What Happened to Bazel?

Posted on July 11, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

I met Bazel – while writing a work of fiction – decades before I wrote Troll-magic.

His appearance was beyond brief. Depicted in a stained glass window, he knelt with his sisters and brother before a tombstone, their heads bowed in grief. The graveyard was green and bowery. The light was golden, yet sad. Who were these children? Why had their mother died?

I couldn’t answer my questions then. The stained glass window was mere décor, window dressing indeed. 😉 But I wondered.

And my wondering eventually bore fruit, when Bazel burst on the scene in Troll-magic. We meet him there playing a game the Aubronese call hide-and-bide. He’s relieved to be outdoors after a week indoors, but he’s also cranky. Here’s a snippet of the scene:

watercolor painting of child reading in a window seat “Forty eight, forty nine, fifty! Lurk and bide, sneak and hide, be ready and steady, for now I ride!” Bazel opened his eyes, spun away from the pilaster next to the windowed doors, tore across the terrace, and took its shallow steps in one leap. The sodden ground, after a week of rain, gave under his buttoned half-boots, but no water splashed up. Today’s clear sun and high, windblown skies had dried all the puddles. He drew in a long breath of the late autumn air, scented with decaying leaves, and flung his arms wide as he ran. To be outdoors at last, after all those long afternoons of skittles, backgammon, and charades in the play room, was delicious.

He had grown so tired of staying indoors. Quiet activity didn’t screen out the anger and grief. The longing for Mama. The wishing Papa would come home. Tryne had finally sanctioned leap frog in the halls and even bannister sliding races on the stairs. Bazel grinned. Tryne more usually harped on not using “outside voices” or doing “outside activities” when he and his siblings grew too boisterous inside. And then sent them out. It was a different experience to watch her promoting energetic pursuits indoors.

Yet racing and jumping in the garden was better. Bazel tipped his head back . . .

* * *

I was delighted to encounter Bazel, thrilled that I would learn his story at long last. Yet Bazel proved to generate the character arc that required the most revision of all in Troll-magic.

(If you prefer not to watch the sausage being made, you might want to stop reading this blog post here. I’m going to dive into my story recipe with a vengeance! :D)

watercolor illustration of child climbing a tree So, what happened to Bazel?

I introduce him during the children’s game, and we learn that he and his siblings lost their mother several months ago, and that their father is strangely absent. Next Bazel encounters what seems to be his father’s ghost. What’s going on here? Bazel doesn’t know, but he solicits the advice of his sister. Together they decide to approach their mother’s old teacher for help. We – reader and author – follow the children to the herbalist’s cottage on the moor and learn a bit more about the situation. Since we’ve already learned some about the curse from the scenes with Kellor and Helaina, we know more than Bazel does.

From that point, Troll-magic focuses on the adventures of Helaina, Lorelin, Kellor, and Gabris.

And that’s where I went astray. We do see Bazel confronting his deepest fear, but his next appearance is when he arrives at the enchanted palace in the north, on the verge of solving his problem.

My first reader caught the issue immediately. “Isn’t there more? I think it needs to be harder,” she said. And she was right. It’s not easy for a 10-year-old child, protected and cherished, to run away from home to rescue his father. So Bazel had already surmounted a difficult obstacle. And choosing to face his most horror-struck fear provides another real challenge for him. But not only did there need to be more, there was more. I could sense it, just below the edge of my awareness.

When I sat down to write the revisions, the scenes required no brainstorming. They were right there, waiting only for my attention and intention to write. Indeed, I hardly did write them. They wrote me. In all, I made four additions: Bazel on the boat crossing the Merivessic Sea (and remembering a second encounter in the spectral corridor where he met his father’s ghost); Bazel in the city of Andhamn (close to the enchanted palace); an extra paragraph to Bazel in the garden of the enchanted palace; and one last challenge inside the palace itself while walking toward his happily-ever-after.

The revision was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my writing life! If only all writing were like that!

Here’s a snippet from one of the revision scenes:

But he couldn’t catch up. Not really. Sometimes Bazel drew nearer, but he never got within touching distance. And, inevitably, the ghost would lengthen its lead, sometimes disappearing from sight altogether.

During one of these stretches when Papa was nowhere to be seen, Bazel remembered the other presence he’d encountered in this sorcerous corridor: something rotten, corpse-like, hungry. Oh, Teyo! It was there behind him now. This time it was more than a damp, chill aura overtaking him. He heard something: the whisper of a cobweb gown brushing the spectral floor, the deadened footfall of a heel wrapped in grave cloths. He sprinted, chasing Papa – there he was! – fleeing his pursuer.

watercolor painting of child walking in a candlelit hallway The race seemed to go on forever. He began to feel that he was standing still, despite his pumping legs, while the hallway moved under his feet. Like poor Hammie in the running wheel Tryne had placed in the guinea pig’s cage. Recalling his buried pet’s skeleton, cloaked in rotting flesh, he recalled his fears about digging Mama out of her sepulcher. Would she be like that? Putrescent skin sliding away from yellowed, brittle bones? She hadn’t, but – oh! no! He almost wailed aloud. That was the horror behind him, hunting him.

He tripped in his terror, going down hard on his knees, then scrambling up in desperate haste.

* * *

And now you know what happened to Bazel, both off the page and on it. Unless you haven’t yet read Troll-magic! In which case . . . you know what to do! 😀

Troll-magic as an ebook:
Amazon I B&N I Diesel I iTunes I Kobo I Smashwords I Sony

Troll-magic as a trade paperback:
from Amazon or ordered from your local bookstore:
ISBN-10: 0615702546
ISBN-13: 978-0615702544

For more about Bazel’s world, the North-lands, see:
Bazinthiad, a Quick Tour
Landscapes of Auberon
Mandine’s Curse
Legend of the Beggar’s Son

Color Is the New Black

Posted on June 27, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

The interior walls of my home are white. By choice.

Too many of the clothes in my wardrobe are black & white. With touches of blue. Again: my choice.

I love black & white photos. I adore black & white line art.

Is there something a little off with me? What is this black & white fetish?

I’m guessing you can see where this is going! When it came time to design my book covers, I chose the ravishingly beautiful black & white illustrations by Kay Nielsen for the art. Unfortunately for me, not everyone shares my predilection for black & white. More specifically, readers often prefer images with more color.

“The art is so dark!” says one. “Almost dingy.”

“I couldn’t tell what it was, really,” says another. “It’s incomprehensible!”

“But your stories are so vivid, and your landscapes so stunning. The black & white covers don’t do justice to either.”

They made excellent points. Enough so, that I opened up Photoshop for another try at the cover for Troll-magic.

Two covers for Troll-magic

What do you think?

I continue to be entranced by the black & white one, but I like the colorful one (art by Victor Candell) as well. Yet I remain on the fence. B&W? Color? B&W? Color?

I’ve uploaded the colorful one to Amazon to appear as the cover for the ebook. Changing the print edition would be a much larger project, so it remains black & white (with a touch of gold) for now. I’m curious to see what will happen. Will more readers decide Troll-magic is for them? Fewer? The same number? I’ll let you know some time in August. Grin!

In the meantime, I’m very interested in your opinion. Please leave your vote in the comments!

