Skip to main content

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 -- the Lords 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 well as book form, will have once again ended. Happy reading!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A taste of Book Three

Excerpt : Chapter Four -- Prince of the Furies Between the grove and what appeared a small graveyard, the shrine rose tall and elegant. The building seemed a newer construction, and smelled of fresh cut oak when Jascha opened the double doors that were solid and stained a reddish-brown. They stepped into the vestibule and its silence held them. The building was square and not large, but adequate for a small village. Light came from stained-glass windows within the main chamber, which was open to them, and rowed clerestory across the nave of the roof. A beam of sunlight streamed into the rear of the chamber onto what appeared a bare table, without cloth or candle; and beside it knelt the girl they saw earlier. Jascha insisted they wait. Andro studied her from across the room. She appeared statuesque, illuminated by the sun, but innocent and beautiful. As still as an angel in a painting, she startled him when she suddenly turned. In a soft voice she spoke, “Come.” 

Details, details...

The excuse of slow-writing knows no bounds. At 60,000 words, I could pat myself on the back; but many others crush my speed with their dedicated writing schedules. No matter - I have excuses galore. (although, I have given up some activities for Lent that directly influence my own writing schedule - so hopefully I'll get moving here) Anyone who reads my blog entries, and bless you if you do, may realize that I rarely speak of good writing/criticism/grammar/punctuation. There are plenty that do, and they do it well. To write well takes practice, patience, and a whole lot of opinion -- the friendly stranger sort. My advice to writing well: join a writing group, and there are plenty online to do it. There I learned a lot, and I learned when it was no longer useful. (it is hard to critique chapter five without reading chapters one through four - grammar aside) As you may know, I'm all about world-building and being immersed in a solid story - even if it spans many books. The ex...

Welcome

Now it begins.    Actually, it began when I was about 12 years old.  A Rankin-Bass cartoon called  'the Hobbit' came on television,  you may have heard of it, and from there the fantasy genre had a new fan. Then came a fortunate gift: a 'the Lord of the Ring's'  boxed set pushed me deeper into a wonderful new realm. Books, games, role-playing,  all part of the process of exploring fantasy, became the norm. Some of us set out to try it ourselves.      Many folk write as a way to express themselves beyond idle conversation, and some do it very well. Bookstores are full of talented, gifted, and sometimes lucky authors. Fantasy is no exception. Striking out on the first two,  I'll give 'luck' a chance,  but you know what they say about luck. Anyway, keep reading...