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[brianiswriting-blog]

Burnout Central

So to the few people following along, you may have noticed that my two days off very rapidly became the better part of a week. I missed four scheduled blog posts and, in all likelihood, will not be updating Through the Republic today.

So what happened?

Since December 30, 2012 I have been doing my best to live and breathe my writing career. I wrapped the first draft of Iseult & the Thornlands on New Year's Eve, coming back to it after four months away and pounding out around 16,000 words in 36 hours so I could say I'd finished a piece the same year I turned 30.

I took New Year's Day off, and then threw myself into writing the next piece, wanting to ensure this wasn't a one-time fluke. The Freehold of Voldheim (working title) was the novel I dug my teeth into, a sort of James Bond meets Game of Thrones piece set in the Ducal Republic. Both the writing and research for that piece really ate up the lion's share of my attention for the next couple months.

At the start of March I decided enough time had passed, and so I dug the first draft out and started editing. The novel became priority #2, and then later went on hold as I started to see pretty big glaring holes in it (plot-wise, character-wise) and decided it was probably going to need a full scrap and re-write. I also realized I'd been too married to the notion of "it must be a novel, and thus has a minimum length". I haven't looked, but I suspect I'm going to find some padding in there when I go back to it.

I've mentioned my latest focus on The Duel and Lindvarm. Plus I launched this blog a month or so ago, with the daily schedule going active three weeks ago. That meant I had two serialized pieces here, as well as a random fiction update. I also launched a Twitter account (@bruchsmouth, if you're Tweet-inclined). I've been working on a re-design of this website. I've been researching self-publishing eBooks. Amazon. Kobo. Amazon Prime.

Through it all? I've been working 8 hours a day at a job I really don't like. Combined with travel time, it eats up around ten hours of my day five days a week.

And it just isn't sustainable.

I'm in Canada, so last weekend was a holiday weekend for us. The company I work for primarily deals with clients in the United States, so we're closed this weekend for their long weekend. And I just haven't been able to really do anything besides go to work, come home, and relax.

I'm sleeping an average of five hours a night. I eat in a rush and on the go, making it both more expensive and less healthy. I smoke (a habit I thought I'd managed to kick a few years back) almost a pack a day - more than I ever have in my entire life.

I want to quit my lousy day job and write full time. I want to make this my career. The problem is, at the rate I'm going I won't be alive to enjoy it. So that means taking a few steps back.

Firstly, the blog schedule? Is being redone - by which I mean reduced. We're probably going down to three scheduled a week, with the other days just being whatever I feel like chatting about at the time. The site re-design? For now I'm going to pick a premium theme, pay for it, and walk away. When this business starts to make money, then I'll hire someone to make me a unique design - but for now I'd rather pay the money, have something that looks better, and ditch the stress. Not to mention save the time.

Thirdly? I need to re-focus on what's important. This blog is important, but the core purpose of it is to support my writing. Creating new works, like The Duel or Lindvarm are more important that social media. Maybe one day I'll be lucky enough to be in a position where every blog post I don't make equates into sales I lose - but right now I can take the risk.

For those who've been reading, thank you. The support of every person means the world to me, and I will endeavor to ensure that the reduction of quantity is matched by a corresponding increase in quality.

I'll be posting a revised schedule soon, once I figure it out. Your patience is very much appreciated as I figure out just what the heck I'm doing.

[brianiswriting-blog]

I hate to do this

But I fear I have no choice. This past holiday weekend (I'm Canadian) ate up a lot more of my time than I'd expected. Not in a bad way at all, but my typical schedule got very disrupted. Combined with work and other things, I'm afraid today and tomorrow's posts are canceled.

We'll be resuming our typical programming on Thursday. My apologies.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Through the Republic, Prologue (Part III)

Donner Forsyke had been the Editor-in-Chief of the Bruchsmouth Times Standard for over a decade. His total time at the paper, in differing capacities, was twice that long. During his tenure the Sundabar Rebellion had gone from cold, to hot, then cold again. The attempted assassination of Archduke Aubren and his only son had taken place, presumably by an agent of the League of Free Nobles. The Independent Freehold of Voldheim had been formed under Caliban. Viscount Aulem and the city of Darheath had risen, clamoring for independence - and were subsequently, brutally suppressed. Whether in person or from behind his desk, he'd covered or commented on them all.

The man was a legend. Hector was barging in on a legend.

He lifted a hand to knock and then paused. Through the frosted glass he could see the silhouette of the man, behind his desk, hard at work. Hector looked at his hand, fingers curled into a fist, and lowered it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Tell Valman I want a draft of the shipping - " Donner was already talking, not looking up from whatever he was working on. Hector cleared his throat and the short, bald dwarf's head snapped up. His eyes were narrowed, his lips pursed in a mix of surprise and dislike of being surprised.

