"Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I'll tell you a story." ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

10 January 2012

a narrow escape

So, this is definitely not "later tonight" as promised...here, though, is finally the next installment of SoT.
**********
Early in the afternoon, Paodin was replacing some warped boards on the barn when he spotted Adair running up the hill. He pulled the heavy wagon behind him, bouncing its contents wildly.
               
“Paodin!” he yelled breathlessly as he reached the top of the hill. “Paodin!”
            
 Dropping the hammer and picking up his sword, Paodin ran to the boy. “What is it? Is someone following you?”
            
 “No,” the boy panted, “it’s not me. They- they-”
            
 “Take a breath, Adair. There’s no rush,” Paodin laughed, figuring Adair was overreacting to whatever he deemed the problem. Taking the handle of the wagon away from Adair, Paodin started walking toward the house.
            
 “No!” The boy reached out and grabbed Paodin’s arm, stopping him. “It’s you! They are looking for you in the city. Some man even told me to be careful because you would be dangerous. You have to leave. They were talkin’ about goin’ out to search people’s farms today and tomorrow, and they already don’t like me and Mum.”
            
 “Let’s go inside,” Paodin said, pulling the wagon along behind him, “and you can tell me more of what was said in Lurn.” Adair followed him in, still trying to catch his breath from running up the hill.
            
 “Is that you, Addie?” Brigitte called when she heard the door open.
            
 “Yes, Mum.”
            
 “Why, I must say that I am pleasantly surprised to have you home so early. Was the Tavern going to be serving liver and onions today?” she joked, drying her hands on her apron as she walked out of the kitchen. When Adair didn’t answer right away, Brigitte grew concerned. “What is wrong, son? Did something happen in at the market?” Dropping her apron, Brigitte held her hands out to her son, drawing him to her when he reached out and took her hand.
            
 “Mum, they are searching for Paodin,” he began.
            
 “Yes, Adair, I am aware of that. I suppose I should have told you last might that our guest is hiding from King Simann and his Guard, but I did not think---”
             
“No, that’s not it,” the boy interrupted. “I heard all that while he was tellin’ you.” Adair continued, either unconcerned or unaware that he had just admitted to eavesdropping. “Some farmer out to the north said he saw Paodin, and now the men in town are searching all the farms. Somebody even said they thought the King would reward them for bringing him the traitor.”
            
 Speaking for the first time since entering the cottage, Paodin questioned, “Adair, did anybody see you running home like you were running up the hill?” Moving toward where Brigitte stood, her arms around her son, Paodin knelt before the boy.
            
 Adair nodded and answered, “Yes, but I didn’t run until the smithy told me to watch out or the traitor might kill me on my way home.” As the boy spoke, all three heard the staccato of hoof beats galloping up the hill.
            
 Brigitte stood and quickly stepped toward the front door. “Master Paodin, move into the kitchen. If the men come to search the house you may be able to slip out the back. Adair, go out and begin unloading the wagon. Hurry now,” she said, shooing him out the door. Just as the boy stepped outside a rider appeared topping the hill. He rode straight to the front door and stopped without dismounting, pulling a second horse by its reins.
            
 “My lady,” the man said, pushing back the hood that shadowed his face, “there is no time to waste.”
            
 Brigitte tilted her head to the side as she tried to place the man’s voice, quickly coming up with his identity. “Jamis? Why have you come here?” As soon as she spoke the man’s name, Paodin hurried through the front room and stood beside Brigitte, sword in hand.
            
 “Please pardon my rudeness, Brigitte, but I have no time for pleasantries.” Then looking at Paodin he added, “You must leave here at once. Richard the smithy has gathered a search party and is headed up the hill this way.” Nodding, Paodin ran out to the barn to get rid of all signs of his presence and to tie up his pack.
            
 “Jamis,” Brigitte began, “how is it you knew Master Paodin had been a guest in my home?”
            
