Joseph L. Selby

QUERY - BLACK MAGIC AND BARBECUE SAUCE

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 14:24:34 GMT

Attention humans

I am Cyrus the Conqueror. I am not Mr. Whiskers. I am not Kitty the Conqueror. And I am most asuredly not Wittle Whiskers the Wonkerer. If you must speak, address me as your majesty, as you should every cat whose presence you are fortunate enough to be in. It has come to my attention that one of your ilk had the good sense to include me in his manuscript. I will overlook the fact that he did not ask my permission. The quality is such that to execute him would be a waste of human talent, what little your species possesses.

The story does not focus on me, and I am thankful for it. It is unlikely a book could adequately capture the wondrous life a cat leads. No, this monkey scrawl focuses on one of your own, Cy Lekkas. He is extraordinary in comparison to the rest of you and not just because he buys me gormet cat food. He can speak to me in the majestic language of cats, not that gutter language you use. He can speak to other things as well, doors, stoves, ceilings, anything really. He is called a Speaker. His kind has been known to my people for millennia. They live forever, speak in tongues, and eat strange foods that fuel their powers.

They are still humans despite themselves, and monkeys will be monkeys. They play games, steal from one another, beat their chests, and fight. Really, if you hadn't shed so much of your fur, I don't know if I could tell you apart. It seems that Cy stole a pearl from another Speaker, Christian, who then sold the pearl to antoher Speaker, Seth, who discovered it a fraud. Seth demanded that Christian find Cy and retrieve the pearl, hence the fall of dominos that lead to action-packed fights, daring rescues, and an epic faceoff of immortals. I watched the whole thing from the top of my couch and was quite impressed.

The whole thing is 110,000 words. How a human assembled 110,000 coherent words, I do not know. But there it is. He calls it contemporary fantasy and titled it BLACK MAGIC AND BARBECUE SAUCE. His name is Joe Selby, and he has written coherent words before. Perhaps he is a genetic anomoly. His ten-minute play was produced in Sioux Falls, SD, as a finalist in the Kennedy Center ACTF. He wrote the role-playing rule book, Dangerous Denizens for Kenzer & Co. in 2003. And he wrote 33 role-playing adventuures for Kenzer & Co. and Wizards of the Coast. This will be his first commercial novel. I am told he also follows your blog. I do not see the appeal. Your inclusion of a dog marks it as an inferior endeavor. Perhaps if you were to feature a cat, you might garner some success. I may be willing to make an appearance if your tribute is worthy.

That is all.

Your benevolent feline overlord

Cyrus the Conqueror

Nobility

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 17:57:25 GMT

There was a pretty damn good post a few years back. It was a guest spot or link in either alanajoli or alg's journal. A woman who wrote historical romance and her frustration with how lazy people were in their education on nobility and social customs. An example she gave that has always stuck with me was the frequent error when a person introduces someone of higher rank to someone of lower rank. Introductions are always made to the person of the higher rank. "Your majesty, may I introduce to you Billy the scullion," etc.

The whole subject has a name that I unfortunately cannot remember and the woman had a link to a primer on the subject that I found invaluable. Anyone know the word for noble social strictures (which would greatly aid my Google searching) or remember the link I'm talking about?

Thanks.

Wanted: Chosen One, a list of saints

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:36:43 GMT

The mythology does not play a direct role in the story I'm telling, but it is still pervasive in the society, so comes up frequently. The gods are forgotten (I do not explain why) and most religious invocation deals with a wide variety of saints. This happens so often I've decided to create an appendix in the back to help clarify. Here is what I have so far:

Appendix: A Guide to Your Saints

Alize:

Ashima:

Cheyne:

Dachand:

Dinozio:

Jilisha:

Kishen:

Kenniff:

Leroch:

Michard:

Murta:

Shelba:

Sumad:

Distractions

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 18:04:39 GMT

My progress fell off last week with the effort I put into launching the Game Locus Network. I've fallen into a yo-yo routine as this week is so swamped, I don't know if I'll have time to release any GLN content at all. Not the best start. Add to that, I just bought Dragon Age: Origins and my desires are being pulled in every direction. Lately I've been writing on both Saturday and Sunday, but not this weekend. This weekend was DAO. I wrote on Sunday, a decent amount if not my best, and then came home and played again.

Thankfully, I can neither podcast nor play Dragon Age on the train, so I am still getting my writing done. I just have to fight the urge to catch the flu so I can stay home and play video games. :)

I went to update the word count on the About page and noticed that I've written 21,000 words since last it was updated. That makes me happy. :)

Single-Purpose Machines

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 13:33:08 GMT

With the announcement of Barnes & Noble's nook, I have finally jumped on the ereader bandwagon. I dislike the Kindle very much, more so, I dislike Amazon's DRM structure and machine limitations. Barnes & Noble has created a method that I myself was a proponent of at my former place of employment and is a middle finger to Amazon's medieval protection methods. Sure some people will be upset that they don't just send you a complete file, clinging to perceptions of ownership that are falling away in this new age, but piracy is a genuine threat that gets dismissed too flippantly. I've seen its ravaging effects on a book first hand. So good on ya, B&N.

Now, the general logic is that this is a passing trend. Single-purpose machines aren't worth their money. Multi-purpose machines are the future, which is why the iPod became the iPhone. Granted, I don't have an iPhone (and won't until it plays Flash--which will be never because Apple is stupid), but I have a Blackberry. I was so enthusiastic about nook that I downloaded B&N's ereader to my Blackberry (yes, you don't need to buy a nook, they have ereaders available for smart phones and computers that will play any of the ebooks they sell, ebooks from Google, PDFs, etc. I bought An Echo in the Bone, Diana Gabaldon's seventh book in her Outlander series. I didn't buy it in hardback because I have the mass paperbacks of the rest of the series and I don't want to break the series format (yes, I'm like that). I'd been checking it out from the library, but could only get the one-week, no renewal copy so I hadn't made a lot of progress.

So, what I've learned, is that I'm a single-function machine type of guy. I still use my 3rd generation iPod and I'll get an ereader with a larger screen than my Blackberry and I will be happy. Perhaps if my smart phone had a screen as large as an iPhone, but even then an ereader has a larger screen.

Two at Once

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 18:04:54 GMT

I should be focusing on the final revision for Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce. I received feedback from Peggy on the first five chapters of such worth that it has proved all the impetus I need to delay. Want: Chosen One has had a phenomenal start. I'm through chapter 9, have over 19,000 words, and am not slowing down. Every time I think I need to take a break or pause and reflect, I sit down and knock out 2500 words. I don't want to stop and lose all that momentum.

Also, and this is totally wrong of me, I wanted to work with the Nelson Agency. I know there are plenty of good authors out there, but none that do such a good job of selling themselves. I believe that NLA has the right ethos toward agenting, its relationship with authors and its relationship with publishers. Wanted: Chosen One is more mainstream, I think. It still has flawed characters, but not as abysmally depressed as Cy. Ironically, between the two, Wanted has the sadder ending, but I still think will be more widely accepted. It toys with generally accepted fantasy paradigms in a way that reminds me of some well established authors in the genre. And really, I have trouble figuring out what genre Black Magic falls into. Some agents would call it fantasy, some would call it literary fiction, others would call it commercial fiction. Wanted: Chosen One is most certainly fantasy without reservation. So, if my progress continues on such a heavy clip and I finish the manuscript by the beginning of November, perhaps I'll shop it out to NLA before returning to Black Magic.

That's a slippery slope, and one I'm keeping an eye on. Get a rejection and make excuses to work on something else. This isn't denial. I have a large list of agents at home to submit Black Magic to. This is opportunity. As long as Wanted: Chosen One continues to come so easily, I'll keep writing it.

Wanted: Chosen One, second excerpt

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 21:41:34 GMT

I don't know if I'll post another excerpt after this one. This is the first seven chapters and a good start. I'm a bit wiped. I've written 14,000 words in just a few days. Every time I wondered if I should just slow down and read some more, I just kept cranking it out. The story was coming too easily to stop. Now, however, I'm going to go home and sleep. I was podcasting until 2:30 last night and I'm totally wiped. I'm shocked that I managed so a high word count for today at all. So, here are chapters 4-7. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 4

