Favorite Authors

I have a few mindblowing trigonometry identity problems that leaving me addled, so I'm just going to list some of my favorite authors today.

Middle Grade

• Emily Rodda
• John Flanagan
• Rick Riordan

Young Adult

• Suzanne Collins
• Garth Nix
• D.M. Cornish

In-Between

• Orson Scott Card
• J.R.R. Tolkein
• J.K. Rowling

Adult

• Robert Jordan

Snail Mail (Part 1)

     Lombar drew his broadsword from its enamel sheath.  With one stroke he silenced his employer’s whimpering horse, its leg jutting out at an obscene angle, bone poking out through tangled tendons.  Lombar’s face was straight and cold.  He took a blood-stained cloth from a pocket on his sheath and wiped his sword clean.  While replacing it, he removed the small saddlebag from the dead horse’s middle and strapped it to his waist.  He took a few steps toward his employer, Master Ulrich, a limp form on the wet grass.  Ulrich’s chest pulsed despite two clearly broken ribs.  Light steam billowed from his mouth in a choppy stream.
     The metal tube containing the message Ulrich was delivering remained in his grasp.  Lombar’s brow furrowed.  He shrugged and attempted to pry it away to no avail.  “Master Ulrich?” he said, expecting no response.  Several moments passed without a sound.
     Lombar hoisted him over his shoulder.  He began marching forward, continuing along the dirt path they had been traveling on.  The weight caused him to sway, yet he didn’t falter.  His boots were highly worn and rugged, walking something natural for him.  Rarely had he been allowed a horse for his duties.  Over the years his legs had hardened into steel to compensate.
     He began to whistle a tune he had learned from a traveling minstrel he had guarded.  The solemnness of the song seemed to fit the occasion.  A few birds were singing a countering tone, but other than that it was silent.  A corn field sprung up to Lombar’s left as he walked.  His right was devoid of anything but boggy grassland.  This was practically nowhere to anyone who wasn’t a simple farmer or field hand.  “I suppose that I mayn’t be choosy,” Lombar mumbled with a mysteriously light and formal accent.
     The crisp blue sky was shifting to purple by the time the road bled into a sturdier village lane.  Buildings sprawled out over a surprisingly large tract of land.  A handful of people milled around working or playing on doorsteps outside, most of them refusing to give Lombar even a glance.  Lombar trounced around through the settlement, his eyes flitting.  They stopped when they had fallen upon a multi-floor building, a sign above the threshold proclaiming it as “The Lonely Dove”.
     Lombar entered the inn’s battered door and grimaced, the floor-boards squeaking like foul city rats.  It wasn’t difficult to tell who the innkeeper was, an apron and bulging middle as good as heraldry.  “How fair thee, mister?” Lombar called out.
     The innkeeper set down his tankard and turned, clearly taken aback.  “Doing well, I suppose.  I suspect you hail from afar?” he replied.
     “Aye, from Yorkshire.  My client, this here fellow,” he pointed to Ulrich, “was knocked a-leery off his mount an hour off.  Pray tellest me you hath an open room for the night?”
     “I do, rough gentleman.  A penny for a Yorkie, and chargeless if you have any stories to recount.  You seem the type, at least.”
     The innkeeper guided Lombar upstairs to a small room.  Two cots sat against the wall, an oil lamp the only other furnishing.  He placed Ulrich onto one of them, inspected his broken ribs, and returned downstairs, the smell of ale overpowering.
     “What part of Yorkshire are you from?” the innkeeper asked.
     “From York itself,” Lombar replied.
     The innkeeper nodded.  “And you were a bodyguard there?”
     Lombar turned his eyes down.  “I was the master guard of York Castle.”
     The innkeeper’s eyes bulged slightly.  “What brought you to this profession?” the innkeeper asked as they reentered the barroom.  He added, “Let me get you a drink,” and filled a tankard with amber-hued ale.
     Lombar took a long draw.  “The keep hath been turned to a prison.”
     “That’s unfortunate,” the innkeeper said.  “Did you find much excitement there, in its time?”
     “Aye, I found more than enough.”
     “Do continue, guardsman,” a man at the bar broke in.
     Lombar gave the man a slight scowl.  “It was the night of All Hallows, some ten years past…”

Writing Briefly

Don't waste words.  Everything written should have two meanings.  Narrate and world or character-build at once.  Long dialogues must die.  Show don't tell, yet do it fast.  Replace adverbs even if it takes more words.  Adding description to dialogue tags saves a lot.  Sometimes "he blinked hard" is more valuable than "the slight shrug of his shoulders and widening of his eyes clearly protrayed his awe."  That is all.