Update: Thank you so much to each of you who shared in the comments. I have a better understanding of how my covers strike readers, because of you! “What was my decision?” you wonder. Black & white. It is unique. I’ll stand out in a crowd. 😀

For more about my book covers:
Cover Creation: Perilous Chance
Building Star-drake’s Cover
Creating Livli’s Cover

For more about how to design book covers:
Cover Design Primer

Choosing a Tagline Font

Posted on June 20, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Sarvet's Wanderyar The print edition for Sarvet’s Wanderyar was so close to release. Just one more proof cycle, click the “approve” button, and there she was – on the bookstore shelf, ready for readers to enjoy!

But!

You knew there was a “but,” didn’t you? After all, as I write this post, the print edition of Sarvet’s Wanderyar is definitively not on any bookshelves. What happened?

I learned a bit of history, which I’m going to share with you!

In the 1800’s and on into the early 1900’s, many authors self-published, including greats – such as Mark Twain – who gave us our classics. Then times changed and for decades self-publishing was not a viable option. In 2009, with the advent of Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing program, indie publishing became viable again. Writers with a pioneering spirit jumped in. Many of them wrote fantasy, and all of them were creating their own covers, whether they had design expertise or not.

Right now, in 2013, there are plenty of graphic designers available to create covers for e-books. In 2009? Not so much. So the indies gave it their best shot, producing covers that were glorious by accident, mediocre by default, or (alas) atrocious. Writers write. But only a few of them wrestle Photoshop and win!

Most of the writers used the fonts that came on their computers, and the fantasy authors were no different. What was there among those scant 200 typefaces that would work well for titles? Quite a few sans serif fonts for thrillers, a scattering of script fonts for romances, and many traditional fonts for mainstream fiction. For the fantasy novels? Matura.

So Matura showed up again and again and again on fantasy covers. Matura used well. Matura used poorly. Matura, Matura, Matura. Writers making covers and readers buying e-books grew sick of it!

I entered the indie pub world late in 2011. Indies had moved on from their early efforts. Some hired designers for their covers, others upgraded their skills. Nobody limited themselves to the fonts that came with their computer. There were a million and one fonts available online for a modest price. Result: nobody used Matura anymore! In fact, Matura wasn’t even listed among the fonts on my own computer.

I knew right away that I wanted to use Palatino for my titles. It’s a traditional font with an extra share of grace, featuring elongated ascenders and descenders (the lines rising from b’s and d’s, or heading down from g’s and q’s) and delicate curves. That grace seems to express the essence of my North-lands, but is easier to read than a decorative “fantasy” font. It also enlarges well to the size necessary for titles. So: Palatino. Yes.

At first I intended to use Palatino for my taglines as well as my titles. Fortunately I took a workshop! It taught me that a) taglines need not be visible in thumbnail-sized images (my first covers had them too big); and b) using only one font on a cover is sedate. Did I want my stories to be perceived as sedate. No!

Time to do a font search.

First, let’s review the rules for choosing fonts.

1) Do use two different fonts.

Check. I was using Palatino for the title and the author byline. I was seeking a different font to use on the taglines – one above the title, one below the author byline.

2) Never use more than one font from any one category of fonts.

Right. Palatino is an old style serif font. My second font would ideally be a sans serif font, a script font, or a decorative font. If I chose a decorative font, it should be a simple one, not ornate. Modern fonts and slab serif fonts don’t go very well with the fantasy feel of my stories. (For a review of the six font categories see my Cover Copy Primer.)

3) Use fonts that are very different in their characteristics, that contrast with one another.

Palatino has a very calm, vertical, linear feel to it. A contrasting font should be curvier, perhaps possess more horizontal energy, and have more variation between its thickest and thinnest strokes. Let’s see what I found.

I searched and I searched and I searched. The right font was not jumping out at me. At last, I chose … Matura! Knowing nothing of its 2009 history, I took joy in my find. (Dear me!)

Last fall, I learned that some people hate Matura. Hmm. Should I change it? Maybe. I was still on the fence when I learned the full story this spring. Should I change it? Probably. So I went looking again.

Before I show you what I found, here’s the top portion of Sarvet’s Wanderyar with the Matura font appearing both in the word “Wanderyar” and in the tagline “Running away leads straight back home – or does it?”

Matura tagline

It still looks good to me. But let’s follow my search and see what some of the other possibilities look like.

I liked Matura for the boldness of its line. It’s easier to read than more spidery decorative fonts. And it contrasts nicely with the delicacy of Palatino. It is sans serif, while Palatino is a serif font. The points at the ends at each stroke contrast with the strict horizontal nature of Palatino’s serifs. Bottom line: it’s got a lot going for it.

Seeking Matura’s replacement, I looked at calligraphy fonts, Celtic fonts, Gothic fonts, Old English fonts, and sans serif fonts. Nothing really grabbed me, but I saw some possibilities. In fact, I saw thirty-plus possibilities. I downloaded them all! And started trying them in Word. Hmm. In Word, none of them won my regard when they went head-to-head with Matura. So I chose the best of the lot and tried them in Photoshop, with a full cover treatment.

Here’s the font Paladin.

Paladin font

It’s got a calligraphy style to it, much like Matura. Its curves contrast nicely with Palatino. But Paladin is much harder to read than Matura. And the extreme variation in its line weight – from broad and thick to spidery thin – is not to my taste. Let’s look at something else!

Here’s Mysticor.

Mysticor font

Much better! But it’s a little too curvy. Kind of like the curly writing of young girls who dot their i’s with hearts. Yikes! In the d and the y, even the straight strokes are curved. Plus Mysticor’s line weight is too close to that of Palatino. So … no.

Next!

Here’s Devinne.

Devinne font

Now, I like Devinne. I’d considered it during my first search for a tagline font. I voted against it, because it was less legible than Matura. But what about it? Maybe I should reconsider.

Devinne has a nice blend of thick and thin, as well as a balanced movement between straight and curved. In fact, it’s almost perfect in its contrast with the Palatino. Except for one thing. I’d not considered Devinne a serif font. Mostly, it isn’t. But look at that W and that n and that r. Serifs. One of the rules of font selection is that you don’t place two different serif fonts together on a cover. Can you break the rule? In a heartbeat, if it works. But it doesn’t work here. The serifs, especially on that W, fight for dominance with the serifs on the Palatino Sarvet. Plus … Devinne is so dang hard to read. So, no.

Here’s something simpler, a sans serif named Fondamento.

Fondamento font

Pleasing, but really just a slightly straighter version of Mysticor above. Let’s move on!

What about Black Chancery?

I like it. I like it a lot. And I almost chose it for my tagline font. Except I hate the exaggerated tails on the d and the y. The serifs on the W clash with the Palatino serifs on Sarvet. The W does not cradle the S the way the Matura W does. And the font as a whole is less legible.

Black Chancery font

The five fonts I’ve shown you here were the best of the lot. All the other twenty-plus were less successful variants on these final contenders (the way Mysticor and Fondamento are variants of one another).

So, what am I doing? I’m keeping Matura.

This is my thinking:

Sarvet's Wanderyar I’m writing to please my readers. Some of my readers will be indies who published their own books in 2009. But that’s a pretty select crew! The vast majority of my readers never cracked an e-book until much later. Most of my readers never suffered through the overuse and abuse of Matura. To most of my readers, the Matura in my taglines will look as fresh and appealing as it does to me.

