A COUPLE WORDS ON EDITING
A two part series on editing and working with an editor.
Part 1: The debate between 'track changes' and comments.
Alright, so if you've worked with multiple editors, you've probably seen multiple styles. The first pro editor I ever worked with used track changes. The manuscript was trash (my first novel. It was honestly horrid.) so there were just thousands and thousands of corrections. The editor used track changes, which gives you a quick option to simply 'accept' the edit or not. You click a button and the edit is made exactly how the editor made it on the manuscript, then you move on. For my first manuscript, one riddled with errors, I spent about 2 days applying the edits. I read most of the changes before I clicked 'accept' on about 99% of them. Long story short, the novel still sucks.
Using comments: you've seen the little comment bubbles next to a manuscript. Google Docs and MS Word both support the exact same format. My second professional editor used comments, and that's all I will accept from an editor now. Let me tell you why.
Comments taught me how to be a better writer.
When I used track changes, I just sort of mindlessly hit 'accept' on almost everything. Then when I wrote my next book, I made all the same errors again. The same damn errors.
When I read comments from my editor, I have to read the whole comment to understand what the issue with the sentence is. Then I have to read the sentence I had written to figure out where / what the error is. Then I have to make the correction myself and delete the comment. It takes far longer to do, and that's great. When I see the 4th comment correcting the same comma error, for example only using a comma before a coordinating conjunction if the following clause is independent, I learned how to write correctly. Now I don't make that mistake in my manuscripts. Well, ok, I make it every now and then, but not often.
Learning how to be a better writer is the #1 most important thing you can gain from working with a pro editor.
Part 2: A couple pet peeves I see in a lot of indie writing.
You might recall an article I wrote a long time ago regarding the word 'this.'
Here's an expansion of my thoughts from that article. Consider the following sentences:
1. She laughed at all this and walked on.
2. They fell into his trap. He had planned this to happen just the way it did.
3. They crested the hill by the lake. Now he had them in his sights.
4. Sixteen penguins pecked savagely at the helpless hunter. He tried to defend himself from this, but it didn't work.
5. Trump and Obama finally found the lost WMD in the cave they were currently exploring.
We'll take these sentence one at a time. It should also be said that I made all of them up off the top of my head. Obviously. They're terrible. I would never write that garbage into a book. Well, maybe something close to #4, but that's it.
Sentence 1: If you're a good storyteller, the reader should know why she is laughing. She knows Hillary just lost the election. You mentioned the TV in the previous line, right? Saying "at all this" is just redundant. We know why she's laughing! A better line 1: "She laughed, turning her back to walk on." - Still not wonderful, but you get the idea. Don't tell the reader everything. Tell them just enough.
Sentence 2: You don't want to say: "He had planned the trap" or anything like that because "trap" would be repetitive. As it stands, "this" is redundant with "his trap" in the previous sentence. You have a couple options with sentence 2. Perhaps try something like: "He had planned everything flawlessly." You get the idea. We already know about the trap, so don't tell us about the trap again.
Sentence 3: A little deviation from 'this' commentary. Time stamps. Unless you just finished with a memory / flash back / flash forward / something else similar, you don't need to time stamp events. Of course it is happening currently, I'm reading it currently! Just cut the time word 'now' and you have a better sentence.
Sentence 4: Another instance where 'this' (plus 'from') could be cut to drastically improve the writing quality. I'm not going to point fingers, but I saw that exact construction in an indie horror novel I read recently.
Sentence 5: Another redundant time expression. Unless you have the story being told by Sarah Palin as a memory of that spelunking expedition she did with Trump and Obama, it doesn't make sense. Just remove the time expression and you improve the sentence. And yes, I read something almost identical to #5 not too long ago. Different characters though. Sadly...
Hopefully everything here makes sense. Oh, and do a quick Ctrl+F search on 'this.' You won't find it outside being specifically called out. You can write good fiction—and non-fiction—without using the word.
Check it out! A new LitRPG! Part one is just about finished, and part two should be ready soon!
“How many more pigs could you possibly need?” Jaerth exclaimed. He watched his master, a raven-haired woman named Bokta, slaughter a pen full of pigs and dump their innards into a boiling vat. The woman wasn’t preparing the pigs to be eaten, as evinced by the hexagonal star drawn in salt on the ground beneath the pot.