"Mr. Forsyke," Hector began - Donner gestured at one of the chairs in front of his desk, the look of annoyance leaving his features.

"Forgive me, Corporal..." he drew the word out, feeling around and not finding anything. Hector helped him out before things got even more awkward.

"Wainson, Hector Wainson."

"Wainson!" Donner said the name like a battle cry, as if he'd just remembered it on his own, nodding.

"And you can drop the Corporal, sir. I've not been with his Grace's service for over a year."

Donner nodded, not saying anything for a moment.

"Wainson, that isn't local is it?"

"No sir. I'm from Carval - not the city, but one of the outlying estates."

"A League-man?" Donner's brows lifted, a look Hector wasn't quite sure how to interpret in them suddenly. "You can't be from one of Earl Caspus' serf families."

"No, I'm not." Hector paused, curious. "How did you guess?"

"The Earl never pays his tithe in military service. A family tradition - they've been thumbing their noses at the Archdukes since the Republic's formation. It's one of the few things they agree with House Allistair about."

"Well, my family is sworn to Lord Arleby."

"If I was facing a lifetime digging up granite, I'd have jumped at the chance to enlist too." Donner drummed his sausage-link fingers against the edge of his desk. "You've been wanting this meeting for a month now, ever since you came back with Valman. Is this what you wanted to talk about?"

"No, sir. But you know what I want."

"A position within the Times Standard." Hector nodded, and Donner sighed. "We hired you to keep Valman safe while he looked into South Dunnich."

"Which I did."

"Which makes you a capable mercenary. Not a reporter."

"I'm perfectly willing to work my way -"

"You're, what, thirty? Most of our apprentices - who I hand-pick - start at sixteen. After they've had their basic education."

"I have my letters."

"Good for you Hector. Well, this hasn't been very pleasant at all. We'll keep you on the books as a perfectly competent bodyguard. Next time someone's doing some dangerous investigation work, maybe we'll find something for you."

"Come on Donner," Valman's voice echoed in from the outer hallway. Hector wasn't even sure the reporter had gotten up from his desk. "If you didn't have something for him, you'd have sent him on his way by now."

Donner sighed, tugged open a drawer and tossed a folder on the desk. Hector picked it up, waiting for the man to nod before opening it. He skimmed the papers inside, then glanced back at Donner.

"This is just a list of towns and places."

"What do you know about those places?"

"Not much."

"Exactly." Donner shrugged. "I've been wanting to do a wandering travelogue for awhile. Send someone on the road, writing up pieces about these places. I mean, the last comprehensive look at the whole of the Republic is Krekam's Almanac of Marna."

Hector had never heard of Krekam, but didn't see how admitting that would add anything to the conversation.

"So why haven't you done it already?"

"These places are dangerous and -"

"And you can't afford mercenary rates full-time, can you?" Hector was laughing as he finished Donner's thought.

"We could," Donner said, glowering, "though it wouldn't be the most prudent use of resources. Also, I want to include League territory in this feature - and we've made a couple enemies there over the past few years."

"So you want to send a native."

"That's the offer. No hazard pay. Write under a pseudonym."

"Risk being sent back to Lord Arleby's granite pits."

"Don't get caught. Technically you ought to have marched back once you left the army."

"I don't see you turning me in."

"Well, I'm a very busy man. You'll get a stipend to live off - and letters permitting you to draw on our credit, within limits." Donner leaned closer, face serious. "Don't abuse it."

Hecotr nodded. "I won't."

"Good. Get the first piece in the post in seven days." Donner grinned. "Welcome aboard."

[brianiswriting-blog]

In this ordered, lawful world there is no finer way for civilized men to settle their disputes than with the honed edge of steel, or the sharp scent of saltpeter.

Augusto Mallefas, the Annotated Code Duello

[brianiswriting-blog]

Pumpkin Spice with Extra MURDER (Part II)

So last week I launched my Starbucks Barrista Kung Fu (we're getting there) Murder Mystery epic, the ridiculously-titled Pumpkin Spice with Extra MURDER.

There's something satisfying about just sitting down to knock out something that, in the grand scheme of things, doesn't really matter. That this terrible, B-movie plot is actually proving to be a lot of fun is just a bonus. Thankfully it's been well-received by the barristas at my Starbucks. No spit-in coffee for me!

Part Two - the Pumpkin Spicening (not the real title, not even a little bit) after the jump.

Jennifer stood on the thin lip of cement between the shop and the pavement, technically inside the bright yellow police tape. She was far enough away from the real action that no one made a big deal out of it, other than the one crime scene photographer who gave her a disapproving look.

Sapphire was in the backseat of a cruiser stopped lengthwise across the drive-thru exit, talking to a detective. Jennifer might have been worried about her friend, if they hadn't been talking through the open backdoor. The police didn't question suspects in cruisers - if Sapphire had actually been in trouble, she'd be at the station by now.