Nashau willed with all his will for Podome to help him. He stirred, pulling his head from his hands. His face is flushed.
“It is my understanding,” Podome said, “that Baron Avid was a cruel and unforgiving man. How is it you were sacked and not sacrificed?”
A fair question and a hopeful sign the conversation was retreating to more civil ground. Nashau had asked himself that same question more than once. It wasn't until he encountered one of the baron's couriers delivering a message to West Bluefield's mayor that he received an answer.
“His son Dadam,” Nashau said. “He had too little patience and too much ambition. I am told by a reliable source that Baron Avid suspected his eldest of plotting against him and that the accident of my prophecy spared him the scandal of murdering his own son.”
Podome leaned back, rubbing his neck. “Nobility,” he said.
“I would not say I knew the baron well, but I attended him directly in court claims as to his temper are well founded.” The baronial court in Laketown was diminutive in comparison to the larger duchies, one would not presume so by Baron Avid's behavior. It was often joked that he had no need for royal couriers because King Lulloyd could hear the racket all the way in Brandarbra.
“And you thought to be so fortunate in the ducal court as well?” Podome asked. Nashau was slow to answer. He relived the arguments he had with himself, the frequent arguments he had with his sister, when he first devised his plan.
Nashau shook his head. “I had no plan to approach the duke directly. I hoped you might introduce me to Duchess Faywan.”
“The duchess?” Podome's eyebrows rose, restoring some of Nashau's masculinity misunderstanding the man's intent.
“She is Baron Avid's sister. I made her laugh when she visited the court in Laketown. I hoped she might remember me.”
Podome nodded his head. “I see where you were going. It might seem a suitable plot for one not acquainted with the ducal court. I can assure you, my friend, the duchess' fidelity is without reproach.” He rubbed his neck again and smiled that way men do when discussing women the way men do.
“Fidelity...” Nashau said, shocked. “No!” he finally took Podome's meaning. “I would never...Duchess Faywan is a widow bride.”
Podome's eyebrows rose higher. He must not have known that.
“The former duke, saints protect him, arranged Faywan marriage to his oldest son, Jepe. She was passed from brother to brother as each one died. Dagwhit is her seventh husband.” Podome seemed to know Duke Dagwhit's business so intimately, Nashau was shocked that he knew so little of the duchess. A six-time widow bride was still the talk of old women and new fiancées in East Bluefield.
“I...” Podome stammered. “I never knew that.” He looked uncomfortable. Nashau wanted to know what he wasn't saying, but necessity outweighed his curiosity.
“I believe that Faywan would lend me what aid she could if she learned Jepe was still alive,” Nashau said. He took a deep breath. Time to lay it on the line. “Do you think you could get me an audience with her?”
Podome sat silently. At one point, Nashau could not tell if he even breathed. He waited patiently, giving the man time to weigh his decision. Better to have a well-thought out opinion now than have second thoughts later.
Nashau hadn't noticed how large the room was. When he was pacing, it had felt insufferably constraining, but now that the two men sat on the floor with the weight of the future hanging above them, it seemed huge, inescapable. Nashau could not flee the room much less the city before that weight dropped down and crushed him. The burden of prophecy was upon him.
If one thought about it, a prophet was much like a Chosen One in that it was his obligation to find the C.O., questing until he was found and appointed. He had never thought of it that—
“No,” Podome said. “Duchess Faywan has made it clear to me in no uncertain terms that I am never welcome in her presence again.” That same look was on his face. Mothers were always hardest struck by the loss of their children. “Even if she would, Duke Dagwhit has declared any prophet—vizier, speculator, or flimflam—entering the palace is to be arrested on sight. That path is closed to you, Nashau.”
Podome stood up, grunting as various joints creaked and popped. The room grew smaller with his form taking up so much more space, bringing the weight above them that much closer. Nashau was certain that if he did not follow this vision to its conclusion, fate would crush him as it did all C.O.s that denied their destinies.
Nashau looked up at Podome. The man stared out the window, watching something—or nothing—across the street. “You attended the court when it traveled, did you not?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Not just in Hillsborough, but to the other duchies as well.”
“Yes.”
“You've been to Jarol and Brandarbra. And you were born and raised in Tinadian. You said so yourself.”
“Yes. What are you getting at?” Podome wrenched his attention from the window and glared at his seated colleague.
“It's you,” Nashau said. “I misread the symbols. I thought I had to approach the duke, but it was his prophet. You are the Pathfinder. You will lead the way to the Chosen One.” Nashau's face brightened. He rolled to his knees then hopped to his feet, brushing out his robes habitually. “You know the cities. I can describe the buildings I saw and you can lead me to my C.O.”
“Me? A Pathfinder?” Podome says incredulously. “Listen you, I want nothing to do with Dagwhit, Jepe, or Faywan. The Duchy d'Hillsborough is a prison to me and one I mean to survive. That won't happen if I go traipsing around the city with you looking for a dead man.”
“You must! This prophecy determines the fate of our profession. Would you deny your holy duty and invite a third Age of Reciprocity? The symbols have marked you.” Nashau stepped forward, pressing Podome back toward the wall and window. With the bed to the right and the writing desk to the left, he was effectively cornered.
“Don't try to bamboozle me,” Podome snapped back. “I was prophesying when you still thought women gave you koodies. I know the importance of the Pathfinder, and I know just how much of that role depends on the interpretation of the soothsayer.” Unable to move freely, Podome walked over the bed. Lice be damned. He had more than a few already.
“Follow your folly if you want,” he started to shout. “But leave me out of it.” He grabbed the door handle and made to leave.
“A white tower!” Nashau shouted back. “A white tower with a gold dome, shaped into a point at its top.” Podome froze. He shut the door and turned, refusing to let go the handle. “Do you know it?”
He nodded his head. “The North Star, holy tower of Saint Kishen, patron of architects.”
“Where is it?”
“Brandarbra. The northernmost tower of the royal palace.”
“It was in my vision,” Nashau said. “Jepe hides somewhere in Brandarbra. I need your help to find him, Pathfinder.”
Podome shook his head. “Jepe is dead. I cannot help you,” he said. “I attended his wake. I saw the body in the coffin.”
“Saint Jilisha tells me he is in Brandarbra. Have you ever denied her gift to you?”
“N...no. I have not.”
“Would you have me deny her then? Or would you come with me, ou of this city, out of this duchy, where Duke Dagwhit's arm does not reach.
“Dagwhit has very long arms,” Podome said dryly.
“Not longer than fate's. Pathfinder.”
A long silence as Podome's urge for self-preservation fought with his profession. He knew what it was to name a Pathfinder. He knew what ruin fell upon those that denied their roles in a prophecy, prophet, Pathfinder, or Chosen One. Would denying the latter spoil the former? Could he hope to survive both Duke Dagwhit and Saint Jilisha?
“Fine,” Podome finally said, his hand falling from the door handle. “I will accompany you. But I promise you, when our journey is complete, you will know as I do that Jepe d'Hillsborough is dead.”

Chapter 5

“I am alive!” Bastin shouted. He jumped up on the table, knocking over mugs and kicking aside plates, and threw up his arms in triumph. The guests at the Migrant Goose Alehouse cheered raucously. He lowered his arms, making to step down from the table, then thew them up again to even louder cheers.
Bastin's face glowed with the satisfaction of a performance well done. That glow infected everyone around him. It had always been so. Not unattractive by any means, Bastin spent his early years the pet of rich widows who craved his youth. Tall, with strong bones, good teeth, and firm muscles, he practically looked sculpted, his wavy brown hair imperturbable. His wanderlust kept him from becoming a wealthy widow's second husband and his mischievousness kept him from joining a military company. Acting was a gift Saint Leroch blessed him with, but his was not meant to be a life of poverty.
So he came to places like the Migrant Goose, and he killed himself for profit.
“You lie!” a voice peeled through the crowd. “Shenanigans! Shenanigans I say.” A brute of a man pushed his way from the bar past the over-crowded benches and their diners who had been willing to let Bastin knock aside their food, but less tolerant of this bellowing stranger.
A number of men stood, attempting to shout the man down, but he was larger than two of them put together. His neck was lost to the mass of shoulder muscles that bulged from beneath his shirt, a shirt that had no sleeves for they never would have contained his arms, the biceps of which looked like barrows of earth and stone rather than a man's flesh.
A few shoves and his roadblock was cleared. He stood beneath Bastin and pointed an accusatory finger.
“Shenanigans!” he hollered. “Flimflam!” The room fell quiet, all eyes followed the two men. For all his sculpted beauty, one solid blow from this rock of a man would most likely crack Bastin's head.
“Shenanigans my good man?” Bastin exaggerated shocked for all those in the back. “You would me! I would never come to such a distinguished house as the Migrant Goose intent on shenanigans. Mayhap Brown's across the street, but never the Migrant Goose.”
The audience cheered. Mugs pounded on tables in approval, spilling their contents in the process. The alewives passed along the benches, pouring beer with one hand and collecting pennies with the other.
“No man can kill himself and bring himself back to life. You wagered you could come back to life. You're a cheat.” The hulk looks at the bench in front of him, wanting to step up onto the table. As it was, he was accusing Bastin's crotch. But none of the men in front of him made room and he was not so agile to jump over them without collapsing the entire table in the process. He resolved to make his case from the floor, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest.
Bastin had to force his face to remain neutral. The man must be a farmer. The man must be a farmer's plow horse. He could crack walnuts with his chest, Bastin would wager (and would win that bet one way or the other).
“A learned man, I see,” Bastin shouted, bowing to his accuser. “You study history and medicine and theology. Long have I traveled in hopes of finding one as great as you to match wits with. No surprise, says I, that I would find you in the Migrant Goose.” Bastin turned in a circle, pointing at the man and stomping his foot emphatically.
“What?” the man said so quietly that it was lost beneath the din of the crowd.
“I too have studied history and medicine and philosophy. As much as you? We will just have to see.” Bastin pointed at the ceiling, signaling the beginning of, “A CONTEST!” he shouted. The alehouse erupted in cheers and the alewives made another pass along the benches. The farmer looked around him, confused. Everyone seemed to know what was happening except him.
Bastin levered his arms, drawing the room to as much quiet as was possible in a place like that. “You claim that a man cannot kill himself and bring himself back to life, correct?”
“You bet I do,” the farmer shouted, clinging onto something he recognized.
“A bet you say? A bet accepted, says I.” Bastin clapped his hands and stomped his foot, punctuating the bargain. “I say to you that you are correct that a man cannot kill himself and bring himself back to life, but rebut that you have not fully considered woman.”
“Woman? What are you talking about?” the farmer asked. A number of people around him offered similar inquisitive looks.
“Who is the patron saint of medicine?” Bastin asked.
“Uhhhh...” the farmer said.
“Jeluc!” someone shouted. “Challion!” came another. “No Ashima!” a third.
“Saint Ashima indeed, sir. I pious man amidst us humble drunkards. Pray for our souls for Saint Michard is greedy and likes company when he pours his vintage. And for all the divinity of his blessed grape, it is a woman's bosom men crave when they drink where Michard has little and Ashima has plenty.”
The taproom erupted. The farmer covered his ears the racket was so loud. Bastin dances in circles, catching in his hat pennies and the occasional stirling thrown his way. His feet were nimble, tiptoeing up and down the length of the table without tipping a single plate or mug. The patrons were doing a fine enough job spilling those on their own.
Once the racket died away, Bastin continued. “I mention Saint Ashima, you see, for she is the patroness of medicine.”
“I knew that,” the farmer shouted defensively.
“I know you did. I never doubted. But you see Saint Ashima's father was a doctor, her mother an apothecary in the Age of Reciprocity where there were no prophets and plague was common.
“And so it was that Saint Dachand, patron of corruption, came to her village and stole from Ashima her father and her mother. Without its great doctor and his herbalist wife, the village was damned to
Dachand's depredation.”
Bastin bent over and wiggled his fingers menacingly. The tavern said, “Oooooooo” on cue, the sign being used regularly in wagon theatre.
“Ashima mustered all her knowledge and all her courage and all her conviction and she mixed herself a draught. She poured the brew into a glass vial. It steamed and bubbled though it was not hot. It was quite cool to the touch. The grave is always cold against a good person's skin.”
The taproom was enraptured with the story. The few Alewives that were not equally ensorcelled by the story gave Bastin dirty looks. No one was drinking. Even the farm stood trance-like, watching the drama play out. His mouth hung open, and he blinked frequently.
“She walked to the village square where the sick had been laid out on pallets. Those still well tended their family and neighbors, waiting until the corruption took them as well. She thanked them for their service and laid hands on those that needed comfort. And there among her people she tipped back her vile brew, swallowed once, and died.”
An audible gasp crossed the room. The farmer looked over his shoulders, spooked, like a squirrel that hears a branch crack nearby.
“Saint Dachand would have to wait to take her as a prize. The newly dead rest in a state of grace and until that grace passes on to heaven, corruption has no hold there. Dachand was forced to stand at a distance and howl at his loss for Ashima was very comely.” Bastin made an hourglass shape with his hands and a few patrons hooted and whistled. Most just waited for the story to continue.
“There is no patron saint of death, as the esteemed farmer can tell you. No, life and death are the purview of the gods, forgotten though they may be. And then it happened!” Bastin clapped his hands sharply and those seated closest to him jumped back.
“Ascendancy!” Bastin raised his arms and shook his hands, the theatrical sign for miracle. The crowd raised its collective arms and did likewise.
“The little girl with the draught of death woke, a risen saint. Saint Ashima, Andaria's first physician. Doctors we had many, but she brought with her the miracle of physic, the knowledge to fight Dachand, cure his corruption, and restore health and wellbeing to the weary.”
Cheers from all around.
“Do you see, friend farmer, how you have lost this wager” Bastin looked down at the farmer. The farmer looked back up at him and blinked.
“Huh?”
Saints alive, the man really was a plow horse.
“Saint Ashima killed herself then brought herself back to life.”
“But she's a woman,” the farmer protested.
“She's a fine woman,” Bastin agreed. “And a woman is different than a man, you say, because she is gentle and beautiful.”
“She ain't got no cock!” the farmer thundered.
“A cock you say?” Bastin gave his overly-shocked expression again. “The little worm between our legs is the measure of a man? Perhaps your studies have not led you back far enough. Before the gods were forgotten and the saints ascended, man was brought forth from the other creatures of the world. We shed our fur and walked upright, but were quick to die for we had no children. It was the gods you see, that found these furless animals so intriguing that they struck us in two, making man and woman, neither complete without the other. Try as you might to push your worm into a sheep or a goat, you will not know wholeness until your worm finds its way back to its beginning. When you join with a woman you are whole and your body remembers what it is to be one.
“So you see, farmer friend, that man and woman are just two halves. Cut an apple in two, does one half stop being an apple? Nor is it with woman than they are not cut from the same flesh cloth as a man.” Bastin knelt slowly; a copper penny appeared between his thumb and index finger with a flick of his wrist. He turned it, showing one side then the other. “Man, woman, we are the same. And if Saint Ashima can kill herself and bring herself back to life, then man can do so and there are no shenanigans here, only her divine miracle.”
Bastin bowed his head and the taproom exploded with applause. Farmer's shoulders scrunched up to his ears and what little neck he had disappeared completely. He gnashed his jaw, trying to find some argument he could make. The man spoke so quickly and everyone seemed to agree with him.
“You ain't no saint,” the farmer shouted over the uproar.
Bastin leaned over the men on the bench so he could speak directly to the farmer's ear. “No, but I am a sinner, and the difference between the two is less than you think.”
Farmer roars and lunges for Bastin. The man on the benches in front and behind him surge out of their seats and grab him and pull him away. One could beat on a man for cheating, but not for winning. There were no sore losers in the Migrant Goose. Maybe in Brown's, but this was a finer establishment.
Bastin paid the farmer no more attention, but walked up and down the benches hat in hand, collecting coin and congratulations as he went.
He was a beautiful man, attractive to most, but never was he more radiant than amidst the applause of a performance. He smiled broadly and laughed jovially. He was alive.