Will I always stick with Matura? That’s a whole ‘nother question. Every publisher updates her covers as the years pass. Culture changes, and images that seemed appropriate and attractive in one decade look dated and awkward in the next. So my covers will change. But not this month!

Time to push that last revision cycle on Sarvet’s Wanderyar along and release the print edition!

Update: Sarvet’s Wanderyar is now in print! See the announcement here.

For more about book covers:
Cover Design Primer, the fundamentals of cover design.
Cover Makeovers, a series of before’s and after’s.
Perilous Chance, Star-drake, and Livli’s Gift, the design process in action.

The Accidental Herbalist

Posted on June 7, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Illustration by Jessie Willcox Smith That title refers to me, not Helaina, the character in my novel, Troll-magic. It happened three winters ago, when my children were coughing up a storm. We’d all caught colds, and theirs turned to bronchitis. Oh, but they were miserable. I suppose I should have taken them to the doctor, but they’d been ill only a few days. It was too early for antibiotics. So my husband and I tried the usual things: sitting them in a steamy bathroom, offering mugs of warmed milk, holding them and patting their backs, and pushing gallons of over-the-counter cough medicine. (Well, not gallons, but you know what I mean.)

Then I read an article in the health newsletter we subscribe to. Research had definitively proven cough medicine to be completely ineffective. Well, I wasn’t surprised. It was doing nothing for my young twins! But, now what? The answer, surprisingly, came from Troll-magic.

In Troll-magic, Helaina nish Bayaude is a noblewoman of Auberon. She’s also an apprentice herbalist. She studies under a wisewoman who lives in a cottage on the moors near Helaina’s home.

The reader meets Helaina shortly after a curse transforms her into a ghost and whisks her away to an enchanted palace. Magical obssession forces her to work as a chambermaid, dusting and scrubbing floors and straightening knickknacks.

Bewildered and overwhelmed, she surrenders to the demands of her situation until a north-bear staggers through the front door, wild and raging. Fear impels Helaina to stop acquiescing and to start controlling her own fate. She doesn’t have a lot of choices, but she does remember the plant lore she’s been laboring to acquire. She decides to concoct an herbal remedy for her ghostly affliction.

Her knowledge (plus my own lack of same) and her decision meant that I had some research to do. I’m no herbalist, but I had sense enough to know that “winging” this wouldn’t produce the result I wanted. I took myself to the library and checked out The Complete Medicinal Herbal, The Herbal Medicine Cabinet, Magic and Medicine of Plants, and Aromatherapy: The Complete Guide.

One of these titles featured beautiful color spreads with photographs of each ingredient (both on the plant and prepared as a powder) plus the final salve or tincture made from the plant. All the books described the symptoms alleviated by each plant part and which systems of the body received benefit from it.

Since these were western herbals, and Troll-magic‘s system of magic is inspired by eastern ideas, I didn’t find the one-to-one correspondence I was naively hoping for. But continued probing uncovered patterns of calm and soothing versus energizing. I began to see how I might map the effects of the remedies onto the radices that control energy flow within the bodies of my North-land denizens.

Eventually I created two lists: one of herbs likely to help Helaina with her accursed plight, the other, those that would worsen it.

I think most of the ingredients in Helaina’s final and successful remedy are mentioned in my novel. But I’ll share them here.

For the crown radix: Engadien pennywort, magwort, melissa

Brow radix: elecampane

Throat radix: clove, vervain

Heart radix: saffron, heartsease, rose

Plexial radix: goldenseal, wild cherry

Belly radix: coriander, fennel, mint

Root radix: Bethpaarean ginseng, fruits of the malacca tree

Foot radices: neroli

Remember that this is fantasy! Don’t borrow Helaina’s remedy (which is externally applied, by the way) for yourself. My research was aimed at devising a plausible recipe for the magical (and fictional) ailment that troubled my character. Nothing more.

In the course of my herbal reading, I did stumble upon a very simple remedy for cough. Which I recollected after learning that commercial cough medicines are useless. It was made of two foodstuffs – and seemed so innocuaous that I determined I would try it on my hacking, sleepless 7-year-olds.

Freshly squeezed lemon juice, slightly warmed and mixed with honey. That’s all.

My son and my daughter were enthusiastic about the honey, less so about the sour lemon. But I got a dose into each of them. And then?

Miracle!

For half an hour straight, there were no coughs. Not a one. That was long enough for them to fall asleep. Once asleep, they stayed asleep for four whole hours. Wow!

They each needed another dose when they awoke sometime after midnight. We went through a lot of lemons and an entire jar of expensive raw honey. But it was worth it!

For more about the world of Troll-magic, see:
Who’s Who in Troll-magic
Families in Troll-magic
Bazinthiad’s Fashions
Bazinthiad, A Quick Tour of the City
Magic in the North-lands
Magic in Silmaren
Radices and Arcs
Mandine’s Curse
The Suppressed Verses
Character Interview: Lorelin
What Happened to Bazel?

Waterfall and Fairy Tale

Posted on May 23, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Twenty-five years ago, a fairy tale saved … well, what did it save?

Lives?

Possibly. The danger was real.

Two little girls from their terror? Yes, definitely.

Me with the challenge of removing two children from risk as swiftly as possible without becoming a shrew? Indeed!

So how did this fairy tale salvation come to pass?

It all started at Crabtree Falls.

The falls form an amazing series of cascades down a precipitous mountainside in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. The sheerest curtain of water, a drop of 400 feet, occurs at the very top where the stream hits the brink. White water and smaller cascades spurt from a second fall below the first one’s landing pool and then gentle to become a bright race flowing downhill fast.

The hike to the top is quite a climb. Possessing numerous hairpin turns, the path is ladder-like in spots and very steep everywhere else.

A dear college friend of mine – we’ll call her Aliana, to protect her privacy – invited me to visit the falls along with Eillis and Beatice, the two young daughters of her fiancé. (More aliases. :D)

It was spring, and the woodlands displayed delicate beauty: trees leafed out in pale green, shy flowers tucked between remnant drifts of autumnal fallen foliage, and the lace of the tumbling stream sluicing toward the valley floor.

Eillis was only four and “Bea,” just eight, but they were experienced hikers, accustomed to long walks and vigorous exercise with their outdoorsman father. I heard none of “I’m tired” or “I want to go home now” or “Are we there yet?” No, the girls were enjoying the climb as much as Aliana and I were. Young, strong legs on all of us!

The top, after two hours of ascent, was glorious! The stream ran swiftly, but smoothly through sparsely spaced saplings and then out across a grassy open space to rocks. Next, the brink! And the plunge to the pool below. The view from the grassy glade showcased the ridge on the other side of the valley, a panorama that delighted my unexplored inner landscape painter. The vignette at the base of the falls was harder to appreciate. Access for the trail wasn’t possible (and leaving the trail, not safe), so we peered up past a secondary fall to glimpse the primary one. I think we hiked the path between the two vantage points several times to enjoy their differing magic!

It was hard to leave. We lingered at the brink, awed by its abruptness. As we deliberated pressing all the way up the gentle slope to the crest, a dark cloud boiled over the ridge.

Ah, yes. Traditional weather in the mountains of Virginia. Clear, blue, and sunny on one side of the ridge, pouring rain on the other.

This cloud wasn’t dropping rain, but it had an ominous look: pale gray on its edges, darkest gray, almost black, in the main mass, and an ugly yellow halo.

