Tag: Spell/Sword

The Book in My Head

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

I’m having a hard time expressing this thought cogently — so please read patiently while I wrestle with it.

[This is perhaps a good advisory for all of my writing.]

I’m reading The Last Policeman by Ben H. Winters. It’s a detective story with all the normal delicious trappings – but with an added bonus of being set in a pre-apocalyptic United States, six months before an extinction-level asteroid impacts the Earth.

Sounds awesome, well it is! But that’s not really what this post is about.

It’s got a well-drawn main character, a convincing mystery [although a bit boiler plate, I suspect purposefully] and some wonderful development of how human nature and the global society is affected by the oncoming near-certain death of the human race. It’s quite well done.

But it’s not great. Or at least it wasn’t until I decided it was. It’s a solid 3-star book, on the cusp of a 4-star…and then out of nowhere, I connected with it — I connected with the book that the author saw. Writing is about transmitting a signal, about the reader seeing what you see in your head.

When I’m writing, I often feel like I can see the book I want — it’s right there in the ether, locked inside the stone, etc. And I start chipping away, I type and type and do my best to catch it. On a good day, I stumble into the true bits, the perfect fragments of the signal — but if I’m honest, I have to admit that most of the time I’m only approximating. I’m using the skill that I have, imagery, form, structure, dialogue, tricks and moves blatantly stolen from better artists — but I can’t catch it all, I can’t catch the whole signal, the whole statue locked in the stone. I just have to pray that if I get close, if I stumble into enough of the true stuff, that the reader can see through the words, they can pick up the signal themselves. They can see the Book in My Head, the one that I’m not good enough to write. The book in your hands is just the closest sketch I can manage. There’s a little bit of prayer and luck involved, that the things already in your head will align just right and you’ll see what I see.

Which is a roundabout way to say, Ben Winters – I see the Book in your Head. And it is fucking great, and the further I read your Book in my Hand gets closer and closer. I love the idea of a man who only cares about being Murder Police, even in the face of total obliteration.

Okay, that was basically what I wanted to say.

From the Beginning of Time through the Storm Century

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

But of course I can tell the Story, what do you take me for? Do you not see the mark of Brightnail on my chest, do you not hear the song on my lips? Ach, pass me that flagon and I will say the words. We are all travellers, and it is good to return to the beginning when we can. And push those sugared figs a bit closer, my dear. Now, let me see, let me see — ah, yes, I have it — just as it has been spoken by the members of my order, just as old Prago told me when I was small.

Before Time, we do not speak.

But then the first minutes washed up on the shores of the dark ocean, and a story blinked its eyes and brushed sand out of its hair. We can hear its voice even now, we listen carefully to the quiet groan of the earth, the sky, the jangle of stars in the black belly of night. We tell the Story as it tells us.

At first there were only Two. Father Order and Mother Chaos found themselves here, on this simple globe. The Story does not know if they were born here or if they came from the dark ocean, but suffice it to say that in the first minutes they were here and it was a Beginning.

And they danced.

Mother Chaos would break and tear as fast as her dark hands could move and Father Order would build and mend just as quickly. Father Order would raise tumblr_mwq90d4TZF1sppixgo1_500great towers and shining bridges with his bright hands and Mother Chaos would laugh and shatter and bring them all tumbling down.

And for a time, it was enough.

But then the Two grew bored.

“It is so lonely here,” Mother said. ” So flat and empty. I grow weary of breaking the same towers day after day.”

“As I grow weary of building the same towers,” Father grumbled. “I’m guessing that you have a suggestion.”

Mother grinned “Yes, of course I do. Let’s play a game.”

“A game?” Father mused. “What kind of game?”

“A Game of Making! Together we can fill this world with all sorts of interesting things. We’ll take turns! It requires both of us to create, but we can take turns and see who makes the most interesting thing.”

Father Order scratched his nose and grinned. He was certain that Mother wanted to trick him in some way, but it was a grand idea nonetheless.  Chaos saw the excitement in his eyes and skipped in for a quick kiss before they began.