Bokta shot Jaerth a crooked glance. “Summoning requires great patience and great sacrifice,” she told him for the hundredth time.
“Yes, but have you ever been successful?” the insolent boy asked. He was only fifteen, and he didn’t quite know his place.
Bokta laughed, her youthful voice displaying all the arrogance her status as a blood witch afforded her. “It will work, little one,” she demeaned, though she was only seven years older than her assistant. “Just wait. In due time I will have the demon in my grasp, enslaved to my will, and he will obey my every command.”
“As long as I get paid,” Jaerth muttered. He herded another pair of small pigs into the room from their pen outside. He felt bad for them, but a job was a job, and he didn’t often complain. Needlessly killing a few pigs was pretty far from the worst act he had seen the self-proclaimed blood witch perform in her constant pursuit of some demon or other equally crazed machination.
“Bring my scrying mirror,” Bokta commanded, and the boy complied at once. The mirror was covered in many layers of filth and grime, with only the very center left clean enough to function.
Bokta sprinkled a few grains of powdered sulfur over the surface, bringing it to life. In the center of the crusted mirror, she watched her target - the demon she would summon into the world and bind. His name was Maxkrannar, and he was mighty indeed. Bokta had been watching the demons in their realm ever since she learned how to scry with her mirror, and they fascinated her day in and day out. She knew all their adventures, all of their heroic tales, and most of all, she knew which demons could command the others. Maxkrannar was one of the most highly respected beings she had ever cared to follow. His exploits were known through the demon realm, bringing reverence and obedience with it in droves.
“When will you be able to summon the demon?” Jaerth dared to ask.
Bokta brushed a strand of her black hair from her face. “You will know when I am ready,” she answered. “For now, we must continue to prepare for the demons coming. The components take a long time to make ready.”
“What does the demon eat?” the boy wondered aloud. “I bet he’ll be hungry when he gets here.”
Bokta put a thoughtful finger to her chin. “I have only seen him eat one thing, a dry biscuit,” she said curiously.
The image on her scrying mirror swirled and manifested before her eyes. Maxkrannar was at the center of a great battle, slaying strange lizards and massive hornets with impunity. He wielded a mighty war cleaver and wore what looked to be hundreds of pounds of gleaming, golden plate protecting his body. Sometimes, if Bokta was lucky, she would watch the demon use his own magic. Maxkrannar could throw great thunderbolts through the air to strike his foes, but she had only seen him do it on a few occasions.
The blood witch watched on with rapt intensity as Maxkrannar slaughtered wave after wave of vicious beasts. She tilted her mirror to get a look at where the demon was going, but she already knew the goal of his quest. There was a powerful queen at the top of a temple in the distance, a hideous being with six arms and two heads who could spit acid with less than a thought. Bokta had watched the demon kill the six-armed woman dozens of times. The method of the six-armed woman’s revival still eluded the witch, though she was confident her demonic champion would put an end to the wretched beast once and for all.
She watched as Maxkrannar ordered his four companions, heroic warrior demons in their own right, and the group gained a foothold into their adversary’s sacred temple. Beams of fire shot down on the group from towers holding enchanted lanterns, adding a warm red haze to the entire scene. As he had done many times before, Maxkrannar called out a command, and one member of his team began to glow with a pale blue aura that extinguished the flames.
Bokta’s heart caught in her throat when a new development, one she had not seen before, appeared in the scrying mirror. In the midst of combat, another group of demons charged in, and they seemed determined to bring Maxkrannar to his knees. The newcomers were similarly clothed, but they carried different banners attached to their armor. Bokta knew their sigil. She had seen it before, but only once, and never when her beloved Maxkrannar was on such an important mission.
The two groups fought and spells flew through the air, accenting the constant ring of metal on metal. After the briefest of moments, the clash was resolved. Two of Maxkrannar’s companions were dead, and the sudden attackers had all been routed. The three remaining demons stood still for a long time at the entrance to the temple. They stood often, sometimes not moving for hours, and Bokta had a theory about why. They must communicate without speech, she surmised, though if it was true, she would have a much more difficult time controlling the powerful demon when she finally summoned it.
