Writing book revew: Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey

Title: Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey
Author: Chuck Wendig
Publisher: Terribleminds, 2011. 338 pages.
Source: Purchased

Summary: 
This collection of 50+ essays covers many aspects of writing and the writing life, from why you should never be a writer, to why being a writer is amazing, to how to edit the living daylights out of your MS. It is profane, exaggerated, and totally inspiring.

My Review:
I guess I gave it away with the last sentence of the summary: the book is motivating. I didn't think every essay in the book was inspiring or fit me and my situation, but in general, when Wendig starts talking about writing, I have to listen--and usually to laugh before I get down to thinking seriously about what applies and how it matters.

This book is one of a set of 8 e-books on writing, collections of essays posted on Chuck Wendig's blog, Terribleminds.com, over the years. Many in this book were written when he was just starting out, not as a writer (he clearly had been doing that for many years), but as a novelist. He added some updates to the essays, in a few cases changing things to reflect what he's learned since, or adding bits of advice he left out. The result is about what you'd expect: unlike his traditionally published writing book, The Kick-Ass Writer (see review), the book is a bit rough and uneven. The advice is still good, and if you enjoy his style, will get you moving.

My biggest complaint is that I'd rather have the books on paper. I need to mark useful bits, and dog-ear pages, write my own notes, and all the things that you can only *sort of* do with an ebook.

Recommendation:
Chuck Wendig isn't for everyone. He's foul-mouthed, in an imaginative and exuberant way that you will either enjoy or possibly hate, but is hard to ignore (sometimes he makes me squirm. Mostly, I am merely in awe that anyone can come up with that many ways to cuss). If that sort of thing bothers you, don't go here (or to his blog). If you can live with the language, though, the advice is (as far as I can tell) generally sound, and usually helps me to sit down and get to work. 

 

###

Full Disclosure: I purchased Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey with my own hard-earned money, and received nothing from the writer or publisher in exchange for my honest review.  The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising." 

Writer's Musings: Why I Write

This week, instead of a flash fiction challenge, Chuck Wendig asked us all to write a 1000-word essay on why we write. I didn't count the words, but I'm pretty sure I'm under the line.

Why I Write

My initial reaction to this question was to ask why I even need to ask it. I write because that's who I am. What I do. What more is there to say?

But of course there is a lot more to say. If it's purely a matter of identity, how do I explain the years and years when I wrote almost nothing--taking nearly 15 years to draft an 80,000-word mystery?* So even though I have always thought of myself as a writer, always wanted to write books, and began almost as soon as I could hold a pencil, there must be a reason why I write now.

What I'm looking for is the reason why at this time in my life, I'm writing nearly daily (okay, I admit that it's not always on my books, and this summer has been a mess and I've really not written anything like daily, but it is a generally true statement). In large part, it still comes back down to the urge to write that's been there all along. About five years ago, that urge found a new outlet, and I began writing a lot more often, composing the stories that made up The Ninja Librarian, and sharing them with my co-workers at the library.

I think that might be at the root of why I kept writing more and more, instead of losing track of the project for months and years at a time, as I did with earlier books: I had found an audience. I had found an audience, moreover, that loved my work. The librarian after whom I modeled the Ninja Librarian was delighted to keep featuring in new stories. My other fellow library-minions laughed at the stories (in the right way) and asked for more.

There was another thing that happened about that time, that wasn't me, but had a lot to do with me continuing to write: the self-publishing world experienced a giant shift, from Vanity Press to genuine self-publishing, in a way that took a lot of the stigma and most of the expense out of the DIY approach. And I'd had enough of rejection slips (during those years when I say I mostly wasn't writing, I actually produced and shopped around two adult mysteries and a children's book, and collected the usual pile of [mostly well-deserved] rejections).

When I looked at The Ninja Librarian, I saw that it was good. I also saw that it was a bit stuck between audiences, if not between genres. And I didn't feel like spending the time to put it out there and let the agents tell me that. I wanted to share the book wherever I could. So I did it myself.