The Two joined their hands and began to make.  Order and Chaos met and the first living things drew breath. The first plants and the first insects, lichen and moss, fish and fowl, claw and talon, feather and hide. Father and Mother took great delight in the making, growing ever more inventive in their competition, endless variety in the nature of their creations. And in the heart of everything that lives an equal measure of Chaos and Order, the gift of the Creators.

And for a time, it was enough.

But then Father and Mother created People.

They had many shapes and sizes, many bends and ways — different races and faces and gazes, but still all the same, all People. One strange accident made them different than all the breathing things that had come before — or one careful trick that Mother Chaos had laid carefully across the long Time of Making, a tiny tip of the scales. Where before their children had shared equal measure of Order and Chaos – People had a little more of one, and a little less of the other. They gravitated ever so slightly towards rhythm or ruin — and since they were created last, they were the most intelligent, the most elaborate — perfect pieces for a new game.

Mother Chaos crowed with delight and Father Order frowned.

Father freed his hands and sighed. “I’m afraid this last batch is no good, they will be nothing but trouble.”

“No, they are perfect,” Mother insisted. “See, some of them are building away — they are your children, just as mine are blithely breaking and shattering. New dancers, new pieces for the game, they are wonderful.”

“Yes, some of them are quite industrious, and I’ve already been surprised at some of the things they’ve built,” Father sighed with regret. “But they must be destroyed. They are ever-changing and mercurial, see! Those over there have have fallen to you and are setting fire to the tall grass — and those over there have stopped breaking rocks and started building houses. What good are pieces that change sides? No, no – they must be destroyed.”

And Father Order raised his hand to end the People, and found Mother Chaos’ hand raised to thwart him. They locked eyes and the First Argument began.

A century of storms, tireless, ceaseless battle. The first People did their best to weather it and provide shelter to all of the other creations — though many of them were lost, obliterated by the tireless wrath of Mother and Father.

And thus our world would have remained, if not for one clever child and one stupid goat.

Ah, this is my favorite part. Drown my flagon again if you please, I don’t want to pause when I continue. Oh no! Can my plate of figs already be empty?

— Talespinner Marxo, Cleric of Seto, Idolobha

World Under Construction – Tone Poetry

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment
Artist Unknown
Artist Unknown

The secret roads of Night
the falling leaves of Autumn
the bright blade
shining in the dark.
Farewell to kith
and farewell to kin
we go forth into the Forest
hunting monsters
and singing strange songs
in the bower of Dawn.
We have no family
except each other
no story
except this one.
The fire burns in the night,
but is ashes come the morn.
Will you come and ride with us?
Will you come and die with us?
This is no time for heroes,
but the road calls all the same.
This is no time for heroes,
but we will remember your name.
— Swordkeep’s Song by Tyrol Limmermere
First Bard, Court of Pondegrance 1501

 

So.

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

Why haven’t you bought my book yet?

[Legit question — ‘never heard of it’ is perfectly acceptable, just trying to do some un-scientific polling. Drop a comment here or on any of my internet edifices.]

December Remember Dismember, So Soft and Tender

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Yeah, I don’t know either. It’s a title, a title to a blog post!

I am in Hell Week of our production of Romeo & Juliet, so my brain tachyons are being primarily targeted against that creative project’s deflector shield, but I’ve got some dribs and drabs. BULLETED LIST.

  • Editing on The Riddle Box is at a standstill until this weekend, but I’m still on target to get it hammered into a readable shape for my Beta Readers by,
    Buster Keaton
    Buster Keaton

    let’s say…. DECEMBER 15th!!!!

