Silence. Yes, I know, not very inspiring, but I get distracted easily by noise. Oh, and tea. I get distracted easily without tea.
Like most authors, I have a lot of ideas. They float around, get bits of dialogue, vague plots, and rough outlines of characters attached. Eventually, one of them sticks, things get less vague, an entire scene is suddenly fully realized, and I get excited about it. That’s the next book I write. I figure if it doesn’t interest me, it won’t interest readers. (Sometimes that scene is too on the nose to make it into the final edition, so the contents are spread out over several scenes.)
Now, if you’re talking short stories… I write what someone’s willing to pay me for.
We go out to dinner, and then I clean my office. Okay, that’s less of a celebration than a necessity at that point, but tossing accumulated debris and scrubbing what’s left allows me to come into the new book fresh.
When I think about actually living in one of my books or series my first reaction is, oh dear lord no. My body count is way too high.
I love all my children equally. Yes, I know, cop-out. The thing is, most of my books ride along at about the same level of popularity. They don’t make the NYT best seller list (although they have made the Globe and Mail’s long list), nor do they sink without a trace. I’m very lucky that DAW Books, my publisher for the last 32 years, is still willing to set aside the bottom line and give books a chance to find their audience.
I’ve been working on a stand alone, created world, quest fantasy for the last… wow, two and half years. I think. I’ve kind of lost track of time. It’s a book with multiple POVs, a landscape that’s practically another character, two interlaced story lines happening 63 years apart, and an emotional arc that ties the whole thing together. Oh, and a high body count.
It’s complicated, but it isn’t the book’s fault I’ve taken so long. Even before the dumpster fire of 2020, my brain kind of dribbled out my ears. It seems to have finally returned, but I’m typing with my fingers crossed.
Because I so irrevocably missed my deadline, it won’t have a release date until I finish it and then, because of the way modern publishing works, it’s likely to be out a year or two after that.
“Do you know who I am?” Ryan yelled up at the two archers on the battlements. “Do you?”
“Said you were the Heir of Marsan,” replied the taller. She turned and added something quietly to her companion, who laughed.
Ryan stiffened in the saddle, and his horse stepped back two paces, dark ears flat. Forcing himself to relax before Slate scaled up his objection, he scratched at a dapple grey shoulder and reminded himself he was used to laughter. First from his brothers, then while trying to replace his brothers. But these people were laughing at the Heir of Marsan. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
“It’s like they’re not glad to see us.” Keetin moved Thorn, his gelding, in close enough for the two horses to bump haunches, the contact calming Slate so he stopped shifting in place.
“I don’t care how they feel about us,” Ryan muttered. “I just want them to open the flaming gate.”
The gate should have been opened to the Heir of Marsan.
The gate remained closed.
He lifted his chin and met the archer’s gaze. “How long do we wait?”
She glanced to the west and shrugged. “B’in fore dark.”
The sun showed red between the trees. Daylight lingered in midsummer, especially this far north, but dusk had crept closer than expected.
“Before duck?” Keetin muttered. “What’s duck got to do with it?”
“Dark.”
“No, she said duck.”
The local accent made shared words sound like another language. Ryan dragged the reins across Slate’s neck, wheeled the horse around to the left, and charged back toward the wagon. Slate complained about the sudden start and stop by bucking before he settled, but it was a perfunctory protest at best.
When he became Lord Protector, he’d expand his influence north. Gateway had been a traders’ town, according to the Captain’s Chronicle, a point of contact between the mages and the greater world, with scholars and artisans and merchants gathered together to create a city of unparalleled beauty and advancements. Most of The Five Thousand who went south with Captain Marsan were from Gateway, the survivors of the Mage War who’d had brains enough to realize they couldn’t live in the wreckage.
Those who’d stayed behind, like the ancestors of the archer, had been too stupid to realize their lives had irrevocably changed. And they’d clearly bred that stupidity into their descendants.
(if the whole thing is too long, you can break it here)
Slate danced sideways. Ryan forced himself to relax.
Lyelee was standing when he reached the wagon, ready to dismount. He’d gotten used to seeing her in regular clothes, but when they’d stopped that afternoon both Scholars had put on full regalia. Robes. Stoles. Even the ridiculous flat hats. She was no longer family — the two of them closest in age among the cousins so expected to get along in spite of differences — she was a Scholar Noviciate.
The Scholars answered only to the Lord Protector.
They did not answer to the Heir.
Although in order for the Lord Protector to grant them permission to study the Broken Lands, they’d had to agree the Heir would have the final word.
Ryan hadn’t yet had to test the strength of the agreement. “Lyelee…” He paused as her brows rose and she twitched a fold out of her robe. “Scholar Noviciate, please remain in the wagon.”
“Why?”