Chapter 6

Bastin sat on an overturned milk pail in the alley behind the Migrant Goose. His cloth hat sagged in the middle, heavy with a job well done. He picked through it, pulling out the tin bits skimmers tossed in instead of money. He'd keep them too. Everything had a use if one was clever enough. More than once he'd answered a demand for coin with the jingle of a purse full of tin.
He wanted to pocket the silver, too, before Legha came asking for her cut. The crowd had been particularly generous. He counted four stirlings amidst the pile of copper pennies. He took three and slid them through a narrow slot in the heel of his wooden shoes. No one would notice it unless they knew where to look. And unlike leather shoes, he never had to worry about the soles coming apart in wooden shoes.
Of course, he had to buy new shoes every time he wanted access to his bank, but usually by then he needed new shoes anyway.
He left the fourth stirling in the hat. It was Legha's, he knew. She always through one in to keep him honest. She never said so, but he saw her drop it in when she thought his attention elsewhere.
Legha demanded a fair ten percent cut from all professionals, twenty percent for the novices who hadn't mastered the magic of making money appear from closed purses. Bastin once met an actor who had performed at the Goose once. Only once. He would never return. He hadn't lucked into any stirling, but someone had been generous enough to chip in a pearl earing. Ten percent of that would have cleaned him out of pennies, a treasure indeed, but one he could not sell. He was a foreigner with all the wrong connections. He knicked it before Legha came out, hoping she'd take her cut from the pennies.
And there she came walking out the pearl earring's twin dangling from her ear. The actor insisted that it must have dropped on the floor during one of his pratfalls—man shouldn't have been holding onto his money in the first place if he was going to give them the tumbles, but that's neither here nor there. Legha turned the man inside out until she found her earring and took his pennies too.
Bastin chuckled to himself. He hadn't noticed the back door open or the bear of a woman that walked through it. Helga came from farm stock, one of a long line of mothers that bred a dozen children at the minimum. Broad shoulders, wide hips, and a mass of solid flesh in between. It was her string bean husband that had brought her to the city and opened this alehouse. She had the running of it. He spent all his time in the basement, working on his various brews. Legha preferred it that way. She liked being in charge.
“You gave them a show today, Bastin.” Legha's gray hair was tied back in a bun, but blonde wisps, remnants of her youth, floated loosely in the afternoon breeze.
“And they gave in return,” he said, jingling his hat. “The guests of the Goose are always a cut above. You should be please.”
“It will be better soon,” she said. She walked to the building across the alley and rubbed her hand across the stone. “My oldest, I married her off to a mason.”
“Congratulations,” Bastin said obligatorily.
“Not just a mason, an architect.” The pride was clear in her voice and she had every right to be so. Bastin smiled more genuinely this time. An architect would give her a good life.
“We are going to buy this pit of a building and my new son will renovate it. We are going to expand. There will be a walkway, here,” she pointed at an invisible path in the alley. “Stairs there. We've already leveled off the roof so we can put tables and chairs and people can dine outside. There will be doors between the two kitchens, there and there. Jara and Sama, my second and third—you remember?—they will run the kitchens. The middle girls for alewives and the youngest for scullions.”
“The Goose will be the largest establishment in the city,” Bastin said.
“In the kingdom,” Legha corrected. “And not just the largest, the finest. Not just sailors and merchants, but the aristocracy, guild men and professionals. I will feed the king before I die.” She wasn't looking at Bastin or the imaginary lines she had been drawing between the two buildings. Legha had moved on to the grand banquet she and her daughters would prepare for King Lulloyd.
Without warning, Legha stepped forward and picked Bastin from his pail like a frog snatches a fly. She carried him to the wall and mashed her lips against his. His feet dangled a foot above the ground, the girth of her body and the solidity of the wall suspending him in the air. Her tongue pushed his lips open and her hand searched for the knot in his belt.
“You were amazing today,” she breathed. “I have never seen you so. I have never seen anyone so. I must have you.”
Bastin was flattered and a bit aroused, but more scared for his safety than anything. Either he would be crushed against the wall, or it would give way and Legha would fall on top of him. He would be crushed either way. Then there was the matter of his working relationship. He enjoyed his days at the Goose but though she ran it, Legha's husband owned it and a word from him would prevent Bastin from performing there again. It was already one of the few quality establishments left in Brandarbra that would allow non-actors to perform for pay.
“Legha, my love, your husband...” Bastin squealed.
“He can have you after,” she said, biting his neck and tousling his hair. “For now you are mine. Give me a son.”
It was not uncommon for women to ravish Bastin. He found it erotic, and ironic given the mountain of poetry that had the man always ravishing the woman. And there was something about large women. They had a passion for life the small ones seemed to shun. She might have had him, but...children! Children were a bucket of cold water that lived forever.
Bastin renewed his struggle and wiggled his way out of her arms, squirting out from beneath her stomach like...a newborn child.
He shuddered.
“Legha my dear,” Bastin held up his hands defensively, taking slow steps backward. She advanced on him, implacable. “I respect your husband too much to dishonor him in such a way.”
Legha squinted like she tasted something sour, and tossed her hand over her shoulder though she lacked a pinch of salt.
“He would thank you, pretty boy,” she said. Bastin stopped and stood upright. The tone in her voice wasn't what he was expecting. He expected her to try and cajole him, but there was a note of...pleading there that wasn't the sound of a sex-deprived wife—and really, with that many children, how could she be sex-deprived—but one with dwindling hope.
“We have no sons,” she said and looked at him as if he should understand what she was saying. Bastin shook his head. “My husband is a good man. He has given me thirteen beautiful daughters, a dry roof over my head, and his eternal love. But he cannot give me a son.”
“Sons are overrated...” he tried to counter, but she gave him that sour look again.
“We cannot leave this place to the girls, don't you see?” Bastin caught his jaw from falling open. Never had he seen Legha so...soft, so human. She was the rock on which the Migrant Goose was built. “If something happened to my husband, an fire in the still or an accident in the road, we would lose...” she waved her hand at the alehouse beside her. “It would go to my good-for-nothing brother-in-law. That moron can't manage a donkey team in Springfield much less the best alehouse in Brandarbra.”
Bastin felt for her, saw the anguish in her eyes, heard it in her voice. But...but...
He shook his hat, jingling the coins within. “We should count your cut.” He took another step back and held up the hat between them, one barrier he knew she would not cast aside.
Legha stared at it for a few moments, working up her resolve. Business was at hand and she managed the business. DampXxx the fire in her blood and get to cold currency.
She nodded and held out her hand. She felt the heft of the hat and nodded approvingly. A good performance indeed. She pulled the cloth apart and pushed the center up with a fist, sprinkling the coins down to the hat's sides in every direction, giving her a good view of the various coins within.
“Only one stirling?” she said. “I thought for certain I saw more thrown in.” She looked at him with a blank face. Bastin smiled. He would never play poker against that woman. At least not with any expectation of winning.
He held up his left hand and showed her the tin bits he had pulled out earlier.
“I thought so too, but no luck. A bunch of tin and only one stirling.” He pulled out his prize. “And look at this. My heart stopped, I thought someone threw in a karat but the little bugger took a tin bit and colored it yellow.” He laughed, but the mood did not lighten. He held it out to her. She looked at it, but it did not reach to inspect it. Bastin worried she was about to offer him her cut to sleep with her, a persuasive proposition if not measured against the obligation of paternity.
“Only one stirling,” she said again. Not what he expected.
“Yes.” He kept his right foot flat on the ground. He didn't need any jingling right now, not that his hollow heel had ever jingled before, but why invite Saint Alize's divine humor.
“I chipped in two stirlings, Bastin,” Legha said.
His heart stopped. The rest of his body followed. All she need do was push him and yell timber.
“So...,” he said slowly, “here or should we go to your bedroom?”