  • I’m not excited about the new Hobbit movie, and that makes me kind of sad.
  • Another writer online is attempting to sell on-demand short stories, poems…and even novels. As in made-to-order, you tell him what you want the story or book to be about, and he will write it for you. He’s even offering live slots to watch the writing happen on Google Drive. I just…have really mixed feelings about that. On one hand, I don’t begrudge any writer their path to supporting themselves with their craft — but on the other hand it seems just unnecessarily mercenary and disrespectful of our art? Writing as product, built as easily and quickly as a pre-fab house in a subdivision? Logically it’s no different than writing professionally for a magazine or newspaper, but something about it just grinds my gears a touch — mainly because, shouldn’t the best use of your skill be to make, you know, art? Maybe just the thought of some phantom observer watching me write just makes my skin crawl.
  • Sleepy Hollow is endlessly charming and they just hired Victor MF Garber to play Ichabod’s father. Reverent squee.
  • Almost Human is delightful and I will punch any that disagree, the adventures of Eomer and Sassbot 9000 are a must watch for me.
  • Agents of Shield continues to grow and shake off it’s wobbly plotting — except for Skye. Seriously, writer — time for a pow-wow, figure out what story you want to tell with this character. Using her as the constant ‘dumb-question’ Window Character or SHIELD-doubter is completely played out. A disservice to the actress, and to the world you are building.
  • I’m directing Oklahoma in the spring …I should probably do some prep-work for that and confirm my production staff.
  • DM Burnout Tour 2013 continues apace. My Pathfinder group seems to be enjoying the published adventure I’m running, but I haven’t even had time to prep that properly. Need to do my nerd diligence before we play again on the 16th.
  • I wish I had time to play video games.
  • And see my Beloved.
  • And the four-footers.
  • Shadeaux Bros. holiday album is in pre-production.
  • There is a bizarre attitude one must affect to keep moving forward while self-championing your art. This bizarre blend of cocksure arrogance and razor-sharp anxiety, slathered over with a chocolate shell of delusion. Mike Birbiglia has  a great bit about it.
  • Spell/Sword makes a great holiday gift!

The Riddle Box Beta Reader Worksheet

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

 

I’ve been working on a series of questions for my Beta Readers of The Riddle Box. The idea was for them to not read them until after they finish reading the draft, but I realized that if I carefully obscured the character names — and a few entire questions — it wouldn’t really matter if they read them beforehand — AND was sort of a backhanded way of revealing some of the things that all readers have to look forward to in the next book. Plus, I’m going out of town for the weekend, and felt guilty about my slow posting of late — and this is an easy cut-and-paste affair. This may be a huge mistake, but you can safely ignore the disclaimer at the top. OR CAN YOU? 

I also thought this might be an interesting ‘behind the scenes’ look at MY PROCESS. [Trumpets begins to blare.]

 

DO NOT LOOK AT THESE QUESTIONS UNTIL AFTER YOU HAVE FINISHED READING

 

The Riddle Box.

 

Seriously. Don’t do it.

 

These questions are chock-full of spoilers and things that could influence your first read for better or worse. I have some specific concerns about the book, and specific areas that I’m less than pleased with, that I want to make sure you mentally target as you give me feedback. I’m not expecting you to actually respond to these questions ‘in-line’ as if this were some sort of high school worksheet [unless you’re in to that], but please be thinking about them as you prepare your feedback in whatever form you prefer it to take.

 

1. Do you feel cheated by the solution to the mystery?

  • Did I break the rules of the ‘locked room’ mystery?

  • There are a series of murders, did the explanation for any seem thin, unconvincing, or illogical?

  • Which of the murders did you need more information about?

 

2. Did Jonas or Rime act in a way that seemed incongruous with their portrayal in Spell/Sword?

 

3. This book introduces more ‘world’ information than the previous, how did you react to it?

  • What, if anything, would you have liked to know more about?

 

4. Overall, The Riddle Box has much less action than the first book — or at least it’s nearly half-way thru before there’s a big fight scene. Did you notice the lack?

 

5. I introduced two ‘love interests’ for the leads in this book, [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]. What were your thoughts about Jonas’ and Rime’s reaction to these characters?

 

6. With regards to [REDACTED], I was playing around with the trope of the ‘Damsel in Distress’ — too heavy handed?

 

7. [REDACTED] is a  [OBFUSCATED] character. Were you aware of that? Should you have been aware of that? What thoughts do you have about his portrayal, in relation to sensitivity?

 

8. The entire novel takes place in one location, the Manor. Were you ever confused by the layout or description of the locale?

  • Did the passage of time seem reasonable and easy to follow?

 

9. The repeated conceit of the ‘flashback’ chapters, i.e. Who was [REDACTED]?  to reveal more information about the murder victims — how did you react to these chapters structurally? How do  you think they impacted the flow of the novel?

  • Did you have any individual issues with these interludes?

