C. L. Norman

                That was easy. I knew as soon as I thought those words it was a mistake. The job wasn’t done, anything could go wrong still. Stealing the fancy box had been fairly straight forward. Mind, I ain’t no theif. At least most of the time. I’m a merc, mercenary, sword-for-hire but when my pockets are empty, I dabble in thievery.  If the pay is enough.

                This time the pay was more than enough. Too much almost. Caid Caellan doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and if a client wants to pay generously for a little theivery, who am I to complain?

                My rooms were in the Traders Corner. Traders kept hours that were compatible with mine. They slept at night and left me free to wander about without anyone sticking their nose in. During the day, they were too busy with their businesses to bother me in bed. It was a good arrangement.

                I strutted along a deserted street towards bed. The meet with the client for the exchange was tomorrow night. I thought longingly of the Red Light district but I had to guard this all-important box and until I had my payment I couldn’t afford what I wanted from the ladies there.

                A faint scrape of a boot against the cobbles was all the warning I had before I was jumped. It doesn’t take much to surprise me and that let me know that either these gents were professionals or had help. The magic kind of help. And that let me know that this wasn’t your usual run-of-the-mill mugging. One long knife was in my hand faster than thought and a bright flash of steel flew from my other and burrowed itself in the throat of one of my assailants.

                One less dance partner for the party.

                Three scruffy men in thick leather jerkins formed a triangle with me in the center. Each of them had a sharp weapon in their hands and were ready to use them. Clearly not a capture the merc mission.

                I waggled my fingers at the one with the blond bedhead. “Let’s dance.” I drew a second knife and held it with the blade along my bracered forearm. The familiar crooked smile stretched across my face. I loved this part. Me against them. Proving who is better. The ultimate prize for the winner. Life.

                For the space of several breaths, grunts, clashing metal, and the slap of flesh against flesh filled the air. Another gent went down and unless he could survive a hands length of steel punched through the gut, he wasn’t getting up again.

                “Is that the best you can do, boys? I haven’t even broke a sweat yet.”

                “Perhaps I can fix that.” A brown man stepped onto the street; brown because he had brown hair, brown eyes, and wore brown robes and onto the street because he had been floating above me and settled to the ground.

                “Oh crap.” The words had barely escaped my lips when I was caught in a mage’s trap. A sick purple glow encircled my wrists and throat holding me still and sweating. I hated magic. Magic was for cheaters, no clean skill against skill contest there. But sure enough, the mage was right. I was sweating.

                “The great Caid laid low by a single spell. By your reputation I thought you’d be … taller.”

                “What can I say? I’m tall enough to get the job done. “ I’d have shrugged if I wasn’t slowly being stretched between the three points. “You’ve heard of me as is only right. But I haven’t heard of you so you must be some piss-poor mage hiding behind his master’s robes.”

                The mage approached and pulled the box out of my jerkin. “I’ll just take this and be on my way. My men will have their fun with you.”

                “Not so fast.” My feet weren’t bound in spells and I took full advantage of that fact. I landed a kick where it counts the most. No man can keep concentration in the face of that agony. And the mage was barely a man. The binding spell dropped and I fell to my knees.

                As I reached for the box, one of the gents stomped on it and it cracked under his weight. I hooked his ankle and lifted. He landed on his back with a ‘whoof’.  I snatched up the box and ran. I hadn’t come prepared to deal with the mage.

                The second goon tackled me and we both fell to the ground. I wrestled him to the bottom of the stack and a short quick jab to the chin had his eyes rolling up in his head.  The box was smashed to smithereens and I could see the fat paycheck trickling away. A glitter of gold caught my eye among the splinters.

                A ring. All this over a glitzy piece of fluff? Maybe it was for some girl. Some fools did extraordinary things for girls. It didn’t matter, maybe I could still get some of my commission if I brought back the ring.

                I slipped the ring over one scarred knuckle, sliding it on to my little finger. A black oily cloud seeped from the ring and crawled up my arm leaving a chill in its wake. The mage eyed me while the magic enveloped me and then soaked into my skin leaving an awful nauseous feeling in my gut.

                I spat a word that wasn’t fit for a lady’s ears. Hell, it wasn’t fit for a gentleman’s ears. My night had just got a whole lot worse.

        

With my top hat (10% off) on my head and a clean cup for tea in front of me, let me ask you a question:

Why is a novel like a child?

Answer: Neither comes with an instruction book.

