shannapage

[shannapage]

Hi Shanna! I feel kinda awkward because I don't really know how to interact with people on here, but I just wanted to say that I really admire you and hope your projects go well and that you too, are well. I wanted to ask you how do you plan to write all of your stories? but especially the book that you are writing... I don't know if someone has asked you this previously, but I really would like to know since you have inspired me to write my own stories, and would like some guidance tbh!

Hi, there! Thank you so much for reading my stories! I’m so glad to hear you enjoy my writing. I’ve spoken some on my writing/planning process on my fanfic blog (in my FAQ I have a tag linked, called on writing). I can definitely talk about it on this blog, though. 

Planning! Does the exclamation mark make it more exciting? Maybe not. Regardless, I find planning to be an important step in writing, although this can differ depending on the story and writer. For me, there’s a delicate balance between planning and losing motivation to write. 

Step 1: Ideation. This is probably the most nebulous concept, and it’s just the concept which kick-starts your story. This could be a character you have in your mind, or a genre you want to try, or an intriguing conflict. All stories start with an idea.

Step 2: Storyboarding. The bare bones of your story. Write a sort of high-level summary of your plot. This could be in a Word doc, or in table format, or just a loose scribbling of “and then’s.” Map out your story in the loosest way possible, but make sure there’s a story to begin with. You’ll need a hero, memorable characters, rising action, a climax and some sort of resolution. Make sure all this exists before you dive in and start writing.

Step 3 (in tandem with 2): Worldbuilding. As you storyboard, note any details you’ll need when you start to write. I.e., character names, locations, professions, geography, laws governing magic, etc. Everything you think about during storyboarding, write down. Sketch out a loose idea of your world/characters. Keep in mind this will change, shift and be added to, but give yourself something to start with.

Step 4: Draft 1. Start writing. Once I have a loose idea of what happens, I start from the beginning and write my way through. Always in chronological order, but I know other writers differ in this. It’s important (to me) the world and characters not be too set in stone (i.e., I don’t waste too much time worldbuilding), since things change as I fully write each chapter. Characters make unexpected decisions, new flaws pop up and the story begins to seem more alive. Once this draft is finished, you should have a firm idea of your story. 

Step 5. Draft 2. Start over. Open a clean document and write the whole story over. This time, you should know exactly who and what you’re writing. This is the draft where everything comes together for me.

Step 6. Editing. If draft 2 still feels off, rewrite it again. And again, until it feels right. Then, do the basic editing work. Read through the document, correct grammar, sentence structure and paragraph flow. 

Voila! You’re done :) best of luck with your writing!

[shannapage]

Fantasy Guide to Weapons

So I have a post about swords already but I have decided to update it with a look at more weapons that can be wielded in fantasy battles. These weapons below were wielded in different time periods and by different sorts of warriors. Each link shows the damage these weapons could do to armour or the human body. (disclaimer: do not attempt this at home and there mentions and sights of blood and dismemberment.)

Swords

Swords are to fantasy as sand is to a beach. But they aren't always the common cross shape we see. Swords come in all kinds of sizes and all kinds of ability.

Anatomy of a typical blade

Crossguard: This is the part of the sword between the hilt and blade. This protects the hand from slipping and can be used as a weapon in itself.

Hilt: This is the part you hold. Also called a grip. Most gilts would me wrapped with leather for comfort and for better grasp.

Blade: The sharp end, duh

Pommel: This is a weight screwed into the hilt meant to ensure the sword is balanced.

Fuller: This is a hollow running up the sword. It makes the sword lighter.

Edge: The sharpened sides of the blade. Swords can be singular or double edged.

The point: The pointy bit at the top to stick into the enemy. (jon snow logic)

Kinds of swords

Gladius: An Ancient Roman blade used by gladiators and then legionaires. There is no crossguard. It is also called a shortsword. Made for stabbing rather than slashing.

Xiphos: A double-edged, single-handed sword used by Ancient Greeks. The blade is commonly leaf shaped made for slashing.

Rapier: This is a slender blade used by Renaissance warriors. This blade might not be able to hack a head but its light weight makes the blade an asset in speed. The rapier often had a caged-like crossguard to protect the hand from injury.

Katana: The infamous Japanese curved samurai sword. This is single-edged and the blade is hammered thin. Like most Japanese swords it was made for speed and deadly sharp.

Scimitar: A curved blade with a singled edge popular in Central Asia. The scimitar ranged from a thick sword to thin, wielded most effectively on horseback.

Shamshir: The shamshir is a curved Persian/Iranian sword. Shamshīr which means "lion's fang" is a one handed blade often single edged.

Longsword: The go to Medieval and Renaissance weapon commonly used with with two hands. The Longsword was a slender blade, hammer straight and was typically double edged.

Khopesh: The Khopesh is a hooked-shaped African blade wielded by the guards of Egyptian Pharaohs.

Mace/Morning Star

The Mace is probably the second most common weapons seen on the battlefield. The Mace is a thick ball of steel usually spiked resting on top of a haft of wood. The Mace is an easy enough weapon to use (step 1: beat opponent until subdued). The Mace and morning star are fixed upon the halft while the flail is the more mobile one swinging from the half by rope or short chain. You can see it in action right here.

Warhammer

The Warhammer was a weapon wielded by some medieval soldiers made of a haft of wood and an hammer-like head. The actual blade itself could be blunted like hammers we see today or edged like blades, meant for cutting as well as crushing. The back usually featured a hook-like pommel that could also be used as a weapon, able to pierce armour and flesh. The Warhammer was an effective weapon in battle.

Poleaxe

The Poleaxe was the weapon usually wielded by infrantry in the middle ages. It was constructed from a wooden haft with a steel head, usually curved at the front for slashing, set with a spike at the back and top for stabbing. The Poleaxe would be used for charging and for defence. The whole idea behind this many pronged weapon was to puncture, slash from a safe distance. The haft of the weapon could be used to trip and to maim an opponent. You can see it in action here. There were many variations of the Poleaxe namely the bill and the Halberd.

Pikes

The humble Pike is often mixed up with a Halberd and the Poleaxe. It is a long weapon, formed of a metal spike and a long wooden halft. The Pike would be used en masse by infrantry to deflect calvary and protect cannoniers and artillery from attack. Pikes were very effective if one wanted to stopper a full blown calvary charge. Outlaw King has a scene where this can be seen.

