E-Published, Print-Published, Unpublished–The Effort Deserves Respect

There are some individuals (and yes, groups and segments, as well) of the writing world/authorial collective who do not view e-publication as a legitimate enterprise.  The mindset of such is that nothing short of traditional print on paper is worthy of acknowledgment or—tell me it ain’t so, Joe!—of even being read!  After all, how can pixels compare to ink blots?  How can the potential of being accessible to the entire world on Internet possibly compare to being accessible on metal shelves in a book store or library to a finite number of people?  [I  audaciously believe that a goodly number of folks who "surf" on Internet have a better chance of discovering/stumbling upon/perusing ebook sites than folks afoot have of entering a book store or library if they do not, under normal circumstances, select to enter such establishments.]

It’s true that in most e-publish situations the writer will not garner a huge monetary compensation for their efforts, at least not early on.  After all, the e-pub route doesn’t (as pointed out in a recent RWR editorial that was for all purposes rather critical of e-publishing) offer advances against future sales.  E-pubbed folks, instead, get a piece of the action in royalties given at higher percentages than the average print-pubbed.  T’is true, most ebooks, which tend to sell at lower prices than the print-books (well hey, paper and manual distribution are costly factors) don’t gain as much for the author (unless it is an already known and established author with a fan base, and oft times one whose book is already print-published as well).  However, if the book of a not-yet-established author picks up enough readers, and that author is prolific, in time that writer could earn a comfortable amount.  A few such authors have managed to earn admirable amounts quickly because their work has attracted buzz/fans/happy readers.   In several cases, authors who could not previously manage to obtain a contract with a print publisher, did so after their ebooks become popular.  Others may not earn much for some time, but later—via perseverance and excellent writing—begin to gain a fan base that supports their ebook work.  And yet others may never make much off their ebooks because either their work just doesn’t gain any fans, or they never manage to hook into the marketing strategy necessary to draw attention to it. 

No matter the resultant success—or lack thereof—my personal opinion is that the worth of a writer’s efforts should not be disregarded based on the mode of publication.  There are plenty of print-published authors that have not lasted beyond a book or two published due to either an inability to gain a readership, or to changes in the publishing house that no longer wants their particular style or genre or subject matter.  There are some writers who have had a number of books published that, in my humble opinion (and this is a matter of personal taste, which we are allowed to have) should not be published.  Being published is a matter of timing, talent, perseverance, and a sizable dollop of luck.  Some deserving writers may never find a fit with an editor or publishing house, but these days the potential for self-publishing is not to be sneezed at. 

The point to it—which I touched on in my earlier blog “To EBook or Not to EBook, That is the Question”—is that what  all writers and publishers strive to generate are good stories, fun reads, escapism in the form of romance, mystery, thrills, horror, sex, fantasy, or whatever your preference.  Everyone wants to make a profit, of course, particularly publishers, and every author would love that as an end result of their long effort.  But the method of presentation itself  (print or digital) should not be important when it comes to respecting those efforts.  The writing, creativity, and imagination—ergo the work of an author—should never be considered of lesser quality for the sake of how it is eventually published.  I speak of the ’sneer factor’, the ‘judgement issue’, the ‘down the nose dynamic’  that tends to creep into attitudes…ah, did I mention the comments by the President of RWA that indicated e-published writers are not serious authors because they aren’t making a specific amount of cash flow from their work.

Geezzz–and here I thought that the hours…and hours…and hours of work required to develop a story, research the details, draft the story, rewrite/edit the story, try to market, sell and promote the book (if/when sold) is a totally  serious effort!  Did I miss something?  Misunderstand the concept/definition/meaning of serious?   I’ve never been comfortable with the attitude of the large established writing organizations that base acceptance on the cash flow generated by an author’s work and on specific ‘qualifying’ markets.  RWA tends to suffer from that unpleasant attitude, as does the Writers Guild of America and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.  S’not that I don’t agree with the idea of aspiring to success and standards of excellence, but there is a rather elitist quality to standards that disallow the participation of so many persons striving for success.  At least RWA allows you to join and learn the craft whether you’re published or not, with published writers helping the unpublished writers.  That’s the best way to develop writers and books for future generations.  Still, wouldn’t it be nice if e-publishing in this technologically advancing world was accepted with grace by an otherwise generous organization?  The Writers Guild and SFFW, however, don’t even allow one to join them in order to learn…a somewhat self defeating approach…but as a e-published author with a very small sales history I suppose my opinion is, well, unworthy of consideration.  

Ah, well, that is a whole other subject to be left for another time.

In this blog, I would ask that everyone in the authorial collective—be you a writer, publisher, or reader—take a hard look at your own attitude, and when judging the value of a written work don’t base that judgement on the method of publication.  Base it, rather, on the quality of the work (which you are free to develop from your own perspective), and the effort you know went into its creation.  Respect is a mind-set derived from logic cooked with a pinch of kindness and a little dab of generosity.  A very easy meal to make and swallow…

Peace, fellow writers.  Keep up the effort.           

And if you don’t already have an eBook Reader, check here (eBook Reader Central).  You may find one you like; it will open up a whole new wealth of stories to read/collect/enjoy.

Smile and the World Smiles With You!

I haven’t decided if this is a smirk or a genuine smile…and Katie isn’t commenting. No matter. She makes me laugh. Everyone should have that wonderful bit of happiness in their day!

To EBook or Not to EBook, That is the Question

In 1843, the Commissioner of the Patent Office, Mr. Henry L. Ellsworth, reported to Congress that: “The advancement of the arts  from year to year, taxes our credulity and seems to presage the arrival of that period when human improvement must end.”  [Note: This comment was later immortalized in myth, being misquoted with "Everything that can be invented, has been invented", at which time (the myth suggests)  the Commissioner was compelled to resign.  After all, if there were no more inventions requiring patents, a Commissioner would be unnecessary.]

