6 posts tagged “writing”

So it'll be a respin digitally (i.e. typing on my laptop).

The respin is based only on an image in my head and that's where I'm going to start.  All of the previous information and ideas are in my head, but there's going to be no reference to anything other than my mind.  Whether or not it works out, but at the very least I will have accomplished one thing: a complete first draft.

I grabbed this book to skim through the myriad of ramblings and musings to sort out how I want to go about the 'work' of a novel:

It's not a great book, but since I had just finished Stephen King's book (and it's a ridiculously easy read), I figured picking this up again would be good.  I think there are great parallels between the two.  Thus far:

1. Plot is not important.  Characters are, and they write their own story.
2. Writing is work.
3. Make time to write.  (This one I find a bit profound because I used to tell my students and friends who try to exercise (for health and military physical fitness reasons) and it's the same exact reason.  "If you make time for something, you'll find that you DO have time for it.  You just have to give it that time instead of excuses."
4. Be consistent in writing.  Same place, same time, every day.  That's the same very very good advice.

We'll see how it goes!

1. Secret Societies
2. 1984
3. Animal Farm
4. Cicero
5. Catch-22
6. Dumb Witness
7. Lord of the Flies
8. The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights
9. Ulysses
10. Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation
11. The Greatest Minds and Ideas of All Time
12. Girl With A Pearl Earring
13. Candide
14. For One More Day
15. Thomas Paine's Rights of Man
16. King Arthur
17. The War of Art
18. Cocoa Programming for Mac OS X
19. When You Are Engulfed In Flames
20. Five Little Pigs
21. Boudica
22. The Writer's Journey
23. A Cat Among Pigeons
24. The City of Falling Angels
25. The Hollow
26. Taken at the Flood
27. Devil May Care
28. Walden
29. Echo Maker by Richard Powers
30. Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie

31. Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie

Continuing string of Agatha Christie kick, these two books are very good.  The first, I thought, was predictable, and that's perhaps either because I've sorted out the formula or (most likely) that I've seen this story or character set before.  The latter had a lot of modern mystery suspense to it, and I'm sure it was the basis for at least one CSI episode....

32. Don't Know Much About Mythology by Kenneth C. Davis

I love mythology, especially Greek and Norse.  I still have the first mythology book I read in high school (I suppose I never gave it back to my English teacher when I should have...).  While not quite very deep, this book covers the breadth of mythology, from European to Asian, African and Australian.  There are a lot of holes in my knowledge, but I love the Jungian connections these mythologies have in common.  Well worth a read if you're into mythology.

33. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

I found this via a small post in 43 Folders while thinking about the upcoming NaNoWriMo starting this Saturday.  It's a great little book that shares Mr. King's early writing days, his thoughts on what you should know to be a writer, how to go about being a writer, and the accident he suffered to make him finish this book.  I've read a few such books off and on (most recently, the War of Art by Steven Pressfield) and I'm not surprised that it has similar themes: work hard, consistent, and often.  It really brings me to mind Edison's quote: "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."  How you go about the work doesn't matter (King does no more than 2 1/2 drafts; Kurt Vonnegut rewrites every page until it is perfect for him), just that you go about it with an end in mind.  That's my goal.  Not only to get to 50,000 words by Nov. 30th, but to get to a complete first draft by then.  It won't, by any means, be a good book.  Just a complete one.  But that's an upcoming post.

Wow, I might not make 50 books this year.  Damn.

Once upon a time I fancied myself a bit of a writer.  I think there was some sort of contest or some such for a fantasy writing involving all the different gods of a realm.  I happened to try my hand at a story relating to the goddess of pain.  It's long, and it's probably confusing, but I hope you get the angle from which it's written: that is, by a man trapped in a relationship he cannot escape with a driven woman.  At least that's what I thought I wrote, and there was a sort of love triangle in there, but this excerpt only shows the story after.  I think Matroi was the second lover, who's only hinted at.

Skip it if you're not into reading it.  I'm just posting it here because it's not going to go anywhere now.  It was just exercise.

