My Next Big Thing

I'm honored to state that Mr. Hargett of Strands of Pattern tagged me in the My Next Big Thing (mine will be the next big thing right after his).  I must answer ten questions about my current WIP.  I don't really know many bloggers who actually do these tagged events, so I'm not going to tag anyone, sorry.

 

1.   What is the working title of your book?

The Lost Mountains

2.    Where did the idea come from for the book?

I chose five or so objects randomly and included them in the first scene.  After writing that, I pretty much kept adding in things off the top of my head.  My latest idea for a minor subplot was made because I wanted a character to stroke his mustache.  I started building a character and a subplot around the idea.

3.   What genre does the book fall under?

It's Epic Fantasy with a bit of Heroic Fantasy (a knight instead of an everyman protagonist).

4.   Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I don't think it would translate well into a screenplay.

5.   What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

When a band of knights hits its prime, an equal gang of evil creatures awakens with the intent to destroy all good.

6.   If you plan to publish, will your book be self-published or published traditionally?

I refuse to self-publish.  If it isn't good enough to be traditionally published by a large press, I'll just have to write another.

7.   How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I haven't finished yet, but I started it in June of 2009.

8.   What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The Hobbit (although with an older audience)

9.   Who or What inspired you to write this book?

My cousin Zachary Shenal and my sixth grade English teacher

10.   What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

It has dragons (albeit with some twists) and a rather unique magic system.

Grace, Please Leave Me Home (3/5)

     “Back into formation soldiers,” shouted Sir Kane, the head of Nom’s unit of men-at-arms.  The camp became alive with men strapping on armor or ramming some food into their bellies.  The moon was in its waning quarter, the lack of light causing many to stumble or put on their surcoats inside out.

     Nom was still unconscious and woozy, lying in his tent.  A red-soaked bandage was wound tightly around the stump of his right forearm.  His tent mate shook him awake, causing him to open his eyes a crack and groan.  The pain and stiffness was intense, both on his arm and in his throat.  A sudden need to vomit caused Nom to stumble into a bipedal stance and rush outside, bile brown and liquid.  After severe bouts of wretching, Nom wiped off his mouth and laid back down in his tent, for he hadn’t thought to take his armor off before getting intoxicated and was already prepared for battle. 

     “Wake up, armsman,” a young man shouted several minutes later.

     “Father?” Nom’s face was sincere.

     “Come on Nom, you know me.  The savages are approaching, we need your…” the boy slowly lifted his finger to point at Nom’s bloody bandage.   “What?”  He stooped down beside Nom scarcely before a bead of drool ran down his clean-shaven muzzle.  “Good Remish, Nom.  Your sword hand…”

     Nom coughed and groaned.  “Smashed.  Gone.”  He did a quarter turn and puked again before resuming unconsciousness. 

     The boy’s features tightened, but he was too shocked to really be disgusted.  “So that’s why you’re acting so strange.”  He turned his head to shoat outside, “Sir Connor, you must see this.”

     “What is it William?” the knight asked as he entered the tent.  His expression was even worse than his squire’s.  “Nom, what devil from the Underland did this?”

     “Just a big stick,” Nom slurred.

     Sir Connor shouted out, “I need some fresh bandages in here.”  He began to unravel Nom’s soiled dressing, revealing jagged bone and blood-caked flesh.

     “Here, Sir,” said the entering surgeon that had done Nom’s amputation.  “Oh, how is he doing?”

     “Thank you.”  Sir Connor cleaned out the wound and swathed it with the new wrapping.  “William, go fetch me some water.”

     Loud screaming could be heard very close at hand.   The sounds of a pitched battle became continually more eminent as the squire struggled back to the tent, oak bucket in hand.  Some of the contents sloshed out as he entered.

     Sir Connor looked up and said, “I bucket!  I suppose it will suffice, but use some sense William.”  William set the bucket down and backed off.  Sir Connor parted Nom’s lips, cupped his hands to get some water, and poured it into Nom’s mouth, tilting his body slightly to keep him from drowning.  He continued to do this, pausing between each cycle, for quite a spell.

     Nom finally woke up, the alcohol cleaning out of his system, and rushed toward a bush.  Sir Connor grinned and said, “William, you stay and look after Nom, I am going into the right flank to assist the heavy cavalry.  When Nom returns to himself, tell him to the go to the outside right infantry quarter where I can keep an eye on him.”

     “I will, Sir.  May Remish keep you safe and strong.”

Quick Writing Advice

One piece of advice: only write what you find cool.

Legion

Mr. Legion is both insane and sane at the same time.  In his opinion, he is sane, while his hallucinations are not.  Yeah, hallucinations, really cool hallucinations.

Legion is a novella by Brandon Sanderson.  I downloaded the audiobook for free on audible.com, and you can to.  The characters and premise are brilliant.  The plot could be a bit better, but Brandon discovery wrote it on a plane, so I'll cut him some slack.

Go check it out!

Grace, Please Lead Me Home (2/5)

     A short distance away stood a young draftee.  He carried a large crossbow against his side, swinging it gently.  Nothing about the boy seemed particularly special, save his fearful demeanor.  The man, named Markus after the great warrior Markus Orhelis of long-told fable, was breathing heavy, stress blatantly evident to anyone that saw him.  He had watched as his best friend, whom stood beside him in the battle line, was killed by an arrow nearer than a yard from himself.  Markus was now terrified.

     “Why don’t you get some rest, sonny,” an older man from a neighboring farm said to him with pity.  Markus looked at the speaker blankly.  Several silent moments went by.

     “Why did he have to die?  That arrow just missed me; I should have been behind it, not George,” he said, breaking the silence.  Tears streamed down his face.

     “Hey, boy, don’t cry.  We’ve all got to join Remish in the silver city up in the sky at some point or another.  Death is not the end, ho, it is just the beginning.  Your life isn’t over now that your friend has fallen.  Fight on for George’s sake, in his honor and memory press on.”

     “I don’t think I can.  George was my only companion.  With both him and my parents dead I have nothing left to live for.”

     “You’re brave, my boy, more brave than can be said of myself.  You’ve got a quiver of bolts to live for; you’ve loved to shoot since you were but a wee farm boy.  Look at the horizon.  Is not the sincere beauty of a sunset strong enough to put a tingle into your heart?  That’s what living is for, experiencing, doing what you love to do.  Don’t just build yourself a wall to cry behind.   Live.  For Remish’s sake live on.”  Markus’s expression lightened.

     “Thank you, Armand.  I will.  After I take a long rest.”  Markus walked into his standard issue tent and fell into a deep yet tormented slumber, unknowing that the man who would become his greatest living friend slept just a few hundred yards away.