That led to the other reason I write, and write pretty regularly (most of the time now I have a fair bit of discipline about it). Because when I had put that book out there, and shared it in my community, and read bits of it to school children who bought copies, I started hearing the questions authors love: "When is the next book coming out?"*** There is nothing like someone eagerly awaiting your work to make you want to sit down and get to it. Especially when that someone is a kid, looking up at you with big eyes, asking for your next book.

So, ultimately, that's why I write: because I did it once, and now there are people who want more.**** And that feeds my ego, but it also tells me I'm doing something right. It tells me that yeah, I'm a writer. And that's pretty danged cool. That's why I write.



*Okay, there's that little matter of getting my PhD, getting married, and having two kids in that period, too. For quite a few years after high school, I was just too busy. Not too busy to write--I think I know now that a person can always find the time to write at least a little, if they want to. I was too busy to feel the urge to write.**

**I was also busy having my ability to write readable prose beaten out of me by the necessity of learning to write academic prose. It took me years to get over that.

***Note that this is very close to the question authors hate, "Are you writing anything now?" If one is a writer, one is of course working on something now. And if by any chance one isn't (writers block or life interferes, or something), one really doesn't want to be reminded. But "when is the next book due?" is a totally flattering question that feeds our pathetic authorial egos and soothes the ravenous insecurity-monster.

****Not enough to make me rich, but enough to keep me in coffee. That's worth something, right?

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2015

YA Review: Under the Empyrean Sky, by Chuck Wendig

I've been following Chuck Wendig's blog for a long time now, gleaning writerly wisdom and writing prompts for my flash fiction. I've read and enjoyed (and written about) his writing book, The Kick-Ass Writer. Now I've read the first book in his dystopian Young Adult Heartland Trilogy.

Title: Under the Empyrean Sky (Heartland Trilogy #1)
Author: Chuck Wendig
Publisher: Skyscape, 2013. 354 pages.
Source: I think I picked this one up on a free or cheap day at Amazon.

Publisher's Summary:
Corn is king in the Heartland, and Cael McAvoy has had enough of it. It’s the only crop the Empyrean government allows the people of the Heartland to grow — and the genetically modified strain is so aggressive that it takes everything the Heartlanders have just to control it. As captain of the Big Sky Scavengers, Cael and his crew sail their rickety ship over the corn day after day, scavenging for valuables, trying to earn much-needed ace notes for their families. But Cael’s tired of surviving life on the ground while the Empyrean elite drift by above in their extravagant sky flotillas. He’s sick of the mayor’s son besting Cael’s crew in the scavenging game. And he’s worried about losing Gwennie — his first mate and the love of his life — forever when their government-chosen spouses are revealed. But most of all, Cael is angry — angry that their lot in life will never get better and that his father doesn’t seem upset about any of it. Cael’s ready to make his own luck . . . even if it means bringing down the wrath of the Empyrean elite and changing life in the Heartland forever.

My Review: 
As my regular readers know, I don't do a lot of YA books, and one reason is that they are often more violent and dystopian than I like. In many ways, that was true of Under the Empyrean Sky. But it's also a very well-written book.

Here's what I liked: it's a complex story with plot twists I never saw coming (as well as some I did). Teen angst was minimal, because these teens have real nasty lives to deal with. There is a realistic conflict, or at least tension, between Cael and his father. 

What I disliked: This is dark! The Heartland sucks. And there is a lot of violence in the book. Obviously, none of these things is necessarily bad. They just aren't to my taste so much. A more significant criticism is that, as with so many YA novels, a lot of stuff goes wrong because the adults and teens aren't talking to each other. This may be realistic in some ways, but I think those parents need some lessons in parenting, the way they hide stuff from nearly-grown kids, stuff the kids really need to know!

What intrigued me, and will probably make me read on: There's a lot still to learn about this world Wendig has created. I want to know more about it and how it works--especially what's out beyond the Heartland? I do find that I'm almost more interested in that than in the characters, which is not so good.

Summary:
This is definitely a book for older teens. But I think a lot of older teens will really like it, especially those who are sick of vampires and moony females.

