Prologue-2

Posted by Piscis on November 11, 2012

This week, I’m sharing out the prologue and first chapter of The Book with a little bit of commentary. Click here if you’d like to to start from the beginning!

This second part of the prologue is the first scene I wrote. The idea was to capture more of an intrigue feel, as opposed to the current opener’s suspense-focus. One of the issues with the previous scene is that it detracts from the mystery of this one (this one also introduces important secondary characters, unlike the other’s self-contained cast). However, I’m not certain how well this one could stand on its own as an attention-grabber, either. Any thoughts?

(P-2)

The large oaken doors of the Hall of Lords swung plaintively open as Malcolm strode with grim purpose through their threshold. Pulling his dense green cloak tightly around his shoulders, he hurried along one side of the great ironwood table in the center of the empty chamber, grateful for the braziers that lined the walls and filled the air with warmth and light.

He slumped down in his seat at the head of the table, sighing as his weary bones settled, then removed the gloves of his riding garb to rub his hands together and drive out the last of the night’s chill. A few years past fifty, his age was catching up with more force than he would have anticipated. Already the color in his thick locks, goatee, and mustache had mostly drained to grey. His joints grew stiff, his limbs soft, his waist was beginning to round, and he found himself without the stamina he had possessed in years past.

A minute or two must have passed before his Minister of Discourse entered the hall, a tall fellow in his latter forties wearing a black-lined robe of brown and grey. Though Elbon Renford was cousin to Malcolm’s late wife, he possessed little of her looks. He had sunken blue eyes, his thinning red curls were kept short, and his full beard was closely trimmed aside from the hand’s length spade, giving his face an elongated appearance. He yawned forcefully as he ambled along the side of the table, shaking his hand with vigor as if to drive it off. “Your Majesty,” he greeted when his mouth was once again his to command.

“My lord,” the king replied and gestured toward the seat to the left of himself, which Elbon took gladly.

The two were joined momentarily by a figure dressed in a close-fitted robe and cloak of wool dyed a deep ocean blue and scrolled with golden threading, strolling in on boots sewn of the same supple black leather as his gloves. Malcolm nodded curtly to the archconsul as he made his way toward the others, a serving girl trailing along behind him.

“Good evening, Your Majesty. Minister Renford,” the other spoke as he approached the seat to Malcolm’s right. He stood around five and a half feet. A slight man, if he could be called a man at all. He may have looked human enough, if not for the pale blue hair, purple eyes, and the pointed ears more commonly seen on the fair folk.

“Would that it were, Noridion,” the king responded with a grimace, gesturing for him to sit. As he did so, the serving girl set tankards of ale in front of Malcolm and Elbon, and a goblet of wine before the archconsul. Noridion inclined his head in thanks and she retreated humbly, closing the doors behind her.

“Sir Galfrey is away at present, though he is due to return on the morrow,” Noridion began when they were alone. “I fear to presume your expeditious return speaks ill for the meeting?”

“There was no meeting.” Malcolm took a long swig of the thick amber liquid. “There was no one.”

“The viceroy did not attend?” Elbon clutched his tankard, frowning suspiciously. “Did the bailiff say wh—”

“There was no one,” the king repeated. “Densbury is deserted. The bailiff had sent acknowledgement of our coming not a half-moon past, yet now it stands utterly abandoned. Over two-hundred people missing.” He waved a hand. “Horses, sheep, dogs – no living creature remained when we arrived.”

The minister’s eyes widened. “Was there an attack? A raid?”

Malcolm shook his head and took another drink. “I cannot for certain say. A few buildings bore the brunt of something, but we found no corpses, and personal belongings appeared largely intact. There was little to suggest the townsfolk would otherwise flee of their own accord.”

“Who would have done something like this? Perhaps the ravoran…?”

The archconsul was staring thoughtfully at his cup, rotating it between his fingers. “The ravoran would have little to gain in aggressing a village under the protection of the Crown.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes and glanced toward the end of the hall. The nearby tribal settlements had not been what concerned him. “The people will cry dragon.”

“Oh, how dreadful…” Elbon murmured, sipping fretfully at his ale.

Noridion sat slowly back in his chair. “It would be a particularly bold creature to risk an assault on a human settlement that far from his own territory.”