 Truth or myth, the concept expressed is that mankind may actually reach a point of technological achievement beyond which there is nothing left to achieve.  I don’t know if that’s possible given the incredible capacity of the human imagination…the only true limits may lie in the limitations of the physical world, which operates within set parameters of physics and chemistry.  Anyway, I hope we don’t reach an end point any time soon.  At my age– and perhaps because of my age– I truly enjoy the marvels of  technology that keep expanding around us faster than a matron’s waistline after her girdle’s yanked off.  Many of the fascinating ’technicities’ (my own made up word, I hope) that wowed us  on Star Trek (the original one) some thirty plus years ago, actually exist now.  The communicators have warped into cell phones that seem to do everything but beam us up.  Computers can and do talk back (if programmed to do so, of course).  Virtual reality is virtually here!  And the greatest invention of all– a device by which a book lover can pack hundreds of books into one small space.  Forget the old cartoon where a tiny cube could open up into a gigantic house complete with furniture, I like the paperback sized piece of hardware that can open up into an entire library– and yet remain the size of a paperback novel!  This is a book lovers dream!

Don’t get me wrong, I still love real paper books– there’s a certain comfort in the texture of a page, the sound of its turning as you read.  The cool slick feel of the cover (if it’s a paperback) and weight of the words in hand.  I’ve used this analogy many times, but it suits so I’ll use it again– my room looks like that last scene in The Raiders of the Lost Arc,  but instead of crates stacked all over, it’s books (have a look at the picture at the top of this page).  Have I read all of them?  No, there are a few that await my attention, if I ever get the time.  I’ve always had a bad habit of buying more books while I still have unread ones waiting in the wings.  Can’t help myself.  I’m drawn to browse and I’ll always see a title that titillates, a cover that grabs my eye, the name of an author I can’t resist, so I add to the stacks in spite of that nagging little voice that says “Don’t do it!  You don’t have room.  What about the books you haven’t read?”  Anyway, I don’t see my personal Lost Arc menagerie shrinking any time soon.  However…

I love my ebook (eBook Reader Central). I can read it at night with the light out because the screen on which the words are revealed is my light.  I can carry this ‘hard-book’ anywhere, just like a paperback, and I do.  It is my bed book, my bathroom book, my read-at-lunch book, absolutely no different than the paper one.  The difference is, it is many books in one.  Literally.  I love the fact that when I’m reading a series (serious readers love duologies and trilogies and every kind of ”ologies’ there are), when I finish one book late at night and can’t possibly run out to buy the next one, I can go right online and buy and download it in a matter of minutes.  Oh, sure, I could just buy the whole series in one shot while I’m at the book store, but unlike some people my finances don’t really allow that.  At least not now that I’m on a debt management program.  And it’s far easier to restrain myself from grabbing too much at once when I know I can get that next book as soon as I’m done with the one I’m on.  Of course, if the next book hasn’t been published yet, I’m not going to get it any faster than any other reader.  But–oh, the joy!  If I want (and can) buy two or three or four books at a time, I can keep them on my ‘virtual’ bookshelf where they take up little space and don’t gather dust. 

The crux of the matter is this– I like both kinds of books, the physical print and the virtual.  After all, it isn’t the mechanics of the reading that are important, it’s the reading itself!  In the end, if one is logical and honest (or at least strives to be) it’s the storiesI love, not the manner of their presentation.   Is that not so with everyone?  I’ve been reading the debate between book lovers who love that paper weight– the smell, the feel, the tradition– of paper, and those who love the convenience and practicality of the ebook reader.  One proponent of the paper book even said they would never switch, and someone would have to pry their book from their cold, dead fingers.  Ummm…not a pleasant image.  And that had me asking myself, “Self, is it the book that reader loves, or the story in the book?”  I mean, if the book was there, beautifully bound and presented, but the pages were blank, would he/she be holding the thing?  If the screen on an ebook reader doesn’t display,  will it’s owner continue to stare at it, enthralled?  I’m not a rocket scientist, but I believe the answer to that is a resounding NO!

Which is why it is so interesting that the debate generates such passion.  [Ah, well, readers are passionate people.  Those who ingest words, which are thoughts and images galore, stuffing their brains with tales and knowledge, dreams and visions, yesterdays and tomorrows--how can they be other than bright and articulate and passionate?  After all, they've got the world in all its aspects tucked between their ears.]   If the whole purpose of reading is to learn, or escape, or enjoy, to immerse oneself in the real world that they wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to see, or revel in the excitement of an unreal world of romance or fantasy, of mystery or horror that a writer’s gift of  imagination provides, what matter the mode of its arrival?  Even acknowledging and admiring the passion evoked, I still have to wonder why such passion is devoted to the manner of presentation rather than the meat of the presentation?   Tradition, that has to be it.  People have great difficultly in changing traditions, the norm, what they are used to.

There were naysayers when television came on the scene– how could that possibly replace radio?  Who believed when the first computers came into use (those things were the size of an 18-wheeler!) that they would replace the tried and true, ever reliable typewriter?  Thank God those who wrestle with ‘technicities’ were able to shrink the suckers.  Now no one who uses a computer feels they could do without it.  Cell phones and related gadgets?  How could they be better than a solid connected land-line?  Ha!  They’re so much better they’re now like hand-held computers!  Most people (not all!) are leery of new fangled inventions and changes in the manner of how they do their daily activities.  For a reader, crawling into bed with a book is one of the traditions by which they live.  Guess what– I still crawl into bed with a book, and I, for one, couldn’t care less that I push a little button to turn the pages of the story rather than flip the page with my fingers.  But– there you go again.  I’m more concerned with the content of the message than the way the message is delivered.  But hey, to each his own.

For those who cannot live without the texture of the paper page, enjoy.  Just don’t snub the beauty of the virtual word.  It is neither unpleasant nor unwieldy.  Nor is it fattening or illegal.  The story/tale/sojourn into the magical land of imagination is every bit as vital and satisfying no matter how it manages to reach your eyes and, in turn, your brain.  I would be perfectly happy if someone could invent a way to read from a holograph–imagine words floating in the air right in front of your face, no matter what position you were in or where you were.  Wow!

Dream on…and read.