Axes

Axes have been used in battle for millenia. The Axe is a weapon that has evolved through out history and over the course of many cultures. Axes were used by soldiers in battles and raids, both as a close-quarters weapon and as a long range weapon. The Axe had numerous forms: throwing axes such as the francisca, short-hafted hand wielded axes and long-hafted Lochaber axes.

[shannapage]

#161: Facing the Odds of Success as a Writer

Getting published is a numbers game. The more stories you write and submit, the more likely it is that you will strike gold. The more you write, the better writer you’ll be and your odds will go up. It’s simple, but certainly not easy. But what if the numbers don’t work out?

The New Yorker Magazine used to be (and still kind of is) the short story writer’s dream. Getting a story published in The New Yorker makes you a somebody (at least in the literary world). It runs one story per week – let’s round that up to 50 a year. If your writing career spans between 20 and 40 years, The New Yorker Magazine will publish between 1,000 and 2,000 stories. Only a tiny fraction of writers working today will ever get a story into The New Yorker.

Other publications are no different. The odds are stacked against you.

The imbalance in supply and demand creates a unique environment for both writers and editors. Underpaid editors receive hundreds of submissions for each publishing slot they have. They can barely sift through them all. That means that most writers see dozens and dozens of generic rejections. Thanks but no thanks.

Sending a story out is a vulnerable act. You’re reaching out with everything you have, hoping that the person at the other end will see you. But often, you will be left hanging.

It’s like shooting in the dark. You don’t know how far from the target you are. It’s frustrating.

The anxiety about the publishing process affects your writing too. The fear of being rejected over and over again makes some people avoid writing altogether. Sometimes, I feel like that, too.

30 years ago, this would’ve been the end. Fortunately, it’s 2020, and we have the Internet. You no longer have to wait for someone to publish your story. You can do it yourself. And many people do – from self-publishing novels to running fiction blogs and building an audience that way. Andy Weir published The Martian on his blog before it became the sensation that it is today.

The gatekeepers are on their way out. The stuff behind their gates becomes less and less valuable. Almost all the tools that publishers use today are available to everyone else. There are no secrets anymore.

These days, writers are making a living from blogs and newsletters, through Patreon or indie publishing. It’s possible, but not easy at all.

The question is: would you rather spend your days building an audience for your stories on your own or trying to get your work into prestigious magazines? Both can work. Choose wisely.

Want More?

My email subscribers receive a notification when I publish these posts along with a few things I found interesting or helpful on the literary internet every week. Click the link below to join the club.

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Past Editions

#160: Writing in Unusual Places, September 2020

#159: Writing With the Headlights On, September 2020

#158: Wordsmiths and Storytellers, August 2020

#157: The More You Write, The More Ideas You’ll Have, August 2020

#156: Being a Good Storyteller is a Superpower, August 2020

[shannapage]

Resources For Writing Sketchy Topics

Medicine

A Study In Physical Injury

Comas

Medical Facts And Tips For Your Writing Needs

Broken Bones

Burns

Unconsciousness & Head Trauma

Blood Loss

Stab Wounds

Pain & Shock

All About Mechanical Injuries (Injuries Caused By Violence)

Writing Specific Characters

Portraying a kleptomaniac.

Playing a character with cancer.

How to portray a power driven character.

Playing the manipulative character.

Portraying a character with borderline personality disorder.

Playing a character with Orthorexia Nervosa.

Writing a character who lost someone important.

Playing the bullies.

Portraying the drug dealer.

Playing a rebellious character.

How to portray a sociopath.

How to write characters with PTSD.

Playing characters with memory loss.

Playing a pyromaniac.

How to write a mute character.

How to write a character with an OCD.

How to play a stoner.

Playing a character with an eating disorder.

Portraying a character who is anti-social.

Portraying a character who is depressed.

How to portray someone with dyslexia.

How to portray a character with bipolar disorder.

Portraying a character with severe depression.

How to play a serial killer.

Writing insane characters.

Playing a character under the influence of marijuana.

Tips on writing a drug addict.

How to write a character with HPD.

Writing a character with Nymphomania.

Writing a character with schizophrenia.

Writing a character with Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Writing a character with depression.

Writing a character who suffers from night terrors.

Writing a character with paranoid personality disorder.

How to play a victim of rape.

How to play a mentally ill/insane character.

Writing a character who self-harms.

Writing a character who is high on amphetamines.

How to play the stalker.

How to portray a character high on cocaine.

Playing a character with ADHD.

How to play a sexual assault victim.

Writing a compulsive gambler.

Playing a character who is faking a disorder.

Playing a prisoner.

Portraying an emotionally detached character.

How to play a character with social anxiety.

Portraying a character who is high.

Portraying characters who have secrets.

Portraying a recovering alcoholic.

Portraying a sex addict.

How to play someone creepy.

Portraying sexually/emotionally abused characters.

Playing a character under the influence of drugs.

Playing a character who struggles with Bulimia.

Illegal Activity

Examining Mob Mentality

How Street Gangs Work

Domestic Abuse

Torture

Assault

Murder

Terrorism

Internet Fraud

Cyberwarfare

Computer Viruses

Corporate Crime

Political Corruption

Drug Trafficking

Human Trafficking

Sex Trafficking

Illegal Immigration

Contemporary Slavery 

Black Market Prices & Profits

AK-47 prices on the black market

Bribes

Computer Hackers and Online Fraud

Contract Killing

Exotic Animals

Fake Diplomas

Fake ID Cards, Passports and Other Identity Documents

Human Smuggling Fees

Human Traffickers Prices

Kidney and Organ Trafficking Prices

Prostitution Prices

Cocaine Prices

Ecstasy Pills Prices

Heroin Prices

Marijuana Prices

Meth Prices

Earnings From Illegal Jobs

Countries In Order Of Largest To Smallest Risk

Forensics

arson

Asphyxia

Blood Analysis

Book Review

Cause & Manner of Death

Chemistry/Physics

Computers/Cell Phones/Electronics

Cool & Odd-Mostly Odd

Corpse Identification

Corpse Location

Crime and Science Radio

crime lab

Crime Scene

Cults and Religions

DNA

Document Examination

Fingerprints/Patterned Evidence

Firearms Analysis

Forensic Anthropology

Forensic Art

Forensic Dentistry

Forensic History

Forensic Psychiatry

General Forensics

Guest Blogger

High Tech Forensics

Interesting Cases

Interesting Places

Interviews

Medical History

Medical Issues

Misc

Multiple Murderers

On This Day

Poisons & Drugs

Police Procedure

Q&A

serial killers

Space Program

Stupid Criminals

Theft

Time of Death

Toxicology

Trauma

[shannapage]

HEY, Romance Writers!