Eventually, some half an hour later, the three remaining demons faded away into nothing. Bokta watched a moment longer before she tilted the mirror vertically and dumped the sulfur onto the ground. The image swirled away, leaving behind a sour smell in the air that matched Bokta’s ruined mood.
“More pigs!” the woman barked.
Jaerth brought three more into the small room and led them to side of the cauldron. “This is all that’s left,” the boy said.
“Fine,” Bokta spat. “It will be enough. Slit their throats and drop them into the mixture.”
Jaerth shivered in disgust, but he picked up the knife anyways. “What exactly does this accomplish?” he asked.
The blood witch whirled on him. “This is a demon I am summoning, not some basket full of kittens!” she yelled. “The demon will require lubricant to make it through the rift between our worlds! He will expect to be welcomed with a shower of blood and gore!”
“Fine, fine,” Jaerth relented. He slid the knife across another pig’s neck and threw it into the bubbling pot.
“Tomorrow,” Bokta said with a hiss. “I’ll summon the mighty demon tomorrow…”
“Fuck this. I’m gonna be late,” I mumbled. My keys were somehow never where I left them. In fact, nothing in my shitty apartment ever seemed to stay right where I left it. I pushed aside a few empty beer cans that had been building up on the only counter space in the room and heard my keys jingle on their way down to the floor. Apparently, one of the beer cans was still half full.
“I’m never getting the deposit back on this place,” I needlessly reminded myself. I flicked the switch to turn off the lights on my way out the door and nearly tripped over a package waiting in the hallway. It had probably been there since yesterday. I checked the label to make sure the box held my new gaming headphones, then tossed it through the door behind me.
My car, a beat up ‘08 Ford Taurus with dents in all four doors, was parked just slightly over the line in the parking garage next to my apartment. As it turned out, that was good enough to earn my seventh parking ticket in the past two months. Ratchet bitches always giving me fines… I crumpled the ticket and threw it in my cluttered back seat with all the others. My car doesn’t really ‘peel out’, but it certainly squeaks as I mashed on the gas to get to work.
As predicted, I arrive at Hefner, Deen, and Anderson Accounting, LLC exactly twenty one minutes after I was supposed to. And yes, I know my accounting firm is named after three porn stars. The old guys that founded the place had totally mundane names themselves, and they thought it was some huge joke to slap a risque name on the front of the business. Unfortunately, most of our clients are old ladies who inherited their money from their late husbands, so none of them ever get the raunchy joke.
“You’re late,” my boss droned, a short and portly man named Jim. He stood next to my cubicle like a little gnome, a sly grin on his face and an overly large coffee mug in his hand.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ll stay until six tonight,” I told him.
Jim let out a comically long sigh for effect. “This is your third time being late this week, Steven,” he chided.
“It’s just ‘Steve’,” I told him again. How many times will he refuse to use my name? Only my parents call me Steven, and they basically stopped calling altogether after I quit repaying the student loans I took out in their name back in undergrad. That’s reasonable I guess, but it still sucks.
“I’m not sure how much longer Mr. Barnes is going to want your kind here,” Jim said cryptically as he walked off, inexplicably humming some annoying tune into the rim of his coffee mug.
“Hey,” my only friend said, peeking his face around the corner of my little prison. His name is Brayden, a name I despise, but he’s actually a cool guy.
“You’re not staying until six tonight, right?” he asked.
“Fuck no,” I replied. “We’re raiding tonight.”
Brayden stuck out his fist for me to bump, just another of the wildly ‘bro-ish’ things he does to live up to his frat-boy name. “There’s my man!” he said with a laugh. “We can’t expect to stop the spectral invasion without our fearless raid leader!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Just help me get this audit report typed up so I don’t get fired. Realm of Crafted War isn’t free you know, and neither is my rent.”
“Dude, Realm is only thirty a month, you could make that begging for change on the street,” he said. I’m not sure if he’s serious or not. Brayden often concocted some of the world’s dumbest ideas.
“What about my rent?” I asked. To be honest, the prospect of never returning to this hell hole was somewhat intriguing. Maybe I’ll just keep buying lottery tickets.
Brayden’s face lit up like I’ve just suggested the best thing he has ever heard. “Dude, come live with me!” he basically shouted. “You can crash in my basement!”
“You mean your parents’ basement?” I clarified.