Full Disclosure: I purchased Under the Empyrean Sky, and received nothing from the writer or publisher in exchange for my honest review.  The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Tucson Festival of Books!

I wore myself out today at the Tucson Festival of Books (that's Tucson, Arizona, in case there's another one somewhere out there).  I absorbed great blogging advice from Chuck Wendig, who is responsible for so many of the flash fiction challenges I write to, and heard a great talk on the effects of World War I on society, particularly British society. That one featured two of my favorite mystery writers, Jacqueline Winspeare and Rhys Bowen, both of whom have mystery series set in that period.

And I spent two hours in the Children's Author Tent selling and signing books.

 

Yeah, that young man is carrying a parasol.  I wished I'd had one!  Tucson in March is no place for a fair-skinned redhead from San Francisco.

 

 

I brought my Mom with me for moral support, and a good friend from back in our school days to help out (SHE is actually good at marketing and reaching out to people.  My sales were not brisk, but I'm pretty sure most of what I did sell was due to her!  Thanks, Laura!).

 

I'll go back tomorrow for more author talks and workshops.  Then we'll go for a hike.



Progressive Book Club: Back at last!

Our Progressive Book Club has been on hiatus since summer while our fearless leader, M. L. Swift, dealt with life.  Now we're back, with a new format!


I have chosen to continue to use the PBC as a place to talk about writing books, and this month I'm featuring the book I'm currently reading (I"m not done with it, and indeed it's the sort of book you mark and return to while writing and editing).  With a warning that this one's for the adult writers, I present:
The Kick-Ass Writer: 1001 Ways to Write Great Fiction, Get Published, and Earn Your Audience, by Chuck Wendig.
Published by Writers Digest books, 2013.  278 pages.

Note: this is a discussion, not a review.  I may review the book when I finish it, but for now, I'm just going to talk about it.  Though that may be a distinction without a difference.

Half instruction manual and half inspiration, the book follows Wendig's famous (well, to those of us who follow his blog) model of lists of 25.  There are 32 lists of 25 things you should know about different aspects of writing, which by the way is only 800 tips, plus one in the intro.  I am not sure if there are another 200 tips in the Coda, or if Wendig cheated us.  I'll be taking that up with him.

Wendig divides the book into three larger parts: The Fundamentals, The Craft, and Publishing & Earning Your Audience.   I've been working my way through the first two, reading bits, marking them, and running back to my MS to put them into action.  I'm going to give you a few of my favorite bits, sort of randomly and with my own comments when I feel like it (reading Wendig can cause randomness.  Also potty-mouth).

Quit quitting.  That one doesn't need any discussion.  As he says elsewhere, writers write.

Nobody sees themselves as a supporting character.  I liked this, because it was a reminder that even the minor characters are still people.  Keep in mind that they have a story and a life, even when it doesn't enter into the story you're telling.  Keeping this in mind might help me make all my characters more real.

The worst crime you can commit is to create a boring protagonist.   Wendig follows that one up a few paragraphs later with, "I don't care if he's a ninja, a lawyer, a detective, a doctor, a boat captain, or Captain Doctor Detective Stormshadow, Esquire--I want to know he is in some way capable."  Then he reminds us that "capable" and even "remarkable" aren't the same as "perfect."  Okay, I especially like this one because I suddenly really want to write a story about Captain Doctor Detective Stormshadow, Esquire.

And a final bit, that makes a lot of sense to me where I am in my editing right now, about scenes:
Every scene's existence must be justified.

On the one hand, this list approach (each header gets one 5-10 line paragraph to explicate it) is limited.  But for me, quite frankly, that's part of what makes it work.  Little, highly concentrated, bits of advice that I can take in and cope with and mark and come back to.  I have a short attention span these days.  Or a limited memory. Whatever; it works for me.

Oh, and the thing's funny.  I keep reading bits to my boys, just because I want to share the laugh.

Is that a review after all?  I can't do that!  I haven't finished the book!