Chapter 7

It became clear during the course of their joining that Legha and her husband had devised the plan together, measuring all the vagabonds they let perform on their tables for intelligence, beauty, and certainty that they would not trade the value of the Migrant Goose and the coin they could make to keep quiet for the obligation of fatherhood. Bastin had been the best candidate. A backhanded compliment, but a compliment nonetheless.
He was pleased that they were not only okay with but expectant that the child should never know the truth of his paternity.
Even with a woman as fertile as Legha, there was the chance that a son would not be conceived immediately. She took him for the rest of the day and that evening. It was shocking, terrifying, horrifying, exhilarating, thrilling, amazing. After the first few times, Bastin found he was very enthusiastic to the activity and gave it his level best until Legha said she was satisfied.
Bastin was thankful that her husband never appeared. His enthusiasm might have flagged a little at that. Not that he hadn't been with married women before, but she was different. He liked her, as a peer. She flimflammed the flimflam man. Not many people, man or woman, could do that.
When their tryst concluded, she wasted no words on romantic sentiments or false promises. “That was my cut,” was all she said then got dressed. He did not argue, no false modesty, no false chivalry. He pocketed all the copper and the fourth stirling and found his own clothes.
Watching his bare ass as he dug under the bed for his pants, she returned to the Legha Bastin was used to. She sighed happily, smiled, and slapped him on the ass.
“I have one question,” she said. “You made a good show of the farmer, but I heard you twist him into a wager. It's not like you to leave without collecting, even from one as large as that bull.”
Bastin sat up, giving his pants a firm tug. The stuck pant leg popped free, and he fell backward. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small goatskin purse.
“You know, with all the...excitement, I almost forgot.” He opened it and looked inside like a curious cat.
“The farmer's purse?” Legha asked. He nodded, and she laughed. Her laugh was as large as her body, and just as jolly. Saints preserve him, could he ever be with a small woman again?
“I'll be damned,” Bastin said.
“What is it?”
He reached inside the purse and pulled out a small, perfectly minted coin. The bedroom, small in comparison to the woman that lived within, was lit by a single candle, but that was more than enough light to make the gold shine.
“He had a karat?” she asked, shocked.
“Where the hell did a farmer get that kind of money?” he asked the question they both thought. If he had a blessed crop and worked his people and animals into the ground, a farmer could turn a karat or two, but his home would be ruined after. Seed, supplies, and field hands would cut those karats to a more respectable handful of stirlings.
It hit him like a hammer.
“Legha?”
“Mmm?” she watched the coin, not blinking. If she blinked, the illusion might end. The Goose was a profitable alehouse, but she and her husband reinvested their money. They made less than farmers in actual coin.
“Has the farmer come in before?”
“No,” she said. She did not have to think about it. Her mind was a trap. She remembered every customer that came through her doors.
“Do we know he is a farmer?”
“What else could he be?”
That had been Bastin's assumption as well. Maybe an overworked smith, but that kind of girth almost always came from the fields.
He may have, but if his mother was like Legha, he may be the last of a long line of brothers with no hope of inheriting any land for himself. Andaria was fully settled. Sons wanting to make a place of their own traveled north across the border to Ioan, a wild kingdom in need of strong men to tame it, or they came to the cities to look for work.
Everyone came to the cities looking for work, to ply their trade. But there were no farms in the cities for farmers to farm, so they had no trade to ply. Desperate for work, they were inevitably scooped up by—
“He's a leg-breaker?” Legha asked, following his train of thought. Bastin shrugged. Maybe he came to the city with his inheritance. Maybe...maybe...
“Bastin honey,” Legha said. “You're always welcome here. You're a good boy and you do good work, but you should maybe head out for awhile.”
His mind stilled and action came. He knew what to do. He'd done it a hundred times before. Put his pants on. It all started with pants. Then shoes. Then the road beneath his feet. He was a monied individual, and the sooner he got rid of it, the better.
There was a knock at the door.
“Love?”
The husband.
“There are some men downstairs.” Legha and Bastin looked at either. No need to ask what they were there for. He had hoped that it had been a farmer with a family inheritance or money to stake his claim in Ioan.
“Legha, my good woman, could you check the window and tell me if there is someone outside watching it.” He grabbed his shirt. Always put on the shirt last. A man without pants stuck out like a sore thumb, easy to follow. A man without shoes couldn't run as fast, but a man without a shirt was a man without a shirt. Plenty of sailors walked around Brandarbra equally dressed.
Legha opened the window and breathed heavily. She was an alewife wanting fresh air, not looking to see if her home is watched. Bastin was thankful for her discretion. Legha inhaled deeply and stretched her arms wide. Her dress was still unbuttoned in the back and her back muscles stretched noticeably beneath the thin fabric of her shift. Now that she'd got him going, he didn't want to stop. The throbbing in his pants reminded him that he'd has turn and then some. Time to focus on the men outside that want their own pound of flesh.
“There are two of them,” Legha said, taking in the street below. “Saints alive, that's Concor Baker down there.” She finished her yawn and closed the shutters, locking them from the inside. She turned and looked at Bastin.
“A friend of yours?” he asked. A friend might help him slip out...which was why she locked the shutters and looked panicked.
“Hardly,” Legha said. “He's a Baker.”
“A Baker baker?” Bastin almost yelled. She nodded her head. Now panic threatened to take him as well. “That no-necked plow horse was a Baker Boy?” The Bakers didn't just make delicious bread, they ruled the Brandabrian underworld. They were the toughest gang in Andaria, hell in the whole of the seven kingdoms!
“So, that means I took their dough?” Suddenly that karat didn't seem such a prize. Baker Boy bread was expensive. Very expensive Anyone that didn't pay met with an unfortunate accident. They converted their extortion money to large coin for ease of transfer. And Batsin stole it. Fantastic.
“Fantastic,” he said sotto voce.
How did he get out of this one? He could go down the back staircase down to the basement, hide in a barrel. Course, that would ruin a whole batch of brew. He doubted he'd be very popular for that one. He could give the dough back. They might only break all the fingers on one hand. That would be getting off light, but Bastin was allergic to being mauled. He could jump out the window. Surprise the fellows below and make a run for it before they recovered. Assuming he didn't break his legs in the fall.
Another knock at the door, more urgent this time. Sounded like the Baker Boys were done being stalled.
“Dear, are you decent? We have company.” Gruff voices quieted Legha's husband. There was no making the back staircase. The Bakers were right outside the door. Much longer and they would break the door in.
“Legha,” Bastin whispered. “I need you to distract the men on the street. Something that will make them look away from the window.”
Legha gave it only a moment's thought. She unlatched the shutters, grabbed the chamber pot from beneath the bed, and hurled it out the open window.
“Heads up!” she hollered, flinging the urine in a wide arc to scatter any standing below. Bastin sprinted across the room. She ducked out of the way at the last second. He stepped on the windowsill and launched himself out. He grabbed the top of the window with his hands and the force of his leap swung him upward in a violent arc. He let go and flew upward. If he did this wrong, he'll most likely break his neck. If he did this right...
Bastin lands on his feet atop the Migrant Goose's newly flattened roof. The tar is cool but gummy beneath his feet. He looked around. Can he make a run for it? Brandarbra was an old city and the Goose was in an older part of town. The only two buildings with flat roofs were the Goose and the building next door they were buying. Everything else had high, pointed roofs with clay shingles.
Curses were shouted up from the street below. The Bakers had recovered from their golden waterfall. Bastin dropped to the roof. If they saw him, he'd be trapped. If they thought he left earlier—and any self-respecting flimflam man would have after lifting a purse that rich—then they just want to know where he went. If they find out he's here, they'll burn the place down with Legha and her family still inside.
The tar wasn't hot. It didn't burn, but it was warm and soft. The longer he lay there, the more it irritated his skin, like the building was slowly swallowing him. He dared not move. He held his breath and listened for noise from the window below.
The bedroom door slammed open. “Where is he?” Plow horse man shouted. Damn, did they know he was here? He didn't know how. The farmer must not have noticed his missing purse for some time if he was only now returning. Even with the time it took to gather reinforcements, if had known right away, this would have happened earlier, when Bastin was still on top of Legha. Bastin hoped that she had her wits about her to put that together too. If she panicked and said he went out the window, then she had been harboring him and the Bakers wouldn't look kindly on that.
“My husband is right behind you, you oaf,” Legha snapped. “What other man do you presume to find in my bedroom?” Bastin smiled. The woman was a rock. Nothing could make her crack, not even the Baker Boys.
“The actor from earlier,” plow horse growled. Bastin wasn't an actor. He put on a good show, for certain, but that alone didn't make him an actor. The flimflam was an art, not some rote memorization and recitation that was called acting. His skill was never properly appreciated.
“I tried to tell them, my dear, but they wouldn't listen,” Legha's husband said. Him too. Bastin was impressed. He dealt with the man rarely, and if Legha had oversold his acceptance of their liaison, this would have been an easy opportunity for revenge. But he was as steady as she. What a family.
“Lunch was over hours ago, gentleman,” Legha said. “Our entertainment ended with it. Where he went from here isn't my business, and he didn't see fit to inform me of his destination before he left.”
There were loud bangs below, a chair overturned, a feather mattress pulled from its frame. Any place the Bakers thought he might be hiding, they checked.
“Most men like him take their earnings and pick their poison until it's time to perform again,” Legha said “You can stay and wait for him to return, if you want, but I'll thank you to keep your hands off those flowers. My husband picked them for me.”
There were some mumbles and some grumbles from below and the men trudged out the room. Bastin waited for the all clear from Legha, but one didn't come. They must have chosen to stay. He could try slipping down the back stairs, but he'd rather just wait them out. They hadn't found his hiding place yet.
And he wasn't sure if he could stand. It felt as though the roof had glued itself to his clothing. Bastin tried to lift a leg, but the tar held tightly to his pants.
“Great,” Bastin whispered. He tried to lift his head, but his hair was stuck in the tar as well.
So he waited. The sun ran its course across the sky, the rooftop cooled, and the gummy tar became rock hard, and he its prisoner. It was well after dark that the bedroom shutters opened below and Legha called up, “Bastin, it's safe to come down.”
Now if he could just figure out how.

Wanted: Chosen One, Now Hiring Excerpt

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 20:29:03 GMT

I moved away from posting excerpts on BLACK MAGIC... for a couple of reasons. First, the first drafts sucked. Second, I was writing at such a pace that I had too much content to post (and didn't want it all online anyway). I am very enthusiastic about the progress I've made with WANTED... so I decided to post the first three chapters. I try not to post repeatedly in the same day unless it's really worth it, but I have a feeling this will go over LJ's allowed character limit, so I may post each chapter individually. We'll see how it goes. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1