“Yeah man, Bill and Nancy would love you. You’re right up their alley,” he went on, completely uncaring that he’s a thirty year old with a full time job still living at home.
“Right up their alley?” I repeated. “What, am I joining their sex club?”
“Eww, man,” Brayden said with mock disgust. “Get outta here with that shit.”
I turn back to my work and press the power button on my monitor. “Just type half this report for me,” I told him. “If you get it done before lunch, I’ll give you an extra loot roll tonight.”
I could practically hear Brayden’s fist pump from his cubicle. “Yeah man, if those magic regen shoulders drop, I’m totally rolling on them,” he said.
“Yeah, get typing,” I commanded. I grabbed a manilla portfolio from a plastic tray on my desk and tossed it over the cheap barrier separating our computers.
Five O’clock didn’t roll around soon enough. It never does. The time just ticked slowly away, taking my will to live with it. Finally, after several coffee breaks, several bathroom breaks that took far longer than necessary, and a twenty minute foray to the vending machine that resulted in absolutely nothing since I had no cash, most of the office began to leave. I waited for Jim to appear fully engrossed in whatever graph was displayed on his massive monitor in his corner office, then ducked out a side door that lead down to an emergency exit.
Back at the Pineview Terrace Apartments, I threw some nasty pre-cooked meat pocket thing into my microwave and fired up my computer. My desktop computer was the only thing of value I owned in the world. I built it myself, and I was damn proud of it. My computer launched faster than most people would even be able to find the power button which was discretely hidden behind a white, unlabeled panel.
The microwave beeped, and I grabbed the hot paper plate from the little rotating tray inside and sat down to raid. The login screen took painfully long, but I used the time to open my new headphones. They weren’t the best, and the mic isn’t even fully posable, but they’ll work and they were cheap. Plus, they had a good bit more red LED lighting than my last pair, just in case an errant female happened to wander into my room and be impressed by a slightly overweight nerd with pretty lights over his ears. It hasn’t happened yet, but I never give up hope. I’m an optimistic kind of guy.
“Welcome to Realm,” a voice I know all too well chimed. For whatever reason, Snowstorm Entertainment had updated literally everything about the game over the last ten years, but the soft, female intro voice had never changed. I even made it my ringtone once, but that was back when I was in a rather dark place.
As always, I took a minute to admire my character on the selection screen. I had hundreds of different characters spread across multiple servers, but Maxkrannar was my pride and joy. He was my first character, the epicenter of my online addiction, and I’d probably die in real life if his data ever got somehow cleared from the server. He stood tall amidst a generic city of ruin, his two huge swords held easily in his muscled hands. He had horns that spiralled up from his forehead and marked him as an Oathbreaker, a class of fallen paladins that used to defend the Realm but now seek to destroy it. Oathbreakers were hard to play, and some said they’re overpowered, but I picked it for the lore. If I’m going to sink thousands of hours of my life into something, I want that something to be thoroughly badass. Some people had cars they work on every night, other people shoot heroin into their bodies until they die, I have Realm.
I clicked the enter button which starts another loading screen, this one displaying images of the great battle that has been raging ever since the last patch came out. The Oathbreakers have finally established a beachhead at Citadel Deathgaze, and enemies have been pouring out to meet us every day.
My voice-over interface ringed, and I clicked the little green phone icon that spliced me into the team chat. “Hey guys,” I said, accepting the party invite on screen as well.
“How’s it going?”
“We gonna finish tonight?”
“I finished your mom last night.”
“Guys,” I interjected, getting my four closest friends back on track. “Are you ready? We need more potions than last time. Hey Cro, did you get any more herbs? I’ll need like… six of those regeneration potions.”
“Yeah man,” Cro answered. He opened a trade window with me and handed over a stack of red potions. “Let’s just hope we don’t get ganked like yesterday. That was bullshit.”
“Yeah,” everyone agreed over top of each other.
“Did anyone check the message boards last night?” I asked. “I bet it was one of those lame guilds from New Zealand that’s always posting gank videos online.”
“Yeah, I checked,” Cro said. “If it was them, they haven’t posted anything yet.”
Our characters mounted up on various beasts of burden to head toward Citadel Deathgaze, and a strange smell in my apartment made me look around for its origin. “Ugh, it smells like ass in my place,” I said over chat. “Give me a minute guys, it smells like I left the stove on or something. It smells like sulfur.”
