James M. Vargo Books

Happy Feast of all Saints. 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 i...

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, w...

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 actua...

Just a snippet before I get into more important matters (but poor Andro): Afterward, they were promptly escorted outside where the party crowd wondered what had transpired. Sarah was happy to explain the situation with Rogan rolling his eyes when she said something a little too trite. Andro found an opportunity to duck aside, and with scroll tucked in his pocket made way for the road. He was prepared to head home when he was called from behind. “Andro, are you leaving so soon?” Randa’s question stopped him in his tracks. She was alone. “Umm, well, I don’t like keeping such a valued letter outside to get ale spilled on it,” he replied, unsure how to respond. “But you usually say goodbye.” “Sorry Randa, I seldom feel myself these days. I must have forgotten.” She got no closer, but at least her eyes shone slight compassion. “You keep to yourself more and more. Now with Rogan and Sarah’s engagement, well…” “What?” “You seem lonely.” Andro blushed at being expose...

Funny when the story hits a rut, and I let it go to continue forward. But I hate leaving things be. This time I just assumed that part of the story had little meat to gnaw on and let it go to traverse elsewhere. But then inspiration comes along. Inspiration isn't always a happy thought, an ethereal dream, or divine instruction. This time it comes straight out of the dregs of life. I can't always plan on these things, so sometimes the negative is inspiration enough to guide one through the muck and mire of a story. If I feel unbidden -- how does my character feel? Then why do I write such a thing as a fantasy series? It's enough to convince someone to read a stand-alone, but a series? My epiphany  -- I do it for the characters. Sounds strange, but I have given life to a group of folk I care about, and I don't want to abandon them now. Their story should be told. Andro Rhine has to mature through pain as well as life's joys. Time for the youngin' to grow. ...

40k words, still no title, damn I'm slow.  

Andro Rhine waited upon the docks that lined Logan’s lakefront. A cold autumn breeze picked up across the waters and blew in his face – his look was miserable. His father stepped out from a nearby goods store, but never looked up from the token he held in his hand. “Son, see here,” said Audin in an odd manner. “I’ve never beheld the likes of one of these.” “What is it?” “A Mervonel coin. Imagine that – all the way from Acrindian.” Andro glanced it over in his father’s waiting hand. Upon one side was a sea serpent in an ever-consuming circle; and upon the opposite side, a profile of a shorthaired man. At the bottom was scribed the words – Emp. Ràcnar . “Whose face is that? We have no emperor in Turra Arrither. Who would carry a coin like this to Logan?” he asked. “Gandol is a mixing place now – all kinds of folk coming in, especially with Fort Gregory underway.” Andro glowered all the more. “Don’t remind me. And now to make things worse – here comes the m...