Write The Familiar That We May See It For The First Time

I had an uncle I never knew.  George Eugene Godsey was my Dad’s older brother (actually, he was the third of four sons, my Dad was the youngest).   Gene died in a plane crash, still a young man, at the very end of World War II.  I was born three years later.  When I was a teenager, my grandmother gave me one of my uncle’s favorite books, The Complete Works of Robert Service.  The book was published by Dodd Mead and Company (which operated from 1839 to 1990) and the various poems that appear in the book were copyrighted by them in 1907, 1909, 1912, 1916, and 1921.  Robert Service himself copyrighted the version I have in 1940 (Robert Service).  All of them are gone…my uncle, the publishing company, Robert Service, and the times in which they lived.  The words remain.

I love this book.  I love Robert Service’s poems both for the richness of rhyme and the wealth of substance.  He had a marvelous feeling for words, and used them to depict the characters and emotions of not only the folk who peopled his world, but of the various landscapes and societies that made them what they were.  He managed to express, most profoundly, his  feelings/demons/desires without blatant ‘emoting’.  Rather, he told stories in rhyme, at which he was a master.   He had a fluid, yet precise cadence, which few poets ever accomplish.  Because I love what he’s written, and I know my uncle Gene loved the same poems, I feel a connection with a man I never knew.  When I’m moved by certain verses, I wonder, Did he like this, too?  Did he laugh at the same lines that make me laugh, was he stirred where the beautiful descriptions pique my imagination? 

This is what books do…connect us across time.  Whether its a book of poetry or a novel (genre is unimportant), words and images that move some people in one generation, will move some people in another generation.  We share, after all, commonalities of human emotion, regardless of age, gender, race, or era.     But…back to Robert Service.  One year, when he was still a young man, he grew disenchanted with the city (he was living in Paris then) and decided to take a walking trip through the countryside.  The journey took him from grime to greenery, from hectic concrete streets to quiet meadows and industrious field laborers.  It re-freshened him only as fresh air and peaceful scenery and the perspective of conscientious workers who love the land, can.  All of it delighted him, and renewed something he had lost in the city.  In his own words: “The sense of wonder is strong in me again, the joy of looking at familiar things as if one were seeing them for the first time.”

That is what a good poet, a good novelist, a good story-teller does—allow the reader to see familiar things through different eyes, as if seeing them for the first time.  It is said that there are only ten basic stories to be told—or maybe that’s a dozen, I don’t remember.  The point being, there are only so many human conditions about which we can write, only so many story-lines to use.  It is the manner of telling that makes them different, the diverse characters, the twists in plot, the juicy settings.  A good poet/novelist/story-teller brings those familiar things/stories/conditions into fresh focus, provides us a new perspective, makes us believe we are seeing them for the first time.

Go forth, fellow writers, and wield your words with emotion, clarity, confidence and spontaneity.  Renew the world, and in the doing, re-freshen us.  You will then, indeed, span the generations.

Vulcan…not just an extraterrestrial with pointed ears and logic

The original Vulcan was the ancient Roman god of fire…

Various types of fantasy (historical, epic, light, dark) tales aren’t my only interest.  I like, as well, any color of blue, most colors of green, and rust.  I like mocha ice cream (with nuts), strongly like thick barbecued beef ribs, and sweet corn.  Not healthy… but Yum.  I very much like bright flowers packed into a yard (that crowded English garden look of delicious blooms squeezed into every nook and cranny), happy dogs, clever birds, cats when they’re playful, my writing critique group, reading, good movies, archaeology, laid-back people, well spoken folk, and discovering odd facts.  Odd in the sense of being sometimes fascinating, sometimes thrilling, sometimes even horrifying.   The kinds of facts that catch one’s attention for the sake of the chill they bring to the spine, or the grimace of dismay, or a heavy weight to the heart. 

Another of my ‘likes’ is geology.  Earth science.  Stratigraphy, the terrestrial tome of time, packed with fossils and petrifaction’s and immensely interesting shapes that depict environmental depositions and structural events, both major and minor.  I once studied micro-fossils and micro-facies, slanting a microscope enhanced view through slivers of rock as thin as gauze, as fragile as lace.  Every color depicted, every microscopic form, even the size and delineation of particles frozen immobile in those slivers spoke/ revealed/detailed a moment in time when some sea creature died or a slow current tickled and shifted the accumulated seafloor debris.  You would never guess looking on an exposure of massive limestone, pale gray and grainy, that millions upon millions of minuscule microfossils died to create it…

As much as I enjoy that subject, right now I want to talk about volcanoes, a far more dynamic and terrifying expression of geologic forces.  Volcanoes—the very name is derived from that ancient god who oversaw bright brimstone and hissing heat.  The details of their formation is a theme onto itself–the deep earth forces, crushing pressures, awesome temperature tantrums, the formation of minerals from whatever constituents are present at that specific location, at that specific time…if you like details down to the molecules, there’s a tale worth the knowing.  But it is the end result that most folks find fascinating, frightening, and incandescently gripping.  When a volcano erupts, the manner of its upsurge/outbreak/explosion depends on its location and, again, the constituents from which its internal anatomy derived.  But what it emits–ah–there’s the grind, the gruesome grist of  its allure.  Lava , steam, dust, ashes, toxic gases, and large rock fragments called volcanic bombs.  Viscous and gritty, gleaming and obfuscating, spew and chunk!  Burning, suffocating, lethal, crushing—human tragedy in the making.  Human history is weighty with statistics of that tragedy, some of those captivating facts that bring on the chill, the grimace, the weighted heart:

In 79 A.D., ash flow, a heated fury faster than a banshee’s howl, shot over the terrain from Mount Vesuvius like a Dragon’s angry breath, a smothering blanket that fell over the city of Pompeii.  Ashfall followed, dark, overwhelming, asphyxiating, to destroy an entire city.  Every living thing was encapsulated in a hot shroud that froze man and animal alike in grotesque yet almost artistic renditions of their death throes.  The eruption killed 3,360 souls.  In 1631, in the same town, mudflows and lava flows from Vesuvius killed 3,500 more people…which proves that in spite of what happens to our ancestors, most people don’t believe that volcanoes or disaster can –like lightning– strike twice in one spot. (Photo borrowed from About.com website).