###
Just in case this really was a review:
Full Disclosure: I purchased The Kick-Ass Writer at my own expense, and received nothing from the writer or publisher in exchange for my honest review.  The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Flash Fiction--40%

As you may have already noticed, my blog schedule is a bit messed up this week.  It's going to stay that way, as I will be attending a conference this weekend (not writing; California School Boards Association, where I will contemplate education issues until my brain explodes).  So I'm writing and scheduling as well as I can for the time I'll be gone.  Anyway, I already missed Monday. 

 ###

Last week I threw out 200 words for the newest Chuck Wendig challenge, the serial story written in five segments by five different authors.  Round Two links here.

My story, posted last Tuesday, was continued by Hana Frank AND by Connie Cockrell.  I will try to keep tracking developments on the story.  And on each that I continue.  This is going to get complicated.

This week, I picked my story for the second part, and wrote the next 200 words.  So, as of now, we have 400 words of a story.  Next week, I'll snag yet another story and write part three.

This week's story was started by The Urban Spaceman


Here's his beginning:

Joe’s Bar

“Buy me a drink,” he said, bloodshot eyes meeting mine from further down the bar, “and I’ll tell you how I broke the world.”


I gave a snort, took a long swig of my G&T, and turned my attention back to the game being shown on Joe’s decrepit TV.


“Go on,” he insisted, in a voice ravaged by years of strong alcohol. “It’ll be worth it.”

Glancing around, I looked for help, but none of the other patrons of the grotty bar were paying attention to me being pestered by the old loon, and the bartender was very focused on cleaning a glass. The old man’s eyes bored into me from beneath his dirty mop of hair, and in the dim light of Joe’s Bar I saw the dark red stains on his grey trench coat.

“Alright.” The game was dull anyway. “What’s your poison?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”


I nodded at the barkeep, and the old man watched hungrily as the amber nectar was poured.

 “Go on then,” I prompted him. “Tell me how you broke the world.”


 He took a sip of his drink, gave a happy sigh, and looked up at me with those bloodshot eyes.
  “It all started in 1939…”


And now, my continuation:

Nineteen thirty-nine?  That was an obvious place for a claim like his.  “So you were responsible for Hitler?” I guessed, humoring the old man.  He might have been alive in 1939, but he certainly wasn’t old enough at the outset of WWII to have played a significant role.  To have broken the world.

“Not exactly.”  His voice was still coarse, but now seemed somehow stronger.  “I was Hitler.”

I laughed.  “Yeah, you look it, Old Man.  Tell me another.  You were Mussolini, too, right?”

He wasn’t laughing.  “Yes.  And Stalin.  They were all aspects of me, and because of my incompetence millions suffered and died.”

I sighed, and bought him another drink.  The first one had sort of evaporated, and I wanted to hear what kind of story he’d spin.  The game really was dull as dishwater, and this lunatic at least had some imagination, unlike the coaches, who kept trying the same failed moves.

 His voice was much clearer now, the ravaging effects of the whiskey fading as he began to tell his story.

“I thought it would be for the best.  I started with Stalin, when Russia needed a strong leader.  Times really were bad, you know.”

###

Note: Part Three is now available here.  But that's beyond my control :)

And now for something completely different. . . .

Wendig Challenge: the first 200 words

I'm not posting this one as my Friday Flash Fiction (or maybe I am), because with the holiday I may or may not make it to Friday.  The Wendig Challenge from here to the end of the year is to write a story, 200 words at a time.  Naturally, to keep us on our toes, we have to keep rotating--writing the next 200 words on a different story each week.

My offering for this week is

Millions of Cats

Things never worked out according to plan when there were cats involved.  I knew that, and I should have known better than to take the job.  Either don’t try to plan or stay far from cats, and I knew which would have been better for me.  But Keelan made it all sound so easy: we just had to pick up the consignment from Alpha-Centauri 4 and take them to Exilion 17.  Four days, max, and two of them in hyperspace.

“What could go wrong?”  I should really have run when Keelan said that, because you know as well as I do that anytime those words are uttered you should run, very fast, in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, we needed cash, and the cat people had it.  So we went and picked up the load of cats.