 The man hesitated before saying, “I’m afraid that is a conversation we do not have enough time for at the moment.” Knowing that answer would not satisfy her, Jamis added, “However, I promise you an answer once I have seen your guest safely on his way.” He nodded then spurred his horse quickly to the barn, arriving at the door just as Paodin stepped out. The younger man mounted the horse being led along, taking the reins from Jamis as he called out to Adair.
            
 “Shake out that blanket to remove the hay before you take it inside, Adair, and take good care of your mother. She is truly a remarkable woman.” Then riding close to the house in front of the door where she stood, Paodin added quietly, “Thank you for your kindness, Brigitte. Perhaps we will meet again under better circumstances, when the true heir has taken the throne.” With a swift kick, Paodin took off with Jamis and the two vanished into the woods.
            
 “Addie,” Brigitte called out, “bring that blanket inside. We don’t need it out in the barn when those men get here. Then I want you to come help me finish unloading the wagon.”
            
 “Yes, Mum,” the boy called back, hurrying to the barn. Then, seeing that his mother was searching for the wagon, he hollered, “It’s out next to the hitchin’ post.” 

Brigitte counted out six steps from the door to the post and then pulled out the fabric Adair had chosen at the market. It was heavier weight than she would have chosen for Addie’s summer shirts, but it didn’t matter. Since he had picked out the fabric on his own the boy would never complain. Smiling, she turned back to the house and had just stepped inside when she began to hear the voices of men approaching. She waited a few moments before calling out, “Adair, come inside! I don’t want you out here playing around while I try to carry in that big bag of cornmeal by myself. Hurry up now!” She closed the door behind her and took a few deep breaths as she waited for the men to arrive.
            
 Soon, Brigitte could hear the men outside talking to her son. Stepping outside, Brigitte called out, “If you have business here, sirs, it is with me, not my son,” then stood waiting, her hands on her hips.
            
 “Of course, woman!” one of them laughed, the man Brigitte assumed to be Richard, the leader. Without moving any closer to the house he yelled out, “We have orders to search your place, seeing as how you and your boy would be sympathetic to traitors,” he growled, then motioned for the men with him to spread out. When one of the men approached the door to search through the house, Brigitte did not budge. The man was forced to physically move the woman aside to get through the door.
            
 “While there is no question of my alliance,” Brigitte snarled back, “there has been no traitor in my home. Had I known such a man was in need of someplace to stay, however, I would have gladly given him shelter.”
            
 Richard laughed. “I see your temper flames up as red as your hair, woman,” he said, once again addressing her as one would a low-class woman instead of the customary title of “lady.” “And had you not already been put in your place I would be tempted to do so myself. As you are now, it’s not worth the time.” At his words Brigitte’s face turned red, but not from shame. Her fists and jaw clenched in anger.
            
 Though Adair did not understand all the man’s words insinuated, he could read the signs of her anger unmistakably. Quietly he took a few steps away from the man and picked up one of the smaller boards Paodin had been using to fix the barn. While the man spoke, saying something Adair didn’t understand about Brigitte’s virtue, the boy moved up behind him and swung the board with all his strength, connecting with the man’s lower back and cracking the board. The man moaned as he fell to his knees, one hand going to his back and the other catching himself so he didn’t fall forward.
            
 Standing over the man and still holding the board, Adair spoke through gritted teeth, “My Mum’s better than you’ll ever be!” As he spoke, the two men who had been searching the barn came running out. Seeing their ringleader on the ground, one snatched the board out of Adair’s hands as the other grabbed the boy tightly by both arms.
            
 “Let me go!” he yelled, struggling to get away from the man who held him.
            
 “Take your hands off my son,” Brigitte ordered, moving quickly toward the commotion. “I do not know what he did, but he was defending my honor. Turn him loose!” As she moved toward Adair, Brigitte ran into Richard, who was still hunched over on the ground. A tiny smirk spread across her lips when Brigitte realized her son had knocked the big man to his knees. Addressing the smithy she mocked, “What now? Are you going to teach the boy a lesson? I’m sure your friends will be terribly impressed to hear you won a fight with a child, especially one who was defending his blind mother.” At her words the man holding Adair let him go, and the boy quickly moved to his mother’s side. Brigitte laid a steady hand on his shoulder to calm the still raging boy.
            