Painmaiden Excerpt

    I walked away from Markis, furious.  I stumbled through the rubble of the obliterated east wall.  All around me, the army -her army- made the city pay in suffering and pain.  How could I have been so blind?  Was this her entire plan?  I was not sure if I was a part of it, or if I even cared to be.  More importantly, why did she leave me behind?
    The walk down Dolphin Street was as abysmal as my thoughts.  None of the Paingivers were present to keep their charges in check, and like overgrown barbarian children released from the North, the soldiers took what they could and destroyed what they could not take.  Was this really Taszia’s edict?  I had to know.
    Lost in thought, I slipped on something and fell, but when I looked down, I saw dark red smear.  I stood up quickly, before my eyes allowed me to follow it back to the source.  After a second step, I stopped, realizing my own denial.  What was I?  I was a mercenary, a man-at-arms who had seen killing and done my fair share of it.  But now in the midst of the sack of Saerloon I had become weak.  I turned to look at the dark pool, my mind fighting against itself with every inch.  Under an overturned cart, through the broken spokes, sat an overturned jar of wine.
    I laughed.  I laughed until it hurt, for I knew she had done something to me.  I stormed off towards the upper quarter, sure that the Paingivers would be there.  Somewhere far off a woman screamed.  Every few streets it would die away, but return anew and with another voice.  It was sometimes younger, sometimes a male, but it oftentimes ended with brutal finality.
    Shards of glass crunched under my feet as I found my way into the holy district.  Black smoke assaulted my eyes and burned my lungs, and the static of too much magic raised the hair on my neck.  In a way I could not believe she had given the order and Markis’ words rolled over and over in my head like some haunting melody.  ‘Burn it down.  I want them to suffer.  I want death.’  But that voice was smaller now that it had been.  Most of my conscious self could rationalize her desires.  A great gift to Loviatar, it was.  They were the same gifts of suffering and pain just as Taszia herself suffered on the streets of Saerloon.
    The smoke billowed black and thick about me, and my breath became so choked that I had to turn back.  I thought I caught a glimpse of a thin spire just before I turned.  With seared lungs, I staggered away from that district, seeking only fresh air.  Was that the Crying Needle?  It made me think, which was a good deal better than the pain of my lungs and the haunting of her words.