Nashau had not been in Tinadian since his fifteenth birthday when his father brought him to give his oath of loyalty to the ducal minister of the interior. He didn't much care for the city then or now. Stone roads make everything—and everyone—faster. Rush here, rush there, no one took his time. And everyone was so suspicious. City folk thought they'd seen it all and were innately suspicious of anything they didn't already know.
A prophet could starve in the city if he wasn't a showman as well as a soothsayer. In Nashau's experience, a hungry prophet was an optimistic prophet but not necessarily an honest prophet. And if a prophet wasn't honest, then he was no better than the flimflam men that gave Nashau's profession such a bad reputation.
So he kept to the country where life moved at a pace more to his liking and the local barons and earls knew an honest prophet when they met one. Life was right in the country. Life was good in the country.
...Life was good in the country.
Tinadian was the ducal seat, the largest city and port south of the capital. Wind came off the sea and blew through the streets until it hit the horseshoe wall that enclosed the city, giving everything a general fishy, moldy, algae smell. Nashau leaned against a wall after passing through the southeastern foot-gate. He gasped for air, feeling like he was suffocating. How did anyone survive in this city? They must be experts at holding their breath.
The wait to enter the city had been unreasonable in Nashau's opinion. The guards asked him only from whence he came and what business he had in Tinadian. How could a line move so slowly with such little information required of those that had stood before him? How long would he have to wait to escape the city if he tried to flee back through the same gate to find the clean air on the other side.
Is his mission in Tinadian doomed to failure at the gate of the very city he traveled a week to reach? Was their some country technique he could use to breathe the miasma that poisoned the city's air?
Nashau dug through his pockets, discarding lint and moldy bits of bread, winding scraps of string and folding bits of waxed paper left over from the cheese he had eaten with his bread. Finally he turned up a clean handkerchief—cleaner than any of the other cloth in his pockets, at least—and soaked it with wine from the skin roped to his belt. He pushed the cloth around his nose and mouth, inhaling slowly until the fish smell was replaced with a more appealing floral bouquet.
Blessings to you, Saint Michard, and the miracle of your vintage.
Nashua pushed away from the wall and walked briskly away from the gate, escaping the various stares that followed him. City folk were notoriously amoral. The longer he lingered, the sooner someone would shove a knife in his stomach and rifle his pockets for his spare string.
Tinadian was an unnecessarily large city in Nashau's opinion, neither designed nor built with any forethought. The streets were hardly wider than the alleys and nothing was in a straight line for very long. How did anyone not lose themselves in this labyrinth?
Nashau wished he were back in East Bluefield. His sister had told him this plan was foolish, and as he turned in circles trying to ascertain his location, he saw the wisdom of her words. The city nailed signs to the sides of building at each corner, but if one did not know the name of the street to which he was traveling, then names had no value.
“If a city grows so large that its streets need names, then that city is too large,” Nashau said punctiliously. “Where in the Seven Kingdoms am I?”
“Spare a penny, squire?” a voice rasps from behind him. Nashau swung around, his robes billowing up and tangling around his arms flung up defensively. He pulled himself out of the tangle and looked for the voice.
A weathered man sat on a board taken from the side of a crate. He held up a tin cup, rattling it with the few coins already within. His hands were filthy, his long fingernails yellow, hair and eyebrows wild with unchecked growth. The beggar smiled and Nashau stepped back reflexively. His teeth were black from the pit juice, the foul liquid creeping along his gums. His robes are folded in such a way to suggest that there is nothing more to his legs than the knees that made dents in the soiled cloth. A cripple or a criminal whose legs were cut off as punishment.
“Just a penny, squire,” the beggar said. “No burden to one such as you.”
Nashau hesitated. He had pennies, but none to spare. He measured out enough coin from his savings to make it to Tinadian and back to East Bluefield with no extra extravagance. He had not presumed he would be required to bribe the locals. Either they would kill him or let him pass. It appeared that there was a third option where they took his money and left him as destitute as they.
“I'm sorry my man,” Nashau said, finally deciding on a course of action. “I have no pennies to spare. But I will offer you this compromise. I make for the ducal palace. If I find favor there, I will return with two pennies.” He pressed the handkerchief back to his face as soon as he finished speaking.
The beggar coughed savagely, gagging a few times, beating on his chest to force air inside. Nashau took a half-step forward, the movement hidden beneath his robe. Decency required he help the man, not to watch him suffocate. But Nashau was no physic and the beggar seemed to be engaged in the same chest pounding that Nashau himself would have attempted. To join in now would to invite some inscrutable constable passing by to arrest him for assault. City gaols were notorious for bleeding their prisoners of their money and the fortune of their family, both immediate and extended.
He stood there and watched until the beggar recovered his breath. The man's back bobbed up and down as if he were crying, but Nashau realized shortly that the man laughed. Laughed at him..
“Squire can't spare a penny,” he said, “but you can get audience with the Duke of Hillsborough. You are the most special type of pauper.” The beggar spat a glob of blood-tinged phlegm and sighed a deep breath. “Off with you, pauper. I am certainly a richer man than you.” He shook his cup, rattling it with the coins within.
Nashau furrowed his brow, taking unusual offense at the beggar's words. What care should he give to a criminal's words (Nashau decided the man was a criminal rather than a cripple given his harsh manners and the fact he lived in the city)? But he felt the need to defend himself and squared his shoulders to riposte the beggar.
“I did not claim to have audience with the Duke of Hillsborough and nor would I,” Nashau snapped. “I will meet with Podome, the ducal minister of prophecy.”
The beggar barked laughter, hooting and hollering as he rocked back and forth on his board.
“Prophet Podome is a colleague of mine,” Nashau continued plaintively. The beggar only roared louder.
“Enough,” Nashau shouted, ignoring the prudence of angering a criminal from the city. “You shall have no penny from me, not now and not when I return from the palace.” He turned and stormed past but came up short with the beggar's next words.
“You'll return as poor as you be now, pauper. Podome was dismissed from the duke's service a year past.”
Nashau looked over his shoulder, searching the beggar's face for the truth of his words. Did he merely hope to make sport of a stranger?
“Any colleague of that flimflam man would know of his dismissal. It was quite the scandal.” His eyes twinkled with amusement but the lines at their edges ached with sorrow. There was no lie, there. Nashau feels a stone in his stomach. So it was not just the country prophets, even one as great as Podome was affected.
“I am Prophet Nashau come today from East Bluefield to meet with Podome,” he said, walking back toward the board and its resident. “If you can tell me where I might find Podome, you may earn that penny you begged of me.”
Now it was the beggar's turn to regard Nashau. He spent less time on the face but lingered on the wine-stained nose and the wet handkerchief forgotten in his hand. Rough spun cotton robes, stitched leather shoes, callused fingers, the telltale signs of country life.
“Nashau Fletcher?” the beggar asked. “The seer who saved East Bluefield from the locust swarm of '69?”
Nashau waved his hand dismissively. “My first big prophecy, just before I came of age—wait. How do you know my surname?”
The beggar sat his cup aside. He rocked back and pulled with both arms until a stiff leg appeared from beneath his robe. Then the other. He tried to stand but his legs left in the same position for hours did not participate. He held up an arm. Nashau took it without thinking and hoisted the man to his feet.
“Podome Waxman, nice to meet you.”

