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a time for everything...

A time for everything sometimes means, a time for nothing. Well, not actually nothing, but as far as my imaginary world, not much at all. Hard to say what keeps me away --  actually, I know very well, but won't bother you with the details. Life has a way of interfering with fable. Pesky life.

In no way do I compare with Tolkien, who was a professor and determined and pretty much a genius. But I do find glimpses of similarities, aside from creating an imaginary world. J.R.R. was by no means a prolific writer: how long did it take for him to write the Hobbit, LOTR, and Silmarillion (which he never finished)? A lifetime. I'm trying not to take a lifetime, but in reality, I haven't written much in months, aside from a poem and some corrections. Not making excuses, but that's the life of a storyteller. A writer no, but creator of things previously yet seen, I'll claim that one. Keep me in mind as I attempt to kickstart Book four, which is well on it's way --  so th…

Trust me

I'm sure you are dying for an update. Book Four, the Lords of Nordheim (tentative name), is two-thirds thru, and a familiar thing happened --  change. When one writes as slowly as I do, and adds characters and names, as I do, details get a little blurry. I do keep a notebook in front of me with names, places, recipes, and the like, but sometimes it's not enough. So what do I do? Read it thru, of course.

Going all the way back has three good purposes: find out if I like the story; get a jump on my first edit; and make necessary plot changes. The plot changes are a tricky thing right now -- should this person do that, or know more, and when does this happen? Like everything else I've written, it comes down to trust. I can't over think the plot, or it might drive me crazy. Just like writing with imagination, sometimes you have to let go and see what comes thru. I often surprise myself.

Here's a snippet before heading back:

Andro sensed a change in the air, which seeme…

Winter Greys

Seasons shape a story. For a writer, the time to write know's no bounds. We write when the mood hits, or better yet, as a force of habit. And when time comes to do the actual work, no time of day or season holds us back. How common is it to write about the joys of spring while autumn leaves fall right outside our window. But the dead of winter holds an honesty of it's own; even now, as in the real world I anticipate it's end. In fantasy, it lives on

But why did I place book four firmly in the clutches of winter? Time knows no season, and the empty throne of Nordheim calls the dead season it's own. Although the thought of whipping snows and icy winds owns no thrill here, it has a place now as I write. And now I have a working name -- theLords of Nordheim. We'll see if it sticks; but it is much better than staring at a generic title.

Now I can claim 185 pages, not counting glossary items. So hopefully, better news arrives next spring -- and winter, in actuality as w…