The witch leaned over Tome’s body, a small hedgehog cupped carefully in her hand. She spoke quiet words of power, and her hair rippled slightly as if in a wind.
“It’s so heavy.” Alice whispered. “I pull, but it barely moves. I think I can pull his spirit back to his body..but.”
Tears coursed down her face. “I’m not sure I have the strength. And even if I do…it will tear. His soul will be ripped into tatters. Please don’t make me do this.”
Aufero is a strange place.
Almost, but not quite, sensible. Approaching, but never meeting, sane.
So many pieces that don’t fit. Words, names, places, people, gods, colors, music. A world on the edge
of things, a Grand Central Station of the cosmos. A quiet shore where many lost things wash up and begin again.
What brings them there? What keeps them there?
The Lost named it, when they stepped from their silver ships. In the old tongue, it means “to steal”. As if the world itself was a bandit, reaching into the pockets of more respectable universes and grabbing everything that jingles, everything that shines. Aufero piles up its treasure, little caring for organization or thrift. Rubies bang against pennies, coarse granite against opal.
History wanders, and logic gets lost. Civilizations rise by whim, and the unlikely and strange gad about in the common streets as if protected by royal decree.
Dinosaurs moan about philosophy, while living skeletons make a proper Old Fashioned at the bar. Swaggering bravos, kings and titans of industry all plot and battle in the streets of a city where it is always night, for no particular reason at all. A patient prince of Hell lays waste to all who oppose him, cheating the laws of the universe with deadpan glee. Minotaurs play chess. Gnomes sing the blues. Friendship is real, and love is real and death is real — side by side with a thousand quiet absurdities and the hallowed mundane.
George Washington wearing a clown nose.
Do you want to go?
[Just some navel-gazing about my main story-world.]
“Ah, Haskeer.” his uncle said softly, almost inaudible amongst the jubilant cries of the people of Pice. “Still the same young squire, underneath it all. Fearless and valiant when steel and death are at play, but unsure when words are the weapons.”
Sir Barnabus held up his shield, a perfectly detailed rose worked in silver, the petals seeming to breathe and drip with dew. ” You see this shield, nephew? I have borne it for nearly forty years. In that time I’ve fought many battles – this shield has kept me safe against many dangers. This sword? ”
The golden blade sang out, ringing like a church bell.
“Many an evil creature has met it’s end at the taste of Valor.” Haskeer could read the familiar word etched into the crossguard of the blade. ” But all that I’ve seen and done, all the enemies I’ve faced in my long years on the road – this sword and shield have been at my side. They are a testament to my great deeds.”
Barnabus put the sword away, and tucked the shield back over his shoulder.
“My sword has slain a fraction of the evil that you can claim, my shield has protected a pittance compared to the lives that you and 
your companions have saved this day. The story is on every lip in city – you united the brawling factions of Pice, you gave them hope when they had none. Every man that lives to see the end of this war will tell the tale of Sir Haskeer the Spider-Bane. Some of the Library Scholars have already taken to calling you Maegnas , a High Elf Word. How many times did I tell you the tale of Bilbo and his sword, Sting when you were a boy? You are stepping into legend itself, boy.”
[Yeah, The Hobbit is a book/tale in Aufero — deal with it!]
Barnabus took Haskeer’s head in his hands, and for the first time the paladin realized that his uncle had to reach up to do so. His uncle had always seemed so large, so powerful — but now he saw that his uncle was a full six inches shorter than he.
“On this day, they can deny you nothing — the Savior of Pice! But more than that…it doesn’t matter what they want to hear. It matters more what they need to hear, what must be done. You must lead them to the proper path. It is not a leader’s place to soothe and cajole, but to command. Especially when time is so precious. You are not their king, you should listen to their words and desires and find the best solution for all. But I don’t want you walking in there, hat in hand. You are Sir Haskeer, Knight of the Rose ..but more than that you are my beloved nephew. You have paid the iron price for your life, and proven your worth a thousand times over. Your heart knows the way to victory, speak with your companions and lay your battle plan …then show the Lyceum the way.”
What’s the problem with fantasy?
