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This may change. Just an excerpt from book 2 of The Civilization (2024)
““You know you’re not really here, right?”
Kadsa turned her eyes from the twin suns dipping behind the rolling hills of Mehronur’s meadow. Why would he say that? She sat right next to him.
"I am right here.”
Khansu squinted, boyishly beautiful against the setting suns. His small, full lips pouted. “You are beside me, but you’re not really here, Kadsa. We’re not together.”
Kadsa met his eyes, unease brewing. He waited for her to understand what he had told her. She glanced at his left hand, coiled into a fist on the grass. She should take it in hers, show him he was wrong. They were here together. Maybe, she thought instead, lean into him, put her head on his shoulders, and snuggle against him. Kadsa reached for his warm hands. His gentle smile revealed neat and even teeth.
Kadsa breathed again. He teased her. “Sure, I am not really here,” she said, winking at him. “I’m nowhere.”
“I am serious, Kadsa,” he said, squinting at the suns. “When they dip below the horizon, you’ll leave and so will I.”
Kadsa glanced towards the twin suns, partly buried already. There was some mythos about gods locked in a duel, or lovers trapped in an eternal dance, bound to each other by destiny. “If I am not here, why does this feel real?” Kadsa squeezed his hand, forcing his crimped fingers apart. “You feel real to me, Khansu. We’re here together.”
“You’re dreaming that you’re here and I am invading your dreams. It’s not real.”
“I want it to be real,” she said, yearning. “I want to be here with you.”
“You can be here with me,” he said, braiding their fingers. “You should come back to Mehronur. Come back to me. I need you.”
Khansu's face blended into the suns’ faded gleam, his words and every inch of him drifting out of reach, from her touch, her eyes.
Kadsa jolted from sleep. Her alarm clock chimed with a critter jingle she no longer cared for and had only selected because it reminded her of sleeping under the stars. She slammed her hand over the stop button, silencing the sound.
Then she sat upright in the tiny bedroom, the sound of screeching cars and voices outside the apartment, smacked in the middle of what her mother called, the mid-town, cozy, busy, and connected.
She hated it.
But she smiled. Today was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Today was the day she returned to Marut.
Kadsa turned her eyes from the twin suns dipping behind the rolling hills of Mehronur’s meadow. Why would he say that? She sat right next to him.
"I am right here.”
Khansu squinted, boyishly beautiful against the setting suns. His small, full lips pouted. “You are beside me, but you’re not really here, Kadsa. We’re not together.”
Kadsa met his eyes, unease brewing. He waited for her to understand what he had told her. She glanced at his left hand, coiled into a fist on the grass. She should take it in hers, show him he was wrong. They were here together. Maybe, she thought instead, lean into him, put her head on his shoulders, and snuggle against him. Kadsa reached for his warm hands. His gentle smile revealed neat and even teeth.
Kadsa breathed again. He teased her. “Sure, I am not really here,” she said, winking at him. “I’m nowhere.”
“I am serious, Kadsa,” he said, squinting at the suns. “When they dip below the horizon, you’ll leave and so will I.”
Kadsa glanced towards the twin suns, partly buried already. There was some mythos about gods locked in a duel, or lovers trapped in an eternal dance, bound to each other by destiny. “If I am not here, why does this feel real?” Kadsa squeezed his hand, forcing his crimped fingers apart. “You feel real to me, Khansu. We’re here together.”
“You’re dreaming that you’re here and I am invading your dreams. It’s not real.”
“I want it to be real,” she said, yearning. “I want to be here with you.”
“You can be here with me,” he said, braiding their fingers. “You should come back to Mehronur. Come back to me. I need you.”
Khansu's face blended into the suns’ faded gleam, his words and every inch of him drifting out of reach, from her touch, her eyes.
Kadsa jolted from sleep. Her alarm clock chimed with a critter jingle she no longer cared for and had only selected because it reminded her of sleeping under the stars. She slammed her hand over the stop button, silencing the sound.
Then she sat upright in the tiny bedroom, the sound of screeching cars and voices outside the apartment, smacked in the middle of what her mother called, the mid-town, cozy, busy, and connected.
She hated it.
But she smiled. Today was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Today was the day she returned to Marut.
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I am editing my Priestess novel. The story takes place in Edinburgh, but much of the lore is Irish from the Ulster Cycle. As much as it works, it is not the same. So, I'm reading Scottish lore proper. It doesn't have the same rich characters (the Dagda? Hello!), but I live with the horror or some Hibernian chastising me about confusing Scots and Irish lore (yes, I can explain a million times that I understand the differences or inject the kingdom of Dál Riata, and say I simply prefer the Irish lore, but wouldn't it make sense to simply show that in the work?
Ultimately, it's about respect, for the lore, the people, and the author.
Ultimately, it's about respect, for the lore, the people, and the author.
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These violent delights do have violent ends, and in their triumph die like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume.
And so begins my first venture into in-person book promotion.
All the hopes of a doe-eyed dreamer.
Come see the pretty books and buy the pretty books. You must love me. Grandeur of thoughts.