The end of Jennifer's electronic cigarette slowly intensified its glow until it vaguely resembled the cherry tip of the real thing. Nicotine-laced vapor wafted from the corner of her mouth as her eyes narrowed, watching the CSIs work. The simulation was helping, but Jennifer found herself fighting a real craving for the first time in months. Murder at your workplace did that to you.

"Watch that bag!" The trash bags that had been half-covering the dead guy that morning were now piled haphazardly off to one side, and the top-most one was beginning to slide at a glacial pace down the side of the makeshift mound of trash. The photographer who'd shot her a dirty look snagged the top of the trash bag and tugged it back just before it would have landed right on the corpse's narrow chest.

"Amateurs," Jennifer muttered under her breath, shaking her head. She shouldn't have been surprised, wasn't really. In her experience the local cops were rarely reliable for much more than getting nothing done and taking a long time doing it.

The closing of the cruiser door drew her attention, and she saw Sapphire heading over to join her. She paused halfway there, looked over her shoulder at the detective she'd been speaking with and pointed toward the front door, saying something. Then she finished closing the distance.

"Great morning," Jennifer said wryly, nodding her head at the feet still sticking out in plain sight. Sapphire smiled, though it was a forced at best.

"Thanks for coming in." She paused and then glanced at Jennifer's smoldering digi-smoke. "I remember when I could have asked you for an extra one."

"Thought you quit?"

"Years ago. Sort of seems like the morning for it though."

The two of them just looked at one another quietly for a moment or two before Sapphire spoke again.

"I got a look at him, before they hustled me off to get a statement." Jennifer didn't say anything, just lifted an eyebrow. "I recognized him."

"Regular?"

"Sort of. You know the cashmere sweater-guy?"

"Old one or the young one?"

"There's two?"

"Nevermind," Jennifer said, snapping off the e-cigarette. "You wouldn't know the young one, you don't work Saturdays. This guy - forties?" Sapphire nodded. "I know who you mean. That's him?"

"Yeah."

"I haven't seen him in months." Cashmere Sweater-Guy was one of those semi-regulars who popped in every other afternoon for a week, then dropped off the radar for an entire season. Quiet, polite, older - good tipper. "He was never an evening customer. Why would he have been here last night?"

"I don't know."

"What did the cop say?"

"I didn't tell him."

"Why not?"

"Do you really want them snooping around? Maybe finding the basement."

Jennifer thought it over for a minute and concluded that no, she did not.

"So what then?"

"For starters, we need to find out if he was here last night."

"So we ask who was closing." Jennifer blinked, then made a face already suspecting what Sapphire was building up to. "Who was closing?"

"Bill."

"Bill."

"That's what I said."

"And we're not waiting until he comes in, are we?"

"Nope."

"So we're going to his...apartment."

"Yep."

Jennifer's face spoke volumes about how little she liked for the idea. Sapphire's, meanwhile, spoke volumes about how little she cared. Finally Jennifer sighed and nodded, pointing to where her car was parked.

"Fine, let's go. At least I've had a tetanus shot."

[brianiswriting-blog]

Influences: Dark Sun and Troy Denning

I don't think that fear is a very large part of my psychological makeup. Much as I love the horror genre, I can only think of two things that have really frightened me in the past ten years - The Ring, which didn't so much scare me as creep me right out, and Amnesia: The Dark Descent, which absolutely terrified me.

Bats scare me witless, but only in real life and in an enclosed space. That's a whole other thing. Maybe I'll talk about it later.

That said, the notion of going back and re-reading Troy Denning's Prism Pentad, starting with the Verdant Passage, does scare me. Not because the books themselves are scary, but because of the massive impact they had on my development as both a reader and a writer.

Athas, the world on which the novels take place, began as the Dark Sun Campaign Setting for Dungeons & Dragons. I started playing Dungeons & Dragons at the tender age of seven. I think I was ten or eleven when my group embarked into the desolate wastes of the broken world of Athas. I read the novels not long after, on the cusp of becoming a teenager.

Which is the problem. The Prism Pentad shaped my absolute adoration of what I've come to call alternate fantasy - as in fantasy that is not rooted in Tolkienesque tropes. Yes there are dwarves and elves and halflings (the non-copyright-infringing equivalent of hobbits) on Dark Sun - but they are incredibly different. Magic isn't just arcane and mysterious - it's dangerous and deadly, and responsible for the absolute destruction of what was once a lush and fertile world. Psychic abilities not only exist, but are common - even the poor farmhand working the pathetic fields has some manner of mindbending ability. Dragons are not just scaled powerhouses slumbering on piles of treasure, but the evolutionary end of a sorcerer's path to power.

My love of Steven Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen, Stephen King's Dark Tower, and J. Gregory Keyes' Nholish Empire and Age of Unreason can all be traced back to those books. They opened my eyes to the possibilities for fantasy beyond Western European, feudalism-based cultures.