That was where the trouble first began.  They were supposed to be crated, sedated, and ready to be picked up by fork lift and stowed in the cargo hold.  But when we arrived, a team of cat-wranglers was still chasing them around a pen.  We had to wait an extra three days for all of them to be properly prepared for flight.


####
This has been continued in at least two directions.  Here's part two and part three of one of those continuations.

And here's part four. And part five.

Flash Fiction Friday

(Warning: probably nothing in today's blog is meant for kids). 

Okay, I had two possible writing challenges here, and I really am not going anywhere with the "somethingpunk" challenge from Chuck Wendig (others are, so check it out).  I'll see if I can get back to that later.

Meanwhile, I had this challenge from Scott Roche: write 250-750 words of fiction on corn, and enter a drawing to win an e-copy of Wendig's latest book, an intriguing dystopian YA bit of cornpunk (which brings us back to Wendig's challenge).  This one worked out better, maybe because with the nice, low wordcount, I didn't get all wiggy about not having a plot (the other story has a -punk, i.e. a wonky source of power for the dystopia; it just doesn't have a story yet).

And here's the cool part: Scott needs a few more stories before he'll even do the drawing, so YOU can write something and enter too!  By the way, Scott is the author of Ginnie Dare: Crimson Sands, which I reviewed way back sometime.  Check it out.

Without further ado: 

Death by Corn

It seemed innocuous at first, even sweet.  A sick child who languished in an inner-city hospital longed for just one more taste of the sweet corn he’d once sampled at his Aunt Julia’s house in a little town somewhere.  His family was poor.  It was the only time he’d been outside the city, probably the only time he’d tasted corn, except in the form of high-fructose corn syrup.

And now it was too late.  The aunt was dead, and, totally dependent on the machines at the hospital, the boy would never leave the city, never see another cornfield.

Somehow, an elderly couple from somewhere we might as well call Cornville learned of his story.  They appeared at the hospital one afternoon, disheveled and terrified, having lost their car and their wallets, but clutching a half a dozen ears of sweet corn, “for that poor little boy.”

A reporter picked up the story and ran it as a fluff piece, a bit of heart-warming filler for the morning paper.  Within days the hospital was overwhelmed with fresh corn.  The story had been picked up by the AP, and once on the Internet had morphed into a belief that if a million ears of corn could be collected, the boy would live.  It didn’t have to make sense.  It was the Internet.

Corn poured in from every corner of the planet, or at least every corner that could be forced to grow anything remotely resembling an ear of sweet corn.  Pleas from the hospital administrators, and insistence by the boy’s doctor that not only would corn not save the child, but that he couldn’t even eat it, had no effect.  Determined to make the nearly effortless gesture that could contribute to the salvation of one poor child and so save their own souls, people continued to send their corn.

Unfortunately, the hospital (which, thanks to a series of escalating bribes, had never faced a single building inspection) collapsed when the postman—who certainly wasn’t going to take responsibility for failing to deliver a package—added the 839,898th and 839,899th ears of corn to the pile on the second floor.  The boy died in the rubble.

Lost in Space--Flash Fiction Challenge

I've bitten on another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction challenge.  Playing on the "write what you know" meme, he asked us to take an incident from life and turn it into a bit of fiction, preferably genre fiction.  I'm going to take a pan that once went missing right in my house, and put it with a ghost on a space ship.  It's 1000 words max, but I came in well below.

***************************

Arthur had waited a long time for the chance to steal something.  He didn't even know why he had to, but ever since he’d died he’d felt like he couldn’t move on until he stole something from the living.  And there is so little on a space ship that isn't fastened down.  He couldn't believe his luck when he saw the frying pan, just lying on the counter like an abandoned sock.  As soon as he wrapped his ghostly hand around the panhandle, the whole thing vanished into the seventh dimension, where neither ghost nor living human could enjoy it. What was the point?