I have always known this in a vague, intellectual way but that didn’t keep me from sitting at the back of writing panels and hoping that the authors let loose the secret method for writing a novel. I took notes and studied what they said, how they said it, and even what they wore, hoping that I could glean that little thing that would lead me through the door into novel land.

One of the things I want to hear the “right answer” for is when to do the research and/or worldbuilding for a particular project. Raising my children I wait until something comes up before doing the research. When my second daughter developed allergies to tomatoes, potatoes, and peanuts, I researched into how to help her and what to cook for her. When my youngest son took an interest in trains, I spent some time learning about trains to help him out.

When I am writing I waffle back and forth between researching before or after. If I research before, I’ll have the information that might help shape the story. If I research after the first draft is done, I won’t be researching things that I won’t need.

I am heavily influenced by school and my attitudes towards school when it comes to writing. I am determined to be ‘right’ and follow the directions and get that A. The A in this case standing for an Acceptance letter. I need to treat my process more like raising children; spend time with it, guide it in the direction I want it to go, and have fun doing it.

I am attending two conferences this month; Write on the Rivers and MisCon. I need to go into the panels looking for advice on the craft of writing and use them as opportunities to network. It is a time to make friends with my co-workers (at least someday I hope to be their coworker) and not a time to grill them about the how-to’s of writing novels.

Even if there is an instruction book out there for writing a novel, it won’t be written with me and my ideas in mind. I’ll have to write my own.

        

Howdy friends. Just a quick drive-by post to keep you up to date.

Writing

Why is it a drive-by post you ask? Because I am a ditz apparently. About a week ago my husband came down with the announcement that we were going to go to MisCon after all. I pointed out that I didn’t have anything written for the workshop and the deadline is April 28th and he says “Write something.” Then last night I was looking at the guidelines for the workshop and saw that the submission must be received by the 28th. Arrrg! There goes my only other day off this week. So that means I have tonight and tomorrow morning to write and revise a couple thousand more words of a short story.

If you want to know why I don’t have a short story ready to send off it is because I have all my other completed ones in circulation and I feel it would be a cop out to use one of them for the workshop. My focus lately has been on attempting to finish a novel. Finish being the operative word as I have trouble with finishing anything. I wrote several short stories to prove to myself that I could finish things and now I need to move on to the long program.

Reading

Not a lot of reading this week that I wish to share. I did just finish a book that drove me crazy and so I won’t name names in it but I now have a good example of a protagonist who whines and does nothing to change her situation. I found this main character irritating at first and then annoying. Unfortunately for me that isn’t always enough to make me stop reading and so I finished the story but I sorta hate the MC and her twin sister too. Grrr.

I’ll leave you now. I hope you have a marvelous week ahead and I will talk with you again soon. Drop me a note and let me know how your week went.

        

                “Dance with me?” A well-manicured, calloused hand reached for hers.

                “Of course.” Zhina stood and stepped into his arms, where she had been trying to end up all evening.

                Denetrian led her through the crowds. His arrogance and security in his position cleared a path to the dance area. Dancers swirled by under brightly colored paper lanterns while a three-man band took its turn upon the low platform that served as a stage for the street fair.

                When a new, slower song began, Denetrian whirled her into the dance before settling down to a smooth leisurely pace. “You enjoying the fair?” He smiled at her, his eyes flickered over her head to the crowds beyond.

                “I am now, Lord Korkahti.”

                “Have we met?”

                “No. But we share a friend. Taist?”  Ouch. She hoped the bruises on her hand would be worth it.

                “What do you know of Taist?” His eyes didn’t wander now, they were firmly fixed on her face.

                Good, she had his attention now.

                “Do you play Kings and Pawns, m’lord?”

                “Tell me where Taist is. What have you done with him?” His dancing became stiffer, more like a military maneuver than a dance.

                “I’ve done nothing with him. It’s what you’ve done with him that matters. Where is the Elsullian Board?” The dance was half over, she needed something to go on. A tiny clue to make her next step with. The chances of confronting Demetrian anywhere else were slim. They didn’t exactly move in the same social circles.

                “The Elsullian Board? It’s you. You’re the one.” Denetrian pulled her closer. His breath teased loose hair near her ear as he whispered, “Taist was suppose to meet you. Arrange the trade. I haven’t seen him in three days. What did you do to him?”

                “Nothing. I did nothing.” Zhina pushed against his chest, a tight smile on her face for the onlookers. “You are hurting me.”