 Slowly, and still clutching his back, Richard stood. “Get Thaddeus. The traitor is not here with this wench.” Turning, he slowly began to move toward the downhill path, his men soon following. Brigitte stood still as they left, waiting until she could no longer hear their footsteps. Then she silently hugged her son and the two walked inside together.

05 January 2012

i have to admit...

I have been doing absolutely nothing with my writing the past few days. Over the break I was writing a lot, even with the crashed computer and missing story. I started working on the background information and planning for my next story and I actually got quite a bit done. Since school has started back, though, I haven't even picked up a pen for anything other than class. It's slightly depressing, to be honest. I was told the other day that I seem to have a part of my soul missing when I don't get to write. At first I though that was crazy, but I'm starting to see the truth in it now--I'm desperate to start writing again. In the meantime, we got the dead computer back. More importantly, though, we got the information that was on the dead computer back. That means I once again have access to my story, so I'll post the next section tonight sometime. I also want to take a second to say thank you. I can only imagine the things you could be doing that are more important than reading the words I spill out here every once in a while. I really appreciate the couple of minutes you take out of your day to listen to what I have to say (very often about nothing!) It is really nice to see that people from all over the world are spending just a little of their time on me :~D

01 January 2012

happy 2012!

1 January 2012. Today is the first day of a brand new year. 2011 was full of changes for my little family, and I can only imagine what is in store for us for 2012. Since today is a day for resolutions, I'm going to make some writing resolutions. The first is a 100% finished date for SoT. That is 12:01 am, January 23rd. Why? Because I'm going to submit my story for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. They have two categories (General Fiction and Young Adult Fiction), and right now I'm trying to figure out which to submit to--Fantasy doesn't tend to do well in contests with General Fiction, but I would have to make some changes to get it to work as Young Adult Fiction. Mainly, I'm just wanting to use this contest as a deadline for myself so I'll finally put the finishing touches (haha! I imagine I'll edit this story in my mind for years to come!) on this story so I can feel comfortable moving on to the next one. That brings me to my second resolution, about my new story. This one is another idea I've had stewing in my mind for years now and it's quite a bit different from SoT. Still in the fantasy genre, but think more along the lines of elves and dwarves (though neither one appears in my story). So, for the resolution: I will finish the planning and start writing the actual story. That may not sound like much of a resolution, but after what basically amounts to a 6-year planning stage, believe me--it will be a challenge. A third resolution: I will submit SoT wherever I may have a chance of catching somebody's attention. I'm not going to be passive about this (though that is definitely my natural inclination) because the writing world isn't a place for timidity. If I want to get my writing out there for people to read, I can't just sit back and expect it to happen. It's time to actually pursue my dreams. So, there are personal resolutions to go along with these, but they are completely different and aren't going to make their way onto a blog. Trust me when I say, though, that 2012 is going to be a year of changes! Have a wonderful, adventure-filled 2012!

22 December 2011

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A TinyLetter Email Newsletter



So, just in case the sporadic postings on here aren't enough (haha), I've decided to try out this "TinyLetter" thing... maybe I'll be a bit more regular about it, like once a month.

Though I have no idea where this writing journey will take me, I am anxious to keep moving forward on the road I see before me. Most of the time I can't any more of the path than the little section on which I'm standing, but I'm learning to live with it. After all, as E.L. Doctorow said, “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

I'm definitely not moving fast enough on this journey to feel like I'm driving, so to me I guess it's more like walking with a flashlight. Well, maybe more like a candle...

13 December 2011

another baby step

So, I know it has been just about forever since I posted anything on here. Things are pretty crazy right now, it's true, but in all honestly I haven't been writing on here because I haven't really been doing anything with my writing lately. All that has changed recently, though.