 *  *  *

Sarah was unpacking the shuttle.  They'd had a good holiday Down Below, but it felt good to be home again.  She and Gil had lived aboard the Lady Luck since they were married four years ago, and this had been their first real trip dirtside.  Haven was a fully Earth-like planet, and very little developed, so they'd been able to land the shuttle where they wanted and had enjoyed a grand week of fishing--you could even eat the local fish--and a lot of lying in the sun.

 She pulled the kitchen supply bin out of the shuttle, and the frying pan that had cooked so much tasty fish tottered on the top.  She didn't want it to fall, so she set it aside on the mechanic's bench and carried the box into the dining bay.  Some spacers let the machines do all the cooking, but Sarah liked to cook. She'd grown up dirtside on Golden, and always stocked up on what she called real food.  Gil laughed at her, and sometimes grumbled about the extra space her kitchen supplies took up, but he liked her cooking and humored her.  Still, he let her haul all the kitchen stuff off and put it away.

 Sarah puttered around the dining bay happily stowing her gear, then a glance at the chronograph told her it was time to fix some dinner, so she got on with it.  Just a simple dish, the last of the campfire bread she'd baked that morning, and a bit of the local cheese.

 It wasn't until the next morning that either she or Gil remembered the frying pan, when she wanted it to cook up some bacon she’d picked up in port.  She sent him to fetch it.  Gil came back in a minute.

 "It's not there.  Are you sure you didn't bring it up here?"

 Sarah sighed.  Typical male.  Couldn’t find his head if it wasn’t attached.  "I'll go.  I know just where I put it."  She did, too.  The trouble was, it wasn't there.  The bench was cleared and secured for zero-G, though they were still running the gravitation motor.  There was no frying pan on it.  She searched the cargo bay, then each part of the ship, even the ones they hadn’t entered since returning.

 There was no frying pan anywhere.

 "Gil, it isn't there.  And I KNOW I left it right on the counter.  Could the cleaning ’bot have picked it up?"

 "I didn’t run it last night, since we’d just got back. Anyway, it’s programmed to avoid the mechanic’s bench.  We’re the only people on this vessel, and we didn’t either of us touch it.” 

Sarah looked at him suspiciously.  ‘Are you sure. . . I know you think my cooking gear is an extravagance.”

 “Swear by all that’s sacred.  Anyway, I would never get rid of that pan when you had bacon to fry!”

 “I suppose not.  It’s gone, but no one and nothing could have picked it up."

 "Only a ghost," he said, and they laughed.

 * * *

Down in the cargo bay, Arthur’s last thought as he slipped into the eighth dimension was that, at last, he knew why he had to steal.  He’d never see that pan again—but it had freed him at last of the blasted ship.

International Please Don't Pirate My Book Day

Today, in the world according to writer Chuck Wendig (of the mind-boggling Terribleminds blog), is International Please Don't Pirate My Book day.  That makes an adequate reason to do as he suggests and write about book piracy, or, as some suggest we should more accurately call it, Unauthorized Copy Sharing (so as not to make is sound all romantic and swashbuckling).  Chuck gives 25 different sides of the debate in his discussion, ranging from the impossibility of getting books in some markets (thus justifying pirating), to the fact that it makes the author feel like you don't think the work is worth paying for--yet another blow to our fragile writerly egos.

But here's the bottom line: whether the author is huge and the publishing company even bigger, or the author is independently published and sells two copies a month, stealing the book is a refusal to pay the people who did the work.  Make all the arguments you want about providing publicity and word of mouth so that after you steal it 24 other people will buy it because you raved so about it, and how you wouldn't even have read it if you'd had to pay (like that's supposed to make me feel better?), the bottom line is, if you don't pay for what you take, you are, well, a thief.  The fact that it's still there for someone else to buy doesn't change that.  It's called intellectual property and until and unless we completely redesign the system of how art is produced, the worker needs to be paid when you consume the work.

Usually people who think that books and music should be free don't produce them, or they'd know that while having lots of fans is nice, artists usually like to eat, too (and need a little extra money for the coffee it takes to fuel the endeavor).  You see, it takes time to write and edit and produce and market a book.  That's time you can't spend in a cubicle or digging ditches or whatever to pay the mortgage and buy groceries (and coffee.  Don't forget the coffee).