Two great gods, hovering in the firmament.
The Rules and The Backstory.
Those are the two driving forces, theinspirado of a grand bulk of the genre. Either the writer has a really neat system of magic, combat or dragon-sex and they hammer a plot and some characters into a framework to hold it — OR the writer has a really neat world, or character, or setting for dragon-sex and they hammer a plot and some less interesting characters into a framework to hold it.
I’m not really complaining that these forces exist. [Especially about the dragon-sex.] I’ve invested a massive amount of geek-hours into consuming as much of this content as I can, and I never plan to stop. My complaint derives from the endless mimicry, and the bone-certain belief that these two masters are the only ones that the genre can serve.
That is not the case, more on that shortly. But first, a primer.
In general, there are two types of fantasy authors. Nerds and Dungeon Masters.
Nerds love their shining rules, and Dungeon Masters love their precious backstory.
So when you are reading a fantasy novel and realize you’ve just spent two pages reading about how Flame-aligned Slaughter Wizards cannot use their Flambe attack when Ice-aligned Tempest Mages have spent a fortnight attuning their Ava-crystals to the Fourteenth Ley Line —- then the author is a Nerd.
Uh, thanks Mr. Sanderson.
And when you finish a blistering passage on the Archduke Sargasso and the five-year conflict he endured developing the Draconian Congress, including the Riddle-Game played in the jaws of Tyrinel the Inferno, Red Dragon Lord – with exacting minutes provided, including three water breaks and a complete rundown of the Inaugural Dylithic Council’s attire, facial hair and a five stanza limerick sung by Jargon the Time-Sworder — ALL of this read by the protagonist on a discarded scroll in the waiting room of his dentist’s office. Then, my friend, your author is a Dungeon Master.
Both of these ideas sound pretty awesome, and both of the authors above are titanium-plated awesome. There’s nothing wrong with either approach, and in a skilled scribe’s meaty grip each style can keep you patently enthralled. I’ve spent more than a few minutes thinking about everyday applications of Allomancy from Sanderson’s Mistborn series — and you better believe I’m far more concerned about the fate of the Iron Throne of Westeros than the outcome of the 2012 Presidential Race.
This isn’t about what those authors have already written. It’s about the fantasy that hasn’t been written yet.
The fantasy that you and I are writing. The new fantasy, which is also old fantasy — as opposed to the middle fantasy that we’re currently sitting in. The new/old fantasy where we basically don’t give a shit.
What am I talking about?
Swordpunk.
I have chosen this term because:
a) It sounds cool.
b) Fuck you, that’s why.
Are there rules? Yes, of course. But they are to be like a kindly sour-smelling uncle. You send them a card on their birthday, a sincere hug at Christmas — but you’re not inviting them over when it’s time to party.
Is there backstory? As long as there is linear time there shall be Stuff That Happened Before. But we shouldn’t drag it with us like those creepy dudes wearing their high school letter jacket to English 101. Leave that shit behind.
And world building? Of course, building your own little bolt-hole from reality is the bleedin’ point. But why do we need to reinvent the wheel every time? Tolkien did it and generations of fantasy writers have been doing their best to ape him ever since. Too many fantasy writers think like Carl Sagan:” If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe”.
How about we just have apple pie? You know, the apple pie that is at the store and we’ve all had it and we all know what it is?
Swordpunk is all about just eating the fucking pie.
I think the fear that fantasy writers have is that if they don’t reinvent the wheel, they won’t be taken seriously. Like Tad Williams is going to roll up and revoke their Fantasy License. [I’m imagining him in a lime green golf cart and wearing a jaunty scarf. Are you imagining it that way? Just me? Okay.]
The worlds are there. The tropes are there. It’s all in how you use them. I think there can be more power in connecting to the old stories, then running down the street and trying to start up your own Disneyland. “Oh, no — this ain’t Mickey Mouse, this is my own character Mouselord McQueen. He’s totally different.”
I don’t want to waste energy convincing you that my world is more clever or more original or ‘waaaaaay fucking different” [WFD] from any other fantasy author’s world. That’s a fool’s errand, and honestly more than a little outside of my skillset.