Aliana and I turned as one to retrace our steps, herding the girls with us. We made it past the base of the falls before the first raindrops arrived. We traversed two hairpin turns more before the first lightning strike flashed and crashed.

Eillis whimpered, and Aliana swept her up in a swift hug. But four years old is too big for carrying down a mountain. And Bea had stopped dead, white-eyed.

Another bolt of lightning stabbed down a short way off in the woods. We stood in danger of being struck. We needed to get down off that mountain! Fast!

“Have you ever heard the story of the twelve dancing princesses?” I asked.

Two heads shook from side to side. No, they hadn’t.

“It’s a good one! Would you like me to tell it while we walk?”

Two nods.

Eillis had relaxed enough that we could shift her around to piggyback. And Bea grabbed my hand when I offered it.

Then we ran. (I know. That carries risk too. Young ankles!)

Introducing the mystery of the twelve pairs of tattered dancing slippers got us another three hairpin turns downhill.

The youngest son seeking his fortune – meeting an old wisewoman with two magical seeds and good advice – took us to the third cascade in the rushing stream.

The fortune-seeking youth acquiring a spot as gardener on the castle grounds, using the magical bay laurel plants to garb himself as a prince, and then invisibly following the twelve princesses through enchanted forests of copper, silver, and gold ushered us to the rolicking brook on its gentler slope, along with the long-delayed downpour.

The lightning strikes stayed behind us on the upper slopes and we arrived at our vehicle safe, but soaking wet. A bedraggled blanket partially dried Eillis and Bea. Once the car engine warmed up, we cranked the heat on high.

The drive to the girls’ cabin took just the right amount of time. I told of the underground crystal palace and the ball there, then the two additional nights when the gardener boy followed the princesses to their secret revels.

As we turned into the cabin driveway, the rain stopped, and I was ready to intone the words: “They lived happily ever after!”

Our adventure was complete.

Have you ever been caught in a thunderstorm on a mountain or other exposed situation? How did you make it to safety? Any story telling involved?

* * *

Warning: If you ever hike Crabtree Falls yourself, please do not try to reach the vantage point shown in the first photo on this post. It’s lethally dangerous. “Forest Wander” (the photographer) was lucky. Many other intrepid hikers have not been. Twenty-eight people died – one just last month – when they left the trail and climbed too close to the falls. Don’t be a casualty!

For more memoir, see:
Writer’s Journey
Visitor’s Surprise

Writing Sarvet

Posted on April 18, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

I love reading fantasy (as well as writing it), largely because of the sense of wonder and possibility it evokes. The journey through a strange and imaginary landscape feels magical. And that magic compels me.

Yet setting isn’t enough. It’s the people and their doings – the story – that sustain my interest.

As a writer writing, finding the balance between story and setting can be tricky. My reader must understand enough to understand what’s at stake. Yet that necessary information mustn’t bury the protagonist and his or her very human concerns. It’s easy to err in either direction: presenting so much wonderful strangeness that the connection between reader and protagonist grows tenuous; or gliding over the setting so lightly that the protagonist’s challenges and desires seem obscure.

A brief aside . . .

Some readers prefer not to watch the sausage being made. If that describes you, this post may not be your cup of tea! I’m going to peer under the hood of one of my stories and discuss a revision prompted by my first reader’s feedback. For those of you who enjoy nothing better than seeing how an author does things, read on!

My first draft of Sarvet’s Wanderyar erred in the direction of flooding the reader with too much information about Sarvet’s culture. The women and men of the Hammarleedings live segregated from one another in sister-lodges and brother-lodges. This fundamental difference ripples through their entire society, their religious rituals, and their daily routines.

Kay Nielsen art depicting a lassie wandering the mountains I dove right into those differences, and my first reader felt disoriented by it. The interesting thing to me was that the slight gap between heroine and reader didn’t manifest immediately. My reader cared about Sarvet, became invested in her wellbeing, and grew genuinely scared for her when Sarvet ran into danger. But when Sarvet encountered the crux of her dilemma – could she find the courage to confront and let go of the resistance within herself that shored up the external barriers she faced? – that was where my reader felt distance.

Not good!

I didn’t immediately know where I’d gone astray. I reviewed the climax scene. Had I failed to depict Sarvet’s dilemma fully? Did I not evoke her struggle to change vividly enough? Did I need to give more detail to her internal challenges? After re-reading the passage, I felt all that was present. And my reader agreed. She wasn’t really sure where the problem lay, what was provoking her sense of remove.

At that impasse, I was blessed with a flash of intuition.

The problem did not lie in the climactic scene itself. It occurred back at the very beginning. My reader was so preoccupied with understanding Sarvet’s milieu that she was distracted from forming a full bond with Sarvet herself.

Along with my diagnosis of the problem came inspiration for how to fix it. I would give my reader two additional scenes that not only took us deep within Sarvet’s experience and showed us a pivotal part of her history, but that also included universal human experiences: enjoyment of a light-hearted holiday and the connection between a child and her father. Here they are . . .

* * *

But Other-joy was . . . complicated. Lodge-day was just fun. She’d spent it with her friend Amara last summer.

They’d greeted the men of Tukeva-lodge with traditional tossed thistle-silk streamers – a shower of crimson, gold, purple, amber, and blue pelted at the visitors as they approached the mother-lodge. Amara’s father was a bear of a man, big and round and laughing, with a pillow of a beard. His hello hugs swooped Amara, Amara’s mother Iteydet, Amara’s aunt Enna, and Sarvet off their feet. His arms felt like tree limbs. Flexible ones. Only after his enthusiastic civility did Feljas gaze in puzzlement at Sarvet’s face.

“But little Hilla never grew from belt high to chest high since Nerich!”

Amara broke into giggles. “Hilla’s picnicking with her best friend, mapah! This is my best friend, of course. Sarvet.”

“Then you’ll excuse a mapah’s zeal, little sister, won’t you? I thought you were mine!” His eyes twinkled.

Sarvet found herself giggling along with Amara. “Of course,” she answered. And knew a moment’s wistfulness. I wish he were my mapah. But Ivvar would never visit Kaunis-lodge, even on the greater fete-days like Other-joy.

Feljas was more like a wixting-brother than a father. He claimed the very tip of the valley-rock for their picnic blanket, teased Enna unmercifully about the damage her long eyelashes would do to the hearts of unlinked brothers, juggled their luncheon pears in fancy patterns before passing them to each sister for eating, dropped kisses on Iteydet’s cheek every fifth sentence, and pulled a sack of luxurious dried cherries from his capacious pocket for dessert. Then he fell asleep under Sarvet’s amazed gaze.

Her expression must have conveyed her astonishment, because Iteydet ventured a laughing explanation. “He’s always like this. Never stops until he really stops. In sleep. If I had to live with him day-in and day-out, like a sister, he’d wear on me.”

But Hammarleeding women didn’t live with their men. Sarvet had heard rumors that the Silmarish lowlanders did. Here in the mountains, sisters lived with sisters in the mother-lodges. And brothers lived with brothers in the father-lodges. As was proper.

Iteydet continued: “He’ll wake again soon. And I’ll be glad of it. It’s not a proper fete-day without Feljas’ jokes!”