It isn’t always fire and ash that cause the destruction.  Half way around the world, historical Japan suffered loss of life when volcanoes disrupted the seafloor and generated shockwaves that formed gigantic tsunami’s.  In 1640, a tsunami consumed 700 people in Komagatake, Japan.  In 1792,  14,300 died in Unzen, Japan when another huge tsunami roared up from the sea after a volcano collapsed.  Read about recent Tsunamis here.

The toll is constant and disturbing.  Ruiz, Colombia, 1985: 25,000 deaths from mudflows (all that heat melts snow; snow melt + soil = mud).  Great masses of mud!  Some of that same affect was seen when Mount Saint Helens blew up in 1980 right here in the United States. There are interesting details about this eruption at this site dedicated to Mt. Saint Helens.

Mount Pele, Martinique, 1902: over 29,000 lives taken due to hot ash flows. 

A tsunami produced from one of the mightest eruptions in historic times—Krakatau, Indonesia, 1883—resulted in the death of 36,417 people!   Think that’s horrible?  In 1815, at least 71,000 people died due to a volcanic eruption in Tambora, Indonesia.  It’s believe that 11,000–12,000 were actually killed directly by the eruption; the rest died from starvation when ash generated by that enormous explosion created global climate anomalies.  1816 is known as the “year without a summer” because temperature changes caused crop failures and the death of so many livestock, it resulted in the worst famine of the 19th century.

Those numbers make the less than 5,000 people who died in each of at least 15 other volcanic eruptions around the world over the last 500 years seem paltry in comparison.  Not to the people who died in them, or to the loved ones who grieved for them.  We should never allow statistics to diminish our humanity….

Volcanoes: powerful.  Absorbing.  Horrific.  Lethal.  Yet only a few of the earth’s billions of residents remember the unforgiving nature of, well, nature.  Those who would snub/ignore/be bored by history, are snubing, ignoring, and depriving themselves of the knowledge of people, disasters, places that should be remembered for, if nothing else, at least respect…and to keep us alert as to the potential deadly nature of the world we live in.

For writers, natural disasters are plump with potential stories about the people who struggled and survived.  Even fantasy writers can pull the horrific aspects of the violent natural world into the worlds they create–afterall, unless you’re writing about a magical land where the reality is subject to unnatural manipulations, the physical/chemical/ elemental basics of how your fantasy world/terrain/land works will be the same as the one we live in.  Use what is real to impact and enrich your stories…but do it with respect.

Hero of The Dragons’ Veil…OK, S’not Only ME!

Speaking of the Book…Galvistor discusses the lay of the land with one of his fellow characters.

My fellow Dragons and humans. For those who want to know more about the hero/champion/ lead of The Dragons’ Veil duology (No! I did not manage the substance of the tale without some aid) I have decided to introduce the human/male/man himself: Captain Breedyn Sol, First Captain of the Tarbaenian Army. The Captain has agreed to join me here on my blog, willing for my sake to be drawn away from his busy schedule. The Captain, you see, is now “Prince” Sol, having wed the Princess of Ambistron, my own patroness Princess Shaila. He stands to inherit/ accede to/take over her father’s throne, so no longer actually answers to the title Captain.

[Me] Thank you for your visit, Cap–that is, Prince Sol.

[Sol] I’m happy to oblige, Galvistor. It’s been awhile since we’ve had time to visit. How is your family?

[Me] Riastor is as lovely/exquisite/demanding as ever. Ah, what strength, litheness, grace of wing–!

[Sol] And your little dragonets, Sydostor and Runestar?

[Me] The beasts are not so little. They grow like weeds/wild plants/unscythed grain. At least they are no longer teething. I believe they are at the stage where it is safe for humans to interact with them.

[Sol] A good thing to know. My wife is eager to see more of them. So–what, specifically, did you wish to discuss?

[Me] I would like to hear more about your battles/fights/warrior skills. Particularly the manner of engagement against those nasty goats that continue to cause such havoc in our lands.

[Sol] The Borken? The half-men are nasty enough, hardly goats however. You already know much about them–”

[Me] Yes, but I wanted to hear about them from your lips/mouth/articulate tongue. You tell it so well, and s’not as if I’ve had that much interaction with the stinkers. Speak as if you are describing them for an–uh–ignorant listener.

[Sol] Very well. The Borken have no borders and infect all the Kingdoms like a pestilence. Until we learned about the caverns underlying Tarbaenia, they seemed to come from nowhere and go everywhere. The horde raids farms, scours fields of what little crops manage to grow–of course that was before the Veil faded and enriched the land and crops–and, worst of all, they are as likely to eat the human inhabitants as they are the stock. Damn–sorry–darn cannibals! As for fighting them, they don’t make real weapons of their own, just some primitive items constructed from whatever they find about. Most of their weapons are actually pilfered from our battlefields. Or they use their hard nails to rip a man’s flesh. The Borken usually fight unencumbered by armor, but the damn half-men are resilient. They take slices to the bone, but fight on until blood loss stops their hearts. Removing heads or limbs is the only means of stopping them. Nasty isn’t a strong enough term.

[Me] The Princess has told me that often you slip into a…what is it called? Madness? Fighting frenzy? The term escapes my mighty mind.

[Sol] You’re speaking of my ‘beserker state’. Blood madness is a close enough description. It comes over me sometimes in the heat of battle. Gives me incredible strength and speed–but it’s not a state I like to attain. I lose myself when it happens, lose my conscious connection to my surroundings. If I recall, that’s the very condition I was in when you swallowed me to bring me here to Isoladia.

[Me] Ah, well, a subject best passed over at this point…but, I do recall you had other reasons to dislike that condition? Situation. Mental fog.