Hell, my own Ducal Republic of Marna setting (and other projects I've chased in the past, like the Empire of Harkimar and the City-State of Lind, which I'll probably talk about someday) probably wouldn't exist were it not for the influence of Dark Sun and the Prism Pentad.

When Wizards of the Coast decided to bring Dark Sun back for their new edition of Dungeons & Dragons, they also decided to reprint the old Prism Pentad novels. And I kept (and keep) saying I'm going to go out and get my hands on them. But I don't.

There's something about leaving your past, especially the important parts, in the past. Going back to your old high school ten years later, it always looks small and sad. Same with the places you hung out, that were once so cool. Nostalgia is great and all, but only when you keep it in perspective. I probably will get my hands on them soon, but what I'll find still worries me.

After all, I used to think the Star Trek CTCG was way cooler than Magic the Gathering.

[brianiswriting-blog]

The Duel - first attempt

I've talked a couple of times about The Duel - the piece I thought I was going to be writing next, before Lindvarm jumped into my brain and refused to wait its turn. What I haven't mentioned before was that it was going to be my second time trying to tackle this piece.

The Duel was originally set in its own, unique world - very similar to the Ducal Republic of Marna but with some notable differences. The two that jump out most are that A) there were no nations per se, just a constantly feuding collection of city-states, and B) there was no real magic, but instead a sort of pseudo-tech. I called it alchemy-punk (no idea if that's a thing or not) - basically steampunk but without the steam, using alchemy instead.

It didn't work, for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, I decided it was going to be a novel, period - which meant I was constantly focused on making sure the end result came out over 85,000 words. Focusing on producing quantity over quality is a bad way to write, and I think that started to show more and more as I kept producing.

The second problem, and the more damning one, was that I was way too close to what I was writing. I started writing this piece around Christmas of 2011 - a year that was, without a doubt, the absolute worst year of my life for a lot of reasons. I may talk about that on one of my "journal" days, eventually. We'll see.

Suffice to say I spent a lot of time during that year dealing with some ugly things. And I vented all that poison that had been building up in me into a piece that I saw at the time (and still do, for the most part) as the most ambitious story I've ever tried to tell. Unfortunately, being so close to it - being so personally entwined with a lot of what I was trying to tell - practically ensured the quality of my narrative would fluctuate with my emotional state.

In short, to tell this story I needed distance that I desperately lacked. I'm hopeful a pretty solid 2012 and a 2013 that's kicked off to a fantastic start will provide that balance and perspective I needed.

I will be returning to The Duel, without a doubt. But I've basically air-lifted the city-state of Carval and dropped it in the middle of the Republic. And it fits. I don't know how I know that, already, but it just feels right.

So for today, treat yourself to The Duel as it originally started out. I may not be happy with the total product, but I always enjoyed the beginning.

Men died, dueling in the Field of Honor – not often, for duels to the death were illegal and reprehensible to the civilized men and women of Carval, but accidents did happen. Eleven such accidents had happened, in the two centuries since the Field had been elevated to stand as the pinnacle of its kind – a dueling ground like no other. Eleven graves lay within the rosebushes, each marked by a small stone pedestal bearing the fallen man’s name, each pedestal mounted by a stone spider with multi-faceted eyes and eight long limbs ready to weave a mourner’s shawl around the defeated and bear him to the next life. The statues were, by long tradition, paid for by the fallen man’s opponent – for victory carried with it burdens, doubly so a victory won by killing another man. On those rare occasions – it had only happened twice before – where the victor had been unable to afford the cost, the funds had been loaned to him by the Carvalan Guard with interest so low it was barely a pittance.

Etoran stood at the north entrance to the Field of Honor – standing between statues bearing the names of Maran Hadregaan and Wilhek Ornasus – and watched the morning fog waft among the thorns and grass, watched the rising sun burn the mist away. He wore a wide-brimmed hat of black velvet that lay shade across his face and kept the sun from his eyes.  His cloak was dark maroon, marking him as a member of the Carvalan Guard – and at his hip was a sword with an elaborate basket-hilt woven from gold as white as fresh-fallen snow, marking him as one of the Guard’s three Captains.

The polished black leather of his boots creaked slightly as he stepped past the statues, onto the Field, his gloved hand rising to tip back his hat. Though it did not make any such sound, Etoran could feel his left knee – the bad one – creaking in a similar fashion as he walked. He had fought fourteen duels here over the course of his thirty-four years – more than any man living. More than any man since Augusto Mallefas himself, some whispered – though that could not be confirmed. The Codex Duello had been lost in the fires of 1378 – and thus more than a hundred years of Carval’s dueling history was lost. It was possible others, who had lived between Etoran and Mallefas, had equaled or exceeded his accomplishments. It was equally possible that Mallefas himself had not matched Etoran’s impressive tally – though the captain brushed such thoughts aside as arrogance, and did not linger on them.