                He eased his grip on her. Not all the way but enough she could breathe and watch his face as she spoke. “I need the Elsullian Board. What do you want for it?”

                “What? No threats to expose my secrets if I don’t give it to you?” He laughed, harsh and low. “I sent Taist to arrange the trade. The Elsullian Board for the proof of my father’s sins. If anything happened to him, you’re dead.”

                Zhina knew Taist was dead. She had found him in the alley, eyes open and staring, blood drying in the gaping wound of his throat. The Kings and Pawns playing piece in his pocket led her to Denetrian.

                “M’lord, clearly there is some mistake. I know nothing of a trade. I only need the Board. It is urgent that I get it.” Zhina let a single tear slip down her cheek and her lip quiver.

                “Drop it. Your act isn’t worthy of a ha’penny show on market day.” Denetrian maintained a firm hold on her arm as he walked her back through the crowd. “If you aren’t the one who arranged the trade, who is? What do you want with the Elsullian Board?”

                “I need it to save my daughter.” Zhina pulled her arm free and disappeared into the drunken crowd. She would find another way to get the information she needed. She rubbed the playing piece tucked away in her bodice. Her little girl needed her, she would find a way.

        

I attended a funeral today for a grandmother I will miss terribly. I gathered together with family I hadn’t seen in ages. Isn’t it funny (and not in a good way) how the passing of a loved one can bring folks out of the woodwork to gather together? My grandma would have loved it.

After the service I was talking to my grandfather and discovered that this particular cemetary holds the graves of a lot of his side of the family. I loved hearing him talk about it. So very interesting and almost old world feeling. A family cemetary.

Of course there are a lot more than VanHorn’s here but still it felt like I was a part of something and that was neat.

The pictures I took and am including here are of the older parts of the graveyard. There is a newer section with the flat (can I say boring without offending?) headstones. Headstones which are easy to step on as you walk through the grass and give my sisters the heebie-jeebies when they do (have to tease when I can, it is my job as a sister). These older sections with the worn stones of all shapes are sizes always capture my attention.

I look at them and I think of history and all the people who have gone before. I wonder about their lives and their deaths and who they left behind. I wonder about their stories. I wonder if anyone knows their stories still or if they have been forgotten and all that is left to remember them in this world is the stone at the head of their grave.

Morbid, much? It may sound that way but to me it is more like seeing a shelf full of dusty tomes with faded writing on the covers. I want to know what is on the pages and learn the stories contained inside. I want to know who last read and loved the story.

A stone with a name or two carved on it with some dates, maybe a caption as well, is a story waiting to happen. Of course it is also a story that has already happened but unless it is someone I know, chances are I will never know it. This is when having an imagination is a wondrous thing.

I make up stories for the cluster of stones over to my left. I see ghosts of people walking and talking for the stone standing lonely to my right. To quote a movie, “I see dead people.” And at the risk of sounding morbid again, I love it.

If I could find the time to grab my notebook and/or my laptop, I would head to the nearest interesting cemetary, one with stones old and new, standing up and flat in the grass, and use that as a place to write. Time to write in which I think of heading out to the cemetary. I would have a ready supply of names for my characters. The tactile sensations of the grass and stones and trees to ground me in the world-building. The weight of history around me to pull the stories from my soul and write them down to share with the world.

        

Happy Sunday, folks. I had some sad, sad news today. Our cafe no longer carries the dark cherry syrup for my hot chocolate. I nearly sobbed at the news and regular hot chocolate doesn’t taste nearly as good. Alas, this is a pain I must bear alone. And now on with my week.

Writing

A little of this and a little of that. I didn’t quite write every day this week but I came close and some days were better than others. If you haven’t seen it, I wrote and posted a short story, Initiation, for #fridayflash. I had a lot of fun writing it and yes, I know it seems like the beginning of something much longer. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately with regards to my short stories. It is why I am trying so desperately to learn to write a novel. I have more to say just don’t have the skills and discipline yet to say it all.

Speaking of novels and writing, writing group was this week. We always have a 20 minute sharing time in the middle of the meeting. This week one of our member shared some ideas on outlining. One of the things she shared is an article on the Snowflake Method. I had, of course, heard of this method before but had never pursued it. After reading through the materials she handed out, I am going to give it a go and try it out. Other outlining methods haven’t worked out for me and this one might not either but I haven’t given up on finding a method that works for me. So I will try this one.

