CSFF Blog Tour Links -- Haunt of Jackals

And here are the links, as promised in the post above:

Brandon Barr
Wayne Thomas Batson
Jennifer Bogart
Justin Boyer
Keanan Brand
Amy Browning
Karri Compton
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Karina Fabian
Beth Goddard
Todd Michael Greene
Timothy Hicks
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Julie
Carol Keen
Dawn King
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Mirtika
Nissa
John W. Otte
James Somers
Speculative Faith
Rachel Starr Thomson
Robert Treskillard
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler
Jill Williamson
KM Wilsher

The goal of the Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy Blog Tour is to promote books and reading. Each tour, some of us love the book, some of us could live without it, and some are undecided, so if a book looks interesting, or there's a debate about it, check out what everyone's saying. And leave a comment or two, to let the tour sites know you visited.

What's in the Works

I'm working on a interview with the guys behind Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, and hope to have that posted in the next week or so.

Episode 11 of Thieves' Honor has an opening scene, but nothing more. Work and life have conspired to usurp my time this week, but I'm hoping to clear the decks for the weekend, and be able to write without interruptions other than my own wandering attention. Previous episodes of the serial can be caught at Ray Gun Revival, a fantabulous magazine dedicated to space opera, a branch of science fiction -- and no spindly little twig of a branch, either, but a hefty limb. Might even be its own tree.

Also, I've been tinkering with other manuscripts, adding a scene here or there. If I ever finish them all, I could potentially have ten books published in short order. Finish is the operative word.

------------------------------

If you're looking for writing advice -- or you just enjoy reading the rants of other writers -- check out A Word's Worth blog. The most recent entry is The "F" Word: Flashback.

Weekend, Writing Advice, and Space Pirates

This weekend, a friend and fellow writer visited, and we discussed and worked on current manuscripts -- short stories and novels. Much progress was made.

I've learned that I can accomplish more with a one-on-one conversation than by trying to glean useful help from the writers group.

As I've mentioned in the past, I've ceased sharing my work with the group, and have recruited a small pool of readers whose comments have been far more valuable than those of the writers. If a new writer is out looking for guidance, I'd say he or she should latch on to one or two solid writers whose advice is trustworthy, but then collect a select ensemble of readers who can be relied upon to tell when a story works and when a story is best used as birdcage liner.

Sometimes, I'm the one who's so dissatisfied with the end result that I pick the work apart until it bleeds. The readers, though, may look at me like I'm crazy. Or maybe they'll split up, a few keeping me distracted while the others flank me and remove the red pen / computer keyboard / pair of scissors from my grasp.

Just as we should know what needs cutting, we also need to recognize when to leave well enough alone.

Back to this weekend's results: I scribbled out the basic plot arcs for Seasons 2 and 3 of Thieves' Honor, as well as what should happen in the next two episodes, the projected enders for Season 1. (For the uninitiated, Thieves' Honor is the space pirates serial I'm writing for Ray Gun Revival.) This method of writing -- one episode a/k/a chapter at a time -- has been a great experience. I'm not allowed to sweat the future; I just need to produce the next episode.

Yeah, there is a future to consider, because what I write now will affect what happens later in the story, but whatever corners I write myself into, I must also write myself out of, and that means no whining, and no quitting. I don't get to second-guess myself too much, or to keep talking about some nebulous someday when the (cough, cough, ahem) masterpiece is complete. Nope. Butt must meet chair, and work must be done.

I cringe to recall what a whiny "artiste" I was when starting my first novel. Everything had to be perfect. When others told me to "just write," I considered them unimaginative cretins who could not possibly understand the cerebral power one must employ in order to produce high art.

Piffle.

Somewhere along the plodding journey, I fell out of love with my own words and gained a greater appreciation for the overall story, and worked to achieve THAT goal: the one of telling a story someone wanted to read.

I don't know how well I'm doing now, but that's almost not the point. Any craftsman should strive to do better. Always improve the craft.

To that end, I'm planning big things for upcoming TH episodes. Stay tuned for more adventures of the crew of the Martina Vega.

Opening Salvos - 4: Field of Blood

Read previous Opening Salvos here:
1 - In a Dark Wood by Michael Cadnum,
2 - Old Man's War by John Scalzi, and
3 - The Queen of Bedlam by Robert McCammon.

It's been a while since the last installment in the Opening Salvos series, and all the stories have had an air of the fantastic about them: a retelling of the Robin Hood legend from the Sheriff of Nottingham's point of view, a science fiction tale in which the aged receive new bodies and new leases on life, and a colonial mystery with a strong element of the strange. The latest installment features the first in the Jerusalem's Undead trilogy by Eric Wilson, Field of Blood.

