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On the final pages of The Book.

The working title for Tricorne’s first entry in its series is “A Heart’s Stone Cage.” After I’m done penciling this, I’ll be able to move on to revisions. Here’s hoping I can get a considerable pool of people to help me out with that.

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So, I’ve bitten the bullet and acquired a facebook page for my series. This will probably act as the epicenter for all things related to Visseria in terms of community and social media.

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I’ve decided I may as well post my ongoing writing in full. Why not? Worst-case scenario is that nobody will read it, and that’s the way it would be otherwise. Will probably put a link in my sidebar.

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Writing exerpt

I'm not sure how much time passed after that, in specific terms. I think for me, days were measured in books.

When you're fully engrossed in text of any kind, time drifts away. Or rather, it coagulates. Condenses. It turns from a long and fluid substance into a singular pellet that, so much smaller, disappears without notice.

The only sense of time I had would be when Glaucia roused me from my stupor to send me off to work. And there, I did my tedious 'work' while not paying it the least attention. She forbade me to take the books with me, so instead I went over them in my mind again, as if I were re-reading them in front of me. At times I would shake back to awareness in the middle of some ongoing brawl or intense squabble, or some genuine apology from a patron who broke a mug without my hearing it.

And when I got home, I would go straight back to the books. I only stopped when severe pangs of hunger or coarseness of thirst forced me to the kitchen to sustain myself, or when sleep became too undeniable for me to hold it back any more.

And for what felt like the first time, and though it sounds like I was putting in a great effort to press on, reading those medical texts came as easy to me as walking. No, more than that. It wasn't simply automatic, but something that I craved, like fresh air after long-held breath or the coolest of drinks after a long day in the forge.

I read about blood and its cells, the sparking of electricity across muscle and nerve, the many fluids of the digestive tract, the glasslike lenses of the human eye, and the mysteries of the brain. The more I read, the more I wanted to know. So many of those books left with the literary equivalent of a shrug, these masters meeting the limits of their understanding of the fields to which they had devoted themselves. Frustrating yet fascinating, like a mystery novel with an ambiguous end.

As the days went on, Glaucia would interrupt my reading at a constant-feeling pace, though in truth it was no more than a handful of times every day or night. In the times my mind was fit to listen I understood her pleas for me to sleep, asking if I'd eaten or drank, and bidding me to go with her to some theatre or such other distraction.

But any world outside of those books seemed incidental to me. By the time my salience returned, three weeks had passed. I was roused back into it by the realization that I had finished them all. Each of the twenty-seven books. My head ached.

A log, cut into slices thin as a hair. Each of those printed on both sides with minute characters forming endless strings of data. The total height of all these texts was twice my own.

And then I read them all again.

Though, I did skim the parts I already memorized.

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Inverse Mary Sue principle: The more ‘solved’ a character is, the less they should be the subject of the story.

In other words, if the character doesn’t have a lot of internal problems, then you should consider whether they’re going to be interesting to read about. It’s definitely possible to write a story where all the conflicts are external, but if you combine those with the character’s internal problems, the story becomes much more layered.

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Writers: Buy this book.

Outlining Your Novel by K.M. Weiland.

It’s embarrassing for me to admit especially in retrospect, but I haven’t been doing things as well as I could have been when it comes to characterization.

I felt like my writing was falling flat, and I couldn’t really explain why. But this book kind of made me realize what I almost consciously knew I wasn’t doing.

I didn’t have clear definitions of the wants of my characters, the things they need to learn and have to overcome in order to grow. This book has other lessons, too(I’m only halfway through it), but that was huge. I almost have to do another rewrite(ugh) to work in what I’ve learned about my characters.

Get this book, though. Even(or especially) if you are a ‘pants’ writer like I am/was. It makes some pretty solid arguments on when it’s appropriate or not.

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An Excerpt: Alchione And The Machine-Creature

In Highguard City, criminals disappear.