    I remembered one our first nights together, lying in a tangle of furs and sweat, when Taszia told me a little more about her life in Saerloon.  After a long and suffering illness, her father died on the streets, penniless.
    “I wish I could say that I was there when he died, but I wasn’t,” she confided.  “I was at Dolphin Street, begging for food, coin, or both.  When I came back to the alley where we lived, he was gone.  I found him dead on the steps of the Ilmater’s Crying Needle.  No tears were shed for my father, I can assure you of that.”
    “It must have been a struggle for you,” I said, playing with her silky mane.
    She pulled her hair away, and frowned at me.  “Well, I wasn’t born to a better life like you, Nellicene” she said, digging at my ego.  “And I wasn’t on the streets very long.  After a couple of days alone, I was taken by the Night Knives.”
    “I’ve heard of these Knives.  They’re the thieves’ guild in Saerloon.  So they took you in?”
    “Taken is the word, but I belonged to no one, really.  And without anyone to defend you, what can you do?  I had to submit.  Being an orphan means nothing to the Night Knives.”
    “Your childhood was short, then?”
    “No, it was terribly long.  I was regularly beaten, and it wasn’t much worse than what else could have happened to me.  I learned more in a few years than a scholar could spend all his life learning.”
    We lay there for a long time.  Talking about the past always produces nostalgic pauses thick with emotion.  At the time, I thought I was trying to know of her, when I was really only trying to know her.  “Do you think about your childhood a lot, then?”
    “Often.  It’s Loviatar’s gift to me.”
    “What about the Night Knives?”
    “I think about them most of all,” she said, rolling over.  It was the first time I had heard her voice go cold up until Matroi left.  I knew I had found just the tip of the deepest dagger of her pain, and unfortunately for me, I was only managing to push it deeper into her heart.
    Not long after that moment, she left me before Matroi’s return.  I was awake for a long time, but my gentle blood could not imagine such a life.  In my ignorance, I put those thoughts away for another time, and let my warrior skills lead me to some much-needed sleep.
    I washed my blackened face and hands at a well far away from the burning temples.  My lungs ached, and I was strangely glad for it.  It kept me distracted from my own disturbing thoughts.  Pain was becoming a too much a friend to me.  It was a relationship I took up reluctantly.
There were shouts all around me now, and I knew the army would not be long near the east wall.  We had come on them so suddenly that I suspect the Council had little word on what was going on.  Instinctively, I looked to the sky for any messenger birds, although I was certain that Taszia’s viziers kept a more watchful eye.
    Drawing my sword, I buckled my shield on securely.  Even if the Paingivers had made it to the trade hall grounds, there was still a lot of fighting and a lot of people in this besieged city.  I hoped for their sake they stayed out of my way.  Ignoring the ragged pain in my lungs and eyes, I walked up towards the upper quarter.
    Plain mud and brick gave way to ornate stone and mortar as I walked.  Before my seared eyes, the city became older.  Eroded faces of some forgotten angels followed me as I walked upwards.  I came upon a cur, gnawing at something ragged and motionless in the street.  Gritting my teeth, I steeled my nerves as I walked closer.
    By the time I had saw the body of young Morgrim, I was already laughing.  His face was in curled rictus smile, having died with the memory of pain on those pretty lips.  I poked the dog lightly with my blade, and with a yelp it darted off in search of other things.  I picked up the Morgrim blade, confident that it would no longer be such a prized family heirloom to its namesake.  In return, I left him my old sword; trusty, but better used by dead men.  All I could think of was how disappointed Taszia would be that Morgrim was dead.  I, for one, was not.
    No, she would not cry for this one, I chuckled.
    I think Loviatar sensed my purpose as I strode through the rest of the city.  I was not there to provide pain or suffering.  I was there to kill or be killed.  So I met no one by the time I made it to the steps of the trade hall.  The pain in my lungs eased from the winding walk to the upper quarter, and I was feeling more and more ready to face Taszia with questions.
    Pale Donna met me at the doors, the blood on her lips as bright as her red eyes.  “There you are, Gavin,” she nodded, the white horsehair topknots bobbing.  She looked eager, and that feverish intensity flickered in her eyes had flushed her cheeks.
    “Where is she?”
    “Isn’t that Morgrim’s sword?”
    “He won’t be using it any more,” I raised it up, partly to show it to her, partly wondering how sharp the blade would cut.  Donna gazed at it for a long time.  Tsae, one of my Thrashers, rapped the butt of her spear on Donna’s foot.
    “The Chosen does as he pleases.  The blade pleased him.”
    “As I’m sure the pain of its loss was great for Morgrim,” Donna grunted.  Wreathed head to toe in chain and boiled leather, the spear did little but get her attention.  She stood a little straighter, though.
    “There was plenty of pain in his passing.  Where’s Taszia, or do I have to ask again?”
    With a smirk, Donna’s mouth went open for a retort.  Suddenly she was on the ground, blood dribbling from between her fingers as she held her nose.
    “She is undisciplined, sir.  I’ll teach her the way of Pain.  Mistress resides in the central chamber.  Shall I send for an escort?”  Tsae was fist unclenched and again grasped her spear.