[Sol] The blood lust is as much a burden after battle as it is a blessing when it turns the day. A few minutes of larger-than-life strength and killing ability give people expectations I’m usually hard put to fulfill under normal circumstances. I do not like to be taken as some sort of hero for the sheer sake of a moment of battle insanity. I always told Armon it was just a stress response. I didn’t like him or the men to give such an occurrence epic proportions. Of course, they always did it anyway. They still would if I was leading them as I used to.

[Me] But Capt–Prince Sol. Your reputation/status/standing precedes you at every turn. Now you’re helping to lead an entire Kingdom, and everyone views your deeds in epic terms. Did not King Harrimore determine that your capabilities as a warrior well suited you to your current position?

[Sol] I suppose. He had a most discomforting idea that only a man of violence could handle the violence that would infect Isoladia once the Veil failed. My background certainly encouraged him to view me in a more favorable light than he would have had that not occurred.

[Me] And the good King was right/correct/without fault for his insight, was he not? Why, you even brought improvements to Ambistron Castle. S’not as if the old architects/builders/ construction workers new anything about fortification.

[Sol] Indeed, the Castle was not a safe environment for the coming dangers. Oh, the stones of which it is built are strong enough, but strong construction means nothing without the proper configuration. Where I come from, the castle in its former state would be considered a palace. Beautiful, and a grand display of wealth and position, but not a fortification. I’ve seen tiny watch-keeps better built for war. We had to construct towers, big round ones to afford the flanking walls maximum firing fields for archers. The crenellations had to be altered to protect troops on the walls…let’s just say the whole affair required a good deal of redesign and renovation. Thank Ganyun it’s done and I can feel that Shaila and the coming babe are safe there.

[Me] S’good to know how you dote on the Princess.

[Sol] Dote? I’m not a man to dote! I love the woman, plain and simple.

[Me] Took you long enough to get to it.

[Sol] I had my reasons. I’m not about to discuss them in the here and now. Certainly not with a Dragon.

[Me] Why not? You discussed the details of your difficulties/complications/troubles with her when we drank Zacra in the Zacra storage cave. Why, you positively swilled your way to drunkenness for the sake of those difficulties!

[Sol] Swilled? You sorry excuse for a behemoth! I fell into a cask of the brew! Would have made a bull drunk. It certainly made you drunk. I’m the one who stumbled on you sprawled in that cave, singing at the top of your great billowing lungs like a stupefied sailor–!

[Me] We’ve covered the issues sufficiently. Thank you for dropping by, Captain. Time for such a busy man to return to his renovated Castle. See you soon…or not. Farewell. Adieu. Ciao.

[Me] Sniff. And that, my friends, concludes this session. I’ll let you know when another of my story companions is available for a visit. Next time I shall discuss our story with a less biased/Dragon prejudiced/touchy human.

The Fruits of the Labor…or…Eating the Words

That Dragon just has a way with what he says…here he goes again: 

Dragons do not eat words/written expressions/ visual statements. No substance to them, you know. At least not in the caloric/energy/joules sense. Oh, they are a ‘meaty’ matter, but not in the manner of beef, fowl, or fish. Nay. Rather we Dragons generate words. Our phenomenal minds create clever contextual concepts. Engender energetic expressions. Spawn spectacular seeds of stimulating speech. Ah, well, you get the gist.

Words come naturally, nowadays, to us Isoladian Dragons. I have no idea how the beasts derived in other lands/worlds/places of authorial imagination communicate. For most of them I anticipate growls, grunts and roars are most often the vocabulary of the day. One cannot visualize much conversation, let alone accomplishment, from that. But to each his/her/its own.

‘Tis any wonder I prefer Dragons with a flare for vocabulary? Lexicon? A glorious glossary of gab?

Such as that young Dragon who wings through Naomi Novik’s books, Temeraire. Her historical fantasies are incredible. Or the old codger of cinematic fame, who managed to talk his way onto the big screen/monitor/display in Dragonheart. Even better–Jo Walton’s Dragons in Tooth and Claw are chatty, intellectual, perfectly worthy beings who thrive in a world not unlike that in which humans dwell. Now there are Dragons worth their salt (not to be sprinkled on their words, which, of course, we have already determined are not eaten).
Ah, so…why do I discourse on wordy Dragons? Because I must point out that we Dragons are late arrivals to the marvels of language. Dialogue. Conversation. We speak, and subsequently write, because we remain enthralled by not only the process, but the wonder of the capacity/ability/ aptitude of the deed! The novelty has not yet worn off. Humans attained the skill so long ago, they no longer truly appreciate the miracle of it. Oral communication is a phenomenon in itself (at least it is for us; how would you like to manage verbalization’s via a hard length of jaw over a forked tongue and eventually through fangs?) I for one doubt you could manage it. We Dragons do because we’ve no option, and we possess stubbornness/ persistence/tenacity without equal. And–we love the endeavor, the mental connection, the ready, heady interplay of knowledge.

The written word, however, is even more splendid. The rendering of brainwaves in visual form upon parchment/papyrus/dinner napkins. The embodiment of thought in a physical shape. Vigorous verbs. Artful adjectives. Noble nouns. Squiggles that, when appropriately arranged, expose the wisdom of the ages. The exultation’s. Every soulful sentiment slipping out. The prettiness…and the pettiness.

I ask in all curiosity: do you write because you love words, or love words because you write? You have probably not given it due thought, any more than the chicken when asked to determine whether or not it preceded its egg/shell/ fertilized embryo! Perhaps because I am a Dragon I view the question from a more simplistic perspective than you more complex humans. For us it is the former rather than the latter. And the latter is not without worth because exercising your ability with words builds appreciation of those building blocks. Those structuring stones. Those edifying bricks of ideas. Oh, as a poetic Dragon would say: good, better, best, never let it rest, until the good is better, and the better best. Even a youngling human understands this!

The written word is not only the building block of ideas, but of civilizations. Those who love words, write. Those who write, love words–or will learn to. Ergo–if you love to write, then teach/impart/ gift those who lack the skill so that they, too, may taste/savor/relish the fruits of the laboring pen/quill/keyboard.