“Dragons are nothing if not particularly bold creatures, most would say,” the king shrugged tiredly. “It would not be without precedence, and it may explain the lack of bodies and pilferage.”

“Yes,” Minister Renford agreed unpleasantly, “Belike a dragon would steal away men for food or slaves? It is a more likely explanation than most.”

“Is it?” The hint of a smile disappeared behind the cup Noridion brought to his lips.

Malcolm furrowed his brow. “You think not?”

“I would not discount the possibility, to be certain.” Noridion held up his free hand. “Though ‘dragon’ is so oft proclaimed I fear the greatest threat they pose is to be named where scarce a thought is offered to the guilty.”

The archconsul’s words were not without merit, but neither was the reputation the beasts had earned. “Nonetheless,” the king cautioned, “we would do ourselves no charity to be caught off-guard.”

“Best to be prepared should worse become worst,” Elbon concurred.

“The worst is at best subjective,” Noridion resigned. “What of Larke, then? Do you believe he was in Densbury during this disturbance?”

If the Viceroy of the Outer Colonies had made it to Densbury, he had either disappeared with the rest, or found it in its current state and turned back, as had Malcolm and his retinue. Pallon Larke was a cautious man, and unlikely to have stayed to await his king in a village abandoned so suddenly in what may have been an act of aggression. “Pray that not. Though I would think to have passed a rider on the Wolf Way or found news upon my return, had he sent word.” He eyed his Minister of Discourse.

Elbon shook his head. “None, I regret to say.”

“And we’ve learned nothing further of Vardon?” Noridion assumed.

“Nor of the Seraph’s Virge; the White damn us all,” the king scowled before tilting back his tankard. The search for the missing bishop was to have been the topic of his meeting with the viceroy.

The minister shifted in his seat. “And the people are not taking lightly the theft of the foremost symbol of the Faith, I am sure I need not tell you.”

He need not have told him. “It is an affront to the Church, the Crown, and every good citizen of our nation,” Malcolm agreed, “and I am loath to be the king to lose a sacred artifact to a treacherous priest.” He finished his ale with a long swig, then swept its vessel contemptuously aside with the back of his hand.

“None could have predicted heresy of such magnitude from Nowell Vardon,” Elbon offered condolingly. “The Archbishop is more troubled than anyone by the actions of his appointed successor.”

“You’ll forgive me if my grief remains unassuaged by the knowledge that something like this could happen beneath anyone’s notice.” The king closed his eyes and began slowly rubbing his temples. “Vardon is still out there, somewhere, and not only are we no closer to finding him, but we must now contend with some mysterious ill to befall our outer colonies. Our resources are stretched thin enough as it is.”

A moment of uneasy silence followed before the minister said, “It does certainly complicate matters.”

“Then do your best to uncomplicate them,” Malcolm instructed. “Word will spread soon enough. Prepare a statement for the public. Assure that both affairs are in hand, and justice will be done. I sent a rider on to Sparrow Hill from Densbury, and I wish to be informed immediately upon his return.” Elbon nodded his compliance.

Noridion sipped from his goblet. “And what would you have of me, Your Majesty?”

“Your counsel, as ever.” Malcolm studied his features. Smooth and pallid skin. A thin nose adorning a narrow face, framed by a waterfall of flat cyan hair which was swept untied behind his shoulders. He seemed to conform to the fay notion of nondescript comeliness, which Malcolm supposed was a polite way of saying somewhat emasculate. One of only two fay among the Court, Noridion had served the kingdom of Lastern and the Clarant line for nearly a hundred years, and likely looked the same this day as he did on the first he arrived. The fair folk counted a century before they reached maturity, and were said to live another thousand years thereafter; if an elemental could make a similar claim, Malcolm had to assume all those years would amount to little if not the wisdom of experience. “What would you make of all this?”

The elemental took another swallow. “We know nothing of Vardon’s motivations, which has presented a particular difficulty in locating him. This circumstance in Densbury, beyond providing greater opportunities for investigation, implies a more tangible threat, and discovering its meaning must perforce be our priority. Once your rider returns with word on Larke, we can arrange for our scouting parties to sweep the nearby villages and find if any others have suffered the same fate, or are otherwise housing refugees from the incident.”