I have found the next place I'm going to send my story, known here as DPG (Dream Publishing Group). This time, I am supposed to send a cover letter to introduce my story and myself, a 3-10 page (nice range there, huh?) synopsis that gives every major plot point in my story, and the first 3 chapters. According to the submission guidelines for DPG, every submission gets "reviewed by at least one member of the editorial staff." (I'm going to pretend, just for the sake of keeping my sanity, that that doesn't mean the intern who is assigned the slush pile for the day.)

I'm in the process of writing my synopsis and cover letter right now. The cover letter hasn't been started, but I've worked on the synopsis quite a bit. I typed up 3 pages a couple days ago. However, I then realized that I had somehow managed to write a 3 page synopsis that only covered the first page of my story. At that rate, my synopsis was going to turn into something close to 1,000 pages--for some reason, I don;t think it is supposed to work that way! How is it that I'm finding it more difficult to write about my story than to actually write the story?

Now time for a little brutal honesty (coincidentally, I would be more than happy to let someone read my story if I knew they would be totally, brutally honest with me, but I digress...). It is my dream to write. I've mentioned it before, but it bears repeating, partly for my own benefit. By that, I don't mean I want to be a famous author. I want to write because I can't not write. Of course I want someone to read my writing--it's no fun to tell a story if there's no one to tell it to. Despite this, though, most of the time I feel crazy for wanting this dream. It seems like one of those things most people grow out of, not a dream that keeps growing no matter how much I try to stifle it. I've always been a very logical person, someone who weighs the pros and cons of just about everything. I look at probability and statistics (though I really wasn't a fan of that class in college) and tend to shy away from doing things there's not a very high chance of succeeding at. If you look at the numbers, becoming a novel writer is definitely not something I would consider to have a high probability of success. My scientific, mathematical mind tells me it doesn't make sense to keep chasing this dream.

The deepest part of me, though, just won't let go of it.

for that reason, I'm going to keep writing. I'm going to finish this story and send it out to everyone I think might have an interest in a new, unproven writer. While I'm doing that, I'm going to write more. As crazy as it might be, I've got about 4 more stories floating around in my head right now. I'll write those and send them out, hoping someone out there wants to take a chance on me.

No matter what happens, I'll write because that's the desire of my heart.

07 July 2011

the (next) first step

So, yesterday marked the beginning of the next leg of this journey--I sent out my first query letter to an agent. Deciding on the right person took a while, but now my letter is waiting in his inbox. Or at least that's what I'm going to tell myself, because otherwise it means he read it already and decided he didn't want to read any more.

This may sound totally unreasonable, but writing that letter and choosing who to send it to has been so much harder than writing the story. Don't get me wrong; writing the story took me pretty darn close to six years, so it was by no means easy. However, that query letter was crazy hard! I never knew how difficult it would be to write a 200-word summary of the main theme of my 115,000-word story. Plus, you know how many reputable agents out there are interested in a new writer with no publications to her name and who decided to write a fantasy? Let's just say, not as many as I would like.

So, now my letter is out there. This is just the first agent I'm contacting. I'm being realistic and expecting to send this darn letter out to most likely a dozen more. My hope is that I'll catch the attention of that one person who is going to have faith in me, love my story, and be willing to take a chance on a physicist-writer.

01 July 2011

why I write

“This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else.” ~Annie Dillard

When I was younger, I wrote all the time. I was one of those journal girls, and I felt like I had to write something practically every night or I would burst (so, maybe I was a bit overly dramatic--guess that’s where Raiden gets it from, huh?). Besides journaling, though, I also wrote stories. I loved writing so much that I made that one of my IEP Goals in junior high, and Mrs. Blythe, my Advanced Studies teacher at Bonner, thankfully obliged me. I have no idea how many stories I started during my teen years, but I do know that getting 30 pages written on the same story seemed like a huge accomplishment. Kind of crazy to think that I’ve got a story sitting at 370 pages right now when I look back to those days, but I digress…

As I got older and closer to graduating, like always people started asking me what I planned on doing. When I got to college I went through multiple majors and finally graduated with a B.S. in Physics and a minor in Biology. The ever-present giggling teenage girl in me finds the “B.S.” title rather amusing, let me tell you, but that’s beside the point. This fall, I will start teaching 7-12th graders Biology and Earth Science, a job for which I am extremely grateful, but about which I also keep experiencing this other feeling that jumps back and forth from excitement to nervousness. Ten years after starting my senior year of high school, I will be back in a high school classroom.