He did wake. And proposed a game of tag combined with rolling down the mountain slope. Enna refused, but the sisters occupying three blankets near theirs were persuaded to join the fun, even including the normally staid Teraisa. Sarvet surprised herself when she abandoned keeping Enna company mere moments after her own plaintive refusal. Her limp was no disadvantage when rolling, not running, was the mode of movement.

The whole day had been like that: merry and easy and . . . loving. Would she trade Other-joy for Lodge-day? Yes! Well . . . maybe. Sarvet ducked her head down under the covers. No. Other-joy is special.

* * *

Sarvet still didn’t want to think about it. And yet she did.

What was her first experience of fathers? She didn’t really need to ask that question. She knew the answer. I’m just delaying. She’d been little, really little. How many years did I have then. Maybe five? It was one of her earliest memories. She was sitting in a clump of alpine flowers making a chain from the blooms, carefully selecting all the pink ones, when a shadow fell over her. She’d looked up to see . . . a father looming against the sky. He seemed as tall as the clouds, and his bearded face scared her.

“Sarvet?” His voice was gentle and his eyes kind.

He knelt so that she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. “Do you remember me?”

She didn’t, but her fear ebbed. He looked nice.

“I’m Ivvar, your mother’s linking-brother.”

She still didn’t remember him, but she held up her flower chain to show him. It was nearly done.

“Beautiful,” he told he. “Would you make one for me?”

And she did, a yellow one, not pink.

He’d just draped it around his neck and was thanking Sarvet when her mother arrived, hot and bothered and annoyed. “You shouldn’t be here,” Paiam declared.

“I’ve a right.” His voice was equable, but he stayed seated on the grass.

Paiam went on to argue with him. Sarvet couldn’t recall the words, but Paiam’s rage seemed to cover another feeling. She would have been crying, except that Paiam never cries.

Sarvet did remember the end of it. While Paiam stood by in fury, Ivvar had taken his daughter kindly in his arms and kissed her forehead. His lips were warm and dry. “Goodbye, little Sarvet. I’ll love you forever.”

“You’re going?” He’d been a fun play fellow. It seemed a shame to lose him just when she’d found him.

“Yes, I’ll be living at Rakas, not Tukeva, now. The brothers of Rakas visit a different mother-lodge.”

“Oh.” She’d been placid then, accepting his farewell. Now . . . now she felt differently. Paiam drove him away, shun her! I could have been like Amara and Brionne, seeing my own father several times each year, if it hadn’t been for her. With a small shake of her shoulders, Sarvet opened her eyes.

Her mother was seated on the bench in front of her, a little to the right. She had the same expression on her face that Sarvet felt leaving her own features: faint distaste mingled with longing. Sarvet winced. I don’t want to be like her. She looked away.

* * *

Did my revision do what I wanted? Would my reader walk more fully in Sarvet’s boots? That was the question, indeed. I sent the revised manuscript off to my first reader and waited with baited breath.

Her answer: a resounding yes! She’d experienced no sense of distance at all, feeling thoroughly there as Sarvet confronted her destiny.

Yay!

My reader did suggest one other minor change. I’d made Sarvet a bit on the young side for the story that emerged. She needed to be closing on 16, rather than 14 approaching 15. Plus there were a few more typos to correct. But in all essentials my story was complete.

I’d learned once again how important a first reader is to my process. I’m too close to my story to always perceive how it touches my readers. I need one of them to report back from the reading front!

I also learned that an error at the story’s beginning may hide for an interval, manifesting only in a later passage. Who would have guessed? I love these unexpected revelations, whether they’re within a story or outside one. This is why I write!

For more about the writing experience, see:
The First Lines
Writer’s Journey

Cover Makeovers

Posted on April 11, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Extra-virgin olive oil, white wine vinegar, Celtic sea salt, Dijon mustard, and . . . shake!
It spreads very nicely over romaine lettuce and thin slices of cucumber. Yum!

But although I include recipes on my blog, this is not a cooking post.

(Sorry! Didn’t mean to mislead you!)

Continuing my metaphor, let’s take a different recipe. Water, oil, and a ton of shaking . . . will just tire your arm!

So why am I talking about emulsifying and non-emulsifying substances?

Because I need to mention a certain non-item: me and campy literature. We are not an item. We are the oil and the water. No matter how much you shake us, we just don’t mix. It’s a failing, I know. But . . . I am what I am.

On the other hand, me and campy images? Yes, yes, YES! Those are tremendous fun. And I just received the privilege of playing in exactly that garden. Shantnu Tiwari, writer of campy satire, sought my feedback on his cover designs. I haven’t read his stories (although I’m tempted), but his cover concepts drew me in like a rose draws the bee. Wow! I couldn’t wait to get my Photoshopping fingers in that pie.

Here are the BEFORE’s:

Shantnu Tiwari's cover designs

Now, fingertips dripping blueberry juice and scattering the odd pecan (all these mixed metaphors are making me hungry), my cover tweaks are done, and I want to share the AFTER’s with you, along with some commentary.

It’s a fun way to learn more about cover design and serves as a nice sequel to my earlier Cover Design Primer.

Here’s the first problem child, chock full of potential, quirky and unusual, but not quite there.

Bathroom imp guards unspooling money TP So what’s wrong with it? The biggest problem is alignment. It doesn’t have any. The title has a left alignment with a ragged right, while the author byline has a center alignment, except it’s not centered on the cover, but in the space between the unravelling TP and the tile wall. And neither relates well to the photo art, exacerbated by haphazard grouping. The second line in the title floats away from the first line, while crowding the gun-toting TP saboteur. The author byline floats unconnected and unanchored in its space.

Lack of contrast provides the final straw. All the colors are mild and bland. The image lacks punch.

Despite these issues, the concept is fabulous. Money unspooling as TP, supervised by a bathroom imp? Wow! All of the alignment and grouping issues are simple fixes. The contrast (since we’re keeping the same photo art) is harder, but it can certainly be improved. Here’s the after.

Bathroom imp guards unspooling money TP Terrorists have decided to hit the West where it will hurt the most: their bowels. Now two super spies will teach the terrorists a lesson they will never forget: nobody touches our toilet paper and lives to tell the tale. Starring Jack, an evil space monkey aficionado, and Shakespeare, an imposter importer of burkhas (this time).

Cover number two suffers from similar problems: lack of alignment and ineffective grouping. The black and white hide of the cow, together with the dark hair of the zombie, provide better contrast, but the yellow title fades against the blue sky.

Additionally, aside from the quirky imagery, the cover possesses no visual branding. The author byline is handled differently than it was in the previous book (much smaller point size and different font) and placed erratically. Ditto for the title (all CAPS instead of upper/lower, but with no real reason for the change).

Soaring cow worries about threatened zombie There is a further problem with the colors chosen for the title and the author byline. They are two shades of yellow. They need to be either the exact same shade of yellow or completely different colors. Similar, but not the same, is . . . not good!

But, again, the concept is marvelous. This cow might be a relative to the moon-jumping bovine of the nursery rhyme; however, her concern is not jigging to a fiddle tune, but the fate of a threatened zombie. Ridiculously cool!

And – also again – the fixes are easy. Tidy up the alignment and grouping issues. Chose one yellow for the title and author byline. Place a shadow behind them to pop the yellow. Use the same font and placement for the author byline from The Toilet Paper Conspiracy to develop an author brand. Change the haphazard talking bubble with a more carefully drawn thought bubble. And there you have it!