A few followers have asked for tips on writing romance into their stories or as the basis of their stories. Here’s a masterlist of sources (below cut) that may help.

General Romance:

What Defines Romantic Love?

How to Build a Romance Thread in Your Story

How to Plot a Romance Novel

Slowburn Romance

When Friends Fall for Each Other (ask)

Tips for Writing a Character Who Has a Crush

Tips on Writing Unrequited Love 

Writing Healthy Couples in Fiction

An Antidote to “Love at First Sight”

How Attractive Should Your Characters Be?

3 Great Ways to Show That Your Character Is In Love

6 Ways to Get Your Readers Shipping Like Crazy

Six Steps to Stronger Character Arcs in Romances

Seven Great Sources of Conflict for Romances

9 Romance Writing Mistakes to Avoid

20 Tips for Writing Lovable Romance Novel Heroes 

How to Write a Kissing Scene in a Romance Novel

Types of Kisses and Kissing + This Post Is All About Kisses

List of Ideas to Keep Romantic Tension High

100 Questions for Character Couples

How Do I Make the Relationship Development Realistic?

How Do I Know If Two People Are Compatible?

Healthy Relationships Can Include Teasing

How to Write a YA Romance Without Cliché   

Intercultural Romance:

How do I write an interracial couple accurately? (ask)

15 Common Stereotypes About Intercultural Relationships

Cross Cultural Relationships

[Ideas for] Your [Fictional] Cross-Cultural Relationship

Things to Avoid When Writing Interracial Romance

writingwithcolor: Interracial Relationships (w/ links)

Bad Romance:

Removing the Creeps From Romance

Why The Surprise Kiss Must Go

Possessiveness 101

10 Signs You May Be in an Emotionally Abusive Relationship

Edward & Bella Are In An Abusive Relationship

Red Flags, Verbal Abuse, Stalking… | Script Shrink

5 Huge Mistakes Ruining the Romantic Relationships in Your Book

How do you write a [bad] relationship without romanticising it? (ask)

General Tips for Writing Characters Love Interests:

How to Write from a Guy’s POV

Writing Awesome Male Characters: What You’re Doing Wrong

7 Point-of-View Basics Every Writer Should Know

How Do You Describe a Character?

4 Ways to Make Readers Instantly Loathe Your Character Descriptions

3 Signs Your Story’s Characters Are Too Perfect

Is a Quirk Just What Your Character Needs?

Six Types of Character Flaws

Is Your Character Optimistic Or Pessimistic?

5 Ways to Keep Characters Consistent

9 Simple and Powerful Ways to Write Body Language

10 Body Language Tricks for Deeper Characterization

Describing People Part Three: Gestures, Expressions, and Mannerisms

33 Ways To Write Stronger Characters

Conveying Character Emotion

Distinguishing Characters in Dialogue

How to Make Readers Love an Unlikable Character…  

Characters: Likability Is Overrated

Relationships in General:

How to Create Powerful Character Combos

8 Secrets To Writing Strong Character Relationships

Character Relationships: 6 Tips for Crafting Real Connections

Writing Relationships: Hate to Love

Stereotypes, Archetypes, & Tropes:

Five Signs Your Story Is Sexist: Part 1, Part 2

Five Signs Your Story Is Sexist – Against Men

Always Female vs Always Male

Born Sexy Yesterday & Manic Pixie Dream Girl

7 (Overused) Female Love Interests

Other Resource Lists

Resources For Romance Writers

Pinterest Board “Writing: Romance Arcs and Plots”  

thewritershelpers FAQ (romance, kissing, sexuality, etc)

+ Follow HEY, Writers! on Ko-Fi // Wattpad // AO3 // Goodreads // Pinterest

[shannapage]

Volcanoes of Kamchatka, Eastern Russia by Andrey Grachev

[shannapage]

Stellae: Chapter 1

Author: Shanna Page

Status: Incomplete / Ongoing 

Genre: Fantasy / Sci-Fi

Synopsis: The gods do not exist. Divine intervention is only imagined by those too cowardly to act. No, we only have ourselves in this word. Ourselves, the weapons we wield and the evil we choose to tolerate.

Eline Ritvak is the most renowned thief in all three Kingdoms. Mentored by the infamous criminal, Nightshade, she lives by a strict code of honor seemingly at odds with her chosen profession.When the Prince of Nitenbeir requests Eline steal a sword for him, she is curious enough to accept on his terms. What happens next sends Eline’s world tumbling into chaos, and she finds herself on the run from the most feared man on the continent. All she has is a sword, a know-it-all bookkeeper and the realization that perhaps, they are not alone in this world.      

Word Count: 5,782

Author’s Note:  As part of my fundraising initiative on my other blog for BLM, I stated that if a certain number was reached, I would release the first chapter of my unpublished (non-fanfic) novel. Since this amount was reached, here it is! This is only the first chapter and I do not plan on releasing more on this website. Know that this fight is not over and we still have tons of work to do. If you can still donate, please do so. If you’re living in the US, ensure you’re registered to vote at TurboVote.Org. 

More information about this world / my novel can be found here on my page.

Those who frequented the gambling dens of Kebasa had a saying they told to anyone who would listen; the most fruitful of grounds often bore the most teeth.

The saying was old, stemming from the antewalk, an animal known equally for its migratory patterns as a distinct lack of self-preservation. There was a game amongst children named after the animal in which the smallest of them attempted to cross a field before they could be tagged by the larger, faster children. If they were tagged, they were considered out.

The game was cruel by nature but then again, most things were cruel by nature. Every summer, the antewalk migrated to their northern breeding grounds through the Beir Mountains. If any place could be described as ‘having teeth,’ the Beir range was a natural contender.