I sat my new headset down on the side of my desk. The stove wasn’t on, and nothing was backing up in the bathroom. I made sure my only window was shut and locked, but it always was. I thought it might actually be painted shut. I glanced up at the smoke detector in my small kitchen. A little red light slowly blinked on the front, and I guessed that was a good sign.
“What’s carbon monoxide smell like?” I asked once I had my headset back over my ears.
Brayden’s voice answered me. “It doesn’t have a smell, dipshit,” he graciously chimed in. His character, ‘strongwarrior43’, had a little speech bubble over its head. He emoted, making his character bend over in digital laughter.
“No, it smells like almonds. I saw it once in a movie,” Cro added.
“Then why would you need a detector for it in your house?” Brayden countered. He had a point.
“Because almonds smell good, you jackass!” Cro fired back. “Who’s gonna walk home, smell fresh almonds in their kitchen, and bail out? Everyone likes almonds. They’re gonna stay, and then they’re gonna die.”
I had to admit, Cro had a point as well. “I’ll look it up later,” I told them. “But if I suddenly disappear during the raid, you’ll know it was carbon monoxide. And Brayden, I’m leaving you nothing in my will. All I own goes to King Halfthor, the mighty leader of the Oathbreakers!”
“You’re so lame,” Brayden said. Again, he had a point.
We reached the base of Citadel Deathgaze, and then everything went quiet. A few low level Oathbreakers were fighting boars a ways behind us in the noob area, but other than them, no one was nearby. “Looks like its just us, boys,” I told my party.
“Woot!” Cro said. “More loot for me!”
“Alright, let’s get the buffs rolling. I can’t be late again to work tomorrow, so I need some sleep tonight. We need to be finished by two, two thirty at the latest,” I said.
The smell grew stronger in my apartment. I tried to wave it away, but it clung to the stagnant air. I didn’t have a ceiling fan or I’d turn it on. Maybe it was time to open the window.
“One second guys,” I said, my frustration starting to grow. “I’ve gotta figure out what the hell this smell is. Its driving me nuts.”
I checked the bathroom again and flicked on the fan, leaving the door open to hopefully vent the place. It took the efforts of two different kitchen knives, but I managed to get the old window near my couch to slide up a few inches before it abruptly stopped for no reason at all. The outside air was fresh and clean smelling, unlike every single object in my apartment. Sadly, there wasn’t enough airflow to get the wretched smell out of my raid space.
“Whatever,” I said, defeated. “I guess just call the cops if I die.”
My raid mates laughed, and it looked like we’re ready to begin our assault. Strongwarrior43 issued a magical shout, granting us each a power buff for the next eight minutes. It wasn’t enough time, but if we planned it correctly, the two minutes of downtime while the skill was on cooldown would come right during a lull in the fighting.
Something in my chest made me take my hands off the keyboard for a moment. “Guys, for real, I think I might be poisoned,” I said into the mic.
“Cleanse incoming,” Cro replied automatically. A blue haze washed over my character, clearing away any negative magical effects, of which there were none.
“I’m talking about real life,” I said, and the group chat got a little quiet. We cleared a wave of trash monsters in front of the citadel and stopped. “No seriously, I think there’s carbon monoxide in my apartment.”
“Dude, you alright?” Brayden asked.
“I—I don’t know.”
The crushing sensation increased on my ribcage. I tried to stand, but it was like a thousand pound weight had been strapped to my chest. I couldn’t move. “Guys, this is fucked up. Something’s wrong.” I could barely breathe.
“Uh, should we call the cops?” Cro asked, his voice ringing with concern, though I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or not.
“It fucking hurts!” I yelled through gritted teeth. The fake leather of my cheap office chair squealed in protest as I was pulled down toward the ground. The little pressure thing that kept the chair up to the desk height crumpled, and the whole seat dropped about ten inches.
“What the fuck is happening?” I yelled, thankful that my headset was still on. I couldn’t move my hands away from the armrests on the chair, and I couldn’t even stretch out my fingers. All the blood in my body was being sucked into my center. I felt like I was about to crash through the floor.
“Dude, Steve, come on man, what the hell are you doing?” Brayden shouted through the voice program.
