New Year's Eve 2015

Parts of this were adapted from a letter I wrote. The idea to make it a New Year's post came from someone else. No pressure.

Just giving credit where credit is due. *grins* You know who you are.

So here we are. Hard to believe it's the end of another year. Events around this time last year feel like they were just a few months ago. I have to think back over all the things I've done and people I've met to remember that yes, it really has been that long.

Yet a couple days ago, I was thinking about a small dinner party I was at, fun but forgettable, wondering if it was sometime in November. Then it hit me that that was only last week.

*shakes head* I'm getting old.

Aren't we all?

Well. If you didn't know, according to the Chinese Zodiac, 2015 was the Year of the Goat. There are twelve animal signs, each animal is represented once every dozen years. And this year was mine. 

I'm a Goat. Insert joke here. 

Not that I follow this stuff. I'm not even Chinese! I just find it intriguing how, though interpretations may vary, some caprine descriptions really do sound like me.

Anyway. All the way back in January, I remember thinking that this was my year. I had fond memories of the last one in 2005 - wow, that's a long time ago - and hoped that this one would give me everything I wanted.

And it didn't.

But looking back...I kind of think I got what I needed.

Yes, okay, fine. You can sing the song. It's as good a soundtrack as any.

Yes, there are still issues unresolved and goals unachieved that I'm just going to have to carry over to next year. There are things I wish I'd done differently. But that's the point, isn't it. I had to do those things to know they weren't what I wanted. That's how we learn, and grow.

I'm starting to think happiness is like a constellation. It's easy to see a dark sky. But find the stars, and you can draw a brighter picture.

We all spend a lot of time being worried or anxious, irritable or depressed. But if I look back over the last year, it's the bright spots I remember. I've read a lot of books, played a lot of games, written things I wanted to write. I've made new friends. I've had deep conversations, felt like a badass, acted like an idiot. I've made people laugh.

That's not a bad picture, don't you think. *raises glass* Here's to 2015.

I just want to say, to all the people who've made my life brighter this year - family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances and the ones I used to know - 

Thank you. I hope I've made yours brighter as well.

So here we go.

*smiles*

See you on the other side.

Random Thoughts II

I've decided I like this format. It allows me to hold forth on multiple unrelated subjects when I don't feel like one of my grand essays.* I'm going to make this a series - starting now. 

Any objections? No? Good.

So first off. I've just finished reading We Need To Talk About Kevin, a novel built around the phenomenon of American school shootings. Narrated by the mother of a boy who grows up to execute - yes, that is the word - several schoolmates, among others, it's a tragic tale that wonders why so many are committing mass murder in their teens.

Now, before I go on. I'm on the anti-gun side of the debate. I've never been a fan of blood and gore per se. But I have cheerfully slaughtered multitudes in virtual worlds, and have no desire to go out and kill people in real life. There's a wall in my head between fiction and fact.

Ah, you say. Good for you. But not everyone has that wall. Nowadays it seems there are more and more mentally disturbed American teenagers. Is it the culture? A morally deficient upbringing? The apparently inept mental health system?

I wouldn't know. I didn't grow up there. Sometimes I'm kind of glad for it.

But as an outsider looking in, I've come to believe that the proliferation of guns in America is - forgive me - a profound cultural flaw. Don't give me that garbage about people killing people. It's true enough. But guns make it easy to kill people. There is a link between video games and firearms. In both cases you move your finger, and someone dies.

Of course the issue is more complicated than that. But guns are part of the problem.

Nevertheless. The book isn't about all that.** Rather, it's a meditation on how much responsibility parents should bear when their children become monsters. The core dynamic is between Kevin and his mother, who didn't want to be a mother, and admits to disliking her own son. Did the antagonism of their relationship drive him to do what he did? Or was he born evil, and his mother, understandably flawed, powerless to prevent it?

I lean towards the latter. Practically from birth Kevin is portrayed as a sociopath, lacking any sort of compassion, driven only to destroy on a whim. His malice is calculated, disturbingly so. He is maleficent.

Yet there are rare occasions when we see that his apathy might just be a facade. One he's worn so long it's become a part of him. What might cause a young boy to don such a mask?

It's all quite fascinating - and heartbreaking. I recommend it. There's even a movie.

Moving on. Several months ago a famous boy band I'd never heard of visited my workplace. The other day a cousin got a picture of them, with me in it, from a friend. She joked that I was famous. But it hit me that in a way, I probably was.

Now, don't go thinking I care all that much about meeting famous people. They make for points of interest - I've got a picture with Bill Clinton from when I was five - but life goes on. 

What I do is public enough that I've gotten used to being recognized occasionally. People look at me and go, aren't you that guy from...and I smile and say, yes. That's me. And I work at a tourist attraction, after all. During peak season - now, as it happens - up to hundreds of people see me every day.

I suppose this isn't very logical.

But it does occur to me to wonder how many thousands, if not tens of thousands, have looked up this band and seen my face.

Thirdly. One of my recurring themes, you might say, is that it's hard to be original these days. I've said it before. I came up against it time and again writing my first fantasy story. I still feel a mixture of amusement and chagrin upon finding that someone else has already thought my own thoughts.

And so it is here, with my musings on books and video games. The link between them seemed novel when I first noticed it. They are very different media, after all.

And then I found this quote.

*shrug* At least I'm not alone.