    “Why would I need an escort?”  I idly felt the heft of my shield.
    “There is still fighting within.”
    “I ask again: why would I need an escort?”  Tsae only bowed in the way that she does.  I glanced down at the albino as I walked by.  She only looked up at me with that fiery gaze.  I could not tell if it was the joy of pain or lust, for to her it was the same.
    Once through the doors, I could tell there was still war within.  The shouts of men fighting and sounds of battle waging somewhere came to my ears.  These were merchant princes; they fought with the experience and tenacity it took to guard their coffers.  Little good it did them when they did not come to the east wall.  For them I had no pity.  They could have prevented this.
    Or could they?  I had to know.  Jemini greeted me at the broken doors to the central chamber.  The coin of Waukeen had been repeatedly marred with an axe.  His helmet was gone, and blood matted his blonde mane.  “Is she here, or fighting?”
    “She’s inside.  The fighting bored her.”
    I snorted.  “The fighting never bores her,” I said as walked past him, ducking under the doorway.  The air swirled with dusty motes, making even these dark halls glow with the warm sunlight.  I could hear voices at the end of the hall, but the bright streams of light kept me from seeing anything.  Taszia’s voice floated to my ears.  Spitting blood onto the scuffed marble, those words rolled inside my head like a death knell.  ‘Burn it down.  I want them to suffer.  I want death.’
    Past the last great shaft of sunlight, I saw Taszia.  She no longer wore her ceremonial plate.  Instead she wore a gossamer robe that revealed and hinted of many things.  I felt the blood coursing through my veins.  Clenching my teeth, I approached as casually as I could.  She sat on a raised dais, where the Mercantile Council once sat.  The table at which they governed had become the dais itself.  On both sides of her were Paingivers, as always.  Before her stood a couple of highborn men.  One thin man, whom I took to be one of the few councilmen left, was talking in vehement tones.  A blackguard of Bane was here as well, which perplexed me.
    “But Verchor, I do not care for your wealth, your monies, or your pleasures.  Don’t you see that now?”  Taszia smiled, as her fingers played with the lip of a chased goblet.
    “But Mistress, all the world thrives on wealth.  Those that have it, want more, and those that do not, seek it for themselves.”
    Taszia stood up, then.  “I’ll tell you what the world thrives on.  This world runs on emotion.  Hate, greed, suffering, love, passion, faith; it is all the same.  These basest of instincts we all have.  Some of us are swayed by other higher emotions.  Greed is a subject, not a master, Verchor.”
    “You will be gone, and it will be as you had never been,” Verchor said with triumphant finality.  “How will you run your army without funds?  How will you supply your troops without food?”
    “We will live off of your coffers for a time.  Then we shall feast upon the ashes of your grand city.”
    I sheathed my new sword rather noisily, then.  Taszia’s eyes alighted upon me, and as always, my yearning grew.  But I am stronger than these baser things, I tell you.
    “I’ve come from the east wall, Maiden,” I bowed my head.  With the grace of a queen, she waved her hand, and Paingivers came from the deep shadows.  I coughed and spat blood.
    “You look terrible, Gavin.  I like it,” she smiled.  Her eyes returned to the thin man.  “Tell me, Verchor, do you remember me?”
    “I have never before seen you in my life, cursed woman!” Verchor hissed.
    “Not so powerful now that I have taken everything from you.  Where are your Night Knives now?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Come now, we are in the company of those who know.  You are Grandi, Verchor.  I’ve known it since I was a little girl.”
    “That may be, but what do little girls know?  They play with dolls and dream of princes with valiant hearts.”
    “Little girls know when to talk and when to listen.  And listen I have, Verchor.  All the years your Knives kept me under their heel, to prolong my suffering.  I have learned, and I have you to thank for it.”  The blood in my veins turned to ice, as she used that voice, that cold hatred.  The dagger and the wound are both exposed.
    “Tell me who you are, that I may know my captor,” Verchor smiled.
    “We have been at this these last few hours,” Taszia said to me.  “He is very shrewd, as all good merchant princes are.  But he sees very little.”  Again she smiled and turned back to Verchor.  “You should have taken the time to listen yourself, Grandi.  My name is my own concern, for I will not have it whispered on the wings of deceit.  I tire of your rhetoric.  It is you who will go before me.  May you suffer in the loving pain of My Mother.”
    “You cannot do this!  I am the most powerful merchant in Saerloon!” Verchor cried.
    “You should have thought of that when I took your city from under your thin nose!”
Suddenly there was a flash of light and a blur of movement in front of me.   On instinct, the Morgrim was out, and one of the Verchor’s henchmen lost his head to it.  Verchor sagged in arms of the Painkillers that held him.  In a quick sweep, I disarmed the second one.
    “Taszia!” I cried, but she was still standing.  She bent down to pick up the dart that never made it to her.  The rogue I disarmed turned and ran.  I dropped my sword, bent down and drew my boot dagger.  With a solid throw, it struck him down.  He clutched a tapestry as he fell, the rending of the fabric mingled with his mortal cry.  I ran to see if he still lived.