“Come on, Steve, let’s just do the fight,” Cro added. That loser didn’t believe me.
“Guys…” I struggled to speak. “Call the cops. I’m gonna die.”
The invisible weight increased, and the rest of the chair beneath me shattered in a violent spray of cheap plastic. I had a few extra pounds around my waist to be sure, but I wasn’t even close to the ponderous size of some of my coworkers at the accounting firm, and I used the same chair here that we had at work! I knew it was exactly the same, mainly because I stole it from an empty cubicle a few months ago.
Lying on the floor, I could barely think. The headset had fallen from my ears when I had hit the floor, but I could still hear my party talking frantically through the speakers. It sounds like one of them was in the process of calling the police.
Good. I didn’t want to die in such a shitty, smelly apartment. Not before I finished my endgame build on Maxkrannar at least.
I tried to lift my head from the dirty floorboard, but my neck snapped back down painfully, holding me crippled in place. Then the floor began to crack as well. The wood splintered all around my body, and everything went black.
Big thanks for Marc Laton!
The Chronicles of Estria Book One: Blood and Ash - Coming this fall!
Here's the map!
NaNoWriMo 2017 Report - April Summer Camp!
April 2017 marks my 4th (likely) successful NaNo attempt. As of 4/24/17, I am sitting at 42,117 words written of my 50,000 word goal. Overall, I've tried the NaNo contest 5 times now, and I've only lost once. From what I know of most other authors, winning comes scarce and an overwhelming majority of writers fail before they get too far off the ground. So here I plan on breaking down the useful tips and tricks I've developed to ensure my own writing goes along smoothly.
Firstly, here's a look at my chart:
The First Takeaway = I knew I wouldn't have time to write the first weekend of NaNo this year. I had an appellate brief for the KY Supreme Court due that Monday in law school and obviously, that takes precedent over NaNo. One of the keys to staying ahead of the graph is to plan ahead. I knew the weekend would ruin my progress, so I made sure to bust out 9,000 words on day 1. How did I write so much? Well, I have a pretty boring social life... and I outlined before I began writing!! That's a huge step. Don't just sit down and expect literature to fly from your fingers like wine from a golden fountain. That isn't going to happen. Instead, just plan ahead and make a decent outline before you get ready to rock and roll.
The Second Takeaway = I've never had a good cabin. These guys tend to chat a bit which is fun, but they don't write. Competition motivates me far more than it should, and my cabin provided none this year. No one is even close. Some good advice might be to get writers you know to make your own cabin to hold each other accountable.
The Third Takeaway = Even if you get behind, getting ahead isn't that difficult. So many people I've talked to have said they missed a day or a weekend upfront and then quit. Well.. that doesn't work. Look how many days I ended below my goal line? There's a bunch. But guess what? Just going 400 - 600 words over your daily target the next day and the day after that does wonders to make up that lost ground. If you persevere, you'll make up the words.
The Fourth Takeaway = This one is key. I heard a vital piece of advice a couple years ago that has helped my writing tremendously.
"The best way to find the time to sit down and write a novel is to throw your cell phone in the ocean."
That is so true. This is going to sound super obvious and perhaps even a little childish, but removing distractions is the best thing you can do for yourself and your book. Seriously. I leave my phone on the kitchen table when I head into my office to write. But—this comes with a caveat. If you sit down at the trusty keys and nothing flows out for you, don't stare blankly at the screen for 2 hours doing nothing. Give it a solid 15 minutes. If the magic isn't happening by then, just stop. Sitting and brewing on your frustration just makes you hate your novel. That isn't conducive to writing the next best-seller. Come back in an hour or 2 after you hit writer's block and see if things flow better then. Still not feeling it? Go edit one of your chapters. Try to sneak a couple hundred words in while you edit to get the creative juices flowing. Then if it works, it works. If not? Go to bed and tackle it the next day.
The Fifth Takeaway = Here's some advice which has probably doubled my writing speed. Don't stop your day's writing session at the end of a chapter. Never do it that way. Always stop in the middle of a chapter. Think of it like this - if you stop reading mid-chapter on your favorite book, you're going to come back and open the pages pretty soon to finish that chapter. If you stop at a natural conclusion, there's a good chance you never pick up the book again because it isn't on your mind. The same hold true for writing. If you stop a session in the midst of an epic combat scene, you're going to sit down to write again in an hour or 2 and crank out another 2k words. Multiple 1k+ writing sessions per day is the key to NaNoWriMo. Don't try to write 2k every single time you sit at the keyboard. Write in small chunks, but write more often. And always, end your session at an interesting part!