I say all that to say this: when people started asking me what I wanted to do, what I wanted to be when I grew up, I think even back then I knew that what I truly wanted to do, what I still want to do, is write. That’s not to say that I don’t want to teach--part of my heart will always belong to education, no matter what else I may be doing. The scientific side of my brain is screaming at me right now, telling me to think logically (note: you have to hear Mr. Spock to get the full picture, but then I guess there wouldn‘t be any screaming from Spock). The odds of becoming a published writer are…well, lets just say it’s a very low probability. Why in the world would I want to write?

It’s not that I want to become a best-selling author, the next Stephen King or Dean Koontz. I would be lying if I said I don’t dream of something like that happening, but that’s definitely not what drives me to keep struggling to string words together in hope of getting the picture in my head down on paper. So, why do I write? I write because it is one thing I do that doesn’t ever feel wrong. I’m not saying the words don’t ever come out wrong, because that happens quite often. Maybe it’s the scientist side of me coming out--experimenting, trial-and-error, and a whole lot of guessing all play major roles in the writing process for me. What I mean is, when I start writing, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else. There may be a hundred other things that other people think I should be spending my time on, but that fades away.

I’ve read where some authors say that characters come to them and ask for their stories to be told. To be honest, that sounds a bit creepy to me! I mean, really--if that statement was made in everyday conversation (“I have people talking to me that nobody else can hear, and they want me to tell you about them”), would you or would you not feel the need to call for the men in white coats? I don’t hear the characters talking to me. Maybe a concept comes creeping out from the back of my brain, blurry and still mostly hidden. It isn’t until I actually start writing that the characters take shape and come to life for me. So, okay, maybe somebody should be calling the white coats to come for me, too…

I write because it is great to see the development of an imaginary world that no one else has ever seen. Just like I get lost when I read, I get lost when I’m writing, too. For a little while, the rest of the world fades into the background. Nothing can happen unless I let it happen. I guess a bit of the problem I have with wanting to control things comes into play here. At the same time, though, it can feel like I’m not in control at all when I write. Creativity is a strange thing, something that isn’t often encouraged in the math and science courses that have made up the past few years of my academic life. For that matter, it’s not something encouraged in education in general all that often any more, but that’s a different story.

I also write as a way to understand myself. Starting way back with the teenage journaling, I have been able to make sense of things much more when I see them on paper. That’s still the case, although it is a much different thing when I’m writing a story. When I write, I think part of me goes into the story. It may not be recognizable to other people, but I can see parts of myself in different characters--good and bad. Writing lets me pour part of myself out onto the page without worrying about what other people are going to think, because chances are that whoever reads my story won’t see what I see. I hope, though, that they will see something “real” in the characters I make, something they will recognize.

I’m a quote junkie, so besides the quote at the beginning of this mess that may or may not have made sense, here are a few quotes I’ve found in various places and from a mishmash of people that explain a little more about why I write.

“I have tried simply to write the best I can; sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.” ~Ernest Hemingway

“For the time of writing, I am nobody. Nobody at all. I am a conduit, nothing but a way for the story to come to the page. Oh, but I am terribly alive, then, too, though I say I am no one at all; my every sense is keen and quivering.” ~lee Smith

“The creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover will be yourself.” ~Alan Alda

“Life is a risk.” ~Diane Von Furstenberg

“To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human can fight, and never stop fighting.” ~e.e. cummings

“The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.” ~Walter Bagehot

Fair warning: I debated quite a while about putting this last one in here, and the reason will be obvious to those who know me. In the end, the quote won out, despite my hesitation ,just because it is completely true in my opinion: “Easy reading is damn hard writing.” ~Nathaniel Hawthorne


~mandy