When I have a hero step forth and raise his sword, I don’t want to try to sell you on how he’s different than the inumerable sword-slingers in the genre. I want you to think of them. I want you to think of Sturm Bright-blade, Simon Mooncalf, Logen the Bloody-Nine, Brienne of Tarth, Lancelot, Garet Jax, Neville Longbottom, Reepicheep, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter and Conan the Barbarian,
himself. I want you to think of them all. I want to connect to that resonance, that legacy of character.
Is it getting a little Joseph Campbell-y in here?
Beyond that, fantasy needs to be more of a wackadoo fever dream. I want more Fritz Lieber and Michael Moorcock – more Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser, more Elric of Melnibone. Beautiful little offshoots of the genre, grand and strange, bizarre and gleefully weird.
That’s what I’m trying to do at least, with Spell/Sword, my first novel. And if I can keep going, I’ll keep trying.
My book has rules. My book has backstory. [Shit, you better bring some Post-It Notes, dog.] I’m a Nerd and a Dungeon Master, just like all of you.
But thinking about these things, and giving them a silly name made me feel free. It made me feel empowered, it made me write the book I wanted to write — not the one that I thought would ever sell.
I hope it makes you feel the same.
Swordpunk
1. Eating the pie is more fun than making the pie.
2. No one cares about about your character’s grandfather.
3. Only trot out the Rules on special occasions.
4. Don’t let anyone tell you how to make your art. Make it. Make it scream and bleed, make it shine and shatter. Be true to the moment, to the beauty of it — and make no excuses for putting it on the page.
5. There should always be more minotaurs. Preferable riding on cherry-red mopeds.
And if Brandon Sanderson wants to start an internet feud, he can GET IN LINE.
Thanks for reading my ramblings. This is what happens when I’m not editing.
Let me just knock some of the cobwebs off here.
But I was editing, black and white photo soldier guy, who I hope is not some sort of war criminal! I can see that ceremonial dagger on your belt, and I’m sure you’d like to dispense some pre-Internet justice, but hear me out.
In between normal life errata and work neccesity, my creative-time has been in short supply. Lodestar has taken a turn for the awesome as we rocket towards the conclusion – and I’m determined to deliver on the storytelling and gameplay promise of the campaign and not leave my players disappointed when it wraps up in September. On top of that I’m running a short side-game for some neophyte nerds in the neighborhood, plus planning for my Top Secret Next Campaign. Compounded with time rolling in the floor with the new puppy, and other general puttering about – I’ve been swamped.
I finished the rough draft of Spell/Sword back in April, then put it away for as long as possible before diving into editing. I made it a full four weeks, which was torturous indeed.
True editing began in May, here was my process:
1. Print out the draft, and read through it. Making only absolutely necessary notes in the margins.
2. Cry.
3. Read through it again, making nit-picky grammar notes.
4. Take all of the comments/edits from the paper version and add them to my Google Doc. “No argument” edits were implemented immediately. [Grammar fixes, word choice, spelling mistakes, erotic centaurs scene] More complicated edits requiring more thought or massive chapter-spanning revision entered as Comments onto the G-Doc.
5. Man, there’s a lot of these Comments. [63 total, only 17 of which were related to petticoat description. ALWAYS NEED MORE DESCRIPTION OF THE COURTLY LADY DRESSES]
6. Worked in fits and starts on the larger edits. The easy ones first, picking at the edges — then finally dived into the more serious ones in June.
7. Anxiety Quicksand. Edits seem to be making book worse. Every thing I read seems to be terrible, even if not explicitly marked for revision. I hate the book, and spend a lot of time polishing a terrible, shiny thought. Writing this draft was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done — a goal in my life that I never imagined I would accomplish. To have made it this far is nothing short of miraculous — but the book still might not be any good. Effort does not equal excellence in writing, or any art. I might have a completely unusable draft, rotten to the core. I might have written a book and still not have a book.
8. Kept editing.
9. Started to lose the feeling of forward momentum, so I engaged the Saving Grace of Art. A deadline. Contacted my Alpha Readers, and let them know that I would be printing the draft the first of July to send them copies for review. I embrace that deadline, and editing redoubles in ferocity.