He stopped two-thirds of the way down the eastern side of the Field, as he always did, and lowered himself down – left knee be damned. He was careful not to kneel fully, not to press his trouser leg into the moist grass and muddy the fabric. He reached out with his right hand and laid a small wreath of lilacs on the pedestal there, where the purple flowers stood in bright contrast to the red roses. Etoran’s eyes fell on the letters carved in the rock, and his stomach hardened and his heart clenched – this too was something that always happened, when he read the name there.

Octavio Etoran.

“Oh brother,” he whispered quietly, eyes closing for a moment, head softly shaking. “Over a woman.” There was sadness in his voice as he pictured his younger brother’s wide smile, his bright eyes, his boyish laugh. “You drew a line and bared steel over a woman. There are always consequences.”

[brianiswriting-blog]

Frustration is...

So I've been talking about working on the new design for this place, never in too much detail, but it's been touched on more than once that the website is going to be getting a facelift soon.

So, apparently, soon isn't as soon as I thought.

I've been putting the time in over the last two weeks, deferring work on the new piece Lindvarm (working title) so I could get it done. Since I'd never designed a theme for Tumblr before, I needed to take a fair amount of time to experiment around with things to make sure I understood how everything worked together. Today I tested it out, getting the first good look at the theme with all the components styled the way I wanted.

And I hated it.

The color was not good. Not terrible. Hardly the worst thing on the internet. But the contrast I thought would work to enhance certain things, didn't. The overall look was bland, boring, and not worth using.

I love it when I get to scrap two weeks worth of work and start over. I'm feeling better about the new design - I did a complete return to square one, and really considered certain design elements. And yes, I ought to have done that the first time.

When my present fury abates, I expect I will be excited about the new design again.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Pumpkin Spice with Extra MURDER (Part I)

So this, the first of my stand-alones, is something I’ve been getting requests for for months. Not here - I’m still averaging four unique visits a month, so my Inbox isn’t exactly flooding - but from people in the physical world we’re all forced to inhabit until the Matrix goes live. I’ve mentioned my writing habits before, in particular the fact that I go to Starbucks to get most of my writing done. There’s actually one three blocks from my apartment, and since I started coming here I’ve become one of their most frequent customers. One of the things I always have difficulty with, when it gets out that I write fiction, is questions about what I write. Partially because I try to avoid writing things that can be easily summarized, and partially because I find talking too much about something while it’s still being worked on tends to dilute my focus and the end product suffers. I imagine that it’s like thinking about how bad you want a baby during sex - sort of ruins the experience and lowers your chances. That’s a thing, isn’t it? As a single, childfree man I guess I don’t really know. Maybe that analogy is nonsense. Whatever. So I’ve gotten to know my local barristas fairly well. In my experience, when the same people regularly handle things you ingest, it pays to be nice to them. It helps that they’re all great people - I started going there just to get out of the house, but at this point even if I move across town I’ll probably still eat the extra travel-time to keep coming back there. Anyways, they’ve asked before what I’m working on. And I typically hedge, never really going beyond “oh, you know, fiction.” So the joke got started when one of them started asking if I was writing a novel about barristas, and I (sarcastically) told them I was. Barristas, who were also ninjas, that solved crimes. And it just spun out of control from there. So, since I’ve decided to dedicate Fridays to writing one-shots that aren’t necessarily for publication or set in the Ducal Republic, I present to you the first installment of my new Starbucks-themed ninja-murder-epic: Pumpkin Spice with Extra MURDER! Oh, it should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyways: all characters herein are original creations. Resemblances to real people, like the barristas who jokingly pester me about my writing, are superficial at best. All mockery is done with love. Please don’t spit in my coffee. The smell of coffee grounds and sour milk was the first thing to greet Sapphire when she got behind the counter. It was early, the sun still twenty minutes away from making an appearance. She squatted down in front of the milk steamer and made an irritated face. “Jesus Bill,” she muttered to herself, not even needing to check the schedule to know who’d been closing last night. “Take out the trash at the end of the night. That’s like Closing 101.” The bag of garbage was packed, full of wet coffee grounds and empty milk bags. Sapphire wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Like she didn’t have enough to get done before opening the doors. She hefted the bag out of the can and tied it off. The black plastic hit the tiles with an ugly whump sound, which just annoyed her even more. She normally worked evenings, so the early morning shift didn’t exactly have her in a good mood as it was. Her elbow clipped a plastic jug of syrup as she stood up - not in the right place, sitting out instead of put away. It skittered across the metal counter, rattling and sloshing, then tipped off the edge. She went to catch it, caught it by the pump - and cursed angrily as the smell of hazelnut filled the air, squirting all over the front of her pants. She hadn’t had the chance to put her apron on yet. “Perfect,” she huffed, taking a breath and forcing the scowl off her face. Scowls didn’t encourage tips, after all. She didn’t have anything to change into, and there wasn’t enough time to go home and change. Maybe later, after Angelique had started, she could duck out for twenty minutes. Maybe. Sapphire wiped at the wet splotch with a paper towel, decided that wasn’t helping at all, was actually just making the stain worse, and gave up. She hefted the bag with one hand and went out back. It was irritating to find things out of place. Garbage in a can that should have been empty. Flavored syrup on the counter, instead of the shelf. A human foot sticking out from behind the dumpster, pant cuff tugged up to the calf, a pale ankle showing plainly above a suede loafer. There was a slick puddle coming from behind the dumpster too. It was a dark orange, almost brown, and thick. Foamy at the edges from the frothed milk. And running through it, like a dollop of paint not yet mixed in on an artist’s palette, another color: bright crimson red. Where the two liquids merged, it was a rust-colored brown. Someone else might have screamed, eyes bulging with panic. Might have fainted dead away, or started hyperventilating. Sapphire did none of these things. She let the bag drop to the pavement, carefully so the plastic didn’t split, and then came closer. She came down to one knee, leaning closer to the pool and sniffed carefully. “Pumpkin spice latte,” she murmured quietly, eyes now hardened as she took in the scene. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone. “I hope he enjoyed it.”