Spiders as large as a person’s fist dangled from shoddy webs, draped across caves which housed the fearsome gargantum – a predator as feared as death itself, whose jaws could easily snap a cougar in half. Snakes the size of tree trunks hid in the canopy above before dropping ten feet to feast upon unsuspecting prey. Despite all these horrors, the antewalk continued to make the same journey.

To them, the potential goal of their breeding ground was worth the likely cost.

Much as those who frequented gamblers row viewed the potential for riches to be worth its likely cost – bankruptcy.

It might be worth noting that the antewalk were nearly extinct.

Regardless, the gambling dens of Kebasa drew a multitude of customers, not only its regulars who sought to turn copens to riches. The dens were famous across the vast continent of Prima – and even further than that, drawing attention past the Farephen Sea. Merchants, nobles, and paupers alike were drawn to the gamble and in this way, the dens were amongst the most diverse places on the continent.

Lounged in a seat, one leg crossed over the other, Eline considered the Merryweather laid out before her.

Contrary to its name, the Merryweather was neither a cheerful place, nor was it exposed to the elements. As far as gambling dens went, the interior was much of what Eline had come to expect – crooked tables, crooked people, and an overwhelming stench of spilled ale in between.

At a first glance, she counted seven people in the crowd who did not belong. They were easy enough to spot, once one knew what to look for. Although Eline herself was not Kebasan, she blended in as though she might have been. Her gaze lingered near the bar, assessing a lone, pockmarked youth who glanced longingly at the door. Likely, someone had said this would be the easiest way to escape in case of an emergency.

Utter nonsense. Once a person entered the den, the only way out was further in.

Uncrossing both legs, Eline returned to her game. Casually, she tossed a gold coin on the table.

“Jinn,” she declared.

Murmurs of outrage rippled around the table – to Eline’s right a man growled, not bothering to conceal his state of frustration. The move was a provocative one, to be sure. Scarab was a game designed to confuse its own players, an eclectic combination of dice, cards, and boldfaced lying. It took several years to become proficient but luckily, Eline had learned the game from the best.

Jinn was a give me command. A player could use it only once per game, but once declared, all players were required to increase their bet or exit the table. By using it when she did, Eline had raised the game not by a copen – which was traditional – but by an entire talir. Such riches would have bought the very table they sat at.

“That’s not fair,” grumbled the man to her right. He spoke around the toothpick which dangled precariously from his lip. “Copen’s the norm.”

“It may be the norm, by my move wasn’t illegal.” Eline spoke with great boredom, as though the entire conversation were below her pay grade. “What’s the matter, Revani? Not good for the money?”

The man beside her started, not having expected her to know him by name.

Eline was no fool. She did careful research before deciding to enter any given situation; this was the main way she ensured she only walked into situations she could walk away of. Not everyone was as careful as Eline, but then, not everyone was as successful as her either.

Revani scowled and removed his toothpick. Much to Eline’s utter disgust, he placed this on the table beside her palm.

“I’m in,” he declared, tossing down a gold coin.

The hair beneath his cap could have been either blonde or brown; it was difficult to tell through its matted mess. The clothing he wore gave nothing away either; plain, loose fabric designed to resist the sweltering heat of Kebasa. The only hint of his heritage were his eyes, which were blue. Only certain parts of the southern Kingdom of Sur claimed such a color. 

After much hemming and hawing, another two players tossed their coins down. The rest pushed back their chairs, scraping the floorboards, and casting annoyed glances at Eline.

Beneath her crimson hood, she tried not to smile.

Only four players remained: a more manageable number. A lucky number as well, according to Surnese superstition. Eline was not the type who subscribed to good fortune, but when she did, she found the Surnese gods to be most obliging.

Stretching, Revani extended both arms overhead to reveal a wrist tattoo. Foolish of him to flash his crew’s sign so carelessly since it was not the same colors as those of the Merryweather. Men had gotten killed for less than gambling on other crews’ turfs.

He was not the only player Eline knew at the table. To her left was a man who called himself Lorcin and directly across from them were two called Copper and Jo. Those two seemed to move as a team, one of them shifting when the other went still, and vice versa. Eline wondered if they behaved like this always, or only when they felt they were cornered.

Eline was the only woman at the table, although this was to be expected. Many nations and Kingdoms underestimated womenkind. Eline supposed she could not be perturbed by this fact, since it meant those same people underestimated her, as well.

In her line of work, underestimation was a valuable tool.

Lowering her gaze, Eline looked once more her cards. They were not terrible, but neither were they a winning hand. This fact did not bother her since the prize Eline sought was not a singular card game. No, her quarry was far more valuable than that.

Thumbing the sharp edge of her deck, Eline sighed. “Are you going to take your turn, Jo?” she asked, looking up. “Or will we all die of old age before you realize you’ve lost.”

A low chuckle rose from the other men at the table.

Jo – a man whose mustache was the most defining thing about him – scowled. “Don’t know why you’re trying to rush things, ma’am. Scarab is a game best savored, not swallowed.” He paused, allowing a smirk. “I’d imagine you know a thing or two about that.”

How clever; a reference to Eline’s assumed sexuality. She’d dealt with far worse jibes in her lifetime though and so, she ignored him and awaited his next move.

Copper nearly choked at the remark, forcing Jo to reach over and pound him on the back. Eline tried not roll her eyes at this, although it was hard.

Ko women were not known for being overly revealing and this was Eline’s chosen character for the night. Beneath her bright cloak, she wore simple merchant’s clothing from Ko, a distant Kingdom across the Farephen sea.

It was one of Eline’s preferred disguises; it was infinitely easier to pretend she hailed from Ko than say, one of the northern lands, like Dagmari. Dagmari women all had skin the color of the bone underneath, with copper-colored hair distinctive on every continent. Their accent alone was difficult to emulate, full of clipped consonants and elongated vowels.

At least Ko women had dark hair, even if their eyes were known to be golden, not silver. No Kingdom on any continent was known for silver eyes though, and so in this, Eline remained squarely out of luck.

Whenever someone asked about the unusual color, Eline would brush it aside and claim bastard parentage. Likely this was true, but she had no way of knowing for sure.

Exhaling loudly, Jo reached for the dice.