I've also been rereading the Harry Potter books recently. What? It's been five, maybe six years. Old favourites*** deserve to be revisited. I'm sure someday I'll get around to rereading the entire Wheel of Time.

Anyway, I've just finished the fifth, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which
pits Harry against the Ministry of Magic itself, who refuse to believe Lord Voldemort has returned. Faced with escalating government interference at Hogwarts, Harry forms his own little secret society dedicated to learning defensive magic - while in the outside world, the Order faces off against the Dark Lord from the shadows. There's a pervading theme of rebellion against flawed authority. It's by far the darkest book yet - and one of my favourites.

But it's also the least favourite of many - and now I see why.

For the first time in the series, Harry's personality has shifted. He's always been well-meaning, loyal, a little reckless, perhaps, but determined to save people who need saving. And all that's still there.

But now, above all, he's angry.

And he has good reason. Despite his kidnap and torture - and the murder of a schoolmate - by the newly risen Dark Lord, the Ministry is branding Harry a violent, attention-seeking liar. Former friends are now against him; the Ministry-appointed teacher is out to get him; and on top of everything else, he's failing his classes. Given all that, it's understandable that he becomes rather...volatile.

That is to say: he's short-tempered, bitter, moody, self-pitying, prone to taking stupid risks and picking fights. In this book, Harry's an anti-hero.

That didn't bother me so much before. I first read the book in my teens, right around Harry's age. Back then, his behaviour seemed justified. Now, watching him lash out at his friends makes me wince. 

But in a way, Harry's misery makes him more relatable. It shows he's flawed. I remember at least one author noting how Harry is temperamental, rash, a poor student. They liked that. Perfect heroes are unrealistic, because perfect people don't exist. It's our imperfections that make us real.

So overall, this is still one of my favourite books. Harry isn't always likeable here - but he is believable. He's a teenager, with all the angst and anger that entails. I used to be one too. I can empathize.

And it helps to know that we both got better in the end.****

Fifthly - I should lighten the mood. 

It's that time of year again! *infectious grin* Among the many memes and videos being passed around social media, I enjoyed this one so much I thought I'd pass it on. 

Watch this. 

Yes, the guy on the left looks a little too excited. But it's still hilarious. Merry Christmas, everybody.

And finally. I've said before that I admire certain kinds of art. And I do actually seek it out. Every now and then, I'll spend an hour just browsing for wallpapers that strike me as evocative, or memorable. Or pretty. 

So I'll leave you with this.

Only two more days. I can't wait.

*Though ironically, it's become one anyway.

**The author makes an effort to avoid the debate entirely. Kevin shows no interest in violent media. He isn't a loner; he isn't bullied; he's not on drugs. And he commits his murders not with a gun, but with a crossbow, having studied archery for years.

***I am proud to own a Hogwarts-crested T-shirt.

****You can find a more detailed examination here. 

Why I Love To Read

I used to like to draw.

When I was younger I drew epic starfighter battles, enchanted weapons, embellished writing with symbols and lightning bolts and so on. I remember bringing a sketch of our cat to school for show and tell. 

As I grew older I started drawing up homemade birthday cards for people. My technique improved over the years. My designs grew more imaginative. I wasn't a great artist, but I wasn't bad either.

Cue nostalgia.

But over time, my enthusiasm waned. Drawing became a chore. I finally stopped because more and more, it seemed like a waste of time.

Now, before I go on: I hold everyday artists* in the highest regard. There are countless examples of artwork inspiring me in roundabout ways. From eye-catching book covers, to great stories born from comics, to the sketches and illustrations that give rise to epic movies and video games. 

I actually own a book of the concept art for The Lord of the Rings movies. Did you know literally thousands of pieces of artwork were produced to establish the look and feel of Middle-Earth? I had no idea.

If you're an artist, I salute you. The world needs people like you. I'm just not one of them.

I'm still proud of my drawings. Whatever passion I had could probably be reignited. But it just isn't a priority - my free time is limited. I'd still be spending hours on something people will only look at for a few minutes at most. 

And the irony, of course, is that that's exactly what I'm doing right now.

We all make choices about what we do with our lives, and what not to do with them. I admire all the artists out there. But I choose to be a writer - because the other half of writing is reading. And the fact that you're reading this makes it all worthwhile. 

The written word has inspired me in many, many ways. So much so that at some point I thought, what if I could do this too? Maybe, if I caused even a single person to feel something greater than themselves, it'd be worth it. Maybe I could make the world a better place.

Maybe that person is you.

Today I'm talking about why I love to read.

Now, as I mentioned before, I like books and video games because they both offer a sense of immersion. But video games are still a visual medium. Indeed, big-budget games often resemble interactive movies. At the very least, I can't really claim not to watch TV when the games I play are...you know...on a TV.

My point is that you're still on the outside looking in. Reading bridges that gap. It places you on the inside.

I remember my first time reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. During the students' first flying lesson, Malfoy mocks an injured boy, steals something of his and then flies away on a broomstick. (He's already learned how.) Recklessly, Harry takes off after him, and discovers something amazing.

He doesn't need lessons. Harry can fly himself.

In this, he's found something he's instinctively good at. His friends cheer. His rival is stunned. And the aerial action that follows is filled with wonder, intensity, jubilation as we share the glow of that moment where he realizes: I can fly.