“The holy scepter is said to protect us from the influence of the Scourge,” Elbon argued. “A token bestowed upon the kings of Lastern by the White themselves to affirm the right to rule in the name of the Provident. Certainly its recovery is more urgent than the pursuit of…of dragons?”

“There is…another solution to that matter. One may not recall, but the Seraph’s Virge which Vardon took is not the first of its name.” The archconsul spread his hands. “The bishop will be difficult to apprehend outside of our borders, and we must consider the possibility that the artifact is lost to us. This does not, however, leave us without recourse; if need come, the Exarchs of the White may bring forth a replacement. It would take a few moons’ time, but the blessing of a new scepter would be a rare event to behold – certainly to the benefit of public morale.” He lifted his cup to the notion.

“Well enough,” the king sighed. He was not ready to give up on seeing justice done to the runaway clergyman, but a festivity of the like would give the people something positive to focus on, if nothing else. Minister Renford was fidgeting miserably with his tankard, but also seemed to see the sense in the approach.

Malcolm ran his thumb and forefinger along his beard. “Have the Archbishop send word to the citadels and see it done, then. Should Vardon continue to elude us, let it be known that the Faith is still paramount to the Crown.” He waved his dismissal and the other two rose, offering a bow before proceeding back toward the chamber’s entrance. “Noridion,” he called when the elemental had reached the end of the table.

“Your Majesty?” He turned around and clasped his hands together, moving with the fluidity intrinsic to a water spirit, while Elbon hustled off stiffly to return to his bed.

“The reasoning behind this course is plain, but something still does not sit right. Our colonies’ safety is imperative, but it is…unkingly to lack the Virge, and the people fear its absence. In the end, which will truly be the greater concern?” The king shook his head and leaned back. “Or am I merely victim to superstition?”

“Some would call it faith,” Noridion smiled in mock-admonishment. “The Church will tell you that the Seraph’s Virge shields bearer and realm from sin.” He gave Malcolm a gauging look. “So I suppose it must depend on which troubles you more, my king – the dangers from without, or those from within?”

Bene scribete.

Prologue-1

Posted by Piscis on November 10, 2012

I haven’t been talking many details about The Book lately, so I figured I would take this week to share out the current drafts of the prologue and first chapter, one easily digestible scene per day, with a little bit of commentary. For anyone who wants to follow along and see what this whole thing is about, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

This first section is the opening prologue scene. I added it later into the process in an attempt to start with more of an attention-grabber. I’m not sure how well it does the job, though, so I’ve been contemplating scrapping it. But I’d like to hear some general opinions if anyone has any – would it make you want to read more, or is it too stock and bland?

(P-1)

The last day of Salmer Brogan’s life began like many others.

He awoke around dawn and slipped on a tunic and trousers, made use of the chamberpot, knelt before the cross-saltire of the White for his morning prayer, and sat down to a breakfast of oatcakes with Egrid, his wife of twenty-two years.

As the village cobbler, he kept a busy schedule, but he enjoyed the work. It was a simple, honest trade; there would always be a demand to repair old shoes or make new ones, and the careful design he put into them was enough to sate his thirst for creativity. The praise his work garnered never failed to bring a smile to his face and validate his sense of worth to the community.

Egrid had given him three children; the youngest did not survive past a year, and the second, who had never been fair of health, died at the age of five. The eldest, however, was still fit and strong, and had taken up his father’s profession in Aldercourt, evening learning to read – a fact which Salmer was never hesitant to share. The thought of his son crafting boots and pattens for knights and nobles filled him with a greater pride than his own work ever could.

After his meal, the cobbler stepped into the small workshop adjoining his hovel and gathered up the day’s deliveries, then set out to present them to their recipients. He picked up a couple of new orders along the way by showing off his handiwork, and made a stop by Old Glenn’s to acquire another bundle of tanned buckskin before returning to his workshop to spend the rest of the day on an elegant pair of sandals for the hayward’s wife.

“How did we fare, today?” his own wife asked as they shared a supper of porridge and beans. Her once lush locks of rich chestnut had dulled and her face had grown lined with age, but he found the woman with whom he had shared his life no less pleasant to behold than the girl who stood before him on the day they had wed.