What happens when an ancient family tomb is opened, and the blood of a dying man awakens the dead? This is not some holy salvation, but the unleashing of evil that has been waiting since the day a traitor hanged himself, and the blood money he was paid for his betrayal was used to purchase a field that came to be called Akeldema (also, Aceldema), "the field of blood":

AD 30--City of Jerusalem, Israel

The Man from Kerioth dangled over hard earth. His breath was ragged, his fingers grasping at the noose that clung to a gnarled olive tree. His larynx, nearly crushed by the short plunge, worked against the rope.

Air. One gulp, that's all he needed. Just one.

Despite this struggle for oxygen, he could not quell the whispers in his head: There is a way back, even still . . .

Impossible.

The sun rose orange and pregnant over the Mount of Olives, giving birth to purple shadows. His lungs heaved. He kicked in desperation, and his body twisted on the rope, providing him a glimpse of the city walls along the opposing ridge.

Those walls, they were were infested with Roman swine. He’d longed— oh, how he had longed—to join an uprising that would restore this city to the Jews. He had even aligned himself with a band of dagger-men, the Sacarii, but when their zealotry floundered amid internal rivalries, he’d hedged his bets instead on the aspirations of a Nazarene.

All for naught.

I've had this book for about a month, and there are still have a few chapters to go (125 pages). These opening paragraphs pulled me in to the story, and there have been chapters since that aroused my interest, but large chunks of the novel just don't grab me. I don't know if that's a result of my distracting schedule during this past month, or just disinterest in particular parts of the story. However, the opening lines did their job and, like Jerusalem's Undead, lured me down the path.

The sequel, Haunt of Jackals, is the focus of the October CSFF Blog Tour, so I reckon I'd better hurry up and finish the first book!

Review of HFQ's Second Issue, and a Very Small Tale

Jeff Draper beat me to it: He's already posted a review of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly's second issue, and so has James Lecky, but I'm gonna give it a shot, anyway.

My first reaction as I read "The Hand of Afaz" by Euan Harvey was Wow. It is well told, tightly written, and it held my attention from the opening scene to the last.

Farid found the murderer huddled close to a small fire at the base of a scrawny tree. Firelight winked through the reeds, and Farid poled his raft in slowly, silent as a gar gliding through the water below.

For whatever reason, when I read "silent as a gar", I knew this was going to be good. Harvey handles his words skillfully, and his hero goes through a journey of conscience that many in the real world fail because they lose sight of truth. There is a price to pay for each choice we make. Awesome story.

The next piece is "Monster in the Mountains" by William Gerke. There is more than one monster in the mountains, but not all look monstrous. As with the previous story, right and wrong lie in the choices the characters make; evil circumstances are no excuse for evil behavior. But, evil aside, I knew I was going to like this tale when the dogs arrived:

On foot he would have been lost and devoured by the elements — if it weren’t for the dogs.

They came to him in the wilderness, as they had many times before. A greyhound pressed against Gowther’s right thigh; always the first to appear, with its yellow eyes and graceful stride, it had drawn close even as the pace of the storm quickened. On his left stalked a huge wolfhound, its thick, coarse fur matted and tangled. He had never seen it before but did not question its appearance. The greyhound had appeared with many different pack mates in the years since it first came to him.

Some of our family dogs came to us in similar fashion, showing up from nowhere, sometimes bringing friends.

In Gerke's story are fights and beasts, mystery and myth. An all-around solid tale.

Joshua Hampton's The Lay of Cuthred King is an homage to Anglo-Saxon poetry:

Now told is the tale of
Cuthred King of Keenland,
East away, across field, fen and whale-road,
where none dare pass in these grim years.
From his castle keep, all timbered tall
of aged oak and elm,
he ruled with wit and wisdom
bolstered by his cruel-edged axe,
and loved was he
by lords and laborers the same.

The emphasis in such poetry is not rhyme but alliteration, rhythm, imagery and, of course, story. This tale reads like legend -- there was a King Cuthred who fought the Welsh in the 700s -- but it also brings to mind the Biblical story of Aaron and Hur holding up the arms of Moses (as long as they did so, Joshua and the Israelites gained against the Amalakites; let his arms drop, though, and the enemy gained). "The Lay of Cuthred" is a tale of loyalty and sacrifice and mystery, and could have been told a thousand years ago. Well done.

"Courage" by Teel James Glenn is another poem in the epic vein, but is more a prayer than a story. Though it employs a certain rhythm and vocabulary that lend it an ancient air, there's a modern structure to it that is visually annoying (single-word lines, and each line beginning with a capital letter), and "Give me half of a chance" is more modern language than perhaps is fitting for such a poem. If I were rating this the way we rate submissions to the magazine for which I work, I'd give it 7 bones out of 10 -- not overwhelming applause, but still a good round of clapping.