On TV

Watching Bones this week made me smile. The nod to Nightmare on Elm Street was very well done. Robert Englund was just the right amount of creepy to remind us of Freddy Krueger and yet be a fun childhood friend to Brennan.

Around the Web

Alan Rinzler posts a fun and informative bit on Shelf Wars. Even though I work in a bookstore I learned a little something from his article.

Discovered a new blog, Magical Words, that is for new writers. Several writers I admire and am a fan of post the entries on it.

In case I wasn’t sure I read this blog post You Might Be A Writer If . . . and yup, I’m a writer.

How did your week go? Discover any goodies you’d like to share with me?

        

A carriage creaked and rattled its way up the road. The horses that pulled in stepped in perfect time with each other.

                Clip. Clop. Clip Clop.

                Amika stayed hidden among the shadows. The driver neither saw her nor heard her, she was too good for that. She had spent long hours on creaky floors and between hanging sheets and bells practicing for her mentor, Scree. He whipped her legs with a cane every time one of the bells rang or a sheet swayed in the wind of her passing and then he made her do it again. And again.

                The front door opened and Lord and Lady Kalingim erupted into the night with stern orders to “Keep an eye on things” from him and a cloud of sharp smelling perfume from her. The carriage creaked under their weight as they stepped inside. A quick snap of the carriage whip and they were off. Off to some party where everyone minced around in too tight shoes with too tight smiles on their faces.

                Lud. Amika was grateful to be spared that life.

                When the street was silent but for the hiss of the gas, Amika made her way to the front door. The windows were darker now, one eye closed for the night. She fumbled in the bag slung across her shoulders and pulled out a small ceramic bottle and a soft cloth. She hated this stuff. She had heard of folks dying from too much of this potion. Too little and she wouldn’t be able to finish her job. What Scree wanted, Scree got.

                Amika dripped some of the potion onto the cloth a drop at a time. When she had enough she put the bottle away and knocked on the door with a quick glance up and down the street. Wouldn’t do for some nob to catch her in rags on the front doorstep, he might think her a beggar and set the watch on her. She wasn’t opposed to spending a night in the gaol now and again but she had better lined up. If she could finish her dithering and get this job done.

                The rap on the door was firm and steady, professional even. A messenger come calling in the middle of the night. When the servant opened the door, Amika darted forward and covered his nose and mouth with the cloth soaked in the potion. Her eyes swept the street and she strained to hear any sound while she waited the agonizingly slow moments for the magic to do its work.

                Luckily all remained quiet and still while the old man slumped in her arms. Working quickly, she dragged him inside and kicked the door shut. Amika found a pillow on the chair in the entry hall and placed it beneath the old man’s head. He wouldn’t be grateful for the courtesy but she couldn’t stand to leave him be on the cold floor.

                “Third door on the left.” That’s what Scree had said. Third door on the left was where she’d find it, in the gent’s study.  She slipped through the polished wooden door and stood in the dark, settling her nerves. She had gotten by the dragon at the door. The rest should be easy.

                Reaching again into her bag, she pulled out  an old brass candle holder, the handle long ago broken off. She mixed two powders in the recess in the middle with a bit of her spit to bind them together. Soon a dim light illuminated the area around her. One day she hoped Scree would tell her where he got his toys.

                Amika looked around the room and blew out a very low whistle. “Fancy that, a room for books and gew gaws.” She shook herself free from the awe she felt at the foibles of the rich and headed for the opposite wall. A painting hung there of a green field dotted with pale purple flowers and trees.  It was all very foreign. Nothing like that here in the city. It was pretty.

                She couldn’t practice this part. Not even Scree could afford the enchantment like this to practice on. She knew what she had to do. In theory. She was a good student. She could do this.

                She set the light aside and closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Time passed, Amika concentrated. The old man would be in dreamland for hours and the rich nobs who owned this place wouldn’t be back until dawn. When she had her focus, she opened her eyes. She lifted her hand and reached for the tree, only the tree, nothing but the tree. Her hand slid through the surface of the painting and it was as like putting her hand through dry dusty cobwebs.

                She was doing it. Her breathing quickened and her concentration began to fall apart. The painting gripped her hand, tightening with each ragged breath. Amika snapped her eyes closed again and breathed, scrambling for focus again. Gradually the painting released its hold on her and her fingers found something. Something hidden in the painting.