There are prisons, of course, but they were rendered invisible: The towering heights of military bastions surrounded them. Where more secure are the unlawful than enveloped by that which they are most opposed?

Two men descended into one such prison’s dim-lit halls. The first wore the iconic brass breastplate of The Watch with minor regalia. The other wore a gray-blue suit, spectacles, and a stern expression.

“The corporal will be this way,” said Sergeant Pavel.

“Prisoners have no ranks,” said Danilo Cesar de Lima Oliveira.

Keep reading

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 As part of research for my book, I read a bit about the duties of various Victorian servants. Now I’m considering looking into novels which feature heavily drama between them. The only thing holding me back is the idea of reading Victorian literature about housemaids sounds incredibly dull, to a comical degree. Unless, that is, someone happens to know of any that are particularly good. Anyone?

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To post or not to post

Sorry I haven’t been posting here often, but I don’t have much to say on writing as a topic at the moment. I’ve been debating internally as to whether I should post the pieces of the novel here. Parts will most likely undergo revisions in the future, and I’m hesitant to present unfinished products here.

What do you think?

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New working intro

The high noon sun forced its glaring light through the dust-stained sky. Upon a hard-packed depression of orange-yellow earth a simple carriage drove, pulled steadily by a heavy, feathered beast that may as well be a horse.

They came to a barn-come-waystation at the side of the road; the coachman stopped and dismounted.

A high but gravelly voice came from within the carriage. "Ey, we there yet?"

The door opened and the speaker stuck his head out-- A thin and sharp-dressed man appearing in his thirties, balding and with a long goatee. Even in the darkness of the carriage's interior he kept his smoked glasses on.

"No sir," said the coachman, loosing the horse from the trace. "Village of... Low-Mesa, I think. Nipper here needs a rest 'fore we get to Highguard City."

"What, again? Didn't we just stop an hour ago?"

"No sir, that was this morning." The coachman smiled. "You were asleep, I reckon, if the snoring was any guide."

"Oh yeah. Village, huh?" The passenger stepped out, momentarily catching his long coat on a splinter in the taxi's small door.

A field of sorghum swayed before him, a number of farmers paused in their work to stare at the stranger. He turned to see a wind-worn mass of yellow-white stone jutting from the earth. Upon it was a village, unremarkable except for its proud foundation. The rhythmic sound of distant clanging steel caught his notice next, and off in the direction the road led was the movement of men swinging hammers. Far behind them, on the horizon made wavy by the heat, was the vast city of Highguard.

He reached into the carriage and pulled from it his wide-brimmed hat to guard his eyes from the high sun. He looked again towards the workers.

The coachman seemed to understand. "Those men are putting down a special road, I hear."

"Aoramfuun..."

The coachman cupped his ear. "Sorry?"

"Uh, railroad."

"Yes, that was it. Read it in the paper too, did you?"

"...Oh, sure. Paper."

"Not sure I understand it, but if the folks up at the citadel say it's good for us, I reckon it must be."

The passenger looked off at the working men a few moments longer. "... How long will it be?"

"For it to reach town? A few days, maybe. They work quick. Better be, they're showing off whatever-it-is next week."

"What? No, the horse."

"Oh!" The coachman thought for a moment. "Best give the horse a couple of hours. Too much sun, you know..."

"Yeah, fine. This town, there a place to get a drink up there?"

"Well, I suppose so, sir, but folks inland don't take too kindly to Tartigans. Not often your folk come around, you see."

The passenger nodded and frowned. "I think I can risk it. If I'm not back when the horse is ready, dowse me in water!" He stepped off in whatever direction he hoped led up the side of the edifice.

For a moment, Jack considered staying with the carriage. It might have been wiser to not show his face to anyone at all if he could help it, but his way back out of Highguard was on the other side of the great city. One of the many advisable tricks to keeping yourself hidden was to not get out the same way you came in.