Chapter 2

Prophecy being a trade-skill incapable of being passed from father to son, royal decree forbade any man from taking the surname Prophet. Likewise, maintaining the name Fletcher led to confusion when potential customers learned he had never completed his apprenticeship and could not make a quality arrow to save his life. Nashau, like most prophets, abandoned his surname and used only title and given name, an accepted custom among soothsayers. He signed his written correspondence with his full title, Nashau Fletcher, Advisor to the Barony d'Bluefields, Prophet. As the eldest son, the emergence of his gift had not come easily to his father, the next in a long line of fletchers. To Nashau's good fortunate, his younger brother, Keene, showed tremendous talent at fletching and none at prophecy. Once their father received a letter with the baron's official seal, Nashau's gifts were more warmly accepted.
He had not written his father nor signed his name since his dismissal from the baron's court.
He was escorted from the castle by two large grooms, almost carried, their grips were so tight on his elbows. They tossed out his personal possessions in a burlap sack at his feet. No one of any authority oversaw his sacking; no one he called friend said goodbye. Nashau had been crushed, so ashamed he could not even return home. He hid with his sister in West Bluefield until he could think of something.
He thought of something, and now Prophet Podome sat across from him in the Five Dice Tavern, a thoroughly disreputable establishment. Is there any other kind in the city?
Nashau put away his handkerchief, the tavern being filled with scents more to his liking, roasting pig, beer hops, and human sweat. Unlike home where the walls would be lined with the heads of various animals, the Five Dice hung its taproom tables from hooks, clearing the floor for all kinds of games of chance, most involving dice. Podome and Nashau sat along the wall, holding their mugs in their laps, looking out over the sea of asses pointed at them. Men of various professions on all fours protected their wagers, getting as close to the dice as possible to prevent cheating.
“You come here?” Nashau asked over the din. Podome nodded his head then leaned in close.
“If I have a good day on the street, I keep enough for bread and bring the rest here. Most times I can turn it into a meal, maybe a bed or a bath. I get poor odds because I'm a prophet, but they never accuse me of cheating.”
By the rattle in Podome's cup, Nashau figured he did not have enough to gamble on, though Nashau offered and Podome accepted beer and a meal.
“Do you cheat?” Nashau asked as an afterthought. Podome gave him a wry smile.
“I do not like sleeping on the ground,” he answered. “So many years in the duke's service, my backside has grown accustom to feather and straw. What I wouldn't give for a few hot coals to warm my feet at night...”
Both men fell silent, looking back at the asses. Neither watched the games but remembered the lives lost to them. It was a great mark of success to be taken into a noble household. Most prophets of any skill worked for wealthy merchant families, tauted as so much jewelry to friends, an exhibition of wealth. Rarely does a prophecy lead to direct financial prophet, lest the pending disaster directly apply to one's trade (such as Nashau's prophecy of the locust swarm that would have ravaged farming in the Bluefields if not for his warning and the prompt location of the Chosen One).
“Did you hear about Jophus,” Podome asked. Nashau raises his chin invitingly. He had heard of Jophus, King Lulloyd's royal prophet. In fact, that news was what prompted him to look at other notable soothsayers and the disposition of their most recent prophecies. But this was a good introduction to the topic, and he felt more comfortable allowing Podome to take those first steps.
“He foretold of a child blessed by the Forgotten Gods, kidnapped from its cradle in Brandarbra. If the abduction was not prevented or the child rescued before the next full moon, the queen would die.”
Nashau listened with genuine interest. He had heard the end of the story, but not the details. Details may make the ending bearable, if not palatable.
“What did he do?” Nashau asked.
“Identifying various clues in his vision, he identified the child. He studied the symbolism interwoven in the vision and identified the Chosen One. Too late to prevent the child's abduction, the Chosen One arrived just minutes after the criminals left.” Podome leaned back to Nashau's ear, dropping his voice to the lowest volume possible while still being able to be heard over the room's revelry. “I heard from a mutual friend that there had been enough time to prevent the child's abduction, but the Chosen One insisted on having special garments tailored for his quest.”
Both men rolled their eyes in mutual understanding. One of the most frustrating elements of the profession was the Chosen One who felt himself more important than the quest itself. It happened often. Too many ballads made focusing on the hero rather than the heroism.
Prophecy was truly a misunderstood craft.
Nashau began to understand the magnitude of Jophus' abilities if he could so accurately foretell the abduction of a single child within Brandarbra. The capital city made Tinadian look no larger than East Bluefield.
“And the child?” Nashau asked with a yell. The shooter in the group in front of them just rolled snake eyes, to the delight of half the betters and the dismay of the other half. They shouted various threats and accusations along with more than a few impolite aspersions toward the shooter's mother.
“There was plenty of time before the next full moon. Jophus sent the C.O. into the capital's catacombs.” Nashau raised his eyebrows. The greatest heroes in the kingdom's history all made their names in those catacombs. They spanned the breadth of Brandarbra and into the surrounding hills. Millions of bodies were buried there.
“Did he escape?” Nashau asked. Podome takes a long draw from his beer, occupying his mouth so he doesn't have to speak. Finally, he shakes his head.
“He never emerged nor any man from his retinue.”
“Or the child,” Nashau says. It was not question. The subject of a prophecy could never survive without the direct intervention of the Chosen One. If the C.O. failed, then the child was doomed. He could see the discomfort on Podome's face. There was more to the story. A lost child, a dead C.O., a damned queen, a disgraced prophet, what else could there be to this tale?
Podome saw the question on Nashau's face. “The Chosen One was Crown Prince Lucias.”
“Forgotten gods!”
“When the full moon came and Lucias had not returned, the queen threw herself from her bedroom window. The king ordered Jophus beheaded as he knelt beside his wife's body.”
Saint Jilisha, patroness of prophets, why have you abandoned us?
Nashau set his mug on the ground. He liked the Five Dice. It was a sanctuary from the horribleness of the city beyond. Little sanctuary it offered from such news. The tale had not reached East Bluefield, only news of the death the queen and her son as well as the execution of the royal prophet, offered almost as an afterthought given the magnitude of the two royal deaths. Nashau had taken notice, yet so focused was he on Jophus, that he had not thought to link the execution to the deaths of the queen or prince. The Bluefields was a rural barony and news often came in large chunks, sometimes months out of date.
Nashau felt cold. He wanted to leave. He did not like the tavern. The beer was watered down and the noise hurt his head. Nothing good comes from a city. He clutched his robe in his hand, folding the hem back and forth. He wanted to stand, but felt obligated to offer some excuse for his quick retreat before abandoning Podome to the games. Perhaps if he left the man money to gamble...
“You were sacked,” Podome said. Was that a question? Nashau can't tell. Had news of his own dismissal outpaced him? He would not have guessed that the prophet from East Bluefield would warrant gossip in Tinadian. “The baron sacked you because you named his eldest son and heir as a C.O. to one of your prophecies, didn't you?”
How...?
“How could you know that?” Nashau asks, forgetting his robe hem and his desire to flee.
“And the baron's son died.”
Nashau stares at Podome. When did it grow so quiet in here? Was everyone listening? Watching? No, they played their games. Everything was silent. Everything except Podome.
“I named the duke's eldest son and heir as a C.O. to a prophecy of mine. I fled the palace when he died before the duke's assassins could find me.”
“Assassins?” Nashau asked too loud, drawing the attention of a few nearby men. They looked up from their dice to see what devilry may be afoot, but finding no assassins readily available, they returned to their game and accused the shooter of cheating on general principle.
“Certainly,” Podome said matter-of-factly. “Duke Dagwhit d'Hillsborough was the youngest of seven brothers. They did not give up their inheritance willingly. A man such as he wouldn't think twice of killing me in my sleep.”
“Kill you in your...” Nashau looked down at his mug and the room turned upside down. He tried to keep his balance, but it only pulled him from his chair. Podome grabbed him by the shoulder and forced his head between his knees.
“Breathe,” Podome said calmly. That calm was only more unsettling. How could anyone speak so casually about his death? “Breathe.”
“Bugger breathing,” Nashau snapped from between his knees. “Get me out of here before the assassins come for me too!”
Were they already there? How many of the men in the Five Dice were gamblers and how many were assassins in disguise? Did the duke already know of Nashau's plan and conspire against him from his palace?
“Saint Murta gather me up among your hopeless causes,” Nashau said. “Protect me with your bosom from the evil that surrounds me.”
“Better luck with Rosie, boy, if you're wanting bosoms to protect you,” a nearby gambler said, overhearing Nashau's prayer. The tavern laughed jovially, sparing a few glances from the dice to see who the newest butt of humor was. Nashau sat up and saw the room staring at him. He choked down his gorge, and Podome pushed his head back down between his knees. The tavern laughed louder, and more men turned to join in the sport.
“Rosie's too much for that one,” another yelled. “Best give him Lil' Ben. The boy'll be more gentle to him.”
“Gentle? Give him the dog!”
“The cat!”
“The fleas!”
The tavern roared with laughter. Nashau whispered prayers to Saint Kenniff in hopes the divine executioner might sever their tongues before they humiliate him to death.
Saint Kenniff did not come, but once Nashau stopped providing any new opportunities for sport, the men returned to their dice. Nashau's headache became more a result of blood rushing to his head and less his embarrassment, and he decided it best he sit up. Podome sat patiently waiting for him, drawing much more amusement from Nashau's flushed cheeks than any of the games they had been watching.
“You should not let them get to you so. Surely you have taverns in East Bluefield. Such ribbing is commonplace.” Podome's eyes sparkled with amusement, but hid a genuine note of concern. Nashau felt compelled to defend himself.
“The baron's castle has a commissary. I had no need to dine in the taverns.” Surely it must be the same in the ducal palace.
“However did you find any of your C.O.s without searching the local taverns?” Podome asked. “Surely I am alive today because of the friends I made in places like this while I searched for the most recent Chosen One.”
“I wore the livery of the Barony d'Bluefields,” Nashau said. “None would have risked the barn's wrath to insult one of his ministers.” Nashau felt somewhat ashamed. His father never took him to taverns when he was younger, holding that his mother's food was better than anything served in a taproom. Had he missed some fundamental step in a man's evolution? Surely today's ribbing compensated for any deficiency.
Their food came, delivered on wooden trays that were left with them to make up for the lack of table. Podome found nothing unusual about this and dug into his ham and beans with great voracity. Nashau looked at his tray, fair enough fare, if a bit mundane. The bread was only a day old and the ham was honeyed. He had no appetite. It had fled with Jophus' tale and had not returned.
Nashau holds up the tray toward his colleague and Podome scoops up the plate with filthy hands and pours its contents willy-nilly across his own tray. Nashau realized they had not been provided with utensils, silver, wooden, or otherwise. One more thing for patrons to gamble, he presumed.
“I assure you,” Podome says around a mouthful of beans, “that they meant no offense. You should not let their fun rob you of your appetite.
Nashau looked left, right, left again. No one was watching them. Wait, was that man? No, he was just scratching his ass. He leaned in close, so close his lips almost touched Podome's ear.
“I know why our prophecies are failing,” he said. “I know how to break the curse. And I think the duke will kill me for what I know.”