 

10. How did you react to the further revelations of Jonas’ past? Does it contradict anything established in the first book?

 

11. [KILLER]. Discuss.

  • Was [REDACTED] scary?

 

12. The denouement of the novel is a bit rushed. Do you feel any explanations were hurried or glossed over when you wanted more detail?

  • Does Rime need another beat where she processes [REDACTED]’s death?

  • Jonas doesn’t approach Rime with the knowledge that they are going to [REDACTED], is this a problem?

 

13. [ENTIRE QUESTION REDACTED]

 

14. [ENTIRE QUESTION REDACTED]

 

15. Jonas manages to subdue [REDACTED] twice via headbutt. Is this funny or lame?

 

16. The scene of [REDACTED] in the [REDACTED], did you find this scene effective?

 

17. Any other flaws in logic or plot?

 

18. What would you say the theme of The Riddle Box is?

  • How effectively was this conveyed?

 

19. Compared to the first book, how did this one measure up against your expectations?

  • If you have not read the first, how well does this novel operate as a stand-alone experience?

20. What do you expect to occur in the next novel? What would you like to see explored in the future?

 

Normal caveats. These are all questions about the rough draft, the novel can change massively between now and publishing.

Psychotherapy via Fiction

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

I don’t talk about myself much.

It’s part of why I’m a terrible blogger.

Or the BEST blogger.

Or the second-to-worst blogger. Or the knee-high-to-a-june-bug blogger.

Okay, there was a point. I think a lot of people use social media, their blogs, Tumblrs as a natural forum to discuss their experiences, their feelings, whatever dark gloom sits on their heart at any particular space-time juncture. And I envy them. I honestly envy them. Even as I find some of the salient details and naked emotion at play, I don’t know, embarrassing?

That’s the word, it just seems so vulnerable, so undefended. It makes me feel awkward, like watching a movie with an extremely mortifying social situation. My entire psyche is built around defense, guarded input, measured output. I’m built on an old Chevy chassis, the better to conceal the weird, quiet kid inside with flair and panache multifarious. I kind of built a new me through middle school and high school, and now I’m kind of stuck with some of the strange architecture. A lot of it has been broken, admittedly — through tragic events and the stubborn ministrations of my Beloved. But ultimately, I’m still running DOS, underneath all of the upgrades.  Control what people see of me, do not react, weave the perceptions of others into a better version of me. if you know my true-name, then you have power over me, my spells won’t work, my incantations will fail.

So, when others write in a little shining box, ‘I’m hurt. I’m upset. Here is the reason that I am hurt and upset.’ I recoil a little bit, not because I think less of them, but because I can’t fathom the risk they are taking. And I feel superior, because that’s the salve of the insecure. You don’t get the emotional rewards of understanding, comfort, community, sharing — but you can twist yourself into knots and feel superior about your strength, or your isolation, or your wise, wise ways.

I’ve learned in recent years to work past the knee-jerk. Where before I would keep my hurt between my teeth for as long as it took to fade, now I still bite down – – but then slowly let go to a trusted few. Well, some of the time.

Okay, very rarely, but some times.

Which is stupid, right? It’s like being hit with a cannonball, and buttoning your shirt over the wound. “I…I got it, I’ll just ride it out. ” Letting the metal cool and sear inside you, then carrying the weight and carrying the weight and carrying the weight. And since you don’t let anyone else help, your mind has to process the metal somehow.

So I write stories.

Well, it’s not quite that simple of a correlation. I don’t write because I have shit to deal with, it’s just a convenient place to launder my emotional drug-money.

And it’s not like I’m writing simple allegories. I don’t sit down and assign roles to my pain. As is no surprise to many, I’m not a ‘plotter’, I don’t really use outlines or character charts. My writing prep is generally opening  a document and typing. The story’s already out there, in the ether, in the stone, just got to tune the radio between my ears the right way, and I’ll get it.

My subconscious is my co-author. When I go back and edit, or read old stories, I’ll have little to no memory of writing certain details, or when exactly I made certain decisions. It’s like reading something a stranger wrote. And it’s not in the individual moments or scenes that I start to see the pattern, it’s in the long scope. Repeated characters and colors and things that I discover are baked into the bedrock of my fiction. Masked men, holes in the wall, precursors, music, fallen mentors, empty halls, shadows, love, and death.