His resulting throw was not favorable and based on his sour expression, Eline assumed his cards to be no good. Ruling him out as competition, she moved her attention to the other men at the table.

Twisting around in his seat, Revani flagged a passing waitress. “More ale,” he instructed before turning back. Glancing in Eline’s direction, he offered a wicked smile. “What about you, Lady? Care to partake?”

The word Lady was mocking and belied his nation of origin. Although the three Kingdoms of Prima were monarchies, Kebasa was run by wealthy merchants, Nitenbeir was militaristic and only Sur had retained the notion of nobility – in more ways than one.

The use of Lady indicated Revani hailed from the south, although none of their renowned education seemed to have stuck. From where she was sitting, Eline could see his whole cards, and they were not particularly good ones.

“Thank you, but no,” she declined. “I prefer to keep my wits about me when I play.”

Revani’s upper lip curled. “Ah. Womanly concerns.”

“I’d imagine so,” Eline said. “As one must first possess wit in order to be concerned about losing it.”

Revani’s cheeks reddened, his entire expression darkening as Lorcin released a chuckle. He had been the quietest at the table so far and thus, was the only one Eline judged as true competition.

Shooting her a bemused look, Lorcin crossed both his feet at the ankles. Based solely on appearance, Eline assumed him to be from either Nitenbeir or Dagmari. Both were northern Kingdoms, so the complexions were similar, although neither wore their hair in the way Lorcin did – long and unbound, hung nearly to his waist.

He kept one hand beneath the table to conceal his cards from view; the other lay casually beside his untouched wine. Smart, to blend in while keeping his head clear.

Copper laughed, the joke just catching up to him. “A clever tongue,” he said, reaching to pick up his dice. “That’s a shame. Isn’t it a pity when women are clever?”

“It is at that.” Revani accepted the flagon he had ordered. “Clever women always get themselves into trouble.”

Outwardly, Eline betrayed no reaction but inwardly, she burned. What she would not give to have these men know her true wrath; to let them know exactly who she was and what she was capable of.

She knew if these men only knew her other name – if anyone in this establishment so much as whispered the word Umbra – it would make them shake in her boots and yet, here she sat and pretended to smile. To reveal who she was meant losing the upper hand, and in Scarab – as in life – having the upper hand was tantamount to winning.

“Indeed,” Eline said. “Clever women often make men uncomfortable. I imagine those without beauty are often discomforted to find it has a voice.”

Lorcin burst out into laughter as Revani’s scowl deepened.

Eline imagined that under different circumstances, she might have been able to enjoy Lorcin’s presence – a pity then, that her line of work failed to leave time for meaningful connections.

In the corner of her gaze, she saw the door to the Merryweather swing inward, allowing balmy, summer air to escape from the street.

“Shut the door!” someone called from the closest table.

All the gambling dens of Kebasa were housed belowground. This allowed for the coolest environment, since Kebasa was a desert city half as often as it was mountainous. A narrow staircase at the front led to the street; a purposeful decision to restrict entrance or exit.

In Ko, humidity and high waters made underground enclosures impossible. There, gambling dens were tied together like rafts, bobbing in sea at the ends of each dock. Eline disliked these types of places; the small amount of time she had spent in Ko was enough for her to realize she despised the ocean.

With the entrance of Kebasa’s heat came an actual person – several people actually, each one climbing down from the mouth of the alley. This was not unusual; men rarely chose to gamble alone. What was unusual was the way they all gripped the balustrade, as though uncertain whether the stairs could support all their weight.

Eline hid her smile. Make that ten men in the Merryweather who did not belong.

At least the first two men tried to blend in. They wore breathable fabric paired with the colorful vests preferred by Kebasa’s working class. Of course, most Kebasans wouldn’t wear such attire to a gambling den. Bright clothing was how one got noticed; it ensured one’s memorability and most who visited the dens preferred to remain anonymous.

The last man through the door didn’t even bother with a vest, though. His back stayed straight as he entered, steadily scanning the premises with an air of disgust. His distinguished sideburns marked him as a high-ranking citizen of Nitenbeir, as did the thin sword he had buckled around his waist. A rapier, much preferred amongst the dueling sort of men. Eline had always found the weapon rather silly, preferring instead the flexibility of her short sword.

It was the scar though, burnt into the side of his neck, which revealed who he was.

As far as legends went, General Marksam was known across the whole continent. He had been captured in his youth by Dagmari forces, held for twenty days and twenty nights until he escaped by fashioning a knife from his spoon to kill two guards through the door of his cell. That had been years ago, but the man’s name remained feared across Prima.

Nitenbeir nobility was strange; they dressed in severe cuts and sharp lines, as though to emulate their method of thinking. It was surprising to see one Nitenbeiran in a gambling den, let alone two, but Eline had been certain Marksam would appear tonight.

It was rumored the General had a fondness for gambling, which was something his Kingdom frowned upon – at least they did in theory. It was the Nitenbeir way to present no external weakness, but to privately indulge if they wished. Whenever Marksam traveled, he was known to clean out a tavern or two.

The Merryweather had a reputation as the highest of stakes, the most varied clientele, and a mostly discrete owner – for the right price, of course. Travelers had recently swelled Kebasa’s town limits for the summer solstice festival; Marksam was merely one amongst the many. It was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away, get his gambling fix and return before he was noticed missing.

Their group were stopped just inside the entrance, searched, and ordered to hand over their weapons. Marksam looked as though he argued with the bouncer, pointing at something on his chest which might have been a medal. He should have saved his breath for how much he succeeded. Eventually, Marksam handed over his sword, as Eline knew he would.

The rules of the Merryweather were simple – disarm, or don’t play.

Of course, the bouncers did need to find your weapons in order to remove them.

This was something of a game to the locals but people like Marksam were obviously unaware of the rules. It was proper in Nitenbeir for a General to wear their sword at their waist. The gesture was intended to show discipline, decorum and had absolutely no place on gambler’s row.

Swords around here came for their target in night, cloaked with darkness and ill-intent. It didn’t matter if a person showed their sword when one couldn’t be certain what they hid behind their opponent’s vest.

Shifting her weight, Eline stretched her toes against the worn pad of her boot. There were several knives concealed on her frame, since Eline had been forced to leave her short sword at home. One knife was hidden in the sole of her boot, another in its lining and a third strapped to the inside of her thigh.

