James M. Vargo Books

     When a bit of inspiration is needed, a little help from others might do the trick. (and some amazing photo work)  Writing comes from confidence, and confidence means trusting what you write.  It's not always easy, but you'll never know until you try.      So sharpen those swords, polish that axe, it's time to wield that mighty pen and make magic happen...

Western Nordhiem - 1654 A.E. Summer wanes, and life imitates art.  250 pages in and "Prince of the Furies" is knee deep in discord, doom, and defiance. (what else is new?)  At this point I wonder when will I conclude this volume, because a lot still has to happen.  No one minds a longer book, right? The next chapter, sixteen I think, will be called -- White Water.  I've been anxious to get to it, because the image has been in my head for a long time.  A writer gets thoughts in mind, and it is only a matter of putting it to paper.  Soon enough.  So wherever you live, enjoy August, Agosto, Hawe, or whatever they call it in your realm...and whatever the year.  

Who invited them to my fantasy? Symbolic of my writing woes, an ancient bridge into a forgotten wilderness is spoiled by two visitors from our present age. Oh well, that's what books are for -- full immersion. We do with words what photoshop does with touchups. Not that "Prince of the Furies" has issues, okay, maybe small ones, but life tends to crash the party when things are rolling along. I recall in Tolkien's biography, he quotes:  in that time I  changed  my house,  my chair , and my college, and the days  ... Clearly, he had similar issues. That being said, change is inevitable, and it can reek havoc on creativity and writing -- if you let it.  At 75K words I should be happy, but not at this pace. Uncertainty has creeped in, and I let it slow down the writing. Should I bring in another character? Add another location? Popular conclusion may be, write it out and worry about it later.  Boy, I do have a hard time with that one, but I think ...

“Here I go again,” he groaned in the darkness of his room. Wet with perspiration, Rogan felt as if eyes were upon him. He sat up in fear, but the room held no trace of the specter. He froze for a moment, and then nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a tap upon his window. “Who is it at this hour?” his asked in a low voice. The window was opened only a crack, but an answer came through. “It is Leonin. We need to talk…” Rogan crept through his sleeping house, careful not to disturb his parents and sisters asleep in their own bedrooms. He had no idea the time. Once outside, a chill wind roused his senses. There upon the road stood Leonin dressed in Farrian garb, but as one set to travel. “Leonin, what is it? You scared the life out of me,” asked Rogan, still startled. “It is true. Your dreams have not left you. The road has not let you go,” he replied. “It is my burden. The only one foolish enough to touch a holy jewel…” “You are not the only fool.” Rogan...

France was my inspiration for Ainiald  (and why not?) Getting into that time of year when the days lengthen and our bones warm in the sunshine delight. That's the time to crawl out of our winter doldrums and hit the road -- or air, rails, water -- whatever you favor. But in writing, you are never out of season. "Prince of the Furies" stands at nearly 70,000 words -- with much time recently spent on revising. (And no, I don't always wait until the end to revise)  I had a new character to flesh out and went back a ways to make changes to the story. I'm sure she appreciates the efforts. I am building things up now, laying new foundations, darker trails ahead. One challenge rises as another subsides. Face it, Fantasy is a fun read, and just as fun to write. I realize I should be further along, but it is far more polished than earlier writings at this point. (books one and two)  I also hope to put more excerpts out there, and here's a wish for a few more ...

Silver peaks, dragon’s lair, Fairies guide, ghostly air. Who can brave to claim them all? Mighty Turrult ruled littlest Karn, He and sons, upon devils charmed. Nordhiem knew none like these since Ardule. Mount the steed, brazen sword, Calls of war, enemy hoard. Turrult thrashed his way to the sea. Durags run, fires behind, Flapping wind, storms collide. Turrult meets his match in wintry foe. Nords return, numbers sliced, Turned their backs to sea of ice. Turramitral draws the line and says no more. A rare poem - to be found in book three. (Prince of Furies)

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...