    “Calm, my dear Gavin,” Taszia smiled, letting the Paingivers lower her down from her makeshift dais.  “A Grandi would never be without his Knives.”  She lifted the chin of Verchor’s slack face.  “Pity they took their own, but I was counting on that.  Burn the body,” she said.  The two Paingivers moved quickly.
    “There will be another Grandi, and more Knives,” the Blackguard said, a towering and grimfaced man.
    “No.  There will be no more Grandi, and no more Knives.”
    “While one man draws breath in Saerloon, the Knives will be,” he replied.
    “Then we shall ensure there is no Saerloon, Brom,” Taszia smiled. 
I retrieved my boot dagger, making sure the man was dead by cutting his throat.  “You see, I have my uses for those you see as unsuitable for duty.”  I retrieved the Morgrim.
    “Who’s this man?  You would do better with me, Taszia.”
    “A Painmaiden takes no man, especially one who thinks himself her better.  And he quickly killed when you did not.”  She raised her arms and her Paingivers lifted her upon the table.  Her bare feet alighted upon the dark glossy wood.
    I was really in no mood for her banter, and although the Blackguard could probably kill me, I was also past caring.  “Do you need me to kill him, too?” I said, testing the edge of my new blade.
    Taszia laughed, and I made a show of wiping off my new blade.  The Morgrim thrummed in my fingertips.  It was a remarkably well-balanced sword.  The Blackguard puffed up in anger, then he, too, laughed.  It sounded like the bark of a baby dragon (without the fire, of course).  Taszia eyed my sword as it slid into its new scabbard, and her laughter died.  I considered the man for some time.  He was taller than me, but had the features of a gentile.  His dusty hair was shorn closely to his scalp, and he grew a beard of similar length to hide his young features.  A few sapphires sparkled in his armor told me that this man was not without monies.
    “Brom, this is Gavin Nellicene.  Gavin, this is the grand Brom Eagenfell, a newly knighted blackguard of Bane.”
    Brom nodded in my direction.
“What brings you here, Brom?”  I asked.
    “Word had spread to my temple of a new Painmaiden.  I had to extend the greetings proffered by my order, and I had to see the only Painmaiden to be Chosen in a thousand years.”
    “Well, you’ve seen her, and I’m sure you’ve also delivered your message.  Why would the dark order of the Black Lord reach out to a Maiden of Pain?”
    Taszia’s eyes fairly glittered.  “I have sent word to his order, inviting him here.  He has brought a century of cavalrymen from Selgaunt to place at my command.  They were the vanguard of my attack this morning.”
    “Why would they be placed at your command, Taszia?  Everyone knows that Bane considers Loviatar a lesser goddess.”
    “Of course He does, Gavin.  But He also knows opportunity when He sees it.”
    “Well, I suggest you send his men to gather up the army.  With your Paingivers here, things are going mad at the east wall.”
    “In due time.  We’ll not be long in this place.  Brom, do leave us.”
    Brom bowed his head.  “I am yours to command, Maiden.  I will attend to my men, and see to it that the army does not glut itself too soon.”  Spinning on a metal heel, the black paladin walked smartly from the chamber.
    In a swish of gossamer, Taszia seated herself again.  After Brom was gone, her eyes alighted upon me again.  They were not happy.  “That is Morgrim’s sword.”
    “Yes, it is a very nice sword.  It feels good in my hands.”
    “Did you kill him?”
    “No, you fool-“ I bit back the rage welling within me.  She was more concerned over a pretty dead boy than my own welfare!  “I didn’t kill him.  I found his body on the way here.  Perhaps you should not have been so hasty to storm this place.”
    “I’ll do as I please, and it pleases me to mete out suffering to everyone here!”
    “This building isn’t even secure!  How many other darts or daggers wait for you in the dark?  The army hasn’t even touched this quarter, by Tymora’s luck!  There are still over forty thousand people in this city, Taszia, and it’s not wise-“
    “Suffering and pain do not pay homage to wisdom, Nellicene!”
    I bit my tongue, for my hand quivered to strike her.  I clenched my fist, as it trembled so.  She took up the goblet at her side, licked her lips, and leaned forward to watch me.  I knew what she wanted, but I would not give it to her.  I would not.  I knew she was acting as a child.  To keep my hand busy, I unfettered my shield and took it off.
    “What?  No reply, Gavin?”
    “Is it true?”  I threw the shield down onto the broken symbol of Waukeen.
    “What?”
    “I spoke to Markis.  He said you gave him the order to burn this city and kill everyone here.  Did you give the word?”
    “Of course I gave the word, silly man,” she peeked at me from her goblet as she took a drink.  “You know as well as I do that we do not have the strength to hold this city.  Selgaunt will muster her forces swiftly, but it will still take time.  By then, I mean to be gone from this place.
    “And I mean to make them suffer.  All of those who do not take up the whip, will be struck down by it.  I will give them that at least.”
    “Do you think destroying this city will ease your suffering?  So you were a thief here, once-“
    “I was more than a thief, Nellicene.  My father rot on these streets and no one cared.  I had nothing, and when the Night Knives took me, still no one cared.  And when they saw that I would exceed their expectations, they sold me into slavery.  Oh, no, I will never quench the burning hate I have for this place.  In fact, my luscious gentleman, I mean to have the fires of my suffering burn very brightly indeed.”