I speak of fruit metaphorically, of course. Remember–we do not eat the words! If you swallow them, spit them out. If you spit them out, then spread them about. Water with feelings. Fertilize with enthusiasm. Watch your garden grow: sentence, by paragraph, by page. Articles. Novels. Laws. Edicts. Libraries. Universities. Cities. The world.

Ah! The very thought makes my gullets growl! Or is that my brain, formulating scrumptious, succulent, yummy words?

Writing the Molecules…the Joy is in the Details

Much of the time when the Dragon says something worthy on His Site, I shall copy it over here.  After all, if he gets it right, why reinvent the wheel?  Or the Blog?  Thus says Galvistor:

This morning I shall discourse about Writing the Molecules…those tiny aspects of our perceptions that flesh the bones of the written word. First, I shall explain why these nuances/gradations of physical awareness are so important to a Dragon. Ah, I mean a writing Dragon.

As a Dragon I have remarkable, extraordinary, notable senses. No eyesight is keener. I can detect a gnat fluttering/flickering/flitting ‘mid blossoms and bumblebees a mile away. Indeed. Five thousand two hundred and eighty feet. Twice one thousand three hundred and twenty feet. Ha! Did I say keen? A telescope cannot match me for optical acuity. ‘Nough said.

My auditory organs are without peer. I am an acoustical wizard. I not only see the gnat, I hear it release the end result of its digestive process. Intestinal gases. Fart. And a tiny toot it is, little more than a minuscule gut groan. A sigh. A whimper. Yet my ears absorb the passing molecular tremble as if it were the great rage of St. Helens coughing pyroclastic chunks like hairballs. I hear everything. Dew dripping resounds like continental rifting in my notable ears. ‘Nough said.

And my nostrils–! Have ever a more admirable set of olfactory sensors deigned to exist? Not merely large, as befits a beast of my size and mass, but responsively receptive. Scent sympathetic. Sinus scrupulous. In less delicate terms–merely for the sake of clarification, you understand–I smell that tiny toot. ‘Nough said.

Not to mention, sense of touch. Tactile perception. You thought I had no keen sense of touch because my body is armor plated, my toe-tips clawed? Short of stripping off my scales, I do have my accessible spots, dear friends.

This confession is not to be shared with Gryphons or their detestable ilk! Thankfully, Gryphons cannot read. They’ve the brain-capacity of a kumquat, but you must not tell the stinkers. They’ve good memories, for all that a walnut would fill what passes for a cranial cavity. So…now that you have promised no loose lips, I will share this truth–there are four spots on my anatomy that are very sensitive to contact: my muzzle, that velvety area of prehensile upper lip and the soft spot between my nostrils; the tip of my tail; my forefoot pads (same as your palms), and my leg pits. You would call them arm pits, but even though I use my front legs with much the flexibility of the human arm, biologically speaking they must be referred to as ‘legs’. Ergo–leg pits. Front and back. Because this is–more or less–a ‘family friendly’ site, I exclude discussion of my–ahem–reproductive region. The details of that section remain under the sole proprietorship of my mate, Riastor.

However, back to tactile perception–did that gnat sit upon my muzzle, I could feel its gas pass. Assess its tiny legs tracking over my skin. My upper lip, foot-pads, and tail tip can detect soft, rough, smooth, irregular–well, you name it, I can feel it, with no less keenness than your own human fingertips.

Why do I list my sensory capabilities, you may ask? To point out that as a Writing Dragon, I have the same aptitude (superior, actually) as a human does to absorb/suck up/take in my surroundings. Therefore, I am well able to decipher the world with my body parts and describe/discuss/expound on it with gleeful intensity. I love what I see, hear, smell, and touch. So should the characters of whatever tale/story/yarn I pen. (Oh, very well. Excuse me! What my scribe pens for my clumsy claws.) In any case, All writers, I believe, should love these aspects of their characters. After all, are their characters not intended to be alive. Breathing, existing in the magical but viable realm of the imagination? Doesn’t a reader (you may correct me here if I am wrong…but a Dragon seldom is) want to read the reality? The reactive senses of the character moving through his/her/its story?

The details, my fellow writers–and readers who enjoy what we produce–I reiterate, are the fleshy draping upon the bones of the work. Would you have your character(s) perceived as mere skeletons stiffly sauntering about his/her/its world? Nay. Naynaynay! Mobilization requires muscles (I mention this my first book, The Dragons’ Veil). Muscles would wither without flesh to encase and succor them. And flesh reflects the world–is it not the aspect of the body most in contact with the world?

You see the wisdom? Insight? Acumen? If you would enrich your words, my fellow writers, and in turn enrich your imaginary worlds, then utilize every facet of the real world in which you dwell. Sight, sound, smell, touch–the north, east, south, and west of the compass of by which you guide yourself through whatever tale you are inspired to pen/type/dictate.

Drat! Speak of the devil/imp/mischievous sprite! What is that gnat doing on my muzzle? Off, annoying speck of insectal indolence, and take your tiny tootings with you.

The Dragon Speaks

The hero Dragon of my books is Galvistor.  He is a thousand years old, witty, verbose–and he insisted on having his own blog.  These days the darn Dragon is more prolific than I am.  So I have no problem with sharing this site with him on occasion.  The occasion that he has something worthwhile to say.   This is the day, so I’m going to plug him in.  If you would like to see his other ravings, go to http://thewritingdragon.blogspot.com.  Anyway, here’s what the Dragon is spouting about today.

The Title of this piece is KEEP THE SHINE.

Perhaps not everyone knows this…but a Dragon Shines. It’s the scales, you see. Bio-armor. Bony plates. Or–my personal favorite–horny overlaps. Where is your mind? Umph. Humans. I speak zoologically, of course! Horny, as in a “sheath of protein encasing bone”. A lovely hide, coat, cover of protein, hard as diamonds, smooth as ice, warm or cold depending on surrounding temperatures. Therein lies the Shine.