On Writing

I'll cut to the chase since I've already talked about Stephen King several times.  The last hundred pages of On Writing weren't too bad.  Most of his misfallings I pointed out already, ranging from disregard for the growth of writing abilities and slamming TV.  The only other thing Mr. King did to tick me off in his On Writing section was to diss Robert Jordan.  I suppose it's a taste thing, but it was still very off-putting.

From start to finish, the words themselves were masterful, even if the content wasn't 100% glam.  The memoir section is still my favorite, although I never caught why it was called C.V.  His life experiences definitely made it easy to see why he ended up a horror writer.

Mr. King's writing methods are odd.  Exclusively discovery written with situations in mind, it's crazy that he generally only has two or three drafts.  I'm not a particular fan of his "I live in Maine.  Therefore, most of my books will take place in Maine." approach.  Furthermore, he implanted himself into some of his books, most chiefly The Shining.  It's about an alcoholic author for (insert choice deity here)'s sake.  Edgar Allan Poe displayed the same habits.

On Writing gets an 8/10 in my book.  It was a nice, quick read, yet some of the ideas presented in it are despicable.  It would have gotten about a 19/20 if it weren't for about ten pages.  Was it worth my time?  Yeah.  Could it have been better?  Maybe, although the parts I didn't like were generally subjective anyway.  And the biggest question of all: Should you read it?  Put it midway on your list.

Fantasy Writing Yahoo Group 2-24-13 Prompt

Prompt: On an old atlas you find a continent that you never saw before.

            “How queer,” Roger mumbled.  He traced a finger around the non-fractal shoreline of some “Pinovya” object marring his nineteenth century atlas.  “That ad promised an untarnished 1868 atlas.  My gracious, if this is untarnished...”  Roger scowled.  “Where is that paper?”

            The room was a maze of artifacts.  A supposed replica of the Holy Grail lay sideways on a hand-carved French table.  Dusty tomes spread across nearly every surface.  Roger stumbled around, eyes darting.  There.

            Roger swiped his phone from a pocket of his corduroy blazer and dialed the number.  After three rings, a gruff voice emerged.  “Hello.”

            “Hi, this is Roger Derry.  I bought the atlas you advertised in the Post and find some inaccuracies in your description.”

            “And by that you mean what, my boy?”

            “It had an eighth continent marked in.  It’s clearly been tarnished, despite your promises of the converse.”

            “That’s no mistake.  Pinovya is quite real.”

            “A whole continent that no one’s heard of?  That’s absurd.”  Roger pulled his laptop from an Ottoman foot-rest and punched the word into Google.  Two results.

            “I’m sorry, my boy.  America’s Got Talent is coming on.  Trust me, that atlas is as original as my right hip.”  He added in a mumble, “although I can’t speak for the left one.”

            Roger dropped the phone beside him on his oddly ordinary loveseat.  Two results on Google?  Is it possible...?

            The first link opened up a dark home page.  The heading read: The Real Myth-Land of Pinovya.  Roger scrolled down, a bead of sweat dampening his mouse.  A few grainy, captioned photographs displayed a lush jungle.  The animals were like nothing Roger had ever seen before.  A few had two sets of wings, despite their feathered bodies.  One lay snug against a tree, its mane entangled around a horn.  Its hooves were cloven.

            Roger shook his head as he went backward to click the other link.  This time, a blog popped up on the screen.  On the right sidebar an old man was pictured.  Roger’s hometown blazed below it.

            The latest post was titled “My Last”.  Roger gulped hard.  The words seemed to dance around in his head.  “They’ve never believed me.”  “I’ve seen it.”  “A square island smack-dab in the middle of the Pacific.”  “I don’t know if I’d believe myself if I didn’t know.”  “And yet it’s true.”

            The last six sentences made Roger’s heart drop.  He read aloud, “It pains me to have to pass along with my secret.  I sold the atlas.  That’s the best I could do.  It’s beautiful.  The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.  Such a pity.”

            Roger closed his laptop.  “Could it be…?” he murmured.