And, lastly, "The Waking of Angantyr" by Marie Brennan:

Hervor splashed through the cold surf onto the rocks of the beach, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. By now the ship would be underway again, putting out to sea as fast as it could. How she would get off the island was a problem for later, assuming they hadn’t just put her off at random. She pushed such thoughts out of her mind. She was lucky to have come through so much already.

A piece of heroic fantasy starring a woman is a nice surprise; this one is also a ghost story. As with "The Hand of Afaz", a weighty choice lies at the core of the action, and the reader is left with a story that is only just beginning, and is yet complete. Well done.

The quality of the work in HFQ proves something in a recent post -- "Craft and the Editor" -- over at A Word's Worth blog:

Don’t just be good enough. Be excellent.

-------------------------

At Adam Callaway's blog, The Weirdside, he recently hosted an interesting little contest that I entered on a whim: Write a strange story, but it can't be longer than three sentences. Well, I contemplated that for a second or two, and in about five minutes composed an entry that -- I thought -- wasn't really all that strange, but it was sideways.

Turns out that it narrowly squeaked ahead of the other entries, and won me a copy of The Alchemaster's Apprentice by Walter Moers. Never read Moers, so I'm looking forward to it.

Oh, yeah, here's the crazy little tale:

Dinner drips from my fingers, grease mingling with the blood on my boots, and I am weary from the hunt, but the cook has ruined his last meal; despite his weeping protestations, despite my wife's admonition not to bite the hands that feed us, I will have new meat for roasting.

Resigned, she sends one of the servants with a cauldron to capture the fat for rendering, and wonders aloud if the skewer will bend to breaking with such a load as it now bears.

"It's his own fault"—I kick aside his apron and bloody clothes—"for letting that annoying miniature Englishman up the beanstalk."

And th-th-th-that's all, folks.

Kids Encounter Novel-Writing

A while back, my sister-in-law sent along a link to novel-writing curriculum created by a homeschooling mom (you can read about that curriculum at "Little Blue School" blog). Since my job involves after-school education and arts programs, and since I already teach children how to write essays and poetry, I immediately visited the site and downloaded the material.

And, as usual, I've had to adapt it to fit the fidgety and not-always-present group of kids at the Club. They are enthusiastic participants, but instead of the steady six kids that I need to arrive every week, I may have three who are regulars and attend every session, and others who might or might not be on the roster but who see everyone else having fun and want to join, too.

So, in the interest of literacy, I let them. Sure, I might have some nine-year-old kids staring wide-eyed at the word "genre" while seven-year-olds raise their hands and shout out the definition, but that's all good. They're being exposed to terms and methods they'll need when they're older.

Due to the nature of the Club -- it isn't school, so the schedule's loose -- and of the kids themselves, we need two or three sessions per topic in order to get everything done. Yesterday marked the second session on "Hero", in which the kids created a physical appearance for the hero of their story, and listed traits they think a perfect hero should have. Next time, we'll discuss why any interesting hero also has flaws.

So far, we have heroes ranging from FBI agents to Johnny Appleseed, and the selected genres tend to be mystery and action/adventure, but fantasy and science fiction also figure prominently.

Meantime, the participants have no problem revealing the "secret" name they chose for this novel-writing club: The Secret Merekat Dog Star Kitten Sparkle Conspiracy Noveling Club. Say that ten times fast.

Rain

Rain's been falling for days in the Arkansas River Valley, yards are saturated, and ditches run with water the dirty red-brown of the native clay.

At work, our fields are so soggy that the building was crammed with football teams, parents, coaches, cheerleaders, all trying to find room for meetings, uniform suit-outs, even practices. Thank God, I have an office and can close the door against the mayhem; my expertise lies in the afterschool education and arts programs, so any sports scheduling questions directed at me would only have been referred to the athletic director, anyway.

Long before we opened for business in the afternoon, I went to Walmart and bought a few supplies. On my way through the double entry, my shoes -- the slick soles covered in a film of water -- departed the floor and deposited me upon it. That was one of the fastest falls I've ever taken. (When I fell out of the van back in December, at least I had a chance to somewhat mitigate the damage by falling smack into the side of my truck.)

After arriving home Wednesday night, I took some ibuprofen to fend off the pain from bruises and offended muscles. Hey, I ain't as young as I wish I were, and this body hitting that terazzo floor wasn't a pretty thing.

By Friday, the sun is supposed to return, the temperature will rise, and we'll "enjoy" the humidity as the already wet air gets steamed. Yippee.