“Enough to pay tallage and tithes, and feed the coffers until next time,” Salmer smiled between spoonfuls.

Egrid nodded. “I spoke with Rose, earlier. She said that Arman had been asking after his trowel. Did you remember to return it?”

Salmer thought for a moment. He had borrowed the tool enough times that its frequent changing of hands had become a blur. “I didn’t see it on the barrel this morning, so I must have brought it back. I think he lent it to Karl, last; he might check with him.”

Egrid pointed with her spoon. “You can tell ‘im that, then; they’ll have us over for supper tomorrow, if you like.”

His stomach rumbled slightly at the notion, even as he worked at filling it. Though he would not complain of his wife’s cooking, it would be a lie to say that he did not prefer Rose’s. He would never outright say this, of course, but Egrid likely knew, all the same. “I would not refuse such generosity.”

A slight grin touched her lips. “Would you like the last of the porridge, then?”

“Oh, no, dear.” He laid his hand across his stomach. “’Twas your hands what wrought it; to you it belongs.”

Egrid scooped the remainder into her husband’s bowl, anyway. “You need your strength more’n me.”

Salmer chuckled and spooned it down. “Been a while since I had any strength.”

His wife squinted suddenly and looked to their door. “Are you sure you returned that trowel? I think I might’ve—“

“Yes, yes.” He waved a hand. “I’m certain.”

As the couple finished their meal, a startling screech and clatter cut through the quiet of the air outside.

They exchanged a look of confusion, and heard a series of loud thumps a moment later.

“Did that sound like a horse to you?” Salmer asked. Egrid shook her head.

Another piercing screech rang out, followed by a wet tearing which sent a prickle up the cobbler’s backbone. He furrowed his brow and stood, stepping over to the door and opening it enough to peek out.

“Salmer, be—”

“Wait here a minute, Egrid; I want to see what that was.” Noticing nothing unusual, he opened the door further and stepped outside. The sun had set and the sky was clear, basking the village in a dim starlight.

Striding away from his home, he wandered into the path between his and the two neighboring hutches and looked around for the source of the noise. “Is everyone all right?” he called out. “What was that?”

As if in answer, he heard a loud whooshing above him and caught a shadow passing over. He ducked instinctively and held his hands up, but saw only the stars when he lifted his gaze. Rising slowly, he felt his palms clam up and a nervous sweat form upon his brow despite the coolness in the air. He backed up against a wagon which stood on the other side of the path and gripped it for support, eyes darting about frantically.

A rattling hiss came abaft him.

He whirled around in time to see a silhouette vanish behind one of the shacks across from his. “Yelsen? Hane?” he asked the night, voice growing unsteady. He clutched at his greying beard and made his way tentatively between the two hovels, beginning to wonder why he was the only one to come out and investigate the disturbance. He and Egrid were surely not the only ones to hear it.

He reached the back of the hutches and placed a hand upon the corner of the one on his left, leaning out just enough to peer apprehensively in both directions, but saw no one. “What in the Chasm…”

Something wet touched his hand. He yanked it away like it had been burned, scanning anxiously for the source. There was something dark dripping down the side of Yelsen’s hutch. He squinted, vision still adjusting to the light, and a sense of dread welled up within him as he caught a glint of red upon his neighbor’s home.

He turned to run back toward his own.

“Egrid!” he cried to his wife, who stood in the doorframe. “Get back ins—!”

His words were cut off as something slammed into his back, knocking the wind from him and forcing him to the ground. He wheezed and struggled furiously, but the weight upon him was too great. He managed to twist his head up to see his wife, who remained in place, her body trembling and her face pale with horror. His eyes pleaded with her to go, and when dagger-sharp points dug into his flesh and made him scream, she finally turned and ran.

The thing atop him radiated a warmth which nearly drove away the chill of his terror. It growled, burning his nostrils with its hot and rancid breath, and he felt its claws slip around his throat and squeeze. He offered a silent prayer that the Ochre Paladin might protect his wife, and that the Ebon Owl grant him an unburdened deliverance from his mortal frame.

As consciousness slipped rapidly away, he found his eyes drawn to a glint of metal on the ground, poking out from behind one of the barrels sitting against his hovel.

It was Arman’s trowel, which he had not, in fact, remembered to return.