[brianiswriting-blog]

Through the Republic, Prologue (Part II)

“She's not there." Hector was doing his best to move silently, hoping to avoid Valman's involvement when the voice wafted through the open office door and into the hall. Hector managed to suppress the scowl he could feel wanting to erupt on his face and moved to the doorway, poking his head within.

"So they're not even bothering to give me a personal send-off anymore?" He didn't want to sound bitter, or angry, but Hector knew he did. Valman glanced up from his desk, which was (as always) a messy jumble of hastily-scrawled notes and research materials. The Bruchsmouth Times Standard's most experienced voice was a few years past forty, his hair thin and his wide pug-nose marked with the crackling web of blue and red veins that showed he still knew how to enjoy his evenings.

"And you're surprised, after the first three brush-offs Hector?" Valman's voice wasn't sarcastic or dismissive, his marble-like eyes peering up from the desk curiously. Somehow the man's empathy made Hector feel worse. "Why're you scowling?"

"I'm getting tired -"

"Stop." Valman's voice held a firmer edge now, instructing rather than suggesting. "Self-pity gets you nowhere in this industry. You aren't entitled to Donner's time, no matter how much you want it. Go in there with that attitude and you'll never even get into the appointment books."

"And when am I going to get the chance for my bad attitude to ruin things? You just told me I've been dropped again."

"Listen, Hector. You need to learn to listen if you want to do this work. What did I say?"

"You said," Hector paused, then blinked. "You said Analise wasn't there. Which means -"

"Questions Hector. That's what we do. Ask questions. Every answer leads to more, no reply is ever enough. Gods you're green."

"Where's Donner?"

"In his office, I assume. Working hard, taking it for granted that Analise has - or shortly will - be sending you on your way."

"But she never leaves him unattended."

"That's not a question." Hector sighed.

"Why did she leave her post?"

"Because I need some materials from the burgher of the docks, and he's being less than cooperative. His son, however, has an eye for Analise." Valman shrugged. "She didn't want to go, but I insisted. Of course I had to promise to get rid of you."

"Lovely. I have to say, Valman, if I have to choose who's going to send me on my way, I prefer the pretty girl with the sympathetic smile."

"False sympathy, but don't worry about it. And you've missed the most important question."

"What's that?"

"Does William Valman, with all the pieces he needs to get finished by deadline, really have time to keep an eye out for an ex-soldier turned mediocre-mercenary?" Hector blinked as Valman smiled, then nodded toward the door. "Go talk to Donner. I never saw you."

[brianiswriting-blog]

Ever closer

I'm pleased to announced that as of a couple hours ago the second draft of Iseult & the Thornlands is complete. I managed to shave a little over 10% of the total length off in the first edit, dropping the total length from (approximately) 42k to 38k words.

Now comes the scarier part - opening it up to outside edits. Until now, only one person apart from myself has read the piece. Now I'll be letting a small handful of people I know and trust to take a crack at it, let me know what they think works and what doesn't. Once that's done I'll give it one last once-over, and then I'll be ready for the next step.

I'll be talking about that next step soon, I hope.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Exciting but scary

I'll admit it. I had a minor freak-out moment.

I've never really given a lot of thought to the business-end of writing. I didn't have anything that was publishing-ready, so it wasn't really an issue - and when I did think about it it rarely went farther than the following:

Buy a copy of the latest Writer's Market

Use that to create a short list of publishers to sell {whatever} to

Send {whatever} to the publishers, wait for replies

If no one bites, repeat starting from 2

Simple. Naively so, but still.