This village, Low-Mesa, was made of rough stone bricks much like the rest of Highguard’s inland towns. It was the same yellow stone that made up all the rocks in the region. Jack wondered whether the founders of this one came from the great city itself, perhaps masons who became farmers two centuries ago when the great waves of immigrants slowed. Or, more likely, they forced cavelings to carve the bricks for them and they lived in whatever didn’t fall down.

Because it was noon, some of the villagers went about town to and from their homes for lunch. Jack, dressed in his fine longcoat, a stranger, and a Tartigan besides, got as many stares as if one of the local landmarks sprouted legs and walked around.

Jack didn’t care for small towns. He respected that they existed, since it takes some gall to come from someplace that exists and then create a place that didn’t already. And sure, quiet was nice now and then. But, to go through all the effort for those by themselves was a waste of time. Quiet had a lifespan. Even the most pastoral of priests got bored eventually. That’s why pubs existed-- To make them all forget the regret of living in a village.

The local “pub” turned out to be the barber and drug store, too. The patrons were few, though the seats were many. The only ones present at noon were those who took drinking as a hobby. The bar-ber-tender paused mid-sweep. Thick-torsoed men looked at Jack and, seeing what he was, sat up slightly in muffled outrage. A few glanced to one corner of the joint, then back at him.

In that corner was a creature. Long-necked with snout and tail, covered in tan scale-plates except for the front of her neck and, presumably under the dress, her belly. Short enough to need a thick book to sit on to reach the tabletop comfortably, but with long arms that ended in thick fingers best suited for digging. She was a caveling. It was odd to see them so far away from the city and the mountains, and odder still that her big black-and-silver eyes would be devouring what seemed to be a medical text.

Jack knew a powderkeg when he saw it. They made good seats in a pinch. Just don’t light a match, see?

He took a seat at the bar. “Gentlemen.”

Nothing.

“What, you never see a thirsty man before?” Jack pointed at the man next to him, a thick and bearded young man. “I’ll have whatever he’s got.”

Wordlessly, the thin, waxen-haired proprietor returned to the bar and poured out a mug of whatever wine it was.

“Thank you, my good man.”

“Be fifty cents,” the barman mumbled, as though afraid the words would be lost forever once given to the Tartigan.

Jack’s hand passed to his wallet, hanging from his belt. He made special effort to hide the Orturban bills from the patrons, though they wouldn’t know what they were. It might have been enough that they weren’t Highguardian dollars, one of which he did hand over.

“Don’t worry about the change,” said Jack. He looked at the cavelingess reading in the corner, catching the last motes of a hurried turn away from his gaze.

Jack wasn’t concerned with the opinions of rural drunks; he decided she might be better for conversation and stood up to approach the little table in the corner.

“Dour bunch of folks around here, huh?”

The cavelingess looked up at him, a look of deep surprise on her face. “I’m sorry?”

Jack chuckled and motioned broadly to the few occupants in the room. They were all looking back at the pair of them. “They look like there’s a spider in their boot and they don’t know what to do about it. And now me, huh?”

The caveling lady fixed her silver pupils on him with her mouth open. “I... What? I’m sorry, but have we met?”

“No, of course not,” said Jack. “What gave you that idea?”

She cleared her throat, carefully marked her place in the book, and set it down. “Well, um...” She glanced around the room, then spoke quietly. “I’m not exactly used to... that. Being approached, I mean.”

“Not surprised,” said Jack. His hushed tone matched hers, now. “Mind if I sit?” He sat without an answer. “They don’t seem too fond of me, either. You passin’ through?”

“No, no. I live here! I’m the town doctor.”

“Well! Now I don’t know what to think. Didn’t know they were letting cavelings into Highguard’s fancy medical schools these days.”

“Um, they don’t. Or, not usually, I mean. Sometimes...” The caveling doctrix scratched the base of her lengthy neck and looked away.

“Interesting,” said Jack, scratching his beard. “Trouble getting in, huh? ‘Course, that’s the way of things in this neck of the world... Now across the sea, or even across the Yellow River, things are a little different. ESPECIALLY across the river, in fact. Know what I mean?”