Chapter 3

Podome had nimble fingers and a talent at acting. He would make a good flimflam man if he didn't have natural talent. Nashau was unnerved at how easily the line was crossed.
Neither man willing to trust the din of the taproom to mask their conversation, Podome joined the closest game, the one with the men who had heckled Nashau. He palmed the proffered dice and replaced them with loaded dice of his own. He then “looked into the future” and predicted the next three shots. His claim squandered any generous odds offered because Nashau was his companion. Few men bet against the prophet. All three shots came up busted and those same men wasted no time in turning against Podome when he predicted the three shots after that.
All this was bankrolled with the money Nashau had saved for his return journey. Was this man really Podome or simply the most expert flimflam man in Tinadian?
The next three shots came up hits, and Podome raked in the winnings, giving up before sportsmanship turned to resentment. He palmed the dice back and threw one last bad shot to let the men win some of their losses back then rented a room for himself and Nashau.
The exited up the stairs to hoots and hollars and both Rosie and Lil' Ben waited for them at the top, just in case the men wanted professionals to aid in their proclivities.
Their services declined—Podome asked Rosie for a raincheck—the two men retired to their room. It was unremarkable, utilitarian, adequate. It had a bed with a straw mattress covered with a threadbare quilt. There was a small table near the window with a stool, large enough for paper and an inkwell. Beside it on the floor was a tin bowl with lukewarm water and a fresh cloth.
Podome would not let Nashau begin until he was clean and mentally prepared for prophecy. Perhaps the dirt made it easier to flimflam people.
The water, the bowl as a whole really, was covered in muck by the time Podome was finished. His pale skin still tinted with the thin layer of filth that cannot be removed by a cloth but required a full bath. His beggar's robe lay discarded in the corner. It turned out that the prophet had one more possession beyond his tin cup. Though his gate was unaffected, he walked with a cotton pillowcase tied around his waist and hung between his legs.
Homeless preyed on one another more frequently and with greater ease than they did passersby. The random stranger on the street was less likely to help one beggar being attacked by another than he was a merchant or tradesman in the same situation.
Folded tightly in on itself, Podome withdrew from the cotton sheath his official vizier's robes. The layers of blue and gold created a majesty and air of authority that lent weight to his prophecies, or would have in the ducal court where they would have been properly laundered and pressed. Here they were wrinkled and stained with body sweat. Still, they were an improvement over his beggar's robes. Both men looked at the filthy heap in the corner. It was writ clear on his face that Podome would rather burn the rags than wear them again, but wearing his vizier's robes in public would send a signal flare to the duke's assassins.
Nashau kicked the robes to the door and out into the hallway. He called Lil' Ben, making sure the boy could not see into the room. Podome so resplendent would be gossip worth a stirling, maybe even a karat if the boy had the gift of haggling. Nashau gave Lil' Ben three pennies and pointed at the rags, sending them to be laundered as best as possible. Podome was almost in tears. He would not—could not—have justified the expense himself, but this generosity was greater than any shone him since his flight from the palace. Nashau started to hand the boy a fourth penny, telling him to darn the robe as well, but Podome stopped him. A beggar with well-knitted robes was not a beggar at all, he pointed out. Truly his pride could not accept such lavishness from a colleague, especially one from a lower court (and thus a lower salary) who was now equally destitute.
Lil' Ben taken off, the two finally settled down to the matter at hand. Podome waved Nashau to the bed. The latter thanked him, but after a brief inspection found it already occupied with lice and assorted other bugs. He took the stool instead. Podome sat on the floor, back against the wall, legs folded under himself, prophet-style. Nashau had heard that some of the best soothsayers would only use their gifts while seated in such a position, something about centering themselves or some other nonsense. He had tried it once himself in the privacy of his own bed chambers. He had felt anything but centered. He checked every few seconds to make sure no one was watching him engaged in such foolishness. He had never needed any centering. His visions had come well enough on their own. Perhaps it was all part of the show, one more aspect of the professional flimflam.
“So,” Podome began, “I understand why Duke Dagwhit wants to kill me. But why do you think he wants to kill you?”
Straight to business, not even a little smalltalk to ease them into it. It was for the best, Nashau finally concluded. They had only rented the room for an hour and spent the first third of that dealing with Podome's cleanliness.
Cleanliness was next to saintliness.
“Have you foretold any quests since your flight?” Nashau asked. “Have you had any genuine visions? Named any C.O.s?” He wished he had stayed standing. Already he fought the urge to pace around the room. He played with the hem of his robe again, a nervous habit that was starting to fray the weaker threads.
“One,” Podome admitted slowly. “I did not look for its C.O. By then I had heard news of our fraternal curse and felt his end would be much the same as all the other Chosen Ones.” Unlike common confessions, this admission seemed to weigh heavier on Podome than when he kept it secret.
“You most likely saved his life,” Nashau said, nodding his head. It took professional dispassion to endure the death of a Chosen One in the best of times. Now it was easy to fall into despair and Nashau desperately wanted to offer his own confession. Now that he had started, he did not want to stop. He would not be able to start again.
“After the baron's...after.” Nashau stops, grinds his teeth, then starts again. “After my dismissal I fled to my sister's home in West Bluefield. Her husband is a good man and not one to deny her or her family. He would and did give me shelter while I figured out what to do next.”
Podome nodded approvingly. This was not the first downturn for prophets. The craft would have been lost generations ago if not for the compassion of people like Nashau's sister and her husband.
“I was no loafer, mind you,” Nashau said. “I earned my meal just like every other man in the household.” Podome shrugged. He had never lived outside the city, he admitted, and had no idea what farm life entailed. He was of the frank opinion that a worthwhile prophet had already any room and board he may require. Nashau did not explain how such logic would not work on a farm, but continued with his story. “I was pitching hay in the barn with two of my nephews when a vision came on me. It was unlike any vision I have had before. It did not show me a great coming or an impending disaster. It showed me the faces of boys already dead.”
Podome turns his head, spurring Nashau on. Good, he had never had a vision such as this either. Prophecies generally fell into two general “herald of a great hero” or “harbinger of doom” categories.
“They were all young, clearly of high birth, and among them I saw Crown Prince Lucias and the Baron's own son Dadam.” Now Nashau did stand and began his circuit around the room. “I thought it metaphorical at first, a sign that all those boys would have the same fate as Dadam until we received news of the crown prince's death. And then the duke's son. This was not prophecy, it was revelation, a vision of what had already taken place.”
He stopped then and waited for Podome to say something. If Nashau had admitted this in West Bluefield, they would have burned him for witchcraft. Seers were not held in the same regard as soothsayers. They dug up the ghosts of the past and sowed disharmony. Nashau was not a seer, witch, or warlock.
Was he?
“Continue,” was all Podome said. And Nashau did, not offering the seated man any more time to change his mind and level an accusatory finger.
“The vision skewed in more traditional directions after that, various symbols and such. The usual stuff. Until I deciphered the identity of the Chosen One. No easy feat, mind you. It took me days after the vision to figure everything out. More than once I had to go to the village clerk's office and check various deeds and titles and ask questions the man could answer only because he was older than creation.”
Podome laughed gently and Nashau huffed heavily, having given his explanation with one long breath.
“And what did you find out, soothsayer, after so much contemplation and research?” Podome asked. His amusement wasn't condescending but sympathetic. No one but another prophet truly appreciated just how much work prophesying was.
“Dagwhit is not the duke,” Nashau said bluntly. Podome choked on his smile and lurched forward, losing his seating and tumbling forward when his legs failed to uncross. Nashau offered him a hand, but it was waved away. The man so friendly a moment before seemed unwilling to even touch Nashau now.
“What did you say,” Podome said. The hope on his face was unmistakable. He was giving Nashau a chance to change his story. But why should he? Podome was no longer in the duke's service and should this prophecy be completed, he would have the opportunity to resume his old post with a new duke who would not blame him for the death of his heir.
“Duke Dagwhit's eldest brother...”
“Jepe?”
“He lives.”
“Lives?”
“Albeit under an assumed identity somewhere in a large metropolis.” Nashau stopped his pacing and stood above the prostrate Podome, pointing at various places and buildings he had seen in his vision, as if Podome could revisit the prophecy with him. “I have it narrowed to four cities. It's most certainly Andarian. The architecture is unmistakable. None of the other kingdoms have buildings so large built with our architecture.”
Podome sat back up, leaving his legs out straight for balance. He nodded his head, unable to say anything. Nashau's logic was not wrong.
“It was a port city,” Nashau continued, “which limits it further. Brandarbra, Tinadian, and Jarol.”
“Don't forget the Port cities,” Podome said, finding his voice. “Eastport, Westport, Newport...”
Nashau shook his head, but smiled, happy they were on the same train of thought.
“The docks in Eastport are too small; Westport's burned in a great fire last year. I stopped in Newport on my way to Tinadian. I could not match any of the buildings visible from the docks to those I saw in my vision.” Nashau held out a hand and helped Podome to his feet. He wanted to pace again but didn't want to trip over his colleague's legs. “It's definitely one of the three coastal cities.”
Nashau paced; Podome tapped his foot. Both considered the difficulty of finding a man that did not want to be found in the three largest cities in Andaria. It was a daunting a task, but was it an impossible one? To break the prophets' curse and avert another Age of Reciprocity would earn them both everlasting fame, not to mention the more practical benefit of restoring confidence in their beleaguered profession.
“What were you thinking?” Podome snapped, his voice rising until it squeaked. “You planned on going to the ducal palace and informing Dagwhit that he was not duke of Hillsborough? What did you think he would do, say thank you and abdicate his seat?” Podome's temper flared like an angry dog. Nashau took an instinctive step back.
“I had no intention of telling Dagwhit anything until I had located his brother and broken the curse,” Nashau said, hurt by the unexpected tongue lashing. “I came to see you.”
“So that I might aid you in deposing my liege. Did our correspondence make us so familiar that would have unemployed me?”
What was happening? Nashau flustered, wringing his hands nervously. They had been making progress. They were working toward a solution. He had had no intention of getting Podome the sack. He had presumed that a man of his prestige would be employed by one duke as much as the next!
“Take my job will you!” Podome roared. He stepped forward, fists balled and shaking.
“Take your...no! No, I didn't want your job,” Nashau pleaded. “I hate the city.”
“And insult the place of my birth in the very same breath? Have you no decency, sir?” Podome swung, connecting with the top of Nashau's head. Prophets are not fighters. If there is a profession farther away fighter than prophet, it was a well-kept secret. Podome struck Nashau with the force a small boy might hit his younger sister. It was the shock, more than the force of the blow or any kind of concussion as a result of it that caused Nashau's knees to buckle. No one had ever struck him before, at least not since he was a small lad and his father took a belt to him for leaving the chicken coop unlocked and losing all the birds to a hungry fox.
Nashau looked up at his colleague and correspondent, a man he had greatly admired, one who he had invested a great deal of hope that he might survive the political perils of his prophecy and rescue the seven kingdoms from this curse. His eyes watered and his lips quivered.
“Please don't hit me,” he asked in a soft voice. The meekness of it pop's Podome's temper like an inflated sheep's stomach. The fury drained out of him and his strength left with it. He drops to the floor with a thump, lowering his face into his palms. They were quiet for some time, Nashau too scared too look away, Podome too ashamed to look up.
“I'm sorry,” Podome finally said from behind his hands. “I blamed you for everything that happened to me, but my fate played out long before you arrived.”
“I am sorry too,” Nashau said. “I did not think...I just assumed...I'm sorry.” He wiped the tears from his eyes before they spilled to his cheek and robbed him of what little masculinity he retained. “Can you help me?”

Wanted: Chosen One, Now Hiring

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 16:35:20 GMT

Nashau was just sacked as the Baron d'Bluefield's court prophet. Bastin is a flimflam man that's never held a job in his life. All across the Seven Kingdoms prophecies are failing, Chosen Ones are dying, and prophets are taking the blame. But Nashau has a vision and a plan how to break the curse and get his job back. All he needs is a Chosen One dashing, daring...and dumb enough to take the job.

FEEDBACK!

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 01:13:00 GMT

Julie just sent me tremendous insight on Cy. Woo hoo! To quote Nathan Fillion, Bam said the lady!

This puts me in a great position. I'm writing this post mostly to remind myself to insert a bit about Matty saying how all Speakers are inherently selfish. After so many years of people saying it's all about them, they inevitably start to believe it.

This next revision is going to be top notch!

Revision...again!

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 17:28:06 GMT

So I've started to get deedback on my draft. I'm very enthusiastic about this because it was very strong feedback. A lot of the time I'll get feedback and wonder if the person even read what I wrote. In this case, there were some very relevant questions and observations. Of the two most important suggestions, I am adding back in a chapter I origionally removed, thinking I had too many flashback chapters and that it slowed down the pacing. Turns out it's too vague what happened between Christian and Cy, so I'm reinserting the chapter where he kidnaps Matty and forces Cy to steal the couer de la reine from the tower of London. I'm adding it much earlier than I origionally planned (it's now chapter 19 rather than in the high 30s/low 40s.

The question I still want additional input on is whether any readers like Cy. It was always a concern of mine that he wasn't likeable and so far that's been affirmed. I need more input on that one.

Because of this necessary revision, I'm not submitting to any more agents until I have a finished ms. Chapter 19 isn't coming as fast as I'd like, though and will probably have to be rewritten before it stops sucking.

I do want to say that I appreciate the support I received when NLA rejected my query, but that support was unnecessarily negative toward NLA. Sure I wish my work appealed to them, but it didn't. I want an agent that will get behind me and my work. A query letter is only 2-3 paragraphs, so a rejection after two days is great. It could have been MUCH longer without any more time spent considering it. It's only a couple paragraphs after all.

So, when I get my next rejection (and I'm sure I will), keep in mind that that's part of the profession and unless they are rude in their rejection, they should be treated respectfully. Thanks.

On yet another new story note, Good Ken and I talked a lot during his visit. One topic we dwelled on was the Pathfinder Society and that conversation lead me to a new story idea, one that I find much more exciting than Sandwich Notch Drive or Jehovah's Hitlist. I have already written chapter one of WANTED: CHOSEN ONE, NOW HIRING. This first chapter is significantly better than my first chapter of JH.

Writing on my blackberry, so I'll save a description for a separate post at a later time. If the book keeps up at this quality, not only am I certain that it will be published, but it will be quite successful.

Rejected!

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 12:15:25 GMT

Rejected by the Nelson Agency. *sigh* Rejection feels so good but hurts so bad.

It Has Begun!

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 14:26:29 GMT

Today I submitted a query letter for Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce to the Nelson Literary Agency. It is the agency I hope represents my work, so I'm waiting the ten day grace period (their average reply time) before submitting to others. Fingers crossed.

Racism

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 20:25:14 GMT

There is an episode "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" where DL Hughley's character Simon is talking to Matt Alby (Matt Perry) about hiring a black writer for the show. Matt, an award-winning writer, is offended that Simon believes him incapable of writing "black enough" and cracks a joke then and there to prove it. Simon says that yes that was a good joke but it never would have made it on the air because his liberal guilt would have prevented him from ever actually saying such a joke in public.

It had never been articulated to me in that way but as soon as I heard it, it hit me like a hammer. He was absolutely right. There are simply certain ethnic situations that I am incapable of writing because I would feel guilty doing so. Granted, I am not a master of urban dialect (and we're not just talking ebonics, as urban drawl changes based on the urban environment, Baltimore being different than St. Louis being different than Atlanta, etc). At the same time, I get bothered when my writing is dismissed out of hand as something I should never attempt given that I'm white. Especially when writing about St. Louis. I didn't just work down by the river. I didn't just post job openings in the River Front Times. I explored that city from neighborhood to neighborhood, I listened to the people that were around me. I watched what was happening. (I should probably stop comparing the May Day celebration on North Grand and Natural Bridge to a Nelly video because anyone that wasn't there never believes me and thinks I'm being racist.) While I certainly did not live the urban black environment (I grew up poor white, not poor black), I have more exposure to that culture than some of the black girls I've dated!

Yet when I write, I feel guilty. And when I describe what I'm trying to accomplish, I'm pre-judged.