Soaring cow worries about threatened zombie A secret society is planning to destroy humanity. Only one person can stop them. Unfortunately, she’s out of town. Now it’s up to the other guys – a potato farmer, two beer addicted spies, and the super hero Cow Man (bitten by a radioactive cow) – to save the day. But are the heroes up to the task? Will they survive? Is the world safe? (If you don’t want to read the book, the answers are: Yes, Yes, and Yes!)

Grinning shark with exec case and tropical paradise Now we’re getting to some art with visual punch. The dark-suited shark contrasts well with the pale beach sand and the jewel-toned tropical water. And the concept continues superb. Toothy grin, exec case, and island paradise. What could be better?!

But the type wanders, weakening the otherwise strong image, which it crowds. Branding elements are absent. The title is too small. All easily fixed.

Toothy grinning shark with exec case and tropical island Tired of living in your mother’s basement? Tired of not having a girlfriend? Why not become a Super Villain? Earn the respect of peers and the admiration of all the hot girls! We teach you, step by step, how easy it is:
• Take over the world using time traveling cows and zombie chickens.
• Capture heroes using ice cream and bananas
• Negotiate over Twitter!
Quote: Taking over the world is no more dangerous than driving to work everyday (in Afghanistan, while wearing a miniskirt and push-up bra, while singing “Oh America you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind”). The book is dedicated to Pinky and the Brain. You inspired us man. Totally inspired us.

Santa versus paramilitary at Christmas I love this cover, even with its misalignments and hesitant title. It’s got so many things done right: the charm of the Santa image and the holiday background juxtaposed with the black-garbed paramilitary; the harmony of the blue/green/red color palette given brightness by the yellow author byline and punch by the dark jackets; the appealing simplicity of the font in the author byline. Huge thumb’s up!

And yet . . . giving the title more umph and pizzaz (to mirror the piquancy of the art) and correcting the misalignments could give it even more visual clout. This was the lure that first attracted me to this entertainment. I couldn’t wait to dive in!

Paramilitary arrest Santa Santa comes down the chimney and finds a dead body. The police bust in and arrest him. A little girl has all her gifts confiscated as evidence. North Pole sends its Reindeer Regiment to bomb the city of Loondumb to the ground. Before war destroys the country, someone must answer the question: who framed Santa Claus?

I hope you’ve enjoyed my tour of covers BEFORE and AFTER. What do you think? Did I succeed in retaining their quirky charm while adding to their impact? Metaphorical penny for your thoughts!

* * *

Shantnu Tiwari says this about himself: “Fighting for the rights of zombies since 1936. If you want books with sophistication and elegance, whose words move you and touch your heart, whose literary eloquence will impress critics and professors alike, don’t read my books. Cause I don’t write stuff like that. If you think the world ending because toilet paper ran out, or fat and hairy terrorists dressing up as women to seduce policemen is funny, then you will love my books.”

Shantnu Tiwari's new covers

The Zombie’s Life is in Danger, The Toilet Paper Conspiracy, You Can Be a Super Villain!, and Who Framed Santa Claus? are all available as ebooks and paperbacks at Amazon. The author also urges his readers to come say hello at http://shantnutiwari.com.

* * *

After word of mouth, book covers, cover copy, and story openings connect books with readers. My Cover Design Primer, Cover Copy Primer, Eyes Glaze Over? Never!, and The First Lines present basic concepts for how to do these well.

The First Lines

Posted on March 27, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

February and half of March saw me studying story openings. I was taking an online workshop and learning a lot.

What makes a good opening? How does a writer engage the strong interest of her reader?

Writing stories is an art. In a sense, there are as many good opening structures as there are good stories. Every story’s first few paragraphs are unique to that story.

However…you knew there’d be a “however,” didn’t you?

There is a structure that consistently hooks most readers’ attention. This “hook opening” won’t be right for every story, but it serves many of them well.

A character with a problem in a setting.

Pretty simple, isn’t it?

Ah! But how will you introduce your character and his or her problem? How will you mention the setting without slowing the pace too much? Even when borrowing a story foundation honed by the ages, artistry calls!

There’s also one more critical element.

My teacher recounts how that critical element made all the difference for him. Decades ago, when he was first starting out and before he incorporated this key element, he received nothing but form rejections from publishers. After…he received personal letters for his rejections and…a beginning stream of acceptances! That’s how important this is.

What is it?

Ground your reader in what your character is seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, and tasting. Make your opening rich with sensory detail. Your reader will feel like she or he is there, chilled by the breeze, smelling cinnamon, tasting vanilla, hearing chapel bells, and watching the cavalry thunder over the hill crest.

Touch on all five senses in the first three paragraphs and continue to mention them every 500 words.

Is it a formula? Will it generate formulaic writing?

I don’t think so. We humans are corporeal beings, and we relate to our world and the people in it via our bodily senses. Stories are about the human condition, and a story that’s thin on sensory detail is a story rather distant from our human experience.

Consider architecture. (With a degree in architecture, I’m bound to drag it in willy nilly!) The cultural blueprint for house could be considered formulaic: sheltering walls and roof, ways to get in and out, places of privacy within. But think of all the amazing variations: yurts, New England saltboxes, Georgian colonials, Frank Lloyd Wright prairie houses, and on and on. Limits breed art and beauty.

But enough philosophizing!

What does a “hook opening” look like in practice?

Allow me to present some examples.

Before the workshop, I was stumbling in the right direction. As I approached the release of my story Perilous Chance, I sensed something was wrong. I loved the story, and my first readers spoke well of it, too. But, but, but! The opening wasn’t quite right.

This was the original opening:

That morning, Clary had stood in the front room, turning slowly. The cloth on the table under the windows hung askew, its corner tassel dragging on the weathered pine floor. The candles had guttered in their sockets, the wicks drowning amidst congealed wax. One, burned only halfway, lay fallen under the gluey drips from the gravy boat. Clary’s fingers crept to her mouth.

Why did this morning after an impromptu party feel so different?

The murmur of conversation last night, rising to her bed chamber, growing louder as the hour latened, had seemed normal. Uncle Maury’s deep laugh boomed as always. Aunt Theosia’s mandolin sounded as sweet. But it hadn’t been the same.

She stared at the welter of mismatched briar-wicker chairs, one tumbled on its side. I won’t think about that. Or who knocked it over. But she knew who. I won’t think about it, more fiercely.

Lyrus was whimpering upstairs in the nursery. She’d ignored him on her way down, hoping her mother would see to the baby. But she wouldn’t. She hadn’t risen before the children for . . . how long had it been? This was Thyril. Spring. Had it truly been eight months? Last Sanember in fall? Clary drew her fingers away from her lips to count, but she didn’t really care how long it’d been. Too long. What she wanted to know was: would it end?

* * *As part of the story, yes. As the opening? No. I wanted something more gripping, something with more immediate tension, rather than its slow rise. I mused and mulled, wondering how I might solve my problem. And, finally, for reasons unknown to me (but probably well known to the muse), a short story by Connie Willis came to mind: All About Emily.

It’s a great story, one I recommend with enthusiasm. What I did was study it. How was its opening structured? I had to go back and look, since I’d been too engrossed originally to notice.