Ha! What that proteinaceous carapace does to light–! Why, it takes my Dragon breath away. Our sturdy but flexible exterior breaks light down. Splits the rays, if you will, parts the beams, reflects and skitters the particles over the surface, scatters them like sun on dancing water. S’not that we glow like a bulb, flicker like a torch, flare like a comet searing the night sky. Since it’s derived, generated, spawned by an external source over which we have no control (although, indeed, some Dragons think the sun and moon rise and set on them! Not moi, of course) the intensity varies, colors fluctuate. To look upon a Dragon, be it in strong or wan light, is to look upon a rainbow in motion. A multihued activity. A continuum of luminosity! No, Dragons aren’t multi-colored, but when light scampers about your form/shape/anatomy, a single color takes on many tints/tones/hues. A glorious profusion. Why, we’re as lovely as oil afloat on a puddle!

Dragon Shine, to put it succinctly, is without equal.

S’not to say that humans don’t Shine. Take heart, my human friends (and it is all about that chaotic organ, you know), you do, indeed, have Shine. However, you tend to be less overt, explicit, blatant than Dragonkind. Even though we Dragons carry fire inside, it is humans who can claim mastery of the internal glow. ‘Tis an entirely different kind of heat, you see. Ours derives from internal combustion, gaseous ignition, an incendiary explosion out of gullet and throat and jaws…your heat, however…well, it is less spectacular in display. But display it does. I have personally been exposed to this demonstration of inner human heat, fire…heart.

The human male (sometimes it is a female; let us not slight by gender), devoid of any hint of armor such as I bear, has been known to dash, hasten, scurry into the very jaws of ruinous flame (not, I must emphasize, a Dragon’s flame) to save a friend, a child. A stranger. A noble action, dear humans. Gracious. Decent. Humans have been known to fling themselves into icy/freezing/brrrrrr water to the same purpose. And don’t forget the warriors who thrust themselves between the sword/bullet/explosive and their fellow warriors to keep their companions alive. A Dragon can only shake his great head and marvel. After all, what other creature do you know who would do the same? Oh. Well, yes, on occasion dogs are known to do these things, but they, too, are generous creatures. And, yes, Dragons do these things, as well, but since there is no true danger (fire can’t harm us and haven’t I already discoursed on how well a well fed Dragon floats?) in all modesty I cannot label such actions as nobility on our part. But to put yourself in danger, to flaunt death or injury, for your fellow man–ah. That my human friends is Shine.

It manifests in other, less obvious/observable/apparent ways. Sacrifice can be and is expressed in many forms. A father working three jobs to feed his family. S’not like he can run out and snatch a bovine (cow) for dinner. Humans have such restrictive rules/laws/requirements even for so simple an act as garnering food. A mother going hungry so there is enough on the table for her children. But then a mother’s love is sacrosanct. Or it should be. A human who offers to share their home with a friend who has lost all; or, more telling, the one who opens their home to a stranger who has lost all. I’ll admit, this one would give a Dragon pause…we are territorial beasts, after all.

Even such small an action as giving books to poor schools, clothes to the needy, meals to the elderly, aid to the depressed, a hand to the fallen–in a Dragon’s eyes, these, too, are noble acts.

Humans alone (all right, not all humans, but most, one likes to think/hope/believe) have this capacity to stretch their soul. Essence. Spirit. Makes for pretty tight skin in some cases, but never so tight that they would shed their skin as does a snake. Human skin simply stretches to accommodate/provide/make room for that inner bloat of character. That Shine.

Oh, the veritable beauty of it! A living flame/spark/ember within as hot as any Dragon’s heated effusion.

Do you know what I love about humans? They Shine the most when times are tough/difficult/ hard. Such as now. Indeed–lift your head, gaze/look/stare about. The glare is almost too much even for a Dragon’s eyes. Everywhere–glimmer and glint, glitter and gleam and glisten. Flash and flicker! Sparkle and spark. Shine. Is it a herd/band/pod of Dragons on wing? Not at all. It is the humans all about you.

Adversity? Misfortune? Hard times? Ho–Dragons and humans alike, we spit upon all harsh aspects of foul fate. Heads high, we fly (or walk, whichever one’s anatomy allows) through the clouds and on. We survive.

After all, do we not Shine?

The Joy of the Published page…but patience is required, fellow writers

At last!  The Dragons’ Veil is on the wing, the web, the world wide screen. 

The first book in my whimsical fantasy duology.

The book is available at Readers Eden (http://www.readerseden.com/product.php?productid=778) and mobipocket (http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=140719).  It is also supposed to be available at Amazon (Kindle), fictionwise, and all lightning sources.  It takes a tad longer to get situated at those sites, and a writer must have  nothing but patience in this business.  Patience to get the writing done, patience to have the Time to get the writing done, patience to find someone who likes it enough to take it into the publishing process, and patience in waiting for someone who is interested enough to buy it!  And it doesn’t end there.  Promote.  Promote.  Promote.  Aye, and there’s the rub.  That requires a little more thought, intuition, drive, creativity, and…there you have it again, patience.  And Luck.  Have I mentioned that before?  Talent and hard work will only take you so far.  Even your publisher or agent or whoever can only take you so far.  Gotta have the lip smacking, back slapping, ear tugging Fairy of Fate interceding on your behalf.  If you don’t slide into base just at the moment its occupied by the one person in the whole world who happens to like your genre, your style, your voice–well, whoa.  You have to dust off and head on toward the next base, hoping you will yet reach a base where Your Reader awaits, eager to absorb the story.  Eager for more to come.  And you’ve gotta have more than one of those (not just stories, but Readers!). 

Patience, friends.  Patience.  Take the time needed to get it right.  The writing is just the start.  I’ll be adding some links to some marvelous sites that provide wise advice on how to ’sell your book online’.  If you are published as an e-book (and this can be important even for a print book) learning online marketing skills is just as important as the rest of the process.  Maybe more.  After all, if no one reads what you’ve written, does the book really exist?  Ah, there’s an esoteric question for a later post.  Meanwhile…this book exists.  Its substance is in place just a click away.  Have at it.  Make it real.