The key to remaining armed in the Merryweather was to look unimportant. Marksam was obviously unaware of this lesson.

Flapping his coat out behind him, Marksam gingerly sat upon a rounded stool in the corner. His table was closer to the front than Eline’s – which meant the stakes of his table were lower and his game was considered easier. Eline assumed he would move further back over the course of the night; men like him were rarely satisfied with a cheap thrill.

His back faced the door – again, not what Eline would have done. His two comrades seemed to be smarter; they faced the only entrance, keeping careful watch on whoever walked through the door. Eline could only assume Marksam had hired them because they were more familiar with the gambling dens than he was.

Smart of him to seek out their guidance. Stupid of him not to listen.

Returning her attention to her own game, Eline scanned the table before her. While she had been distracted, Jo had backed himself into a corner. Only she, Lorcin, Revani and Copper remained as contenders.

Scowling, Jo threw his cards down to stand. “I’m out,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “May your pockets stay strong.”

Another idiom; this one easier to discern, if no longer applicable. Back when Kebasa was barely a town, trade was exchanged using gemstones as currency. The stones were so ubiquitous to its natives, legends stated they didn’t know their true value until neighbors from Nitenbeir and Sur reached them across the Imir desert. That was when Kebasa began to blossom as a Kingdom and eventually, coins came to replace gemstones as currency.

While in use though, the gemstones had been heavy and to have sturdy pockets meant you had been blessed with good fortune.

Downing the rest of his ale, Jo slammed his glass on the table and stalked towards the bar. The same pockmarked youth Eline had noticed remained slouched in its corner; Jo squeezed in beside him to order another round.

Revani added a second gold coin to the pile. “And what of that, Lady?” he asked, leaning back. “Are you good for it?”

He mimicked her words from earlier. Eyes narrowed, Eline moved to respond but before she could speak, there came a shout from the bar.

“Thief!” The pockmarked boy pointed, wide-eyed, at the door. “THIEF!”

The response around the room was instantaneous.

Jumping up from their table in the corner, both bouncers rushed towards the rickety stairs. Alertness swept through the crowd, jumping from table to table as players craned their necks to look. Many did not seem to care – they had already bet their livelihoods on the games – but many more flinched and scrambled for their purses.

Including Marksam, who instinctively clutched his right pocket – after patting it once, he exhaled and let go.

Hiding her smile, Eline returned to her cards. Fool.

“In,” she declared and added a coin.

Lorcin increased the pile without comment, throwing his dice and losing his next turn. Copper took up the dice and shook, glancing up at the ceiling before rolling a sixteen.

His smile broadened. “Reveal.”

Groaning out loud, Revani slouched in his seat.

The rules of Scarab were complicated, but the final player in any increase round had the opportunity to roll to end the game if they desired. Copper had rolled high enough to do just that, which meant the rest of the table was forced to lay down their cards.

Eline kept her face casual as Lorcin revealed his hand to be better than hers – better than anyone else at the table, including Copper, who looked a bit green as he stared.

Placing her cards down, Eline revealed her hand to be slightly lower than Lorcin’s. Revani’s was worst, but Eline had already known that before he revealed them. His cards held no coherent order, almost as though he had never played the game before, nor learned what it was. Eline idly wondered how he had gotten a seat at their table. Probably money.

“I need another drink,” declared Copper, standing up from his chair.

He wandered over to Jo, who still stood at the bar. The youth who had yelled thief was nowhere to be found, likely scared off by the events of the night.

Undisturbed by his loss, Revani spread his legs wider. “Care to play again, Lorcin? Or you, Lady?” he added, shooting Eline a smirk. “I would have the chance to redeem myself.”

Eline pushed her chair back. “Unfortunately,” she said, gathering her coins. “Redemption is not something I’m in the habit of giving.”

Scanning the den, she drew her cloak tight and wondered where to go next. There was no purpose to her cloak’s color other than to be remembered. At the end of the night, she wanted her face to be paired with this cloak in the den’s memory.

“I agree with the lady,” Lorcin said, also standing. “Best to quit while ahead.”

“Nitenbeirans.” Revani sighed and rolled his neck. “All of them the same. So meticulously practical. Very well,” he said, glancing past them to where multiple players had lined up on the wall. “Which of you wants to try their hand?”

Several rushed forward, eager to take their departed seats and Eline slipped past them, unnoticed.

The den was more crowded than when she had first entered, the dense scent of sweat and alcohol hanging low overhead. Elin scanned the room as she walked, coming to a stop beside the wooden bar. Drinks stained its surface, blending into the varnish until it seemed part of its décor.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Marksam stand from his seat. One hand splayed to the table, he questioned his players and glanced away from the entrance.

There were several halls which led from the back of the Merryweather. One of them ended in a stairwell which climbed to other floors of the building. As it was with the rest of gambler’s row, the Merryweather was not only a place in which to take bets. Its owner, Ren Drago, dabbled in various illicit activities throughout Kebasa; the main floor was merely the tip of the iceberg.

Marksam nodded at whatever his table said, turning around to disappear into the crowd. Eline’s gaze followed him to the back where he entered a hallway marked with a green arrow. Its interior was dimly lit, she could barely see his cloak whipping around the cramped corner.

Eline waited a moment, then slipped behind a group of players to remove her cloak and pull it on inside-out. The other side was dark, a coarser material not unlike that of the other gambling patrons. Lowering the hood, she moved out from the men who hid her from view.

Anyone who saw her would fail to place her as the gambler in red. Another trick from the thieves’ manual – create a memorable character, then become someone else. No one followed Eline as she moved towards the same back hall, which meant no one would remember her as the person Marksam encountered.

He was not difficult to spot once Eline reached the hall. He stood out even amongst the shadows, glancing about him with a puzzled look on his face. It seemed not even the advice of his table had been enough to locate the washroom.

Eline paused before entering, reaching out to puck a flagon of ale from a table. Adopting an intoxicated swagger, she raised the cup to her lips as she pretended to drink.

The light from a singular gas lamp dimmed when she passed, the hood of her cloak blocking out most illumination. Said lamp swung from above her, attached to the weathered ceiling; all sconces in the hall had been pilfered, their metal likely stolen and sold to melt down into wares.