10. I like the book a little better. Well, let’s be serious — I love the book, but understand that I have lost any objectivity. I’ve read it too many times, I’m way too close. I finish up major edits, with the salve that I’m going to go through this whole process again once my Alphas have a crack at it. Only they can tell me whether or not my child is a Goofus or a Gallant.
11. I have one last brainstorm for my editing before releasing it to the Alphas. I read the entire draft out loud in one sitting. I catch innumerable grammar, tense, spelling, and logic errors in the process. Best thing I’ve done, next time around I’m planning on doing this much, much earlier. I also record me reading it [TECHNOLOGY!] for further review.
12. I like the book.
13. I send the draft to be printed for Alpha Readers. I feel a sense of pride that my closest friends and advisors will soon know how fucking clever I am.
14. I listen to the recording, and immediately catch a dozen glaring syntax and logic problems.
15. Cry a little bit. But you know, in a badass way, like Chow Yun Fat in The Killer.
I know I’m not unique in my process, or in my reactions — I know my colleagues and associates are sick of my talking about these things like I invented Author Malaise. But, you’re my blog and this is my first time up this thorny path — so get prepared for some serious whining and navel-gazing.
Also, some ruminations on various literary and genre concepts. I’ve been struggling to put my novel in context with others in the genre, and I’ve had some thoughts. SOME THOUGHTS, I SAY.
I’m also thinking about pulling my old weekend STORY ON DEMAND out of mothballs, now that I have a little more brainspace to spare.
What do you think, Corporal Steely Breadcrumbs?
Echodactyl swoops low over the frenzied demons, keeping close to the tops of the buildings to conceal her outline from any of the enemy.
The organized group moves through the chaotic demons. A dozen armored forms form a perimeter, holding large standards, gleaming white even in the rain with three blue swords crossed — the ancient sigil for the country of Gilead. The four-limbed vaguely female demons writhe and caper, attempting to run their bloody claws against the white banners, but they are ruthlessly crushed and pushed out of the way by the Hell Knights, their gleaming silver armor a cruel mockery of the noble Gilean paladins of old. Orange light pours from their helms, pulsing from fiendish orbs.
In the center of their column walks a grander horror. A white spider, massive and elegant – it’s legs arced and slender — longer in proportion than any mortal arachnid, click and clack down the city street, as careful and dainty as a maid with her master’s porcelain tea set. Every few hundred paces, the spider stops and two knights rush into the throng of demons , pulling gibbets of human flesh from their jaws — half butchered corpses, and to Echodactyl’s revulsion, still living citizens of Pice. All screaming and wriggling, stuffed into the massive creature’s gut.
Her flying arc takes Echo around the back of the devil column, and the backside of the vast arachnid. Her double-lidded eyes blink, and she stares at the bulbous sac rippling underneath the creature’s abdomen. Her lack of familiarity with land creatures gave her a moment’s hope, but with a sinking sensation she realized she knows exactly what she was looking at.
An egg sac. Full to bursting with the white spider’s young.
And his hand slid through the hilt as if it were made of dream.
The barbarian stumbled forward, thrown off balance. He turned around, and the sword was gone.
In its place stood a hooded figure, old gray travelers cloak worn thin from endless miles on the road. Agnar glanced around and saw the temple seemed to be caught in gray amber, the clerics at the doors were nearly statues they moved so slow, the demons outside were a painting in stillness. A moment out of time.
The figure squared his shoulders, and fell into a natural fighting stance. Strapped across his back was a 
massive greatsword, the length of it tightly wound in dark cloth. The cowl slipped back, and Agnar stared into a stranger’s face. His face was clean-shaven, flat as slate — his hair was nearly gone, just gray fuzz on the sides of his head.
“Need is not enough.” the traveler said.
Agnar tried to respond, but found himself mute.
“Fate is not enough.” the traveler said, and Agnar felt the winged mark on his palm burn and itch.
“Rage is not enough. Skill is not enough. Might is not enough. All of these are dust.”