Bene scribete.

Mythological Limerick Round-Up

Posted by Piscis on November 3, 2012

Thanks to all who participated in this last week’s poetry…thing! Hopefully it was mildly entertaining.

There were some fun contributions. If I have to pick a winner (which, according to myself, I do), it is this one, by Linda Colman:

A unicorn born to a mare
Sought solace in a punnett square:
“My horn though impressive
Is clearly recessive –
Not wrought for Celebrity’s glare.”

Nice use of catalectic amphibrachic paired with the acatalexis of the short lines! And an extra point for using an open en dash. (>^-‘)> I see you’re on Google+, so I’ll hit you up there for the prize.

In other news, I’ve finally finished a presentable draft of The Book’s ninth chapter. Before moving on to the next one, I think I’ll take a brief (…optimistically) intermission to work on a short story idea that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while, pestering me to get written.

Bene scribete.

Prodding for Limericks

Posted by Piscis on November 1, 2012

Just a quick reminder – a couple days left to submit a limerick for some rhyme-y meter-y fun (and a chance at a $10 Amazon credit), if anyone else is so inclined!

Writin' Fish

As the norm of popular poetry these days shifts strongly in the direction of free-verse, I’ve been missing some good ol’ rhyme and meter.

So, this week I thought I would invite everyone to join me in having some fun with theme and structure. I figured we could start with a round of limericks – they’re easy and entertaining, right? If you need a refresher (or just like nit-picky specifications), a limerick is a five-line poem, often comical in nature, with an A/A/B/B/A rhyme scheme, and typically a 3/3/2/2/3-foot meter – every foot usually amphibrachic (short-STRESS-short), but sometimes anapestic (short-short-STRESS).

The theme for these limericks will be…mythological creatures. Well-known or obscure, from any culture.

If you’d like to participate, just post your poem in the comments! As a bit of incentive, I’ll give the author of the best one (in my very subjective opinion) a $10 USD Amazon credit (as regionally appropriate).

Once more, simplified –…

View original post 69 more words

Calling All Poets

Posted by Piscis on October 27, 2012

As the norm of popular poetry these days shifts strongly in the direction of free-verse, I’ve been missing some good ol’ rhyme and meter.

The theme for these limericks will be…mythological creatures. Well-known or obscure, from any culture.

Buy a book, or…anything else.

Once more, simplified – write a limerick about a mythological creature, post it in the comments, and next week (November 3, 2012) the ‘winning’ contribution will get some Amazon money.

To start things off, I’ll leave you with a not-particularly-humorous example of my own:

A dragon lay siege to a castle
And said to himself, “What a hassle
To plunder unaided
And end up half-sated;
I ought to get myself a vassal.”

Bene scribete.

Giving Criticism

Posted by Piscis on October 21, 2012

Last week, I talked about getting criticism for one’s writing. Today, I thought I’d do a companion piece discussing the other side of the coin.

So, let’s take a look at some of the things to consider when reviewing someone else’s stuff (some of these points will naturally be reciprocal to last week’s!).