    I struck her hard.  The goblet clanged from the table, echoing from the gilt walls.  My hand was on my sword, but not one Paingiver moved.  I did not know it then, but upon reflection it was because they no longer saw me as a threat, especially not to her.  Never had I struck her before these men, and I expected severe punishment.  Instead I got laughter.
    Long and throaty, and something I had not heard since we were together in the Five Coins.  And my heart flipped over in my chest.  She wiped the blood from her lip while sweeping the hair from her angelic face.  “Oh my, that was grand, Gavin!  I never thought I would ever awaken you from your slumber!  Ho, ho, I was wrong!”
    I had to smile at that.  I rubbed my mailed hand, trying to conceal my pleasure.
    She stood, rubbing her neck.  “That was a mighty blow.  You nearly wrenched my head off!”
    “I was trying to knock you unconscious or knock sense into you.”
    “Well, you’ll need to try harder next time.”  Holding out her hand, I took it and helped her down the rudimentary dais.  Her voice was low and sultry in my ear.  “Come, let’s enjoy this time.  It will be a long time before we feel the comfort of a real bed.”
    Weak willed and exhausted in my attempt to defy her, I allowed my lustful passions take the better or me once again.  I had also learned a new thing of my Taszia.  She had been sold into slavery, and I could only imagine the pain and suffering that she had endured from that alone.  Against my conscience, which had become some poor shriveled thing, I conceded that her will was just.  Let this city burn, I agreed.
    The fires of the city looked like a rather large and cold fireplace from the windows of her chambers.  We stood on one of the many balconies overlooking the city.  I could no longer make out the Crying Needle through the black smoke.  I sat on the balcony itself, watching the city ablaze with bizarre interest.  The trade hall had been secured since sunset.  Taszia stood nearby, leaning on the balcony.
    I was still a little wary of her being in the open here, so the Morgrim rested unsheathed close to me.  I could feel the thrum of its magic through the marble.  I wondered idly why this blade did not aid Morgrim himself.  Bethshaba has her ways.
    “It will take a few days to turn this city to ash,” Taszia said.
    “It will take that long for other merchant cities to rally against us.  But our army will not move swiftly, and we will be caught.”
    “I do not mean to be taken so quickly,” Taszia smiled.  “They will gather council, and argue over whom should send what forces.  By then they we will be ready to move again.”
    “Like I said, an army moves slowly, especially now that we’ve glutted them with wealth and their passions have been slaked.”
    “My army is not yet so great that I cannot move them quickly.  Too great to move with my magic, but small enough to take to the sea.”
    “You mean to take Saerloon’s ships?”
    “Anything that will float will have a man on it.  I’ve had the docks secured as best I can.  We will have to assess how much of the army we can put to sea.”
    “It is not wise to split up the army, Taszia.  It is not so well organized yet.”
    “It will be easy to control those on ship, which is why I’ll be leaving them to you.”
    “You cannot be serious.”
    She looked at me with those dark eyes that only imagined that only I could read.  She had resigned me to a fate worse than death.
    “I have come back to you, as you have said.  Do not send me away now.”  I pretended to scratch my chest, but I was really trying to hide my shaking hand.  What was I becoming?
    “Who am I to trust with half of my army?  Brom?”
    “I told you, Brom will crush you as soon as he has the chance.”
    “Which is why I’m leaving him behind.”
    “Where?  Here?”  I was perplexed.
    “Yes,” she grinned at the look on my face.  I was somewhat glad that she chose not to have Brom with her.  If he was with me, I would make sure that he met some untimely end.  Heavy armor and the sea do not agree.  “I have offered the Banites a chance to have a solid foothold in Sembia.  If leave him behind, he will be a very big aid to the rebuilding of this city.  Banites are bloodthirsty, but they have strict rules on the way they attend their blood thirst.”  She turned around, leaning against the balcony.  I coughed uncomfortably.
    “You could have anyone in charge of your army.  Any of your Paingivers will do.  Tsae, for example-”
    “The Paingivers do as they are told.  They do not know strategy.  They do not know my will,” she looked over at me slyly.  “Theirs is only to provide Her gift to those I deem worthy. You, however….”
    “I do not even pretend to fathom you, Taszia.”
    Taszia, in the throes of her own thoughts, would have none of my pointless banter.  “Deny it if you must, but your Nellicene heritage will prove most useful.”
    “I’m no seaman.”
    “Yes, but you are highborn, and my army knows it.  They also know you have my ear, among other things,” she smiled again, moving close to me.  I turned to look out over the city.  I felt as if I were already gone from her sight.  She was not looking at me, but through me, to the possibilities of my usefulness.  This time, my passions warred with my conscience in reverse.  All this time I fought against being at her side.  Now I fought to not leave it.  “You will be my admiral, my king of the seas.”
    “Then swear to me one thing,” I looked back at her.
    “Ask, and if I may grant it, I will do so,” she said, her cool hand on my arm.
    “Swear that you will never let me leave your side again,” I asked.
    “When you return from the Bitch Queen’s realm, you will be at my side until the end of days,” she cooed. 
    I knew she had me then.  I gave up my freedom willingly to this woman, and became her slave.  Secretly, the tiny voice inside me was glad to leave her, but my passions flogged that voice into whispered echoes.