I’m trying to say something. I’m trying to say something to myself.

And that’s what The Riddle Box is about.

Things that I’m afraid of, things that I believe in. The only way I can explore my interior is through slow interrogation of my sub-conscious. There are moments in the book that make my skin crawl. Because it’s very close to true. It’s very close to taking a risk. It’s very close to pulling out the cannonball. I’m sure most writers understand this, there are words that you carry, lines and bits of description, words that matter. You keep them inside your head, little touchstones of yourself, little puzzle pieces in your pocket until you find the right puzzle. I gave some of them away to the Riddle Box. I gave Rime my younger self’s words, I gave the man in the blue coat the words of vision, I gave the killer the words of the end. There are words I gave in the prologue that break my heart.

[No spoilers. Not even while I lay on the divan with my arm flung athwart my pale brow.]

I’m trying to say something. With this book, with the long journey of Rime and Jonas. I don’t know quite what it is, but as writer, or at least as a me…you point your fingers at the part that hurts and start typing. Maybe it will all make sense when I finish.

Or maybe it won’t. Ha, is this dramatic irony? I’ll bet my readers are fully aware of what I’m getting at, and none of them have thought to share.

This post will probably make more sense when anyone other than me has read Riddle Box.

So, now, even I’m confused. What was the point of this? This post? The vague feeling of unease left at the end of the road, when you can’t remember how many crows you saw, or how many trees with no leaves. Did I even travel, was I even there? Is this the same me that started typing?

I’m not 100% sure. Is this even the same dimension? We slip, you know. Often in our dreams, but not uncommonly between blinks or when we check around the corner.

This is weird.

I know.

But it’s an admission. An un-guarded output.

And it’s a start.

Buy my book.

Runeclock in a Nutshell

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

[This is the perfect single post to show how ridiculous and wonderful this narrative can be. I get to have a mysterious instructor dropping a sick line, a dream-sequence with a Shakespearean quote, and a Bear man cursing in a Scooby-Doo voice all in one post. Oh delight. Ain’t no better writing workshop then staying ahead of my Players. ]

 

Mark

“Five minutes? An hour, two? A day, a week, a year? None of these are truly enough to cover the breadth of the subject, but it helps me better tailor my lesson plan,” the dark-haired instructor said calmly.

EMBER

The three men spoke in turn, right to left.

Niel Quisaba
Niel Quisaba

“I am the Villain,” said the blindfolded man.

“I am a tale told by a fool,” said the Man in the Hat. “Signifying nothing.”

“My name is August Wood. Please, I don’t know where I am. Can you tell me where I am?” the final man in the white sash implored.

The Infirmary

The Man did not seem to react to Zephyr’s administrations, his eyes tightly shut. She surveyed the room with calm and noticed two things, which also became immediately apparent to the other cadets clustered in the room.

The lights on EMBER’s main console were blinking, and beginning to grow visibly dimmer.

The two young children, the two Marks were nowhere to be seen, neither was the time-controlling Green-Glass Node.

Bear-Lucht clapped his massive paws over his eyes and cursed, “RHOO RHIIIITTTTT.”

Spell/Sword joins Kindle Matchbook

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Sorry, I’ve been super quiet on the blog lately. Kefka isn’t going to defeat himself.

In the never-ending quest to get more copies of my book out there in the world, I’ve enrolled the book in Kindle’s new Matchbook service. This is where when you buy

Original Cover Art - Mike Groves/poopbird
Original Cover Art – Mike Groves/poopbird

the paperback copy, you can then get the Kindle version at a reduced rate. And because I am a benevolent and kind author/publisher I have made the Kindle version free when you purchase the paperback. This also means, if you’ve bought the Paperback version previously, you can login to Amazon and download the Kindle version for free RIGHT FREAKING NOW.

 

Amazon Kindle – Matchbook!

 

Click that link!

I still remain committed to the belief that people reading my books is FAR more important than people buying the book, so please don’t be shy. I’m also running another Free Download special of the book in November, if you have friends on the fence about giving the book a shot.