What Willis did was take a snippet from near the end of her story to generate its opening. There lay my answer! I can’t pretend my story displays Willis’ mastery. She’s been writing for decades and is one of the most renowned SF writers in the world. But the underlying structure of her gem of a tale was perfect for mine. And I knew exactly which snippet in Perilous Chance I would use to generate my opening. Here is the final version that I published (the opening above follows directly on these new paragraphs):

web cover image for Perilous ChancePerilous Chance She was eleven, and she was hurt. Her leg lay under her, knee throbbing. Her arm ached, the broken bone within sickening in its pain. But worst of all, worst of all, a vast shadow loomed above her, dark wings spanning distances too great for the grotto enclosing them, razor-sharp talons sparking with the spitting blue fire of a strange power.

“No, please, no,” she whispered.

How had it come to this? Her day had started so ordinarily, getting breakfast for herself and her sister, because Mama could not. She cast her thoughts desperately back to the morning. I’m there. Not here. I’m there.

* * *I remain pleased with it, even after the finish of my workshop. But I wonder if I might have included more sensory detail, if I were writing the story now.

With Clary and Elspeth, we see the disorder of the front room, we hear Aunt Theosia’s mandolin and Uncle Maury’s laugh. We attempt to ignore the faint whimpers of their baby brother upstairs. We taste the sweetness of the fig syrup. Is it enough? I’ll leave that answer to my readers. Because stories are an art, after all. Sometimes three senses – sight, hearing, taste – might be enough.

In fact, my second assignment for the workshop was to create an opening focused solely on sound. And my teacher declared my effort gripping and compelling. So the rule of all five senses is clearly a guideline rather than a law.

After listening to the first week’s lectures, I pondered my new world view. The information had changed me. I grew pre-occupied with the opening to an already published story. Sarvet’s Wanderyar didn’t have the opening that would do it justice, and…I had an idea! This one was good, this one was better, this one wouldn’t let me go until I wrote it.

So, here’s another before and after. The original opening:

She awoke to the pleasant consciousness that the morning of a fete-day brings. No chopping cabbage, digging potatoes, or long hours at the spinning wheel awaited her. The preparations for Other-joy were wholly different from normal chores, and this year the calling ritual would include three linking ceremonies!

She smiled with anticipation, started to push herself upright, then changed her mind and snuggled her cheek more deeply into her pillows. Light from the oil lanterns in the hallway was seeping through the chinks around her bednook shutters – Sister Teraisa must already be up – and Sarvet wanted to get up too. But not just yet. Her sheets were so soft, her blankets cozy, and the fur coverlet warm. She wriggled her toes in their bedsocks, ignoring the constraint in her right foot. There was something special to the first beginning of a day, all its promise ahead. She would savor it . . . and avoid a little longer the chilly moment when she doffed her nightcap and gown in order to dress.

* * *And the new opening, not yet published as of this blog post (sneak preview!):

Kay Nielsen art depicting a lassie wandering the mountains Tense and furious, Sarvet shook her mother’s angry grip from her forearm. “I’ll petition the lodge-meet for filial severance,” she snapped, and then wished she’d swallowed the words, so hateful, too hateful to speak. And yet she’d spoken them.

The breeze swirling on the mountain slope picked up, nudging the springy branches of the three great pines at Sarvet’s back and purring among their needles. Their scent infused the moving air.

Paiam’s narrowed eyes widened an instant – in hurt? – flicked up to encompass the swaying tree tops behind her daughter, then went flat.

“You dare!” she breathed. “You’re my daughter. Mine alone. And I’ll see to it that you and every other mother in the lodge knows it too. You’ll stay under my aegis till you’re grown, young sister, even if I must declare you careless and remiss to do it!”

Oh!

Sarvet only thought she’d been mad before. “You never wanted me!” she accused.

Was it true? Or was she just aiming for Paiam’s greatest vulnerability, aiming to hurt? Because under her own rage lay . . . desperation. Something needed to change. She just didn’t know what, didn’t know how. And didn’t want to be facing it right now, facing her mother right now. It was Other-joy, and she wanted joy. For just a little longer. How had this day of celebration gone so wrong?

She’d woken to the pleasant consciousness that the morning of a fete-day brings. No chopping cabbage, digging potatoes, or long hours at the spinning wheel awaited her. The preparations for Other-joy were wholly different from normal chores, and this year the calling ritual would include three linking ceremonies!

She remembered smiling with anticipation, starting to push herself upright, then changing her mind to snuggle her cheek more deeply into her pillows. Light from the oil lanterns in the hallway was seeping through the chinks around her bednook shutters – Sister Teraisa must already be up – and Sarvet wanted to get up too. But not just yet. Her sheets were so soft, her blankets cozy, and the fur coverlet warm. She wriggled her toes in their bedsocks, ignoring the constraint in her right foot. There was something special to the first beginning of a day, all its promise ahead. She would savor it . . . and avoid a little longer the chilly moment when she doffed her nightcap and gown in order to dress.

* * *I’m still not hitting all five senses, but – again – this is art, not science. And revising an already complete story can be a tricky and delicate business. I’d rather honor the story’s essence and integrity than risk harming it by sticking slavishly to a checklist.

But, before I close, I’d like to share an example that does include all five senses. It’s one of my homework assignments from the workshop. I hope to write the full story, but I think it wants to be a novel, so patience on that one!

Metamorphosis Buffet

Steven glanced down at his tux and shirtfront, then back out through the transparent gleam of the force bubble surrounding his table. His clothes looked cheap compared to those of the other patrons. What else could you expect from a rental? At least they were clean. At least he was clean.

When he’d spotted the lottery ticket in the muck of that back alley, he’d wondered if mere bathing could scrub the garbage stench from his skin. His too-loose coveralls lay sodden against his bony wrists and ankles, slimy with the juices of rotting food. The air was foul enough he could taste it. His hand nipped the foil ticket from its puddle of noxious yuck before he had time to consider otherwise. The liquid burned until he wiped fingers and ticket against his collar, the only dry scrap on him.

He angled the ticket toward the neon glow at the alley mouth. Its plastic coating hiding the winning result was already scraped away. Why would anyone throw away a free dinner at – he squinted – oh, gods and little demons! Fabrine’s.

He’d figured on selling it. Some decent cash to be picked up that way. Enough for a bed in a lockable bunker and a few handrolls out of the vending creche.

But . . . Fabrine’s. Damn!

So he’d called in some favors. Favor’s he’d hoped to save. Favor’s he’d need, if he were ever down and out. More down and out.

And now he occupied a force bubble on the exclusive platform reserved for haute clientele in this purveyor of fine cuisine and deformity. The faint aroma of freshly squeezed lime tingled his nostrils, fighting the sandalwood of his borrowed aftershave. Lighting low enough for intimacy – if he’d brought a dining companion – but bright enough for security (the bodyguards stood outside the bubbles) soothed his eyes. Comfortably firm bolsters supported his back, cushioned the bench under his buttocks. If he were here for a meal – except he’d never come here to simply eat. Did anyone?

His stomach muttered. The murmur of conversation escaping the muffling force bubbles rumbled louder, then subsided.

There was a reason Fabrine’s had the reputation it did: looking for mutations and nightmares? – the haute called them dreams – they were here. Steven? He wanted – needed – an extra arm (with hand attached) smack in the middle of his forehead.

* * *What are your experiences with story openings? As writer or as reader. Do you have a favorite read that gripped you in spite of yourself? The Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold did that for me. Or does your favorite book have a quieter beginning?