Try not to volunteer to critique a piece if you can’t reasonably expect to have the time or motivation to get back to the writer about it. Silence can be even more disheartening than a bad review.
Find out what type of feedback the writer is looking for. It’s not too productive to pick apart the story when all that’s sought is some copyediting, and dealing only with semantic issues when what’s needed is advice on the plot can be equally unhelpful. If you’re going for the whole package, sometimes it’s beneficial to do a couple go-throughs – first for the feel of the narrative flow, and second with an editor’s eye.
Ask the writer what’s caught the attention of other readers, and lend your thoughts on those subjects. Multiple viewpoints are great for helping the writer gauge what to focus on.
Look for and comment on both what’s working and what isn’t. It’s incredibly unlikely that you’ll be handed a piece that’s either completely without issue or entirely without merit. Focusing solely on the positive won’t help the writer improve it, and concentrating only on the negative can be discouraging – either way giving a false impression of the piece’s current state.
Be specific whenever you can. Explaining why you do or do not like something is more useful than a mere thumbs-up or -down. At the same time, if something stands out one way or the other, but you aren’t quite sure why, saying that much is still better than nothing at all.
Learn the writer’s tolerance level for directness. Some you can be blunt with, where some require a little more creative tact. Negative comments can be phrased positively – rather than “this is bad”, say “this could be improved with blah“.
“Scrap it” is a last resort. Today’s world is cut-happy and proud of it – sometimes it’s the right answer, but a little too often it’s just the easy, lazy way out. I’m not talking about a sentence here or a paragraph there, but entire passages, characters, and plot elements. Every sequence has some kind of purpose behind its presence in a piece, and rarely will its essence be fundamentally unsalvageable. If a scene isn’t working, think about how to address why that is before giving up on it altogether. Can something be added to liven it up or condensed to improve the pace? Can it be placed somewhere more appropriate or combined with a similar sequence? Can its basics be reworked into other parts of the story? Just don’t be too quick to advocate throwing away what could be made a functional, augmentative aspect of the narrative. I realize it goes against the current popular mindset, but tell me you’ve never watched the deleted scenes on a DVD and wished they would have kept one or two of them in the film. (>^-‘)>
That said, do look for ways to improve narrative economy. Getting the same ideas across in a cleaner, more concise manner is almost always a good thing.
Don’t be offended if not all of your suggestions are taken. Remember that it’s the writer’s story, and he or she must ultimately decide what aligns with the creative vision.
Lastly, you don’t have to be a writer or a grammarian yourself to provide good feedback. A reader’s perspective on how the piece works as a whole is perhaps the most important thing of all!

Bene Scribete.

Getting Criticism

Posted by Piscis on October 13, 2012

Feedback is an imperative part of the writing process – assuming you are writing to be read by others. Finding and taking it, however, is not always so easy. Some are fortunate enough to have friends and family take an active interest in their work, but some have to put themselves a little more out there to be heard.

Here are some things I like to keep in mind when looking for and getting critique:

Convey what kind of feedback you’re seeking. Do you just want mechanical errors pointed out? Phrasing suggestions? Or simply overall thoughts on the flow of the story? Readers will have an easier time helping you if they know what they’re supposed to be looking for.
If possible, find readers who are interested in the genre you’re writing. They will be more likely to have an interest in reading your story, and they’ll be a better representative of your audience.
Be pleasant, friendly, and easy to deal with. Remember that you’re looking for a favor.
Swap drafts with other writers. You’re more likely to get something back when it’s a fair trade, and you’ll typically get a different but equally useful type of feedback than from a strictly reader’s perspective. Another writer will better understand where you’re coming from, and can share in your excitement for the undertaking.
Be patient. Going over someone else’s writing can be quite the chore. Keep in mind that no one else is going to have the interest and investment in the piece that you are, and people are busy. Some will volunteer to read it, but never actually find the incentive to do so. Some will start it, and not be interested enough to finish. If they don’t get back to you, try not to take it personally – just move on and seek out others.
Get a few new readers for different draft stages. What once was can color impressions of what now is. A fresh perspective is often handy, as the eventual audience will never see the old stuff.
Encourage negative feedback. Particularly with close friends and family, who will gladly tell you what they liked, but often shy away from pointing out what’s wrong. Let your readers know you want honesty, and if you think you can take it, invite them to be brutal. Sometimes you’ll have to prod a little – if you’re aware of what you feel are some problem areas, ask specifically what might be done better with them. And, of course, make sure to take the criticism gracefully (remember that it’s only one person’s opinion). Further discussion on points is all well and good, but if you get ornery and defensive, you’ll discourage future honesty. The bad stuff may be harder to hear, but it’s usually more useful.
On the other hand, do accept the purely positive feedback from a few people. The praise from your staunchest supporters can be an invaluable affirmation to your resolve to keep at it, where only critical evaluation can leave you feeling discouraged. Naturally, keep it balanced – too much flattery won’t help you improve.
Not everyone will address the same points, so get your readers’ takes on each other’s opinions. One person’s thoughts are just that, but when you find where many coincide, you start to get a clearer picture of what’s working and what isn’t.
Consider every suggestion, and take about half of them. It may be difficult, but try to imagine how your story would work with each recommendation you receive, giving it serious thought but acknowledging that it is just another option. Let your mind fully process its benefits and downsides. Some will click, some won’t. If you find yourself not taking any of them, you’re probably being too stubborn. But if you’re taking all of them, you might be too compromising with, or lacking a solid grasp on, what you’re trying to do.
Once you’ve received and had time to mull over your feedback, edit away!