It's one of my favourite parts in the series.**

And then I saw the movie, and it just wasn't the same. I was watching him fly, not flying with him. That made all the difference.

In Stephen King's On Writing - yes, I read non-fiction too; what do you take me for? - the author compares writing and reading to telepathy: directing thoughts from one mind to another. It's not perfect, of course. Details are sacrificed. The writer's style and vocabulary interfere. The reader forms their own interpretation. 

But to paraphrase Rick Riordan, author of the Percy Jackson books: the greatest special effects are the ones inside your head.

My second reason is more personal. I'm an introvert. One definition of introversion is finding more stimulation inside our heads than anywhere else. Sounds about right. Growing up, I spent a huge amount of time in books...and it gave me a reputation.

I grew up homeschooled, and I'm not sure many people ever saw the work I did. Yet I noticed a pattern. My family seemed to think I was quite intelligent, learned fast and could generally do mental gymnastics, because I read so much.

I understand this is pretty common, actually. 

And, um, no. It's not true. Yes, I can occasionally pull out relevant random facts. I can count in my head because I was bad at math and pushed myself to do so much of the working mentally that some of it stuck. I was an average student overall.

I remember picking up a cousin's college biology book - I was fourteen - and hearing her telling others in the room: look what he's reading. My internal response was: so what? If anything, I thought I was getting in over my head.

But I liked the praise.

See, I doubt I got as much out of reading as people assumed. But I have gotten a lot out of it. Knowledge of the English language, certainly. Knowledge in general - though by now I know practical experience is just as important as theory. The desire to start writing in the first place. Speed enough to impress the uninitiated.

185,000 words, 528 pages, 24 hours.

I guess what I'm trying to say is - it's a part of who I am. I'm the one who always wants books for my birthdays. (Christmas too.) The one who actually hangs out at the library. I'm someone who reads. 

And I'm proud of that.

Ah, but wait. There is something else I've gotten out of books. Something I think you too - everyone, in fact, should be getting.

I finished Michael Benanav's Men of Salt a few weeks ago. It's the author's account of how he joined a camel caravan travelling to and from Saharan salt mines in a part of the world where salt was once worth its weight in gold, and is still used as currency today. It's a good book. I recommend it. 

But what really drew me in was the culture clash between the American author and his Tuareg companions. The author finding the desert starkly beautiful, while the nomads find beauty only in greener lands. A nomad chieftain finding a disposable lighter, made only to be thrown away, 'the dumbest thing he'd ever heard of'. 

Or - and this one made me laugh - the author inviting his new friends to ask about America and expecting questions about how many cars people owned. I don't mean to insult the intelligence of either side. It just struck me as so very Western to think salt miners in the Sahara would care about cars at all - for context, camels are still the primary mode of transportation. They asked what kind of animals Americans had in their deserts.

I've always been annoyed by people holding narrow-minded beliefs when they really have no idea. Yet I do this too, more often than I'd like. I make stupid assumptions that turn out to be dead wrong. It's only human. Our viewpoints are naturally narrow. 

So we should widen them as much as possible. 

Even more than knowledge, I value perspective. Allowing differing viewpoints to inform our own. That, I think, is a sign of true maturity.

The best way to do that is actual travel. But I would argue that reading is the next best thing. Telepathy, remember? It helps you to think the thoughts of someone else.

I hope you've enjoyed a taste of mine.

*By this I meant animators, illustrators, cartoonists and so on; people whose work I can appreciate. For artists who produce Art, of the kind you see in galleries: I guess they should be appreciated too. But I can't say that we're acquainted.

**I'd be a Ravenclaw. Just sayin'. 

No, really. I guessed I'd be a Ravenclaw, took an online test, and I was right. If that's not justification, I don't know what is. 

Though it's not that simple. Out of curiosity, I went back and changed a single answer I wasn't sure about. I got Hufflepuff. I found a more comprehensive test  - go on, you know you want to - and found that most of my answers were split evenly between the two. But I did have a silght preference for Ravenclaw. This matches the more traditional personality results I got years ago - melancholic-phlegmatic - so I wasn't really surprised.

Amusingly, what must have tipped me over the edge was the question asking what House you'd want, added specifically for borderline types like Harry himself. I got Ravenclaw because I chose Ravenclaw. That's fine with me. What did I just say about our choices defining us? Harry chose not to be in Slytherin, after all.

Legends and Awakenings

I might have mentioned before that I'm not really into movies. You could count the number of times I've been to cinemas in the past year on - *counts briefly* - two hands. Drat. I was going for one.

But come December, I am absolutely, positively, without question, watching this. 

Yes. I am a fan.

Albeit an odd sort of fan, I guess, in that I don't care about the source material. I have no strong feelings about the much-maligned prequel trilogy. And I've always viewed the original trilogy along the same lines as The Lord of the Rings. It's a great story, hugely influential. But it didn't exactly change my life.

What really drew me in was the Expanded Universe.

If you've never heard of it, the EU referred to the comics, video games, TV shows and (in my case) books set within the Star Wars universe before, during and especially after the movies. George Lucas was pretty cool about other storytellers running around his galaxy far, far away. He gave them his blessing, with the understanding that no story within the EU was allowed to contradict any other story - or the movies, of course - thus creating a vast continuity.

