Book Excerpt Ramblings, Too

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As the last installment for the Worlds of Wonder blog hop, here is another excerpt from the forthcoming release in The Brotherhood of Dwarves series
:

From Chapter 7

Fulfilling Obligations

Leinjar stopped on a crest of the trail overlooking the gate to the Tredjard kingdom. After a few more feet, there could be no turning back, and as he listened to the birds singing in the scrub pines on the mountainside, he almost turned around. He couldn’t remember how many years he had been gone, fifteen or sixteen, maybe more, but to Tredjards, no amount of time could eclipse the bearing of a grudge. As a boy, he had heard a story from his father about the long memories of his people.

Jorland the Coward had fled from duty during a battle and had hid in the mountains for forty years. As old age overtook him, he had longed to see his birthplace once more, so he had ventured back into the kingdom, expecting to have been forgotten. At the gate, the guards had been trained to interrogate everyone, especially returning Tredjards, for few dark beards willingly ventured out of the kingdom. Those trying to come back were usually outcasts, and during the five hour interrogation, Jorland had slipped up and used his real name.

He was delivered to the king, who hadn’t been born when Jorland had abandoned his post, and despite the passage of forty years, he had been executed for cowardice. As he had told the tale, Leinjar’s father, himself a veteran of many battles and missing an arm, had stressed to the downy-bearded young Tredjard the value of courage and the penalty for spinelessness. Death in battle left one in honorable standing. Failure to fulfill one’s duty was unspeakable shame. To Tredjards, no gray area existed, and now, much like Jorland the Coward, Leinjar would have to face the guards’ interrogation, one he himself had been trained to administer.

He looked at his two companions, whose faces hid any excitement they may have felt at returning home. One had been in the cage when Leinjar arrived and had survived hundreds of leisure slave battles. The other had only arrived a few years back but had fought valiantly on the Slithsythe, at Hard Hope, and in the logging town. Both deserved better than to be executed for his shame. He asked if they were certain they wanted to enter the kingdom with him, and both nodded, so Leinjar mustered up his courage and continued down the dirt path.

The gate rose from the mountainside like a warning to turn back, its stone and steel fortifications offering no hint of hospitality. Even on this border, far from any threat of orcs or the Great Empire, the bars were thick and sturdy, and crossbows peeked through the slots, watching for a threat. As he neared, Leinjar held out his palms and advanced slowly, anticipating the order to halt. His last opportunity to turn back was gone, for the crossbows shifted positions, trained on him and the other two.

***

The sergeant at the Ghaldeon gate, as it was known, peered through the slots and watched the three Tredjards moving down the trail. They were dirty and unkempt, their beards and hair tangled, matted, and greasy with no beard clip to signify rank. Their clothes were a beggar’s rags, and they looked thin and aged. However, their weapons, orcish pikes, were battle-tested and well-maintained. If any Tredjards seeking re-entry to the kingdom fit the profile of outcasts, these three were it, and the sergeant told his troops to ready themselves for trouble.

“That’s far enough,” he called, stopping the three ten yards from the gate. “State your business.”

“We seek an audience with the king on behalf of the Kiredurks,” the middle one said, his eyes those of a madman.

“That so?” the sergeant scoffed. “You’re the best those weaklings could send?”

“We’ve covered many miles. Please, forgive our appearance.”

“Lie to me, and we’ll fill you with bolts. Where did you get those weapons, dark beard?”

“The orc plantation we escaped from, sergeant.”

“How do you know my rank?”

“I once wore the same clip.”

The sergeant turned to his archers, who shrugged in confusion. He looked back at the crazy-eyed dwarf:

“Your name, then?”

“I’m Leinjar, Sergeant of the Torjhien and Stoljehn gate.”

The sergeant glanced back at his archers, whose expressions had changed from confusion to bewilderment. Surely he had misheard the dwarf. Only a fool would appear at the gate, using that name to gain entrance. He asked the archers if they had heard him, and they nodded.

“Say again,” the sergeant called through the bars.

“My name is Leinjar.”

“What should I do?” the sergeant whispered to the dwarf beside him.

“It can’t be him,” the archer whispered back.

“I’ll give the scum this much,” another archer said. “He has guts.”