I hate White-Out.

On one final unrelated note, if you missed your chance last month to get a free copy of the Kindle edition of Shauna Scheets‘s The Tower of Boran, you can do so today (10/13) until midnight (U.S. Pacific).

Bene Scribete.

Just Standing

Posted by Piscis on October 6, 2012

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like to put words on paper. I wanted to post something I’d written as a child, so here’s a frivolous little poem I did around twelve years old.

The streetlamps flood the lane with light
To chase the darkness from the night.
The road is empty, all are gone
Except for one man, by a lawn.
A quite short man, with not much hair.
But why is he just standing there?

All have gone home – no one is out,
So what’s this man thinking about?
A bitter coldness chills the air.
But why is he just standing there?

It’s freezing out, and just a note –
He’s here outside without a coat.
I know I really shouldn’t care…
But why is he just standing there?

This question fills my mind with “wow”;
It’s all that I can think of now.
His stillness gives me quite a scare.
But why is he just standing there?

A blank expression on his face
Like he’d been there for many days.
This kind of thing, I’d say, is rare.
But why is he just standing there?

I’m set as stone, so stiff, this night.
My eyes are fixed upon the sight.
My arms are crossed, my eyebrows raised;
I’m in the most peculiar daze.
My thoughts have left, my mind is clear.

But why am I just standing here?

(I know, I know; ‘days’ is a terrible, lazy rhyme for ‘face’…that still bugs me)

Anyone else feeling brave enough to dig something up? (>^-‘)>

Bene scribete.

The Tower of Boran

Posted by Piscis on September 29, 2012

I’d like to welcome my good friend, Shauna Scheets, to WordPress!

Her debut novel, The Tower of Boran, released this week.

In the night sky over Caillte Saíocht, not a single star shines, and those who live below it must fear the corrupting touch of night-fever. The crystal gleam cast from the Tower of Boran is all that stands between the realm and utter darkness, but its power has long been fading.

On her sixteenth birthday, Seraetia prepares to be named a priestess of the Sanctum, destined to restore the tower’s light. As the events of this long-awaited day unfold, however, she learns that not everything is as it appears. With the life she thought she knew rapidly unravelling around her, Seraetia must ally with those who know the truth behind the land’s peril, and fight to save her home from something darker than the night.

As a special promotion, the Kindle version will be free to download all day tomorrow (September 30).

Bene scribete.

Out Loud

Posted by Piscis on September 22, 2012

Errors in text can sometimes be hard to find. Not the big and ugly ones, but the little, seemingly innocuous oversights, like missing or repeated words. It’s because the mind wants to find meaning, and it will readily compensate for what it feels is close enough.

For istnacne, msot of yuo wlil prboblay be albe to
to raed tihs wtihuot any graet mnetal eforft.

It’s normally a good thing, but maybe not so helpful when you’re trying to get some copyediting done. One way to compensate – have it read aloud to you. But I don’t mean by another person.

Talking Computers = Neat.

Unlike a person, a speech synthesis program has no context or expectation-bias, so it will read everything on the page in a literal, straightforward manner. Feeding your text through one can be very handy for catching those last little silly errors, and just hearing your story spoken back to you can be useful for a number of other reasons (not to mention the entertainment value of having it done in a droning, not-quite-right electronic voice).

Most computer (or phone, for that matter) operating systems come with speech synthesis these days, but there are also plenty of websites and free downloadable programs out there which will do the trick. My personal favorite is Amazon’s Kindle e-reader, which has a pretty competent one built in. Rather than printing my drafts out, I like to convert them for the Kindle to get a more natural and focused read-through, and the option to have it speak it is right there, so it works out nicely.

It’s also funny to hear it pronounce every single one of the proper nouns correctly…except for the most important ones (i.e., any of my protagonists). (>^-‘)>

The word was ‘dragon’, Kindle.

There isn’t a perfect text-to-speech program out there yet, but they’re still fun to play around with, and can make for a handy utility in your writing arsenal. What means have you found work best for catching all your typographical blunders?

Bene scribete.