Most people who come out to social or community events are elders and parents with young kids, and many of these people know each other, and are there to socialize.
So, I sat there waiting for the moment the cool kids notice me. All the cool kids are teenagers who are volunteers. I'm terrified of them, but eventually handed out business cards with bated breath.
In the end, I was a voyeur to the delight of others, watching the joy of others talk about their work and hoping someone would notice me.
I didn't sell that day. I have more days. More disappointment or new triumphs?
February is the shortest month. Promises to keep and miles to go before I weep.
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Riker Walks Into the Holodeck
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Critique groups. sigh. These are hard. Your writing/characters are your babies. Hearing others criticize them can be tough.
More than that. It's the type of the criticism that can hit hard. You can give feedback about prose, long, short, dense sentences, or weak verb usage, sure, but when you criticize the essence of the story or who the protagonist is/represents then that becomes a sore issue.
Lately, I have been dealing with criticism that a character from a story I will dub, P isn't likeable. The protagonist is an ailing woman suffering from an unknown illness who's being given the runaround, and who expresses her frustration with this frequently. I have been told she's not sympathetic. She has demonstrated no BAD behavior, with the exception of snapping at her landlady, a woman who says racially insensitive things--and apparently this makes her not likeable or bitchy.
First, let me say that writing black characters, especially black women, is hard. I don't want to write a *strong black woman, angry black woman, or victim. I also don't want to write a character deemed unworthy of sympathy/love. I have received criticism that this character is one, if not all of these.
I have been quite diplomatic about the criticism, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt about their objectivity, even while pushing to know what exactly about this character makes her unsympathetic and unlikeable.
The responses have been --a) she's snappy with the landlady/bitchy, b) we don't know who she is/she's not relatable, c)she's stupid/incompetent.
Part of me cannot help feel that the repeated criticism that this character isn't likeable has much to do with the difficulty society in general has with sympathizing with black women. That said, I am reluctant to make her a sad victim, since society, and the literary world in particular, thrive on black victimhood. I don't want her to be Patsey from 12 Years A Slave, which I often feel is the only type of black women character deemed sympathetic. I don't want to exploit black trauma.
I mainly write characters put upon by the world they live in (in other words, true to life black people). I write characters who grow into who they are and take what's thrust upon them and turn it into magic and strength.
Another bizarre criticism I received was that I have dehumanized my lead character, making her into a magical non-human--a magic negro. The Magic Negro is a character used in fiction to help alleviate the conflicts and elevate the status of the white protagonist, going so far as to die for the white leads.
This character is set up that way but the moral of the story is that she won't any longer die for anyone's causes. My goal for this particular character is to have her turn her would-be victimhood/magical status into strength and power to help herself. In other words, subvert the plot.
More than that. It's the type of the criticism that can hit hard. You can give feedback about prose, long, short, dense sentences, or weak verb usage, sure, but when you criticize the essence of the story or who the protagonist is/represents then that becomes a sore issue.
Lately, I have been dealing with criticism that a character from a story I will dub, P isn't likeable. The protagonist is an ailing woman suffering from an unknown illness who's being given the runaround, and who expresses her frustration with this frequently. I have been told she's not sympathetic. She has demonstrated no BAD behavior, with the exception of snapping at her landlady, a woman who says racially insensitive things--and apparently this makes her not likeable or bitchy.
First, let me say that writing black characters, especially black women, is hard. I don't want to write a *strong black woman, angry black woman, or victim. I also don't want to write a character deemed unworthy of sympathy/love. I have received criticism that this character is one, if not all of these.
I have been quite diplomatic about the criticism, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt about their objectivity, even while pushing to know what exactly about this character makes her unsympathetic and unlikeable.
The responses have been --a) she's snappy with the landlady/bitchy, b) we don't know who she is/she's not relatable, c)she's stupid/incompetent.
Part of me cannot help feel that the repeated criticism that this character isn't likeable has much to do with the difficulty society in general has with sympathizing with black women. That said, I am reluctant to make her a sad victim, since society, and the literary world in particular, thrive on black victimhood. I don't want her to be Patsey from 12 Years A Slave, which I often feel is the only type of black women character deemed sympathetic. I don't want to exploit black trauma.
I mainly write characters put upon by the world they live in (in other words, true to life black people). I write characters who grow into who they are and take what's thrust upon them and turn it into magic and strength.
Another bizarre criticism I received was that I have dehumanized my lead character, making her into a magical non-human--a magic negro. The Magic Negro is a character used in fiction to help alleviate the conflicts and elevate the status of the white protagonist, going so far as to die for the white leads.
This character is set up that way but the moral of the story is that she won't any longer die for anyone's causes. My goal for this particular character is to have her turn her would-be victimhood/magical status into strength and power to help herself. In other words, subvert the plot.
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The painful irony of "having time. Remember when you would say, if only I had time, I'd do this and that? Looks like it's not time that keeps us back, after all.
Lethargy, tiredness from little or no physical exertion, or just plain fatigue.
My brain's active--ideas are constantly forming, and I am forever excited by them, and yet, now stuck at home, with more of my day to myself, I am unable to do a thing about all these ideas driving me insane.