Well, maybe 'understanding' isn't the right word. There was a grading system for levels of canon, with the movies at the top. There were people whose jobs were to screen out inconsistencies. Lucasfilm took this stuff very, very seriously.

Noticed how I keep using the past tense?

Prior to the release of the prequel trilogy - which he was planning - George Lucas banned any content regarding the origins of Darth Vader and the rise of the Empire. This meant that much of the EU took place after the movies. It wove a long, epic yarn of the Rebels consolidating into a New Republic that faced off against the remnants of the Empire, a massive extragalactic alien invasion, and the odd wielder of the Dark Side. Leia became a prominent politician, married Han and had Force-wielding kids. Luke successfully rebuilt the Jedi Order. He had a son.

Lucasfilm allowed it all. In the absence of more movies, this future was canon. Only now they're making more movies - and it's no longer canon.

So they killed it.

All right, all right. They froze it. The entirety of the Expanded Universe has been rebranded as Star Wars Legends. It still exists - but only as fan-fiction. The new movies are the new future.

And you have to admit...the future looks kind of bleak. The Empire is now the First Order. The Rebellion has become the Resistance. But what's changed, really? Thirty years later, and they're still fighting for control of the galaxy. The Jedi are still a myth. Our protagonists are again starting out on a barren desert planet.

I wouldn't be surprised if the writers were intentionally mimicking the first movie. Even the new villain seems like a younger Darth Vader. They both use assumed names. 

Not that we know much about the story itself - the secrecy in that regard has been immense. The two main characters, the scavenger girl and the ex-stormtrooper? We're given their first names only. The fact that Luke is mysteriously absent from the trailers has led to wild rumours that he's now on the Dark Side. You can't help wondering if the movie is going to live up to all the hype.

But then, I suppose many would find my lack of faith disturbing.

I still feel a pang at the loss of the old continuity. But I'm willing to give this new one a shot. We can only hope the Force is with it. 

For the record, I think Kylo Ren is either Luke or Leia's son.

 Maybe I'm wrong. But if I'm right - 

*smirks*

I called it.

Wraithblade

And I'm back.

I know I haven't posted anything for a while. But I guarantee this was worth the wait. 

*wipes away self-satisfied grin*

After getting some perspective on my first story, I started thinking of things I could change, cut, rearrange and improve. I had a lot of ideas. But it would take a lot of work. And objectivity. And right now, I just don't have the energy for it.

There is still a good story in there. But the amount of effort needed to draw it out...

I remember reading an interview between Brandon Sanderson and Patrick Rothfuss. Both are wildly successful fantasy authors who've done just this, spending years and years reworking their first projects into publishable material.* They compared writing a new book to building a house from scratch.

Writing The Story, they said, was like building a house out of another house.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

Instead I decided to take the experts' advice, and go write something else first.

This is an idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a few years, always intending to write it someday. That someday is now. And you know what? The experience I got from working on my first story, which I mentioned so gloomily before - it's really helped.

So far I've gotten great reviews from beta readers. Not to say there weren't flaws to be found, of course there were. But the overall response has been positive. The best comment I got was someone saying they felt like they'd 'fallen into a genuinely new world for a change'. That made my day.

And then I realized the best way to get people to read this would be to put it up here. I'm posting this partly to show off - hey, at least I admit it - but also because I do want feedback. Say something in the comments! 

Or get back to me some other way if you actually know who I am.

The first chapter only, mind you. Here's your free sample. Buy the book when it's ready.

All right, all right. Without further ado, here's the beginning of something I'm tentatively calling 'Wraithblade'.

*I just finished The Wise Man's Fear a few weeks ago, and yes, Rothfuss is that good.

***

The sunrise burned him.

That faded as the light grew. Imagine your skin stinging the entire day. No wonder shades preferred darkness. Aeron shifted where he sat cross-legged on the rooftop. The city lay golden below.

He remembered not being so sensitive. It had been cold that bothered him then. He was slender, always had been. A spring breeze used to cut like a blade. Now the cold was natural. The warmth was not – but Aeron could pretend it was.

It was why he liked to watch the sunrise.

He let his eyes slip close, savoring the heat, feeling his death approaching.

He’s here.

A shadow fell over him.

Aeron’s eyes snapped open.

A skeletal figure in ragged green hung in the sunlight. The skull, trailing strands of yellow hair, was intimately close. Scattered bits of flesh and sinew still clung to bone. Her lower half was submerged in the tiles as though she’d risen through the rooftop. No doubt she had. 

Where? Aeron asked.

Below. A bony hand pointed. Only a few others in the street.

Good. We’ll surround him, like always.

I know, Aeron.

Aeron smiled as he stood. Sorry, Star.

His morning star. She rose, slowly. The remains of her dress and hair floated in the wind of the half-world. Her skeletal feet still dipped into the tiles, so Aeron remained an inch taller. She did that for him. Maybe it was a way to cling to the life they’d lost.

Aeron stepped over to the rooftop’s edge. They were in the heart of the city. Magewrought buildings, like the one he stood on, towered everywhere. Istara drifted after him. Together, they looked down at the street hundreds of feet below. 

Aeron saw only dots from this height. The moving one?

The bleeding one.

Aeron looked at her sideways. Shades gathered for lifeblood spilled. His teachers hadn’t been entirely wrong. From what?

The skull turned, sunlight pouring into empty sockets. He was attacked by thieves.