So, with the rate of progress I've been making on the 2nd draft of Iseult & the Thornlands, I decided to start thinking about what I'm going to do when it's done. I mean, I'm still at least one draft from actual completion, but better to plan ahead.

So it's currently sitting at just under 38k words. Down about 4.5k from the 1st draft. It'll come down farther by the time I'm done, but if it gets under 35,000 I'll be surprised.

This puts it in a strange position. Too long to really be sold to a magazine as a short story, but about 50k words or so shy of being a novel. So I've instead decided to try self-publishing it. Seemed like the way to go.

So I started looking into eBooks. Formats. Readers. Markets.

It was right around when I started reading the agreement for Amazon KDP Select - whereby you give Amazon exclusivity, albeit only for renewable periods of time, over your title.

The notion that I suddenly had to worry about rights to my work, for reals, instead of as a theoretical "later" problem was slightly terrifying.

I'm starting a business. That's the reality of what I'm doing. I am the boss. All the decisions are mine to make, and the consequences will be no one's fault but my own.

It's frightening, but a good kind of fear.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Darven von Allistair: Soldier of the League

"Please," the voice gasped, breath hitching on each syllable. It was not the voice of someone in a good situation. "Please, no more." The room went quiet for a moment, followed by the metallic rasp of the winch tightening - and the quiet crackle of bones grinding, nearing the breaking point. And the scream, of course, high-pitched and inarticulate in its pain. Silence then, save for the sharp intakes of breath, so shrill they bordered on a whistle.

The smell of sweat was overpowered briefly by that of sulfur as the match was struck, the pipe lit. The burning leaves in the bowl glowed red, bathing the room in a dim light - just enough to silhouette the face of the man who smoked.

"Darven?" The voice choked out, surprise and terror in equal measure. "Is that -"

"Lord Crenum." The voice was flat, unemotional, perfectly calm. "We were distressed to learn how cheaply your loyalties can be purchased."

"I went to your funeral," the man repeated, struggling to speak evenly. His features were distorted equally by confusion and agony. "I toasted your memory."

"You should really discipline your blacksmith," the man with the pipe murmured, glancing around the small forge. "A craftsman is only as good as he keeps his shop." He reached out for the winch again.

"No more," Lord Crenum hissed, the authority so common to his voice now utterly absent. "No more Darven. Stop. Please." The noble's face was ashen, his mouth trembling slightly. The other man stopped, his hand resting on the winch.

"No more?" His tone was murderous. "Ask me what I endured for the League. And you, you sell out your countrymen for what? A barony and a few other dignities? How does it feel to be an Archduke's whore?"

The burning embers in the pipe went red again as Darven took in some smoke, eyes blazing brighter than any flame. He tapped the coals to a wick, the candle lighting almost immediately.

"The cause is lost," Lord Crenum practically moaned. "We're withering and dying, the border shifting an inch at a time."

"So why not see to it the tide doesn't drown you and yours?"

"There's wisdom in accepting what can't be changed."

"And there's cowardice in seeing what is difficult as insurmountable."

Blood dripped in slow, heavy beads, through the metal teeth of the bench vice in which Lord Crenum's right hand was trapped. A piece of parchment was set on the work table, an inkwell and quill placed beside that.

"Sign it."

"I can't read in the dark, Darven."

"I didn't ask you to read it. Sign it."

"What is it?"

"An abdication, in favor of your younger brother."

"Harren? He's an idiot."

"He's loyal. We will accept the trade."

"My grandfather entered the League freely. The Charter promises all signatories the right of withdrawal."

"Cock on the Charter. Sign it."

The winch turned, Lord Crenum screamed again as the first of his fingers snapped with a sound like wet wood popping in a fire. More blood pooled beneath the vice.

"What about my son?"

"What about him?"

"If I...sign," the Lord's voice faltered as the vice tightened, his ring finger splintering this time. Tears were streaming down the man's face now, his throat convulsing.

"I managed to get into your house and drag you out here unseen. Nevermind what happens to your boy if you sign." Darven drew a short blade, the blade not new but clearly well-cared for. "What do you imagine I'll do if you don't."

"I'll need allowances. Some..assurances that," a third finger snapped, and this time the howl that escaped Lord Crenum's throat was like that of a wild animal in the cruel jaws of a trap.

"This is the League, my Lord. We look to the welfare of all nobles, not just those who hold title and land. It's only in the Archduke's Peerage that the rest of the house is tossed low, with the muck." The tone was scathing. "Now sign the damned thing. I'm out of patience."

There was a brief scratching of quill on parchment. Then the candle was tipped, signet ring pressed to wax.

"I'll have this delivered." Darven gave one hard tug, and the winch spun quickly the other way, vice flying open. Lord Crenum collapsed to the floor, mangled hand clutched protectively to his chest. "It goes without saying that I was never here." Darven leaned over the injured noble.

"Trust me, my Lord - you do not want me coming back."