    We lived in a tiny little house when I was a kid.  It was my grandparents house, but we moved there after my grandfather passed away.  My grandmother moved into the trailer that was moved onto the one acre lot.  I knew every inch of that one acre lot, surrounded primarily by farmland and bordering an asphalt road that was superceded by a superhighway about a mile down.  Our road became Main Street when it hit the one stoplight in our town.
   I say it was pretty tiny because with nine kids (six boys three girls) we pretty much only had one room for the six boys, which meant one bed (that often slid off the rail mounts while playing trampoline).  The house only had three bedrooms, if you could call it that.  Two of them were in the attic, one for the parents and the other for the girls.  There was one bathroom and tub only.  For most of my life there were six kids, three girls and three boys close in age.  The last three came much later, while I was in my teens.  We had no air conditioning and there was an old propane heater that we used for shadow puppets in the winter.  Next to our window was a large ash tree near the corner of our house.  It straddled the fence between our yard and the field beyond.  At night the shadow of its leaves would dance on the black framed three by three window pane.  To my brother and I, it looked like an Indian Chief standing outside our window.  There he stood, night after night, looking in on us, wondering if we were going to come to the window.  Night after moonlit night the Chief was there.  He never talked and he always inched closer to the window.  Did he see us?  He knew we were there and he knew that we knew.  We could hear the rustle of his feathered headdress.  We were the children that stole his fireflies, brought them indoors to walk around, glowing on the ceiling of our room.  We were the children who laid on the porch roof at night, looking up at the stars while the radio played through the tiny upstairs window we just crawled through.  It was a game late at night to run blindly screaming around that corner of the house, like playing chicken.  Would the Chief catch us, or would he let us go?  The Chief always outwaited us, and sleep usually stole over our trembling minds, wrapped in the cocoon of blanket that no ghost was allowed penetrate.
  I haven't been to that house in over fifteen years, but if that ash tree is still there, and if I sit in that tiny room at night in summer, I know that he will come.  The Chief will walk in the moonlight and among the Cicadas, and he will creep to the window.  I know, because I can still see the shadow of that headdress.  I wonder if I will be afraid of him after all these years?  Did he still want to scalp me or just watch over me, like he always meant to do?

And you have a Mac, you should check out Scrivener.  I've been playing with it for a few days, and (although I like it) it outpaces MacJournal in a couple of areas.  I like being able to rearrange thoughts and re-order events, then see how they collide together.  Slick!

Been busy.  Not busy enough to skim through my list of regular bookmarks, but apparently busy enough not to jot a few notes down.  BUT, that's not to say things haven't been happening or I haven't been writing.  I haven't been writing here.

We saw Wicked on Broadway this weekend.

I highly recommend it.  It's a very well woven story that meshes well with the Wizard of Oz.  You'll be extremely impressed by it.  Go see!

On the way back from NYC, I chanced across a book I've been meaning to read for some time.   I've read The Iliad and the Odyssey already, so this is something that's been intriguing me for a while.  It's very good and hard to put down.  I'll probably finish it soon.  Pick it up if you get the chance.  You can borrow mine, if you like.

I've been working quite a bit on my thesis and ideas have been stirring again for my novel.  Taking notes on ideas is very important whether or not they come to fruition.  As Agatha Christie's Hercule Puerot remarked often 'I have a lot of little ideas'.  A lot of little ideas indeed.