“What should I do?” the sergeant repeated.

“Call the captain,” the first archer said.

“Good idea,” the sergeant whispered. Through the bars he called, “You three wait right there.”

Worlds of Wonder

Author Interview Ramblings

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For today’s installment of the Worlds of Wonder blog hop, yours truly answers a few questions about writing:

Can you tell us a little about your first publishing experience?

Back in 1995, I had been shopping short stories for about a year.  I was in my final year as an undergraduate and had written fifteen or so stories that I felt were pretty good.  Looking back, I realize they were probably immature and ridiculous, but at the time, I believed all of them were great.  At that point, I was trying to write mainstream “literary” fiction because that’s what was drilled into our heads in the program.  After 36 rejections, most of them form letters with no feedback, I got a call from a guy I knew who was the editor at a small literary magazine at UAB.  He loved my story, “You Can Never Tell Anything” and wanted to publish it.  The story appeared in their Spring edition and my pay was two contributor’s copies.

A few months later, he called me up and said an agent had contacted him and wanted my number.  I thought he was messing with me, but sure enough, a week later, I got a call from a fairly well-respected agent in New York, a guy who had a pretty solid stable of writers.  He loved the story, too, thought I had a lot of potential, and wanted to know if I had anything novel length.  I was elated and just knew this was my big break, so I sent him the first three chapters of the novel I was finishing.  A couple of weeks after I sent it to him, he returned it with a polite note saying he didn’t think it was publishable.  Needless to say, I was crestfallen.  For a couple of months, I moped around and felt sorry for myself.  Then, one day, I decided that I needed to sharpen my skills, so I went back to work and focused on honing my skills.

Looking back today, that rejection from that agent was one of the best things that could’ve happened to me.  It forced me to put my ego in check and learn my craft.  I was young, naive  and immature.  If that book had been published, it would’ve been the end of my career, regardless of how successful it became because I wouldn’t have grown as much as I did.  Also, in those days, I was fairly self-destructive, and if I’d gained even a measure of success from that work, I would’ve lost myself in a sea of alcohol and been done for.  Instead, I got an opportunity to learn, grow, and mature not just as a writer but also as a person.

Which came first for you, the characters or the plot?

For me, everything follows from the characters.  Whatever I’m working on, I have to know at least the protagonist before anything else.  From there, the plot, back story, descriptions, and anything else in the story grow out of the characters’ realities.  To that end, I spend a lot of time thinking about the characters before writing the first word.  Whenever I have idle time, I immerse myself into their lives and think about who they are, where they come from, what has shaped and scarred them.  I’ve found that the more I do this, the easier the story will unveil itself during the writing.  Regardless of how much time I spend thinking about them, however, they always find a way to surprise me once the story gets going, and that to me, is one of the best aspects of writing, that act of discovery.  It’s what motivates me to come back to the keyboard night after night.

Do you think you may ever go into another genre?

My next project will be much different.  I’m prewriting a near future, urban fantasy, trans-human novel about a mechanically/digitally enhanced soldier.  Right now, it’s in the early planning stages, but so far, I really love the protagonist.

What are some of the pro’s and con’s of self-publishing verses being published by a publisher in your opinion?

First, I must say that I’m a big fan of self-publishing because that’s how I re-launched my career.  Today, I’m with Seventh Star Press, but at first I was on my own.  In this era, we don’t need New York because we have the internet and much better distribution and inventory control through POD printers like Lightning Source.  The advantages to it are complete creative control over the process and the opportunity to get your name out there without several years of waiting on the old houses to make decisions.

That said, I know firsthand how difficult it can be.  First and foremost, do your research before you even think about it.  Understand your production costs, especially if you’re going to have paperback copies.  Even if you’re just doing an ebook, I highly recommend hiring a professional artist for the cover and using a professional to layout the text.  I cut corners on my original cover, and it set me back quite a bit.  Also, you have to understand that there will be a stigma associated with self-publishing.  If you can’t accept that stigma and deal with it as a professional, don’t self-publish.  Also and most importantly, don’t be so arrogant as to think you don’t need an editor.  Grammar matters.  Punctuation matters.  Spelling for damn sure matters.  Pay someone to clean up your manuscript BEFORE it goes to print.  This is your name and credibility on the line, and right now, way too many people are putting rough drafts on the market.  If you want longevity in this industry, have a little pride in the book you’re producing and don’t show it to the world until it’s ready.  Otherwise, you’re killing your career before it begins.  The main reason I survived as a self-published author was because the content of The Brotherhood of Dwarves was of professional quality, even though the cover and printing were shoddy.  People respected the book because it was well-written, and the reason it was well-written was because an editor polished it with me.  I can’t stress rewriting enough.