“Across the- Orturbus?!”

“Well, hypothetically speaking, sure. It’s a caveling-sorta-place, right?”

“Alright!” a gruff voice slurred at them.

Wobbling mightily at their table was one of the patrons, another of the thick farmhands. He pointed somewhere near the doctor. “Just what do you think yer up to?!”

She twitched, hitting a leg on the underside of the table. “Ah!? I’m sorry?! What?!”

“You never come out of that house of yours, and now you just think you can sit in here like nothin’s different?! And now you meet with this foreign piece of shit and talk about Orturbus?! You a spy?!”

The doctor relaxed slightly. Jack sensed her momentary panic turn into confusion. “Olavo, I’m just here for a drink! I don’t know this man, I promise!”

“Horseshit! You never got along with nobody!”

Jack stood up. His eyes barely met Olavo’s chin. “Sounds like your trouble’s with me, pal. Trust me, I just met the good doctor today.”

“She’s no doctor! She’s a caveling!”

The bartender put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Olavo! Come here, she’s just drinking, no harm in that...”

Olavo stumbled away under his guidance.

The doctrix hopped down from her chair and picked up her books. Wordlessly, she left.

“Story there for sure,” said Jack. He poured the remainder of his wine into his mouth and chose to spend the rest of the time waiting with the coachman.

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So, after some consideration, the first book will center on Frieda specifically and her decision to leave home.

Although technically this is the fourth iteration of the story, I hesitate to call it anything more than a first draft. I’d consider a second draft to be something that is fully written but undergoing the last steps of refinement. That is definitely not the case here, since the extension of Frieda’s story necessitates new content.

We’re going to explore her life before going t the university, which means her previous job and a little bit of her family life.

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Some sketches, trying to finalize what Visserian horses look like.

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I was approaching 120 thousand words when I realized I probably have enough material for a book. Maybe two.

So, draft 2 of book 1 commences.

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But if we’re talking a fantasy setting with elves and faux-europe, is there really an expectation that the continents will necessarily be the same in terms of their vegetation and produce? I guess if you want to strictly adhere to the formula of “real life but with X” style fantasy, that might be something to consider.

Don’t get me wrong, I agree that research is a great tool, but just because a setting’s culture is derived from a real-life one doesn’t mean it has to share the history of its economy, exploration, and trade, does it? If you feel like these things have to be explained, it had better support the story in some manner. How does the import of tomatoes affect the life of the goblins? Do we care about that at all? Did the cotton trade affect the orcs? Why these crops specifically? What sort of information do you feel is important for the reader to know?

It occurs to me that failure to properly worldbuild an SFFnal story is - sometimes, though not always - less reflective of a writer’s creative ability than it is a consequence of their real-world privilege. The concept of culture as something with multiple facets, that can be...

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South Vilagfa, why not

photos by david clapp, katherine kuzmenko and duncan george from the ancient oak forest of wistmans wood in dartmoor

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Holystone on Patreon!

Hi everyone!! I’ve started up a Patreon for Holystone, my weekly webcomic. Please have a look, and thank you!!

https://www.patreon.com/holystone

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For those getting into writing like I am, I suggest two books I've read whose advice seemed very sensible.

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Browne & Dave King

I'm only partway through this one, but I find myself nodding as I go. A lot of it is stuff that I'm already familiar with but spells out clearly what I had conceptualized in an abstract sense. In particular it offers good tips on pacing, dialogue, and the monumental importance of "show, don't tell." It even offers stuff I didn't think about before, such as using cadence to express a foreign language as opposed to using accent cues.

Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass

It's not as capitalistic and jerky as it sounds. It's really just good writing practices, such as making your characters relatable and establishing tone early and such. It's been a while since I've read it so I can't offer concrete examples, but there wasn't really anything in there that made me recoil in shame(Wow, that was an odd sort of defense I just wrote). Check it out, anyway.