[brianiswriting-blog]

Influences: Guy Gavriel Kay

I love Guy Gavriel Kay. In my brain, he's locked in an eternal three-way battle with Stephen King and Steven Erikson (to that Kirk v. Spock music) for the title of my favorite author.

Because, you know, I'm sure he's very worried about getting the number one spot. But I digress.

The first books of his I read, Sailing to Sarantium and Lord of Emperors, I actually read out of spite. Quick digression: over ten years ago I got the chance to develop the official Dungeons & Dragons setting material for Terry Brooks' Shannara series (someone else I'll be talking about here one of these days) for Dragon Magazine. Suffice to say, that was my first direct experience with online trolls - many of whom took the time to tell me that my first published work was crap, because it was based on crap. That if I wanted to read real fantasy genius, go read something by a real author like Guy Gavriel Kay (who I had never heard of, back then).

I was 18 and full of myself, and this filled me with some pretty self-righteous attitude that stuck with me, lurking in the back of my brain. Years later, when I saw Sailing to Sarantium on a shelf at the library, I picked it up mostly to prove to myself that this Kay-guy (heh, Guy Kay) was obviously not that big a deal.

Just one of many examples of how dumb and arrogant young men can be.

The Sarantine Mosaic blew me away. It remains the only book I can think of that ever made me cry. Which scared the shit out of my girlfriend at the time when she walked in on me - as I recall she assumed my dad must have just died or something.

I actually got the chance to engage with Mr. Kay recently - he did a Q&A over at Goodreads (which all bibliophiles should check out if they haven't already), and I managed to get a question of mine answered. It was pretty exciting to have the chance, doubly so to apparently ask a question that's never been asked of him before.

There are only a few experiences I can name on par with getting a thumbs up from an author you have near-reverence for. Also, I'm crazy excited for his new novel Under the Stars, which is a sequel (sort of?) to Under Heaven - possibly my favorite of Kay's work.

I've barely touched on how his work influenced me, or what about it strikes such a chord. I didn't expect this, but I may need to do a sequel to this one.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Through the Republic, Prologue (Part I)

The offices were hectic, as ever - a dozen people, mostly men but not all, moving with the energetic intensity that only the young and ambitious seem able to summon at will. Hector held himself back near the door, just beyond the fervor of inkwells and excited chattering.

“Do you still have the dossier on Matheson?” a young woman with green eyes and a humorless twist to her lips asked a freckled twenty-something at a desk across the room.

“Almost done,” he replied without looking up, scrawling notes hurriedly on the pad in front of him.

“You said that an hour ago!” Hector wasn’t looking anymore, having spotted a breach in the chaotic rushing about. He drew a breath and pushed forward, pivoting to let a man (boy, really) wearing a scrap that was supposed to be a mustache go by. The growing argument behind him was forgotten as he left the novices in his trail, slipping the door open and then closed after he was in the inner sanctum.

Quieter, in there. Just one woman, looking up from her own work at his entrance. He straightened his shoulders and kept walking, nodding to her without speaking. She assumed he was supposed to be there - he was supposed to be there, dammit! - and looked back down.

Stairs next, then Valman’s door and finally to the worst part. Analise. She might only weigh eight stone soaking wet, but that didn’t change anything. As far as Hector was concerned she was Felthis incarnate, guarding the Niter Gates with a pair of serpent-headed hounds chained to her wrist.

He still felt like he was breaking in, didn’t belong. That was ridiculous, and he dismissed the thought as best he could. He’d fought in wars on two fronts. He’d faced far worse than some slip of a girl with an appointment book. And he had an appointment.

Of course this was his fourth appointment. Donner Forsyke had cancelled the first three at the last minute.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Programming update

Just a quick update today, in preparation for what I'm now referring to as tomorrow's Grand Opening. Sure, we've been going for a couple weeks now, but just like every store business you have the real opening a solid month after you actually unlock your doors.

I've changed the update time - the posting schedule I talked about before is the same, just when the posts go up has changed. Until now I've been throwing things up between midnight and one in the morning because that's the default Tumblr setting. From now on, though, updates will go live around seven in the evening.

That's for the scheduled releases, at least. Unplanned and spontaneous updates and announcements will remain unpredictable. As spontaneous updates should be.

[brianiswriting-blog]

Slightly behind

Yesterday was the first time since I started the Bruchsmouth Times Standard that there hasn’t been a post chambered and ready to go come 12:30 am. I could blame this one on my brother being in town, and there’s some truth to that, but the real story is my recently-announced posting schedule.

Since we go live next week, I’ve been working hard getting things ready. Getting a queue up and running is a big part of my plan, which means I've been pounding out stuff for future posts and leaving the present-day stuff to the last minute. Thus yesterday, with no updates at all.

I'm going to do my best to stay on top of things for the rest of the week, but updates may be sporadic until Monday the 6th.