What is your favorite part of writing?

The readers.  Talking to them, listening to their feedback, discussing characters with them, that’s the best part.  I love the act of writing, too, but talking to my audience is what keeps me going.  I love how passionate they can be about the books.  I love when they ask me about particular details or want to know more about this character or that back story.  I love to receive emails or comments on the blog.  No matter how many times it happens, it’s always exciting.  I consider myself fortunate to have such an awesome audience, and I am grateful to each and every individual who has taken the time to read my work.  Even the ones who don’t like my style are appreciated because they often give me feedback that can make me better as a writer.  To all of my readers, I just want to say, “Thank you.”

Worlds of Wonder

Book Excerpt Ramblings

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As part of the Worlds of Wonder blog hop, today’s post is an excerpt from the soon to be released fourth book of The Brotherhood of Dwarves series
:

From Chapter 3

The Life that Should Have Been

In the faint light of dawn, Crushaw squatted and drew a crude map in the dirt near the gate to Kwarck’s farm, outlining the western mountains, the Mother of Ice, and the plains. Then, he marked where he wanted the ogres to set their defenses, several miles south of their border within the lands of Rugraknere. From traveling those lands with Roskin, he remembered an expansive field north of the last town they had stopped in that would serve perfectly. Across from him, Vishghu and Kwarck quietly watched, each staring intently at his scheme.

“The Great Empire is here already,” he said, indicating the majority of Rugraknere. “So they’ll want to march north, clip the ogres’ western flank, and then turn against the Kiredurks. You must convince enough matriarchs to hold them here.” He dug the stick deeper into the dirt.

“I know that area well,” Vishghu returned. “I’ll convince my mother, and she holds sway with many others.”

“Good. I’ll approach from here,” he said, drawing an arrow from the east. “General Strauteefe is in command. He’ll want to wait for the spring thaw before advancing, but if you press forward in winter, he’ll be forced to meet you. I’ll arrive on the Winter Solstice.”

“Does that give us time to train the army?” Kwarck asked, uncertainty tingeing his voice.

“No, but it gives us the advantage of bad weather.”

“I don’t know,” Kwarck said. “Extra time would be a better benefit.”

“I agree with that,” Vishghu said. “My people could use the time to build better fortifications.”

Crushaw dropped his stick and rose to full height. Despite his age, his presence became commanding and imposing. Clenching his jaw, he stared at them for several heartbeats, and their expressions changed from questioning to submissive. He exhaled sharply and pointed his right index finger first at Kwarck and then at Vishghu:

“Do you know why I’ve never lost a pitched battle?”

“I don’t doubt your judgment,” Kwarck said, lowering his eyes.

“You’ve charged me with leading this army,” Crushaw snarled. “So do me the courtesy of answering me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Because I always choose the time and place,” he said, his voice a low growl. Shifting his attention to Vishghu, he continued, “Control those and you dictate the kind of battle fought. Strauteefe is cautious. He’s planning a siege up a mountain in the spring and summer. Do either of you know what that means?”

Both shook their heads. Behind them at the gate, Vishghu’s buffalo stamped its front hoof, the sound startling in the quiet of morning.

“He won’t have many long bows. Mostly crossbows for close range. And catapults and trebuchets. And infantry, heavily armored.”

Vishghu nodded, a look of comprehension coming over her.

“One thing the elves already know how to do is fire long bows accurately. That’s about our only advantage, and in heavy snow, I like long bows against armored infantry. I like knowing that catapults and trebuchets will be hard to maneuver. And I really like hitting my enemy before they want me to.”

“You’re right, Crushaw,” Kwarck said. “I’m sorry.”

“If you want me to lead, we do things my way.”

Worlds of Wonder