You watched? 

I waited for you.

Aeron nodded. She was stronger than other shades, but blood could still affect her.

The southwest end?

Yes. Star – He turned to face her. What was there to say? Be careful.

She floated there a moment longer, not speaking. Then she flickered, making that eerie ripping noise, and vanished.

Aeron breathed in the musty smell of old bones. He never mentioned that, knowing how she’d react. Did she hate him for it? For all of it? He’d never dared to ask.

He breathed out, slowly, and stepped off the edge of the rooftop.

The street rushed up with exhilarating speed. Wind whistled in his ears, battered his face and hands, pressed his clothes to his skin. Once, doing this had terrified him.

Aeron called up the half-world. His fall slowed, the golden sunlight fading against a white mist that darkened buildings but revealed vague figures floating all around. Some followed as he drifted down. Aeron had time to watch them coming, familiar as old friends. Perhaps a few really were.

He snapped back to the living world and dropped the last ten feet, hitting the paved street in a crouch. The few people in this street at dawn gasped, pulled back, the usual reactions. Aeron straightened facing his quarry, who stared, one hand pressed to his bloodstained shirt.

Aeron smiled as the man recognized him. He gave a cry and ran back the way he’d come. Aeron called back the mists.

The passersby – and his quarry – faded to near-invisibility. Their movements slowed, the man running through water. Aeron ran too. Time moved slower in the half-world. He could have walked, but for the shades. They followed faster now. They smelled blood.

Right behind the running silhouette, Aeron burst back to the sunlight – and the man threw himself sideways. 

Aeron frowned, watching the man race down a dark alley. He shouldn’t have felt Aeron coming. Unless…

He reached out. The sunburst halves on the back of his hand flared white as he twisted the mists through the veil. They touched the man and unraveled into nothing.

Aeron grunted and ran on. Of course he had Vowsteel. Who didn’t these days? There was shouting up ahead. Istara, no doubt.

His quarry turned a corner, and Aeron entered the mists again, sprinting down the brightened alley. The shades didn’t drift to him now. They flew. Shades weren’t predators, but running prey excited them nonetheless. Aeron turned the same corner, spotted the right silhouette not far up the sloping street. The only silhouette. This street was deserted.

After leaving now, he couldn’t afford to enter the half-world again so soon. The shades would be waiting for him.

No other choice, then. Still running, Aeron pulled a glass dagger from his belt and threw it. 

The shades swirled down around him with whispered screams, just as Aeron banished the mists.

Time moved faster in the living world.

The thrown blade blurred forwards, just missing the man’s thigh. He flinched as it shattered in the street before him, and ran faster.

Aeron swore and kept going. But he was tired now. His legs were stiff with weariness. The man’s lead was growing.

Until he pulled up short before Istara, floating in the street a head above him.

With a frantic glance at Aeron, the man pulled out a Vowsteel dagger, the golden runes on the blade gleaming in the shadows. He straightened with visible effort, brandishing the weapon. “You can’t touch me, shade!”

Her skull tilted to one side, an expression Aeron remembered well.

The man shouted and charged her.

Her arm snapped down and seized his throat with bony fingers, squeezing until he dropped the dagger.

The skull turned as Aeron staggered up, breathing hard. Your aim needs work.

I was trying to graze him, he grumbled. He could feel her amusement. We need answers, remember?

Of course.

“I-I won’t –” Their quarry was choking, scrabbling at her grip. 

Aeron considered him. He glanced to Istara. She let the man collapse in the street, where he struggled to his knees. He was quite pale now. Fear, exertion, blood loss?

Aeron grabbed the man’s hair, picked up the dagger and laid it against his freshly bruised throat. 

“Hello, Janis,” Aeron murmured. “Remember me?” He leaned down, smiled. “Remember her?”

Janis stared at him, then at Istara. His eyes bulged.

“Blood of the mother, you brought her back?”

Aeron didn’t answer, straightening. The shouts he’d been hearing were growing closer, as were the running boots. A lot of them. Guardsmen in red tabards streamed from the alleys and side-streets.

“Blood of the mother indeed,” Aeron said under his breath as their little reunion was surrounded.

“Release him, Halflight!” 

“Banish that shade!”

“Don’t even think about the half-world!”

That last made him snort. How could you not think about it? Still keeping Janis’s throat cold, Aeron glanced around at the ring of spears leveled at them. Vowsteel, of course; a golden rune on every head. The ruler of this city-state kept his guards well-armed. But their number and timing was suspicious.

Were they expecting us? He asked Istara.

Another mage, maybe?

Hmm. Rulers – the smarter ones, at least – often kept advisors from the guilds. Just his luck there’d be another Halflight around to sense him. He should have been more careful.

Aeron cleared his throat. “This man is a murderer! He was witnessed killing –” 

How many? 

If Star still had eyes, she’d be rolling them. Two.

“Two innocents! Somewhere that way, follow the blood. I’ve done you a service by catching him.”

“What?” Janis squeaked. “They attacked me!”

“The witness says otherwise.” 

“You bastard!”

“How dare you! I was born after the marriage.”

“Enough!” A guard in a more elaborate tunic snapped. “You think this a game, mage? The guilds serve our laws in Ringall! You attacked him, and summoning shades is forbidden. I could kill you right here.”

“Yet you haven’t, Captain."