This makes writing Jehovah's Hitlist particularly difficult. The wealthy have moved to new cities built on platforms above the old, high enough that if the oceans rise again, they won't die. The rich have segregated out all the minorities they tried to marginalize of the years, so easily accomplished because of limited resources and the right connections. Now the INner-city (really the under-city) of Denver is organized into segregated neighborhoods, creating the illusion of the stereotypes that damned them to that existence in the first place. Gang life is the only way to survive and those gangs form on neighborhood lines, the blacks in one, the poor white trash in another, Jews in another, and so on. That racism is so ingrained in a young man who's grown up knowing nothing else that he uses that terminology without any consideration to what it means or that any other epithet might be more appropriate. How difficult is it for me to intentionally put racism into my work just to create the world in which he lives. Jehovah starts the story infiltrating Hadi territory where all the Mohammeds live and thankful he doesn't have to deal with the Jew Crew or the Kendall Street Queers. I have, through all my effort, avoided the N word and I honestly don't know if I'll be able to use it, a word that I abhor when not repeating Chris Rock or Bernie Mac (again, something I should stop doing, I know).

(Of course, the Jews don't call themselves the Jew Crew, but that's neither here nor there.)

I'm setting my jaw and plowing forward and while readers won't ever know how hard it was for me to write that way and how committed I am to illustrating the ingrained horror of the guy's life, they will quite promptly and matter-of-factly dismiss that effort as the pathetic attempts of a white guy trying to write a black character. If any of them are stupid enough to say as much to my face, I may have to kick them in the teeth.

Beginning Jehovah's Hitlist

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 13:24:55 GMT

I've tried to start Jehovah's Hitlist twice before. The first time it was when I wrote the original timeline that inspired the story. SCOTUS gave W the presidency and 45 years later or so, Europe is covered in ice, the AIDS-ravaged survivors of Africa are blockaded from leaving, and Denver is ocean-front property (which lead to my first incomplete reading of 1984). The story was titled "One Nation..." I don't think I got past the second paragraph.

That eventually got shortened to "The Nation" which didn't get past the second page.

The Nation was never very inspirational as titles go (the only worse title I currently have plotted is Sepsis, which is horribly lame but very appropriate for that story). I quickly abandoned that title. Luke's reference to King having a character called the Hanged Man helped me doubt whether the story was redundant. Having seen numerous uses of Hanged Men in earlier works than King (such as The Black Company), I no longer have any qualms in using the character as I originally intended.

So, that led to the advent of Jehovah's Hitlist (a name of a Bender album I've always loved). I've decided I'll try to write this one first and so far so good. The spec fic timeline is still the foundation of the setting, but I won't include it as a preface (I think I lost it when my Vaio died years ago).

I'm past two pages. Will post chapter 1 when it's finished. I was hesitant to start, but once I got started it felt good.

If the title gets nixed by the publisher, I may suggest In(di)visible Nation, though the duality of that title may be too abstract.

What's Next

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:39:10 GMT

So the House on Sandwich Notch Road turned out to be an itch that needed scratching. Nowthat it's been scratched, all motivation to continue is gone. What do I writen next?

In the last week I've read Horizon (sharing knife 4), the first 19 chapters of An Echo in the Bone, and the first two chapters of Moss Hart's autobiography. But I haven't written anything. What do I write?

After 6 months of nothing but Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce, finding a new project is proving difficult. I have so many I can pick from, but none that scream PICK ME!

Part of me wants to write the chapter between Omar and Cy where Cy has to explain Speech and why Omar's house burned down. That doesn't fit in the novel and I don't know if it works as a short story. It's lots of exposition. And really, shouldn't I start something new rather than dwelling on something that's finished?

I don't know. Maybe I'll read some more until there's another itch to scratch.

It's OLD!

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 16:28:28 GMT

I just chedcked out a fifty-year-old book from the library. It hasn't been checked out in 39 years! How cool is that. I love the forgotten treasures hidden in the library. :)

The lady that checked me out gave me a funny look. I can only hope it's because the book hadn't been checked out in so long and she wondered why I was getting it all of a sudden.

It's Moss Hart's ACT ONE, which I heard about on NPR and I want to see if it can give me any insight to my playwriting.

Geographical Error

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 13:06:07 GMT

What's that? Algiers is the capital of Algeria you say? Of course it is. The words are almost identical. Wait, what's that? I list it in Morocco?

...

*waves hand with two fingers extended*

That doesn't say Algiers, that says Marrakech. It also says red city not white. And it's near the mountains not the sea. You should really pay more attention when you read.

Addition

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 11:54:20 GMT

Add the line

Not when you live forever. Great things get you noticed. Get you worshiped.

Maybe scrap that last sentence.

I rewrote my query letter for the tenth time yesterday. I've read so many different Good Query Letter blogposts that everything is starting to blur together. My pitch is solid, I think. BCC just like Karen Nelson suggests, but for some reason I remember someone saying not to mention themes, to let them see the themes in your writing, but then examples I see include themes. *shrug* I added a few thematic questions. That made me realize, perhaps I did not explore those themes as best I can.

I'll wait for feedback from folks and then take a look when I take my next pass.

New Project: The House on Sandwich Notch Lane

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 14:33:45 GMT

I figured I'd sit down with Diana Gabaldon's new book for the week. The thing is a monster! I could use all my free time this week and still not finish it. To my surprise, I find myself wanting to write, needing to write even. So off to write I do.

What am I going to start on? Put my full attention to my play, Protocol J-25, which I finally feel able to write? Or Jehovah's Hitlist, a story I conceived of 7 years ago and still have not gotten around to (and with Runester's interest, feel I at least have an audience to write for). Perhaps I should turn back to the Third World, feeling more confident than ever to do that world justice. Or maybe Global Warming in the Garden of Eden, a title I've loved from the moment I thought of it. That title deserves a story.

So I clicked on the new story tag to review the ideas I've posted, see if I've put anything down for Jehovah's Hitlist since its last false start. I've pretty much decided to go with that one when I see the post whining about how I had a wonderful dream for a YA novel (YA being a genre I've never considered writing in). I read the post and remember, vaguely, how amazing the dream was. I want to write that dream. I hadn't thought of a title, so clearly it can't be written...

The House on Sandwich Notch Lane.

Okay, so I guess it can be written. Clearly my mind is ready to write this one. Sandwitch Notch is a road in New Hampshire's lakes region that Jen loves for its name. This caused a tumble of ideas, where the children are from, why they're staying there, etc.

I'm taking some risks, I realize having written the first few paragraphs. Both children are half-Indian (India Indian), meaning the primary two characters are ethnic. You may think it doesn't make a difference, but it does, at a subconscious level. See a lot of stories told from a non-ethnic viewpoint when BOTH characters are ethnic? No. Usually one of them will be white as some kind of unspoken signal flag saying that we won't be focusing on a culture you don't understand, reader, so don't be scared away. Secondly, I'm not easing up on my vocabulary as much as the genre dictates. That'll be a problem later, I'm sure, but the only way to keep a muscle in shape is to exercise it. When I started reading comics, they used big words and bolded them, so kids would know to look them up in the dictionary. I learned so many words that way. Somewhere, it was decided that we could make more money if we didn't make people work so hard at reading.

Good thing I'm not in this for the money. (For all that posturing, I'm not overdoing it. I'm not writing for adults, but I'm not scared of three-syllable words either.)

Okay, I need to eat and write more. See ya.

That's how it always works

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 12:48:50 GMT

So I converted my manuscript to Word and fixed some of the formatting and changed underlines to italic, courier new to tnr. What I forgot to do was check the page breaks. Page breaks don't carry over consistently from OO to Word. Most times they do, but sometimes they don't. Even when they do, you don't get the dotted PAGE BREAK line but merely a hard character return that seems tougher than all his brothers, making the next line start on its own page.

And of course, I leave one extra hard return at the end of each chapter in OO in case I want to go back and add more to the end. It's faster to have an individual return to target rather than putting the curser at the end of a line and hitting return. Don't ask me, I just do better that way. Of course, in this situation, a number of those returns are the only thing on a page, so I have a few blank pages in the middle of the manuscript.

This is all neither here nor there if I hadn't sent the thing to readers. Minor mistakes, you may feel, but I think it's disrespectful to people taking time out of their lives to read something I wrote, not to mention shoddy in ways of a professional presentation of my work.

Errors have been fixed. Hopefully this is lesson learned enough I won't repeat the mistake in the future.

DONE! and just beginning

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 14:25:21 GMT

I set myself a deadline to finish revisions by my birthday. Here's my birthday and here I am...almost finished. I'll finish this evening. :) 50 pages left.

Finishing the first draft and not showing to anyone was tough at first. It's always good to get that affirmation after you finish something. So now that I have a complete revised draft, I need to send it out for people to read and give feedback. I want to send it to agents now!!! But I can't. They'll find something I didn't and I'll need to fix things and this will make it better. But...but...dammit, I don't want to wait any longer!!! GAH!!!

Of course, my writing group dissolved a long time ago. Peggy had the most talent of the lot and we're still friends, so I hope she'll give it a look. Trouble is, while I've had a lot of people express interest in reading it, few of them are of the caliber or background that I would find useful. They'll read it (or not) and tell me it was good and be done with it and that's not what I want or need (well, it's always cool to receive affirmation, but "it's good" always seems polite and not genuine. What was good about it?).

I have a few people I'm going to ask, but I don't know if they have time or the inclination to do so. Fingers crossed that they say yes and that I get good feedback.

Why?

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 01:30:00 GMT

Why.

Ask why.

Ask why until you have all the answers that you think with your characters' minds.

Frustrated that I don't have any twists, I realized I haven't even asked why enough. I've spent the past couple days trying to fill in the holes. I hope they don't appear as weak fixes. Christian's convoluted plan was the thinnest of the group given the way it was resolved.

122 pages left and it'll be ready for people to read.

Totally Unintentional

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 17:25:53 GMT

One task I have been avoiding is fixing the chapter numbering. I have deleted three chapters so far. One just wasn't relevant and got the axe. The other two I never finished and when I got to them, I saw why. Neither warranted their own chapter and both were resolved by adding a sentence (or less) to the preceding or succeeding chapter.

I am now 65% finished with revision and am confident that any chapters remaining will be kept. I'm moving toward the climax and those chapters left all represent pieces that need to be moved into position. This means that I can renumber all the chapters. A pain in the ass if you're not using Word (where you can view as outline and see all your chapter titles if you marked them as Headers rather than text). But I did it nonetheless and now my chapters are properly sequenced.

Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce is 69 chapters long. How fitting. :D

And...Scene

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 17:11:16 GMT

I emailed Luke, Adam, and Matt this morning to let them know that I am leaving the PodgeCast. There's no scandal or drama that so frequently accompanies this kind of thing, so no worries there. It's just creative differences. The show has never been exactly what I hoped it would be and that breach has been widening for awhile. As the Holmberg pointed out, I don't do a good job separating my emotions from my recording, so continuing on a show that more and more frequently feels like work wouldn't be good for me or for the show.

It's been fun participating in this crazy ride. Thank you for making it worthwhile.