Now, I'm willing to acknowledge the grey areas that Chuck Wendig and all the interesting people who commented on his blog bring up.  But in the end, it still comes down to taking something you didn't pay for.  That's bad Karma.  Worse, when you get a book (or anything else) from a piracy site, someone IS making money from it.  It's just not the people who deserve it, the writer and illustrator and publisher who made an investment of time and/or money in the product you just skipped away with.  Instead, that money is going to someone who has made a whole business of defrauding the people who produce what they make their money on.  If you follow me.

So ultimately, the point of this post is just what the title says.  On the off chance that you have the opportunity, please don't steal my book.  If you really, really want it and you really, really can't afford to pay $2.99 for the ebook, leave me a message.  If you are convincing enough, I'll give you a coupon.

***************************

Back to our regularly scheduled shameless self-promotion: Love Middle Grade, Actually goes free on Amazon in just a few hours.  From Feb. 7-11, download the sampler for free, read the 14 great opening chapters from 14 great middle-grade books, and find the secret message.  Then you can follow the links and enter the raffle, and maybe walk away with a Kindle Fire!  Like any of us on Facebook, or Tweet about it for additional chances to win!

Halitor the Hero (short story)

Note: this is the product of a challenge on Chuck Wendig's blog.  (Caveat: blog not suitable for children, but many of the stories linked in the comments are great fun for adults).  Using a random number generator and only cheating a little, I ended up with the prompt to write a comic fantasy in which someone is mad or going mad, and someone gets poisoned.  Limit 1000 words (I clock in at 999).


Here it is:

Halitor the Hero

Halitor the Hero was going mad. 

Who wouldn’t, when every day he had to do again what he’d accomplished, at great personal risk, the day before? 

Halitor should have known better than to accept a quest from an unknown client in a hooded robe that hid his face.  But the Hero business had been slow lately, and a guy had to eat, and feed his horse.  The uniform didn’t come cheap, either.  You’d think a few hunks of leather and fur and a pile of weapons wouldn’t run you much,  aside from the initial outlay for the sword and axe.  But the stitching on the leather kept coming undone, and moths had gotten into the fur fringe on his cloak, so he’d had to have the whole thing redone.  And sword polish cost money.

So Halitor took the job.  It had sounded simple enough.  Just kill this fellow Thoriston.  Had to be an easy mark, with a name like that, right?  Mind, Halitor was a hero, not an assassin.  But he had it on good authority—that of the mysterious hooded stranger—that Thoriston was a tyrant from whose bloody rule all Polyopolis waited to be freed.  There would be cheers and feasting, as well as a bag of gold, just as soon as he’d done the job.

And that was the problem.  The job wouldn’t stay done long enough to collect.

Halitor used his sword the first time.  He leapt in front of Thoriston on the street, claimed offense for something or other, and beheaded him on the spot.  Then he’d faded into the crowd and waited for the cheering to begin.  The silence was deafening.

He hadn’t expected the beheaded tyrant to reach around for his head, stand up, and twist it into place.  Halitor was halfway to the border before he remembered that he was a Hero, and Heroes don’t give up.  Also, he needed that bag of gold.

Next day he used his war axe.  It took Thoriston a little longer to assemble the pieces, but he’d still finished before Halitor could find the stranger and get paid. 

He’d used his longbow, crossbow, dagger (that had nearly been fatal to Halitor, as Thoriston now had guards whenever he went out), throwing knives, pike, and a team of runaway horses.  All Halitor wanted was for the fellow to stay dead long enough for the mysterious stranger to pay up. He wouldn't.

By now, Halitor knew that Thoriston was an alias.  This was a god, and the obvious god was Thor.  And trying to kill Thor was plain crazy. 

And so Halitor knew he was mad, because he didn’t give up.  You couldn’t kill a god.  That was written in the rulebook.  Gods can’t be killed.  Not for more than a few minutes.  To try was insane.