I hope you enjoyed my lessons learned by 5 trips through the National Novel Writing Month gauntlet. If you have advice of your own, leave it in the comments below. Like this post? Sign up for the newsletter to never miss a single one.
Release date should be in the first or second week of April!
So I hate reading poorly written fight scenes in fantasy books. Whenever my characters fight, I try to make it as realistic as possible. Here's how you write a concussion:
Holt caught a glimpse of a flanged mace heading right for the side of head, breaking his momentary confusion and forcing him to fall to the ground to avoid being killed in a single blow. The edge of the mace caught his helmet with a loud crash, instantly disorienting him and replacing all the sounds of battle with a harsh, screeching ring in his ears.
Luckily, his attacker overbalanced in the assault, and Holt wasn’t simply obliterated by a second blow from the fearsome weapon. Clutching his stolen axe like a cane, Holt pulled himself to his feet and tried to steady the spinning world. He felt drunk, overwhelmingly drunk, and a wave of nausea crept into the back of his throat as he failed to get his bearings perfectly straight.
The mace-wielder turned back, a wide grin splayed across his unarmored face. He slapped the head of his weapon in his open palm, and Holt saw a few streaks of blood rub off on the man’s skin.
The captain tore his helm from his head and tossed it aside. The fresh air seemed to calm his roiling stomach, but only by a fraction. When he looked ahead, he could barely focus. Everything was blurry around the edges. The man came forward again, swinging his heavy mace from left to right. Holt raised his axe to block, and the mace head shattered his weapon’s shaft into a hundred splinters.
“Now you die!” the attacker bellowed. The man’s teeth were yellow and jagged, and his breath smelled like vomit.
Holt stifled a chuckle when he realized it was his breath that carried the pungent stench of stomach acid, not his attacker’s. Still spinning helplessly in his own mind, he tumbled back to the ground unarmed, heaving the contents of his gut across the stones at his feet.
The captain fell onto his side with a sullen whimper, waiting for the killing blow to quickly bring an end to his scrambled senses. After a few seconds, he realized it likely wasn’t going to happen.
He wanted to open his eyes, to see what fate had befallen his attacker, but he knew it would be useless. Even with his eyes shut, all he saw was a shifting field of slowly spinning color blotches that made him scream in agony. The screaming brought on another round of painful vomiting, and then everything finally, mercifully, went black.
I had a pretty cool experience today. The tabletop miniatures game I write for invited me up to their factory to sign some rulebooks being mailed out this week which feature stories I've written to help develop the lore of their world. (For more, check out this blog post or you can head over to the short stories tab to read the lore).
Thankfully, the great guys at Iron Wind Metals were kind enough to give me a tour of the place and let me take some cool, behind-the-scenes pictures. Here it is!
And the best part of the whole trip, getting a chance to see my story in the rulebook before it ships!
I hope you enjoyed the Iron Wind Metals factory tour! It was a pretty cool experience I'll always remember.
When you don't get paid in cash...
So a while back I began writing short stories for Ral Partha's Chaos Wars miniatures game. You can check them out here. When I started writing the series of background stories (which has been a ton of fun), I agreed to do it for free. I would get some free publicity, and the minis game would get some cool lore to spice up their world. In my mind, that's a pretty fine deal.
But then I got a package in the mail yesterday.
The fine folks at Iron Wind Metals, the company who makes the Chaos Wars game, sent me an entire army of goblins (always my favorite!) and a couple special edition figures to go with them! That's awesome!
Back in the day, I used to play a decent amount of Warhammer 40,000. I also played a few other miniatures games, so I know how to paint models. I'm not incredibly good at it by any means, but I'm going to paint a couple of these guys and see what happens.
In the meantime, I plan on writing another short story for Ral Partha which uses the awesome spider figure they sent me. Look for that story to go up in a week or so!