“Lieutenant.” The man glowered at him. “Halflight Cerus has requested you be turned over to your own.”

“Wonderful.” You were right, Star.

Aren’t I always?

“As long as you cooperate,” the lieutenant added. “I said I could kill you, mage. Release the hostage. Banish the shade. And maybe you’ll come out of this alive.”

With a show of reluctance, Aeron dropped the dagger and stepped back. Janis stood, rubbing his throat and glaring at Aeron. He made to pick up the dagger, then hastily raised both hands as a spear was thrust at him. Aeron shook his head. Idiot.

“Bring him along, find out why the mage wanted him. Not now,” the lieutenant grated, as Janis began to speak. “Try not to let him bleed out on the way.” The man pointed to Istara, still floating a head above them all. “The shade, Halflight.”

The guards had to point their spears up at her. They flinched as she turned to the lieutenant, who dropped his hand a little too quickly. Everyone knew shades could hold grudges. Aeron looked to her. All right, Star?

I’m here if you need me.

I know.

Aeron held up a hand with its black sunburst halves for all to see. They flared white as he touched the half-world. Istara turned translucent, than disappeared completely.

One of the guards spat. “Faders.”

Aeron smirked at the epithet. “Shall we go, gentlemen?”

“Bind their hands,” the lieutenant snapped. “Both of them.”

Aeron smiled at Janis, who glared back as their hands were locked into Vowsteel manacles. Janis too, though his hands were unmarked. The guards were taking no chances. Aeron’s bonds tingled. For now, he was cut off from the half-world. 

They were prodded down the street. One of the guards took the dagger. Vowsteel was expensive. He wondered how Janis had gotten it. Stolen, probably. 

That went well, Istara whispered to him.

Didn’t it? 

They were led through the sunlit city streets into the Ariant Palace, seat of the king, guarded by the heaviest defenses in the city. It was a fortress in itself, but Aeron had seen larger fortresses.

Casually, he looked around as they passed through corridors furnished with intricate tapestries, colorful tiles underfoot and faded banners overhead. He watched as Janis was taken down a different hallway.

“Don’t get any ideas, Halflight,” a guard muttered.

“I’m getting some right now.” Aeron raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to know what I’ll do to you after I escape?”

You won’t even remember his face, Istara murmured.

How did you know?

The guard stiffened just a little. “You’re not going anywhere, mage.”

“I admire dead men with optimism.”

Another guard snorted. “Shades, Bar, the guild’ll cage him like any other. Don’t let him get to you.”

A third shook his head. “There’s something odd about this one. The way he moves, maybe.”

Aeron suppressed a smirk. “We could dance, guardsman. With blades. You’d see how I move then.”

“You want a blade right now, you little –”

“Shut up, all of you!” The lieutenant snapped.

They’d reached an ornate pair of doors as wide as the corridor. The lieutenant knocked, and a panel slid open for him to murmur through. Aeron stood straighter, adjusted his coat, ran a hand through his hair. Some magi thought they could impress while looking like beggars. Aeron wasn’t one of them. The guards eyed him as the doors were pulled open from within.

The throne room was underwhelming, in all honesty. Once he’d have been impressed. But the Council of Dawn sat in chambers vast enough for a shout at one end to be a murmur at the other. This was closer to a councilor’s bedroom. 

Aeron’s escort spread out around him, blocking the doors and watching him like the threat he was. They were, he admitted, well-trained. 

The bearded man on the throne leaned forward, the banner of the Ebon Hawk on red at his back. “This is your renegade, Cerus?”

“I believe so, Majesty,” said another, thin and greying, one of several who stood beside the dais. “He is older now, but –”

“I am Aeron Cale, Majesty.” Aeron sketched a bow. “It is true that the guild has branded me a renegade.”

“You will cooperate, then?” Cerus looked satisfied.

“Not at all. I simply believe in civilities.” Aeron turned to the advisor. “Have we met?”

“I was one of your teachers,” the man hissed.

“Your lessons made no impression, then.”

While the older mage sputtered, Aeron and the king studied one another. He knew nothing about King Gared besides his name, but the fact he had at least one mage advisor was a good sign.

Yet only one. None of the others standing around were Marked that he could see. Curious. From all the runed weaponry, he’d at least expected one of the Avowed.

The king sat back. “Why did you just attack a man in broad daylight, Aeron Cale?”

“I wished to speak with him, Majesty. Janis was the one who ran.”

“You know each other, then.”

“He knows me.”

Cerus finally got his wind back. “Trust nothing he says, Majesty. Aeron Cale is wanted for five murders in four cities. This would have been the sixth.”

“I did not kill them.” Aeron glared at the mage. “Someone wants to stop me finding leads. Who else but the true murderer?”

“You are the murderer, Cale.” The older Halflight grimaced. “You seek only a twisted revenge.”

“Justice!”

The king looked curious. “What does he mean, Cerus?” 

The other mage made an exasperated noise. “Almost two years ago the entire Lukayne family, a minor noble house to the north, died in a fire. A tragedy, to be sure. Cale here was well-acquainted with the third daughter.” Cerus cleared his throat. “They were betrothed, I understand.”

Aeron’s insides writhed, remembering. Istara remained silent.

“Afterwards – we only learned later on, of course – he started delving into darker paths. The darkest, really. He was trying to bring the dead back to life. 