Halitor lurked now in the shadows of Thor’s home.  Palace, really.  Crouched behind the arras in the dining hall, he gripped a glass vial with the tenderness he usually reserved for cash payments.  This was the one that would work.  A poison so strong that it could even kill a god. It could only kill him for a few minutes, but it was a long-lasting poison.  Each time he brought himself back to life, it would kill him again.  Halitor liked it.

The table was set for two.  The only challenge was to guess which place belong to Thor, and which to the unknown guest, for a Hero couldn’t randomly kill the wrong person.  He was mad, but not without honor. 

Halitor studied the table.  A plate of gilded china sat before an imposing chair, crossed battle-axes at it’s back.  The other was a mere wooden trencher, sitting before stool.  Thor was out to demonstrate to someone their relative positions of might.

Halitor considered what he had learned of the god in a week of killing him.  He made his decision, and crept into the empty hall.  It took only a moment to drip the poison into the already-filled goblet and turn to leave.

“You are punctual.  You will join me, Halitor the Assassin.”

Halitor nearly peed his fur-lined loincloth.  Where the kraken had Thor come from?  And had he seen what Halitor’d done?  Halitor thought of escape, but Thor had brought his bodyguards, giant men from some other world, big as boulders and bright blue.  They cut off all exits, so he had to bluff it out.  Thor waved  toward the table, and Halitor turned toward the lowly stool.

“No, my friend.  An assassin as persistent as you should not take the humble seat.”  Thor gestured to the throne-like chair.  “Please.  That one.” 

Halitor again searched wildly for an escape, and still found none.  He took offense instead.  “I am Halitor the Hero.  I am no assassin.”

“No?  Seven times you have killed me this week.  Odin certainly found a persistent tool this time.”

Odin.  Halitor could have kicked himself.  No wonder the chap who’d hired him had hidden his face.  Even Halitor would recognize Odin.  He was drinking in nearly every tavern you entered.  Halitor was pretty sure Odin could be in at least ten taverns at once.  Maybe more. 

Nothing to do  but play the game to the finish.  Seven times doing the same thing and expecting a different result.  But maybe he wasn’t mad.  This time the end would be different, and someone would finally be dead.

Halitor sat where he was told, but didn’t take up the goblet when Thor offered a toast.  “I never drink on the job.” 

Thor nodded and took a drink from his own pewter mug.  Then he looked at Halitor, appalled. 

“Odin!  You--”  Thor never finished the sentence.  Halitor stood and smiled. 

His gamble had paid off.  He hitched his sword into place, brushed off the giant blue guards, and turned to the door.  He had one task left, and little time to do it.

He had to collect his fee from Odin before the poison wore off. 

Get on your backside and write. . . Thanks, Chuck Wendig!

Just read the best rant ever for motivating a writer.  Chuck Wendig writes a blog that is irreverent, and uses language I avoid since I write for kids. . . but he certainly knows how to remind me that the only way to write is to sit my backside down in the chair (or whatever) and do it.  And no excuses, failure is acceptable but quitting isn't.  He's very clear on the difference between the two.

My favorite bit (sorry, Chuck, I had to clean it up in case any of the kiddies find me):

What, you think you’re the first writer who doesn’t think [s]he can do it?
Uh, hello, please to meet every writer ever. We’re all . . .  headcases. We all hit a point in every piece of work where we hate it, hate ourselves, hate publishing, hate the very nature of words . . . We all bang our heads against our own presumed inadequacies and uncertainties. Writing and storytelling isn’t a math problem with a guaranteed solution. It’s threading a needle inside our heart with an invisible string strung with dreams and nightmares.  We are afforded zero guarantees.

I'll be hanging onto that image of an invisible string inside my heart for a long time.  Wish I'd thought of it!


Here's the whole rant.  Warning: Chuck is motivational, sometimes the way the drill sergeant from every movie you ever saw about Boot Camp is motivational.  Enter at your own risk.

And thanks to Gus Sanchez for tipping me off to Chuck in general and this rant in particular.  Gus isn't half bad at the motivational rant himself.