerant – but a large quantity of it would need to be used. Best effect would be achieved by reducing the moss to a powder.

The moss will not ignite on its own; some other form of energy would be required to ignite it.