Hearing Eline’s approach, Marksam turned his head. Giving her a swift once-over, he apparently decided she was harmless and lifted a hand.

“You there!” he called out. “Madam.”

As though surprised by the address, Eline stumbled for some of her ale to slosh towards the ground.

Nose wrinkled, Marksam drew back as though he could smell the imaginary alcohol on her breath. Eline noticed he didn’t seem to be drunk – at least one of the Nitenbeiran principles had rubbed off on him. It meant he would be more aware though, which made this transaction dangerous.

“Are you familiar with this establishment?” Marksam’s other palm rested upon the hilt of his rapier. “Do you happen to know where one might relieve oneself?”

“Establishment?” Laying the Ko accent on thick, Eline came to a stop. “You’re out of your depths, soldier,” she laughed, ending the word with a hiccup. “This here’s no establishment, it’s a right pigsty.”

Marksam’s eyes narrowed at the title she gave him.

Nitenbeir social hierarchy was based upon military rank. Their system was complicated – overly so, in Eline’s opinion – but based on his attire, Marksam could be identified as at least a General. Calling him a soldier was an insult; one strong enough that in Nitenbeir he wouldn’t have been remotely out of line in challenging her to a duel.

And they had the nerve to call other Kingdoms savages.

“Regardless of where you think I belong,” he said stiffly. “I would hear your response.”

Lifting her drink, Eline’s hand trembled, more ale sloshing over the rim. “You would hear my response?” she mocked, mimicking his imperious tone. “Most people just piss down that hall to the left, I guess. That’s if they even bother to – ah!” she blurted, spilling the flagon down his front.

Marksam swore and jumped back, but the damage had been done. Brownish-gold liquid dribbled down his front of his shirt, seeping to stain the white silk underneath.

“S-sorry,” Eline stuttered, blinking at him in horror.

Marksam froze for a moment, staring stunned at his shirt. Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. “You… vermin,” he hissed and lunged forward.

Eline cowered away from him, her right shoulder hitting the wall as she tripped on the end of her cloak. She cut a pitiful figure in the dark of the hall, both hands lifted as Marksam reached for his sword. Here he hesitated, chest heaving while he considered the pathetic figure before him. Eline worked to make herself seem smaller, hunching both shoulders as she stared at the ground.

At last the image seemed to work, since Marksam slowly exhaled and slid his sword in its sheath.

“Bah,” he grumbled, shoving past. “Filthy urchin. Not worth my trouble.”

Eline let herself be pushed, briefly gripping his cloak to steady herself – and then he was gone, disappeared around the corner. He left not in the direction of the gambling floor, but to the left, deeper into the den in search of a washroom.

As soon as he was gone, Eline straightened.

Trying not to smile, she slipped her hand into her pocket and ran the tip of her finger along the edge of a key. Here, at last, was her true prize for the evening. The entirety of the wealth played in the front room barely held a candle to the key inside her pocket.

It was one of twenty keys distributed by King Tulen himself, the ruler and monarch of the Kingdom of Kebasa. Each key granted entrance to the most exclusive level of the summer solstice festival; the highborn, an ongoing celebration to which only twenty people could enter at one time.

Eline had a buyer who wanted a key.

What her buyer needed it for, she did not dare ask, nor did she care. Eline had a job to do and that was all that mattered. After all, she more than anyone understood people often did desperate things in desperate situations.

Marksam was one of twenty individuals who had been granted a key. Each Kingdom on the continent usually received two or three to distribute. Marksam was considered important enough in Nitenbeir that the King had sent him in his place.

While Marksam had been distracted by the drink she spilled, Eline had dipped a hand in his pocket and pilfered his key – the very same pocket he had patted when the pockmarked youth at the bar had yelled thief earlier.

Yet another thief’s trick, and a widely effective one.

When a reasonable person heard the word thief, they immediately reached to protect their valuables. Of course, if another person – say, Eline – were also watching, said person would give away where they were keeping their valuables. All it took was a little distraction to ensure Eline stole the key out from under his nose.

She made a mental note to pay Jaspin, the pockmarked youth, double tomorrow for a job well-done.

Turning around, she strode down the corridor. At the crossway she turned in the opposite direction of Marksam. It would be a while before he returned from that particular hallway. Eline had purposefully sent him in that direction, since the corridor housed the back rooms where private games were held.

If no one stabbed Marksam as soon as he entered, it would take him a while to explain his mistake. Once he did, Eline would be long gone.

Paused at what seemed like a dead end, Eline came to a stop and lowered her hood.

Glancing above, she scanned the long grate in the ceiling – another common design on gambler’s row. Although there was only one way inside the den from the street, there existed another way out from the back.

It would be inconvenient for a den’s owner to barricade themselves in, along with anyone else they wished to trap. As a precautionary measure, most buildings housed a special exit: a crawl space between the first and second floors, just large enough for a person to move through while escaping to the next alley.

Glancing over her shoulder, Eline ensured no one was watching and backed up a few steps.

Bending both legs, she leapt to grab hold of a stone jutting out from the wall. Using the smaller crevices as handholds, she swiftly climbed to reach the ceiling above. Positioning her weight evenly on all limbs, Eline reached above to loosen the grate and push.

It clattered off to one side – frozen, Eline waited, but no one seemed to have heard. Re-gripping the grate, Eline swung her legs upwards and launched herself into the hole. Once inside the crawlspace, she carefully repositioned the grate in the floor.

Crouched to the ground, Eline examined her surroundings.

The space around her was dusty, as though no one had used the corridor in quite some time. Eline suspected this was the case; Ren Drago, the owner of the Merryweather, was amongst the most feared men in Kebasa. To break a rule in his establishment usually meant you’d break something else. There were not many a man like Ren would feel the need to escape from.

Not wasting any time, Eline began to move, carefully positioning her weight so she failed to make noise. It was unlikely anyone would think to look for her here, since the actual entrance to the crawl space was on the second floor, but it was better to be careful than dead.

At the end of the tunnel, Eline pulled a knife from her boot and went to work on the grate. Twisting the screws one by one, she calculated how much time had passed since she left Marksam alone. It wouldn’t be long before he returned – if she were lucky, he wouldn’t notice the missing key until he returned to his lodgings.