Sand began to pour from the sleeves of the traveler’s cloak, Agnar tasted the desert on his tongue.
“Only love is enough. Only truth is enough. Only sacrifice is enough.”
The traveler turned, and looked out towards the doors of the temple.
“You can bring death, but can you bring life? You have walked in the Light, can you bear its lack? Go out into the world, go without the Bright Lady’s balm, survive, and redeem one of the wicked. One evil soul brought back to the light, and I will be yours to wield — from now unto the Cracking of the World.”
The traveler walked away, and faded even as time slowly wound back to its proper pace. Agnar stared ahead at the demons pounding on the doors of the temple, and felt a dry, empty feeling steal through his limbs. A man who has lived his life ever by the sea, withers and dies when he can not hear the waves crash.
Marlowe looked up with great pain, and smiled with the sadness of knowledge. “Your trial begins, brother. You have stepped out of the Light.”
Libraryside
“Reports are hazy, but the main assault seems to have begun in the Southern District — from the Thieves 
Alley. Spice is much deeper down then those tunnels, so they’re probably no worse off then we are right now.” Ganalie interjected. “The members of the Lyceum were all scattered across town, and many of the Houses have fallen to fire and death —there’s no real leadership to the town left, except for Tom of House Brighella and the Grahd boy. I can hold things here for now, but we need someone to gather our forces and make a plan for a counter attack. As things stand now, our best option is to let the South Quarter burn, and do our best to preserve the other three districts, and the Loghain Primex at all costs. You and your friends are a mighty force, but even you can not stand alone against the evil that burns and capers in the streets of my city.”
Tears streaked down her dark face, trails through the ash.
Ganalie leaned in close to Haskeer. “My city needs a leader, Knight of the Rose. Not another soldier.”
Fireside
Agnar scanned the charred spires of burning towers, yellow flame and black smoke with frustration. Then, as if in a dream, the smoke parted. His vision moved across the city, howling like a gust of wind and he saw it. A burning blade, in a house of stone. The last defenders of the Bright Lady’s temple, Arcleric Tome’s face tight with pain, ignoring the bloody stump where his arm once was. Laying about left and right with a mace, spreading the healing power of Sarenrae to the tight knot of the faithful that held the doors against the demonic assault.
Come, my chosen. A voice whispered, remote and sad. It is time. Time for you to be tested. Take up my sword, and turn back this tide of darkness.
“The Long Night still comes, pup. But for now we are alive, and there is mead to be drunk.” Grell the Death crooked an arm around Agnar’s neck and dragged him away from the others.
The barbarian found hard hands on his shoulders, warm kisses from matron and maiden, the devil blood still spattered on his arms and face was smeared with bold cries by each warrior singing to the sun. The meadskin swung up and down, up and down and the honey-gold spilled down Agnar’s chin.
Then at once, there was space and silence. A tall warrior stood alone in front of a wide hall. Thunor Sky-
Breaker stood alone and faced his son. The dancing crowd fell quiet and hushed.
“Who is this warrior?” Thunor asked.
“This warrior is called Agnar.” Grell responded, a ritual.
“And what blood has he spilled?”
“The blood of our enemies. The black blood of Hell, the white blood of the Wolf and the red blood of the North. His own blood.”
“Is the blood good?”
“The blood is good.” Grell said.
“THE BLOOD IS GOOD.” Roared the gathered people of Marankur.
“Has he stood in the snow, has he broken bone, has he danced, has he sung in the flames?”
“All this and more.” Grell said.
“Who is his father?” Thunor said, dark eyes locked with Agnar.
“His…his…”Grell stopped, and looked to his chief for aid. Thunor said nothing, his face cold and hard with a lifetime of pride. A murmur of discomfort rippled through the crowd of gathered barbarians.
“Who is his father?” Thunor Sky-Breaker repeated.
Some men fight for love, and make each sword swipe a sonnet. Some men fight for honor, and lay out their attacks like a stonemason sets a foundation. Some men fight for gold, holding their strength back like shiny coins saved for market.
Northmen fight to kill.
[Little snippet I wrote today, that I was pleased with.]
spell-sword.com 