“It was learned he’d begun summoning shades. The girl’s grave was found desecrated before he fled. We still don’t know what he did with the body. He sent messages to the guild, spouted the same nonsense in various encounters. That the family was murdered, and now he hunts their killers. It was lucky we finally tracked him here. Majesty, the man is mad.”

Maintaining his composure with difficulty, Aeron spoke on the advisor’s heels. “Majesty, they were murdered. The fire was meant to destroy the evidence.”

Cerus shook his head. “You wished to see him, Majesty, and you have. Allow me to take him away. It is a waste, truly. Aeron Cale was once among our most promising students, but now –”

“Enough.”

The entire room flinched. Aeron glanced over his shoulder as Istara became visible once more, floating above them all. 

“I am Istara Lukayne.”

He couldn’t help a twinge of sadness. Speaking aloud wasn’t natural for her, not anymore. Her voice was hollow, distorted. But it was still her voice. Almost, he could pretend she still lived.

“My family was murdered. We were butchered in our own home. If my love had not brought me back, no one would have ever known. Yet still you refuse to believe.”

Most were transfixed. Cerus had the presence of mind to cast him a suspicious glance. Aeron lifted his fettered hands, showing the black sunbursts – he wasn’t doing anything. 

“I don’t know who did it. I don’t know why. But I will find them and make them suffer.” 

Amid gasps and cries, she swooped down to hover before the old Halflight. To his credit, he took but a single step back.

“You were half right, advisor. Aeron wants justice. But I want revenge.”

In the silence that followed, Istara floated backwards until she was beside Aeron. The guards were especially pale. No doubt they’d be blamed. He felt a little guilty at that. They couldn’t have known she could turn invisible.

“This is an abomination,” the advisor whispered. “An insult to her memory.”

“But do you concede –” Aeron bit off the word. “That she was murdered?”

“Shades can be manipulated,” Cerus snapped. “This – this thing you’ve made of her simply mirrors your madness. It proves nothing.”

In the corner of his eye, Aeron saw Istara flexing bony fingers as though thinking of strangling the man. He didn’t blame her.

Easy, Star. We had to try. 

It was the only reason he’d put up with this for so long. If they could convince even a minor king, or at least another Halflight…

This was a waste of time, Istara hissed.

With a deep breath, the old mage turned to the king. “Majesty, I apologize that you should see this monstrosity. It should never have been created.”

I know, Aeron thought to himself. He’d thought he could cheat death itself. When he saw what he’d done to her instead…

Though he missed the king’s response, Aeron saw the advisor turn and advance on Istara. 

Aeron smirked. “Try it.”

Cerus glared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Try to banish her.”

The older mage made no reply. Cerus raised a liver-spotted hand that bore its own split sunburst. The halves flared white. Aeron watched him twisting the mist-light around Istara, trying to force her to the other side – only they three could see it. He felt a strange mix of amusement and melancholy. 

Cerus’s brow wrinkled. He raised his other hand.

Minutes passed. King Gared shifted on the throne, his courtiers whispering to each another. Even the guards encircling Aeron and Star began frowning. Istara ignored them all, her eyeless gaze fixed on the mage below her. He was sweating.

“Are you done yet?” Her voice was mocking.

The advisor lowered his hands at last, the glow fading. He was panting.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aeron to hear. “Those bones can’t bind her here. Souls need a living link…”

“Indeed,” Aeron murmured.

The old man pointed a shaking finger at him. “What have you done here, boy?”

“What I set out to do, advisor.”

Aeron felt Istara move to float at his back, close enough for an embrace. The king leaned forward, frowning. The courtiers looked horrified, the guards perturbed. Had any seen what she’d done to Janis? Either way, Cerus had proved Istara was more than a shade. And Aeron supposed he was more than a mage.

Normally, the touch of a shade was death – but not for him. Not anymore. 

Not yet.

Ready, love? Istara whispered.

Ready, Star.

Aeron gave a bitter smile. “I brought the dead back to life.”

He saw skeletal hands rising at his sides.

Cerus’s expression tightened in understanding. “Stop the sh-!”

Istara thrust both hands into Aeron’s. His blood turned to ice water; it would feel like fire to her. Aeron gritted his teeth. Istara screamed. Through the pain, he was aware of people flinching away from them. The runes on his manacles turned black as Istara pulled with unnatural strength. 

The Vowsteel shattered.

Istara jerked free of him and vanished.

Still catching his breath, flexing warmth back into his fingers, Aeron spread his hands. His sunbursts glowed white. Cerus had his hands up, but his own flickered after burning his strength on Istara. King Gared shouted for the guards to attack. 

Aeron smiled around the room. The king was on his feet, the courtiers falling over themselves in terror, the ring of Vowsteel spears converging on him.

He called on the half-world and dropped through the floor.

Random Thoughts

Because I'm too lazy busy to write out one of my longer articles, I'm just posting about various media currently running through my mind, for the amusement and edification of yours. No thanks are needed. I live to entertain.

A cousin of mine once said the desire to entertain runs in our family. In the guys, at least. It strikes me that this might actually be true.

Anyway, first off: Inside Out. The new Disney movie? I was quite surprised how much I enjoyed it. In contrast to the happily-ever-afters of yore, Disney/Pixar are now trying for more realistic themes in their animation. E.g. Frozen, though that movie was aimed more towards girls. Inside Out's final insight about the nature of emotions is universal - and I didn't see it coming. I recommend it. 