Removing the final screw from the grate, Eline jiggled it free from the wall. She hesitated a moment, listening to the sounds of the alley below.

Nothing unusual.

Setting the steel grate aside, Eline leaned out of the opening to glance at the ground. Nose wrinkled, she sighed. The grate emptied into an alleyway behind a butcher shop. Scraps of days-old meat were piled below, their blood trickling slowly to join through the cobblestones.

At least the meat would offer her a soft landing. Swinging both legs aloft, Eline held her breath as she dropped down from the ledge. For most people, this would have been a difficult task, but these kinds of feats had always come easily for Eline.

Straightening from her crouch, Eline immediately strode in the opposite direction of gambler’s row. Her footsteps were muffled, thanks to special boots Eline had designed herself.

Even if the alleyway was quiet, the city around her was not – each distant yell of laughter sounded at once too far and too loud. The dense, squatted buildings forced Eline to imagine she saw shapes in the shadows.

One hand drifted towards her belt as she walked; a pointless reflex, since her short sword remained at her lodgings, but she still found it comforting.

It would have been suspicious for her to run from gambler’s row, so Eline forced herself to calmly walk on. Each muscle in her body strained against instinct, yearning to be free now that the job was complete. All that was left was dropping key in its preassigned destination, collecting her money, and washing her mind of the memory.

Eline was good at that.

She was good at forgetting what she needed to forget, unseeing what she needed to unsee. It was why she made such a good thief, as her mentor once said. Eline could compartmentalize her soul in ways few even dreamed of and even while distracted, her senses remained intact.

It was how Eline heard the moment someone turned down the alley, their footsteps echoing hers around the sound of leaking pipes. Tilting her head, she listened as she walked, her stride never breaking as she pretended not to hear.

When the footsteps were barely a pace away, she exhaled and turned, yanking a knife from her belt.

Her blade was met with another, aimed directly at her heart.

The man on the other end of the sword smiled, his face hidden by shadow. “The famous Umbra,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ve been searching for you.”

  © Shanna Page, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[shannapage]

An update on Stellae! After taking a break to work on an initiative for another blog, I’ve returned to writing and have decided to make some changes. As you may have noticed, I’ve changed Eline’s character from an assassin to a thief. It just fits better and I think you’ll understand why when you eventually read... BUT ANYWAYS! Because of this change, I’m now rewriting draft 1 from scratch. 

To be honest, I’m pretty excited about this decision. It’s the first time I’ve wanted to rework a draft rather than just scrap it entirely, so I’ve decided to go with this action and see where it takes me. I’ll be updating my updates page to include a rewrite tracker, but wanted to let people know where I was at :)  

[shannapage]

Scrivener is a writer’s best friend. 

It’s a word processing software created with unruly, complicated novels in mind. However, some writers stay away because its many features can be seem overwhelming at first. If you want to use Scrivener, but haven’t taken the plunge yet. Or if you already use Scrivener, but haven’t explored its many features, check out my three part guide to writing a novel with Scrivener, from planning to editing and all of the key smashing in-between. 

1. Planning with Scrivener

Scrivener comes with tools dedicated to outlining, researching, and brainstorming your manuscript. The first part of this series details everything you can do in Scrivener before setting that first line down in ink (or pixels.) 

2. Drafting with Scrivener 

The second part in this series covers the actual “writing” part of writing. It covers multiple composition modes (even making your screen mimic Microsoft Word!), writing in split screen, word targets, and more. 

3. Editing with Scrivener

The third part of this series gives advice on exporting your writing into a standard manuscript format, saving each version of your work as you go along, and the best tools for revising your manuscript. 

Download a free 30-day trial of Scrivener at its official site. 

Disclaimer: This is not an ad. I am not being paid by the Scrivener people. I just really love this software. 

[shannapage]

The rugged coastline of Taranaki

rachstewartnz

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Austria

@ogik_jatmiko

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#144: Lots and Lots of Bad Stories

There are many versions of this anecdote floating around – I’ll go with the version from David Bayles and Ted Orland’s Art & Fear book which features a ceramics teacher.

At the beginning of a new semester, the ceramics teacher announced that the class will be split into two groups. The students on the left side of the room would be graded on the quantity of work they produced – the more pots they made, the better they would do. The students on the right received a different assignment. The teacher asked them to produce just a single pot. They could take all the time they needed to make it the best pot they ever made because they would be graded on the quality of their work instead.

The students went away to work. The first group out churned out dozens, then hundreds of pots, frantically trying to make enough to pass. The second group began with rigorous research into what made the perfect pot. They studied the works of famous artists and came up with theories that explained why their pots were so iconic. Then they looked into how to replicate that.

When the class came back together at the end of the semester, the ceramics teacher went through all the pots his students had made. To his surprise, the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity.

I love this little story because it highlights one important point: to produce enough work so that you can improve as a writer, you have to quit caring about quality. The irony is that if you keep worrying about whether your stories are good enough, you will never write enough of them to give yourself a chance to actually improve.

Here’s an idea. What if I told you to write 200 stories by the end of 2020? There are about 200 days left in the year. Why not? Does just the idea of that make you uncomfortable? Good.

When you have to write a story every day, there’s simply not enough time to get caught up on things. It doesn’t have to be a long story or a good story. But it has to be a story.

If you want some extra accountability, start an anonymous Tumblr or Instagram account and post your story there every day. Reuse the same characters on multiple days. Write the same scene from several different points of view. Anything goes.

It doesn’t matter whether you’ll get any readers. These posts are for you so that you can go back and read the first few ones 200 days from now and see how far have you come.

Good luck!

Want More?

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Past Editions

#143: What to Do When You’re Stuck?, May 2020

#142: What’s Your Story Really About?, May 2020

#141: Architecture and Gardening for Writers, May 2020

#140: When Can You Call Yourself a Writer?, April 2020

#139: What Can You Do to Fail More?, April 2020

[shannapage]

Bavarian Alps

holysh0t

[shannapage]

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Find out more about the author here

[shannapage]

I never used to like pink as a girl;

They tried to teach me that it meant weak

I have learnt to like pink again on you

Your lips

Your blush

Maybe I am weak, but, still -

I cannot but feel stronger for loving you.

[shannapage]

Jack London Lake & Invisible Lake, Russia by Vladimir Ryabkov