                She closed her fingers around the smooth cold object she had come for and withdrew it from the painting. Amika held it close to the light, admiring the red fire in the heart of the jewel when light speared through the shadows as the door opened.

                A masculine silhouette stood leaning against the door jam and applauded. “Well done, my little theif. Well done.”

        

I grew up with five sisters and two brothers. Alone time was at a premium but I managed. In fact it is probably why I read so much. My loud and raucous family couldn’t follow me into the world I dived into between the covers of my book. I also walked to and from school every day (up hill, both ways, in the snow) and used that time to daydream. Daydream about the things I wrote about; princesses, unicorns, forced marriages, pick-pockets, etc.

These last several months as I have been struggling to write I have forgotten a key element of the process. The dreaming.

Writing is easiest when I use driving time to try out different plot ideas for my stories, when I use repetitive tasks at work for listening to dialogue between my characters, and when I use the time in the shower to figure out the minutiae of my protagonist’s daily life.

I’ve been using that time lately to worry about responsible things like the bills, and what’s for dinner, and what the kids need for school. In other words, thinking about practical real-world boring stuff. No help for writing there.

So I have to go back to daydreaming in class (if I was still in school). I need to use my alone time to dream and work on my writing. I have forgotten that using a pen and paper or keyboard isn’t the only part of the process. Dreaming and imagining is just as important.

        

Happy Sunday folks. Another week over and we are back together to talk about it.

Reading

D. D. Barant’s book, Death Blows, was released this week and I had to pick it up. This series starring Jace Valchek, FBI profiler from our world, stuck in an alternate reality where humans are only 1% among a population of vampires, werewolves, and golems, is a delight. This sequel is a fun continuation of the story that began in Dying Bites and delves into comic book history. The world of superhero supernaturals is explored and is very enjoyable. I recommend this series to fans of the urban fantasy/who-done-it genres.

Writing

Still struggling with bad habits. Remember back in November when I was so excited to be writing daily during NaNoWriMo? I am working on getting back to that and shutting my inner critic up. She has gotten very noisy lately, jabbering non-stop from her position behind the driver’s seat. Rude, much? Compliments on my writing has given her permission to try to take over the steering wheel. I am working on tying her up and throwing her in the trunk. If you have a spare roll of mental duct tape, I could use it.

Gaming

We started a new Pathfinder campaign this week. I am running the Kingmaker adventure path for a group of seven friends and family. This adventure is fun and different. It is a fairly open field for the characters to roam in. The quest structure is very free form, in face it reminds me a lot of Everquest 2 or World of Warcraft. Wanted posters, NPCs wanting favors, and location discoveries yield quests that award traditional loot and experience. I fully expect to have fun running through this campaign.

Other Tidbits

Dean Wesley Smith popped the myth that writer’s don’t need to practice here.

Barnes & Noble Explorations tells us how to know if you are a SciFi/Fantasy geek here.

The NovelDoctor has some advice for getting through those troublesome middle sections of our novels here.

Romance Writer’s Revenge has a case for pantsters here, not that I need convincing.

How wondrous fine was your week? Anything new happen? or was it the same-o, same-o?

        

I adore the TV show Bones. All the characters and how they relate to each other is fascinating, and the science and who-done-it parts are highly entertaining. Last night’s 100th episode took us back to the beginning when all those relationships were forming. To a time when Angela didn’t have a fancy computer to work her magic on. To a time when Hodgins and Zack first worked an expirament together. To a time when Booth and Brennan hadn’t developed a working partnership and were free to admit an attraction to each other.

Spoilers ahead, be warned.

As was advertised in the trailer, we got to see what we’ve been waiting for. Booth declaring his love for Brennan followed by a kiss. The romantic in my soul wanted Brennan to fall into his arms and nestle there for a minute before she broke away. The character didn’t even take that minute before she pushed away and declared her fear of hurting Booth. The moment was so full of tension and pain and it was nearly perfect for this stage in their relationship.

Then Booth says that he has to move on though, find that someone he can be with for forty, fifty years. It felt like we had been given something and then had it taken away. I suspect that Booth said that to save face, to comfort Brennan in the face of her decision, and maybe it had a grain of truth in it.

Even though they walked off arm in arm, outwardly in the same place they started, inwardly I think they are both changed. Booth doesn’t have his feelings bottled up inside behind a wall of fear anymore and Brennan expressed her fears to Booth. The next several episodes should see some interesting things develop.

At the very least I can’t wait to hear what the team says when they hear what’s happened.