If you're going to tell me cartoons are for kids, (1) you have no soul. And (2), not when they're as smart as this.

Second: Scott Lynch. Not one of the biggest names in fantasy fiction, but an excellent writer whose breakout novel took the fantasy world by storm. I was blown away by said novel, I own the second and I still haven't gotten my hands on the third. The man is an inspiration. And a fellow gamer, no less. 

So I was quite surprised to learn he's been struggling with clinical depression for years - and makes no secret of this. It made me realize a couple things. One is that this illness can strike just about anyone. 

The other is that I have never reached the depths of the truly depressed. I mean, I've had episodes. I know what an anxiety attack feels like. But I always bounce back. To struggle to even get out of bed in the way he describes...I can barely imagine it. I guess my mental health is in order.

On the impossibly remote chance he's reading this, for what it's worth, I offer Mr Lynch my support.

Third: I was looking up rising stars in fantasy today and came across Ken Liu's The Grace of Kings, an epic based on ancient Chinese history. Looks interesting, no? It turns out he was already on the rise well before this. He was the first author to win the Hugo, Nebula and World Fantasy awards for the same story. 

That's kind of a big deal.

This is that story. 

Go on. It's free. 'Paper Menagerie' brought tears to my eyes, and made me think of my mother. 

And finally: All Time Low's 'Missing You'. This is not their usual style, which might even increase the impact. I like the band, and I love this song. 

Uncomfortable Truths

A few days ago I let a new friend read the first part of my fantasy story. She doesn't really read fantasy, but she was interested, and I was curious about what someone who isn't a fan might say. Besides. I thought it was pretty good, if I did say so myself.

You can probably tell where this is going.

She went to great lengths to praise my imagination, and my writing skill in and of itself. Not many people can do this, she said, which is true enough. She even apologized a day later for being brutally honest.

But she thought the description undercut the action, the characters were unmemorable and that the story was kind of cliché.

Ouch.

After some thought, I decided she was right about the description. The solution there was simple: excision and concision. Cut more and write less. Maybe I didn't make the main characters distinctive enough - that's debatable. But it's not like they stay the same anyway. The story changes them. That's what's supposed to happen. And about the story being cliché...

Okay. That one's spot on. 

My story used to have elves in it. I cut those because they were cliché. But after doing some research, I realize there are still a lot more clichés that I either didn't recognize, or had convinced myself could be allowed to slip by because of the story's brilliance overall.

Uh, yeah. Probably not gonna happen.

I'm already putting together a plan to address this. I'm cutting my prologue, for instance. That hurts. The whole point of the thing was to set up a major plot twist around two-thirds of the way through. But it's more important for people to want to read the book in the first place. That's less likely if they open the first page to yet another prologue set xxx years before the main storyline, at the end of which, you guessed it, the POV character dies.

It's not so much that I got a bad review. It's that I got a bad review that was right. My story isn't as good as I thought it was. I'm not the first person to overestimate the quality of their work. I certainly won't be the last. 

But my faith, such as it is, is shaken.

See...I don't have a lot of dreams.

Aspirations, I should say. I am neither driven nor ambitious. I admire people with vivid dreams, and the talent and willpower to accomplish them. But I myself have only two.

One of those I'll keep to myself, thank you very much. We all have our secrets. And the other one you should have guessed by now.

It's to be a successful author.

But in order to succeed, all dreams require a dose of reality.

I've mentioned before that I was inspired to do this by the Wheel of Time. But that series began almost thirty years ago. By today's standards, it is very, very cliché. A few of those I vowed long ago to never use. I will never write prophecies, for instance. My hero is not the Chosen One. There will be absolutely no wise old wizards.

But what about the perfect best friend? The enchanted sword? The fact that I was considering playing up my hero's parentage?

It's hard to be imaginative these days.

Of course, literary success can be fickle. A very, very few books become famous, from the well-deserved - Harry Potter; to the undeserved - Twilight; to the 'Oh my God, how did this become popular?' - Fifty Shades of Grey. 

What many people don't realize is, beneath these few bright stars toil multitudes in obscurity.

Conservative estimates put the number of unpublished writers either writing or trying to publish their first novel at over 250,000 in the United States alone. Ignoring the odds is crucial. The people who say 'f*** it' and do it anyway are the ones who succeed, because they persevere.

But there's a difference between being smart, or just stubborn. Some authors advise not even trying to sell your first novel because it's your dream book, the one that got you started. The logic is that all that effort and emotion renders you blind to its flaws.  

And you can't afford to be blind in this industry - because it is an industry. For all the love you've poured into it, you're creating a product here. It has to be fresh, intriguing, able to stand against all that competition. It has to be marketable.

Which means removing any element, no matter how beloved, that won't sell. You need to be ruthless. Murder your darlings.

What's annoying is that I already did. I finished my first draft ages ago, let it sit for a year, went back and realized it sucked. So I started over. I made changes. Now I see that wasn't good enough; I need to make more changes. There isn't any way around that. 

Either that or take whatever experience I've gleaned from this, the book of my dreams, and go write something else.

It's things like this that make me want to just give up in frustration. Unfortunately, that's normal. Writing is frustrating. 

*sighs* Okay, rant over. Time to start editing.

Time to get back to work.