So if you read my last blog entry, you know I'm pretty excited about the new magic system I conjured up in the car one day. Well, here's the update:
Shadowlith (still a working title) has officially become my next expected full length release. I'm currently about 30% through writing the novel and I (realistically) hope to finish the first draft by the end of January, 2017. So, to give everyone a little taste, here is an unedited excerpt:
Alster nearly fell to the ground. The shade from the archive, or whatever it truly was, stood in the doorway to the record room, a towering black menace of twisting shadows.
A host of incomprehensible screams poured from Elsey’s mouth as she tried to scramble away. Her feet tangled as she jumped, and she hit the ground hard, but the lantern did not go out. The closest horse kicked at its stall door, rousing some of the other creatures from their sleep.
The shade moved directly over Elsey, filling up almost every inch of the darkness between the lantern’s partial light.
Suddenly exploding in a flurry of action, Alster did the only thing he could think to do. He ripped Alistair’s dagger from his belt and lunged, losing his balance completely. In the small hallway of the stable, his accuracy with the blade was irrelevant. As he fell, Alster gripped the dagger as tightly as he could and simply held it above his head, letting his momentum do the work for him.
Alster didn’t fully understand what he heard when he crashed into the ground. The shade yelled, the voice a mix of shock and pain, and then evaporated, leaving behind a cool mist like a cloud of fog.
As quickly as it had begun, the stable was once again calm, though the horse behind Alster seemed intent on breaking its stall to escape.
When Alster pushed himself up to his knees, he felt something tingle inside his stolen gauntlets. It felt warm and comforting, whatever the sensation was, and Alster found himself grinning from ear to ear. With one hand against the doorframe for balance, Alster stood up fully and brushed the dirt from his clothes.
Mixed with the flickering lantern light, a soft reg glow emanated from the filigree on Alster’s gauntlets. He turned his hands over in wonder, half of his mind expecting some dazzling display of magic and the other half not believing his own eyes.
“Did you see that?” Alster whispered.
Elsey collected herself and righted the lantern, though her body shook with fear.
“I think I killed the shade,” Alster said, never taking his eyes from the gauntlets. After a few more seconds, the red light faded and the gauntlets returned to their mundane state.
Deep in Alster’s chest, he felt something begin to stir. He felt stronger. He felt more alive than he ever had before. His grip on the dagger tightened, and he thought he felt the newfound energy pulse within his very bones.
“I,” Alster began, but he didn’t know how to describe what took place within his ribcage. “I think… I consumed the shade,” he said after a moment.
“I think I drank it,” Alster said. “You know the feeling when it is cold so you drink something warm and the heat spreads from your chest through your whole body?”
Elsey nodded, her eyes wide with some emotion Alster could not pinpoint.
“The dagger killed the shade,” Alster continued. He slide the weapon back into his belt and unclenched his hand, relaxing the muscles of his arm. “When the shade was dead, I drank it,” he concluded.
A new fantasy series?
So I had an idea while driving from Tennessee back to Kentucky this Labor Day. I've been thinking of ways to incorporate new and exciting magic systems into my fantasy writing and well, I might have it figured out.
Here's the pitch: this new fantasy series will surround characters who are 'Shadowliths' - gifted with the ability from birth (or perhaps learned as well) to consciously take the form of their shadow and go about doing things. Fantasy things. I like this magic system for a few reasons. Firstly, it makes an interesting circumstance arise: the caster can only control his / her shadow during the daylight. The night does not provide enough light to make substantial shadows after all. Putting such an ominous feeling magic system into a new fantasy setting where they only have power in the day seems oddly refreshing to me. I'd expect a shadow-based fantasy magic to be more powerful at night, not less.
Secondly, I like the idea of the shadowlith going into a stupor while controlling the shadow. A lot of fantasy worlds (DnD, WoW, etc.) feature absurdly powerful wizards casting spells until they run out of strength, energy, favor, mana, etc. Until their spell power is fully drained, they are basically immortal. I'd love to see casters made incredibly vulnerable by their art. That could be a great twist on a fantasy staple which I have personally never read before.
So did I try it yet? Of course! I've officially begun work on a side-project fantasy book (or maybe novella, who knows?) which I tentatively call: "The Shadowlith" - cheesy title but I'll probably change it.
Maybe I'll have something ready for the publisher in the next 6 months, but it isn't likely. I'd bet this idea won't be fully fleshed out until the fall / winter of 2017.