Cover design, cover copy, and story openings are among the top influences in connecting readers with books. My Cover Design Primer presents basic concepts for creating a professional looking book cover. Eyes Glaze Over, Never! introduces the foundations of good cover copy. And my Cover Copy Primer provides more detailed how-to’s for cover text.

Dreaming the Star-drake

Posted on February 21, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

One line in Rainbow’s Lodestone inspired Star-drake.

“The star-dragons and the wind sprites, her usual companions, could not visit her here.”

I wanted to know more about the star-dragons and the wind spirits with whom the rainbow played. Surely they would have missed her while she sojourned on the mountain, shut away from her native sky.

It felt like a story awaited me within that notion.

My concept of a wind spirit came from a snippet in Raggedy Ann Stories by Johnny Gruelle. Two little girls – sisters – lose their rag doll at the beach. He is rescued by the Tide Fairies who pass him to the Undertow Fairies and then on to the Roller Fairies and the Spray Fairies. At last the Wind Fairies carry him home to the little girls’ garden. A wonderful illustration depicts beautiful sea spirits surfing the whitecaps and tossing Freddy (the rag doll) into the sky. My wind spirits resembled them, I felt sure.

But what was a star-dragon?

I settled myself to meditate on the question, hoping for an answer. These are my notes: star-dragons are creatures of darkness who dwell in the blackness between the stars. They are emptiness. Shadow. Nothingness. They are the terror of these things, and they are the potential within these things. Nothingness has space for beginnings and newness.

The star-dragon in my story takes a terrible vengeance. He seeks out evil, strips it down to nothing, and re-creates it transformed: a newborn star-drake, destined to seek evil and transform it.

The final stone of Star-drake‘s story foundation lay with the travelers who engaged the rainbow near the end of Rainbow’s Lodestone.

Who were they? Where did they come from? I thought some more.

Emrys, the “ice-man,” was brother to the king of Tuisil-land, a small island kingdom far to the north. Emrys journeyed because he mourned and hoped to ease his grief in roaming.

Haral came from the Hammarleeding enclaves in the Fiordhammar mountains. He’d extended his wanderyar (the year of travel that most Hammarleeding boys take when they turn sixteen or seventeen) to continue studying duoja (magic) under the unusual tutelage of a Tromme-man, Paavo.

Paavo’s discipline of energetic shamanism is completely different from the Hammarleeding duoja, and Haral is fascinated by it.

The moors west of the Tahdenfiall mountains form part of Paavo’s regular ambit. He travels from settlement to settlement, much like a circuit judge, but he brings healing and insight rather than justice.

Tor and Lilli – grandson and grandmother – hail from Silmaren’s lowlands. They stumbled upon a worrying clue in their home hamlet and set off to track it down. I won’t say more here, because I envision a full trilogy stemming from their adventure!

Tallis I know the least about, possibly because she holds the most to know. She’s a salver, a healer, and is connected to Tor’s and Lilli’s quest. Yet she has her own problem to explore and resolve, one that will likely require the entire middle book of that trilogy.

With these elements – the winds, the star-drake, and the travelers – I was ready to begin, to move from dreaming to writing.

“Láidir couldn’t find her anywhere.”

On the chance that my dreaming has inspired you to read Star-drake,
I provide the links for the ebook.

Amazon I B&N I Diesel I iTunes I Kobo I Smashwords I Sony

Gefnen hunts victory, but a darker victory hunts him.

For more about the writing experience, see:
Behind Troll-magic
Writing Sarvet
Writer’s Journey

Notes on Chance

Posted on January 24, 2013 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

It started with a vivid snippet: the vision of an old, abandoned quarry overgrown by brambles and the certainty that a troll was involved.

Next came the entrance of Clary, an eleven-year-old girl, and her sister Elspeth. For a while I thought Elspeth was named after her great grandmother Jennifry nish Roanmothe. But she wasn’t. She was Elspeth, no question.

The troll seemed to be both good and evil, which was confusing until I understood there were two trolls. Aha! And then I discovered that kinship existed between the little girls and the trolls. Time to draw a family tree. I needed to know just what that kinship was.

Calcinides Roanmothe family tree

Before I received my revelation about the troll sisters, another intense vision swept through my mind’s eye: the shabby, disordered front room of Clary’s cottage. Her parents were weary, so weary they were neglectful. What made them so? I didn’t know, but I jotted notes for what would become an early scene in my story: dining table cluttered with last night’s supper, cloth hanging askew.

There I stopped for two weeks, letting the story lie fallow while I devoted myself to publisher tasks. I believe I worked on the print edition for Troll-magic.

When I returned to Perilous Chance, the image of a pegasus took me by storm; it was coal-black and shining, and bursting from the egg. With wings, are pegasi born from eggs? Or, with equine bodies, are they birthed live from their mothers? The answer still awaits me, because Clary’s encounter with a fabulous beast does not feature a pegasus after all. The scene from a future story had arrived, not to be incorporated into this one, but to spark a necessary idea.

No, Clary’s creature was not a pegasus, but I knew what it might be. I did some research: king of the beasts, king of the birds, powerful and majestic, symbol of divine power, and guardian of the divine. Yes! (But I’m not telling here. Too much of a spoiler!)

Once I had these pieces – two girls, enervated parents, two trolls, and a miracle-bearing beast – my story fell into place. I made a rough outline and started writing.

In three places I faltered.

The first was the simplest. How did Clary’s father make a living? He did not possess inherited wealth. He worked with his hands, but he was more than a simple craftsman. He didn’t fashion “bramble furniture” as I’d initially believed. Nor was he a businessman, supplying city households with the products of craftsmen under his organization. What did he do? He worked with his hands, but made decent money from it and received considerable respect.

If I ask myself a question with enough variations, I usually get an answer. It turned out that Tiber was a sculptor, and a renowned one at that. He designed the fountain in the main square of Auberon’s capital city and sculpted the horses cavorting under its play of water. He regularly receives commissions from the Morofane himself.

That settled, I wrote on. And reached a point of resolution. Was this the end? Events were resolved, but it didn’t feel like the end. I sought a first reader’s opinion. Was it finished? No, it was not. But no wonder I wanted it to be. In order to write the proper denouement, I needed to comprehend the judicial system of Auberon better than I did.

I set to work, researching a bit, brainstorming more. And I figured out enough to go forward. The current Rofane ni Calcinides is Justicar of the Peace. Local disputes and crimes are handled under his purview. Several wardens and a secretary, appointed by the royal judiciary, work under his leadership.

Writing the validation was easy after that. I knew where to place emphasis – Clary’s experience – and where to glide lightly – the visit to Arteme’s manor. And then I was done.

Excepting one problem: my opening wasn’t quite right.

I studied the openings written by my favorite authors. Why were they so effective? What was their underlying structure?

All About Emily by Connie Willis supplied me with the structure that would work for Perilous Chance. In Emily, Willis begins with a paragraph describing the protagonist’s predicament from much later in the story. That was what I wanted! And I knew exactly what piece I would use. Now my tale truly was complete.

cover image for Perilous Chance She was eleven, and she was hurt. Her leg lay under her, knee throbbing. Her arm ached, the broken bone within sickening in its pain. But worst of all, worst of all, a vast shadow loomed above her, dark wings spanning distances too great for the grotto enclosing them, razor-sharp talons sparking with the spitting blue fire of a strange power.