He glanced at the sky. “Because we need to be ready to move when they open the gate.”
“How long do you think it takes me to get back into the wagon?” she demanded.
Scholars never asked rhetorical questions. Over the last twenty-eight days of travel the non-scholars had learned that nine out of ten times, ignorance could be masked with a return question. “Do you want to have to scramble back on board when the gate opens? With that lot watching?”
Head tipped back to lift the angle of her hat, she glanced past him, up at the archers, and he hoped the need to show a united front to the unknown — she was significantly more politically aware than he was — would outweigh a Scholar’s need to be right every, single time. He breathed a sigh of relief when she sat.
And demanded, “So what are we waiting for?”
“Possibly a duck.” Keetin reinserted himself at Ryan’s side.
Lyelee glanced between them, frown deepening. “A duck?”
“A sacrifice perhaps,” Scholar Gearing suggested from the other side of the wagon seat, straightening out of his forward curl. “Some primitive peoples read entrails…”
“There’s no duck!” Ryan snapped.
“Do you know who I am?” Ryan yelled up at the two archers on the battlements. “Do you?”
“Said you were the Heir of Marsan,” replied the taller. She turned and added something quietly to her companion, who laughed.
Ryan stiffened in the saddle, and his horse stepped back two paces, dark ears flat. Forcing himself to relax before Slate scaled up his objection, he scratched at a dapple grey shoulder and reminded himself he was used to laughter. First from his brothers, then while trying to replace his brothers. But these people were laughing at the Heir of Marsan. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
“It’s like they’re not glad to see us.” Keetin moved Thorn, his gelding, in close enough for the two horses to bump haunches, the contact calming Slate so he stopped shifting in place.
“I don’t care how they feel about us,” Ryan muttered. “I just want them to open the flaming gate.”
The gate should have been opened to the Heir of Marsan.
The gate remained closed.
He lifted his chin and met the archer’s gaze. “How long do we wait?”
She glanced to the west and shrugged. “B’in fore dark.”
The sun showed red between the trees. Daylight lingered in midsummer, especially this far north, but dusk had crept closer than expected.
“Before duck?” Keetin muttered. “What’s duck got to do with it?”
“Dark.”
“No, she said duck.”
The local accent made shared words sound like another language. Ryan dragged the reins across Slate’s neck, wheeled the horse around to the left, and charged back toward the wagon. Slate complained about the sudden start and stop by bucking before he settled, but it was a perfunctory protest at best.
When he became Lord Protector, he’d expand his influence north. Gateway had been a traders’ town, according the Captain’s Chronicle, a point of contact between the mages and the greater world, with scholars and artisans and merchants gathered together to create a city of unparalleled beauty and advancements. Most of The Five Thousand who went south with Captain Marsan were from Gateway, the survivors of the Mage War who’d had brains enough to realize they couldn’t live in the wreckage.
Those who’d stayed behind, like the ancestors of the archer, had been too stupid to realize their lives had irrevocably changed. And they’d clearly bred that stupidity into their descendants.
Slate danced sideways. Ryan forced himself to relax.
Lyelee was standing when he reached the wagon, ready to dismount. He’d gotten used to seeing her in regular clothes, but when they’d stopped that afternoon both Scholars had put on full regalia. Robes. Stoles. Even the ridiculous flat hats. She was no longer family — the two of them closest in age among the cousins so expected to get along in spite of differences — she was a Scholar Noviciate.
The Scholars answered only to the Lord Protector.
They did not answer to the Heir.
Although in order for the Lord Protector to grant them permission to study the Broken Lands, they’d had to agree the Heir would have the final word.
Ryan hadn’t yet had to test the strength of the agreement. “Lyelee…” He paused as her brows rose and she twitched a fold out of her robe. “Scholar Noviciate, please remain in the wagon.”
“Why?”
He glanced at the sky. “Because we need to be ready to move when they open the gate.”
“How long do you think it takes me to get back into the wagon?” she demanded.
Scholars never asked rhetorical questions. Over the last twenty-eight days of travel the non-scholars had learned that nine out of ten times, ignorance could be masked with a return question. “Do you want to have to scramble back on board when the gate opens? With that lot watching?”
Head tipped back to lift the angle of her hat, she glanced past him, up at the archers, and he hoped the need to show a united front to the unknown — she was significantly more politically aware than he was — would outweigh a Scholar’s need to be right every, single time. He breathed a sigh of relief when she sat.
And demanded, “So what are we waiting for?”
“Possibly a duck.” Keetin reinserted himself at Ryan’s side.
Lyelee glanced between them, frown deepening. “A duck?”
“A sacrifice perhaps,” Scholar Gearing suggested from the other side of the wagon seat, straightening out of his forward curl. “Some primitive peoples read entrails…”
“There’s no duck!” Ryan snapped.