Oh–and here’s a little peek inside (this is from Chapter 5; full Chapters 1 through 3 are provided on a separate page you can link to at the right):

“What are you doing?” he asked.

        “Preparing to go on.  You haven’t said a thing that convinces me I shouldn’t try and go through that Veil.  As you noted, there are good and bad among every populace.  I shall find a good warrior.”

        “There is no such thing.”  She ignored him.  His tail whipped so quickly, it hummed.  “Do you recall the term ‘warmonger’ from my stories?”    

        “Someone who is eager for war.”  She placed her arms through the pack straps.  “But you were describing people from a thousand years ago, Sir Dragon.  That’s a long time for anyone to stay mad.  Since your kind has been gone for so long, how do you know the people on that side haven’t changed as well?”  She adjusted the pack between her shoulder blades.

        “Because,” he huffed, rising high on his haunches, disturbed by her intent, “they were wicked!  Wicked is as—as wicked does.  And wicked does not change.” 

        “There’s an enlightened response.”  She lifted the cloak.  “You sound like Daddy.  He has a rigid mindset, but I thought you were more…inquiring.  I misjudged you.” 

        “I am as inquiring as the next Dragon.”  One great claw plucked the cloak from her grasp.

“Hey—”

He held it out of her reach.  “Going beyond the Veil is irrefutably unfeasible—according to Dragon Law, I cannot go through it.  And according to human Law, neither can you.”

She glared at him.  “I knew you were afraid.”

“Not at all,” he insisted.

“You told me neither Laws nor Truths are set in stone.”

He flared his nostrils.  “I never said that…did I?”

“Well, I can paraphrase too: things change and we must change with them.  Adhering to outdated concepts is as useless as wearing tattered underwear—nothing important is contained and all your faults are exposed.”  She reached for the cloak and he lifted it higher.

        “That makes no sense.  Nor,” he said, “would I have made such an analogy.  I know nothing about underwear.”

        “That was my own thought on the subject.  Keep the cloak, if you will.  I’ll do without.”  She hooked her thumbs through her pack straps and turned on her heel. 

        “It will take you more than a month to reach the Veil afoot,” he said.  “Thirty days, plus one.  Seven hundred and forty-four hours!”  She kept walking.  “Forty-four thousand, six hundred and forty minutes.  Two million, six hundred—”

        “So who’s counting?” she said loud enough for him to hear.  “No one who counts, anyway.  I’ve always known that when the chips were down a Dragon wouldn’t come through.  Generous my eye!”  She sniffed, as much in contempt as to hold back tears.  

         Wump, wump, wump—the grass compressed from the rush of air as Galvistor swung overhead and repositioned himself in front of her.  His landing shook the ground.  He settled, yet didn’t, for his wings remained stiff with tenseness, great sheaths of blackness slowly, slowly fanning the air. 

Shaila stopped, enthralled.  She had never seen him angry.

“I cannot let you go,” he grumbled.

        “Then eat me, because that’s the only way you’ll stop me.”

        “Eat you?”  

        “All the way down,” she insisted, stepping toward him.  “Bite me, chew me, and digest every part—better that than a slow death in a long life with a man I don’t want.”

        “How distasteful!  I would never—”

        “Go on, swallow me!”  She walked straight at him, sending him into a cumbersome, backward scuttle.  “Better a momentary belch in your esophagus than some stranger’s life mate.”

        “That was redundant.  And you’re distraught!” Galvistor blurted, still backing up.  His tail was in the way.  It kinked, stopping him as she reached his torso.

        “You have no idea.”  She stopped under his breast, forcing him to curve his neck into a tight arch to look down at her.  “Do you want to know what the worst part is?” she asked.  “Learning the creature you thought to be your best friend isn’t there when you need him.”  She prodded him with a finger.  “Finding that under his glorified coat of scales, beats the heart of a- a- flunky, who only does what my father tells him to do.”

         Pale green smoke trickled from his nostrils and dissipated.  “I am neither glorified nor a flunky, dear girl.  What would you have me do?  Take you into a place where I cannot keep you safe?  You think that is friendship?”

        She flattened her hand against scales as hard and smooth as polished diamonds.  “You are the King of Beasts.  Smart and strong, and you sing wonderfully.  I trust you can keep me safe even in a world of warmongers.”

        He lowered his head.  “This is so important to you?”

        “It is my life, Sir Dragon.  How important is that?”

        He was silent a long moment.  “You are determined in this?”

        “I am.”

        His head rose again and he stared into the distance, contemplating, she was certain, the seething motion of the distant Veil, for his eyes were more keen than any other creature.

        “I feel,” he said, his voice distracted, “that there is a design to this circumstance, a weaving of fate into our time…  Why can I not remember, when I remember all else?”

        Shaila tilted her head, straining to hear what he said.  “Whatever to you mean?”

        His head came down and she stepped back, so that his warm nostrils quivered only feet from her face.

        “A design.  A purpose.  Fate.  Destiny.  Providence.  You, being born as you are, stubborn and energetic—not to mention rebellious—when all around you humans have become, to put it kindly, staid.  I prefer the quiet, I do, yet there is in me some odd and nagging notion that any species too long quiet will become…extinct.”

        Shaila frowned.  “I don’t know that word.”

        “Vanish, dear girl.  Cease to be.  Die out.  Disappear!”

        Shaila swallowed, not certain what he meant, but uneasy, for what he said sounded like a prophecy of doom.  Whose doom, she didn’t want to know.

        “There may come a time,” he added cryptically, “when I cannot keep you safe, when perhaps being safe is not the means by which the future can be gained.”

“Galvistor, I still don’t understand you!”

        “No?  Neither do I.  I have this strange sensing…perhaps it is merely old age making me paranoid.  Or something I ate.  Forget I mentioned it.”  He sighed, a deep rush of warmth that immersed her in a sulfurous odor as he gazed at her with one gleaming eye.  “Your life, you say?  That is most important.  More important, I think, even than Laws wrapped in tattered little undergarments.”

Shaila let out her breath, surprised she had been holding it.  Knowing she had won, she stepped forward and kissed him between his nostrils.