How about them apples?
I haven't read a book since January. That hasn't stopped me from making booklists, and borrowing digitally from the public library, even putting physical books on loan; but I never get around to reading them. The most I can suffice these days is browsing reference books and encyclopedias, and even those are barely explored.
Once upon a time, I had this plan that should I get more of my days to myself, I'd become a kitchen witch--I even bought all the herbal and plant books, all the books about health juices and growing a witch's garden. And two months of working from home, I have yet to lift a finger toward doing what I have always wanted to do.
Do I get an A for thinking and planning all the same?
I still have plans for that backyard garden and with warmer weather hopefully comes more physical efforts.
Maybe my problem has always been overthinking and worrying. The period between end of April and end of May represents a strange month for me. My birthday brings life worries, mother's day and my mother's birthday brings even more worries and sad reflections. Covid-19 hasn't helped. Like many people I am worried about employment, a job I need but don't want.
I worry about paying bills, and with a new home, I have lots of them.
That might ultimately be the problem. Yes, I have more time but I still have worries that stalk my waking hours and night. I suffer from anxiety and all these things weigh on me, draining my energy.
So it's not time, or the absence of that is the culprit of why I cannot live a personally fulfilling life, but rather, worries that lead to wasted energy. And it's a cycle.
Lethargy, tiredness from little or no physical exertion, or just plain fatigue.
My brain's active--ideas are constantly forming, and I am forever excited by them, and yet, now stuck at home, with more of my day to myself, I am unable to do a thing about all these ideas driving me insane.
How about them apples?
I haven't read a book since January. That hasn't stopped me from making booklists, and borrowing digitally from the public library, even putting physical books on loan; but I never get around to reading them. The most I can suffice these days is browsing reference books and encyclopedias, and even those are barely explored.
Once upon a time, I had this plan that should I get more of my days to myself, I'd become a kitchen witch--I even bought all the herbal and plant books, all the books about health juices and growing a witch's garden. And two months of working from home, I have yet to lift a finger toward doing what I have always wanted to do.
Do I get an A for thinking and planning all the same?
I still have plans for that backyard garden and with warmer weather hopefully comes more physical efforts.
Maybe my problem has always been overthinking and worrying. The period between end of April and end of May represents a strange month for me. My birthday brings life worries, mother's day and my mother's birthday brings even more worries and sad reflections. Covid-19 hasn't helped. Like many people I am worried about employment, a job I need but don't want.
I worry about paying bills, and with a new home, I have lots of them.
That might ultimately be the problem. Yes, I have more time but I still have worries that stalk my waking hours and night. I suffer from anxiety and all these things weigh on me, draining my energy.
So it's not time, or the absence of that is the culprit of why I cannot live a personally fulfilling life, but rather, worries that lead to wasted energy. And it's a cycle.
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What's worse than writer's block?
To quote Bob Dylan--"I have a head full of ideas that are driving me insane."
I know that saying --"if there's a story you want told, then write it," and I have been trying to live by this rule. I like to think of concepts/ideas for stories before I attempt to write them. What's been driving me mad is that I can generate so many "fascinating" storytelling ideas and then draw blank when I sit down to write them.
What's wrong with me and how to fix it?
I have expressed on this blog before that I have little confidence in my execution of ideas (storytelling). I recently tweeted that storytelling is more important than writing; in actuality, an author should aim for both--the best writers know how to do both. Storytelling is more about big ideas-- mindbogglingly reveals, twists, and truths that leave the reader in awe, thinking about the story long after they've finished the book. Writing/being a writer is about structuring and presenting those intricacies of storytelling.
I am a "big ideas" writer, but I drive myself mad trying to figure out how to present those ideas in a logical, compelling and utter engrossing way. Plotting is hard. Timing is hard. Lately, I have been drawn to the free indirect discourse style--the literary narrative. I think of this style as a ramble inside a person's head.
Perhaps my attachment to this style is that it feels authentic--my head is a messy place of ideas and rambles.
But, here comes all the doubts of whether I can do this properly for my next manuscript, which I shall hereby dub, Anac.
Cheers to the new year 2020,
and something me and my mommy can be proud of.
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Been having an epistemological writing crisis lately. I want to quit writing, not because I have run out of ideas, or don't even like it, but because I feel what I have been working on do not have meaning/purpose and isn't good enough.
I want to write stories that make people think and feel. Stories that are effortless in their execution of concepts, ideals and plot.
I have been feeling as if I am not good or intelligent enough of a writer to bring life to the type of stories I care for.
I know that Toni Morrison quote about writing the story you want to read, but what if I am not equipped to do so. 😒😕
I want to write stories that make people think and feel. Stories that are effortless in their execution of concepts, ideals and plot.
I have been feeling as if I am not good or intelligent enough of a writer to bring life to the type of stories I care for.
I know that Toni Morrison quote about writing the story you want to read, but what if I am not equipped to do so. 😒😕
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Yes, that's a bird named Blanks sitting on my computer. And yes, he's real. #invasionofpersonalspace
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I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it. Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it. Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.