The end of the world

All I could do was weep and wail for the longest time, certain my heart had been ripped from me and I would never know anything but pain again. My life was torn away through a small scar on my chest and I would never get it back.

This afternoon some of the details for one of the last scenes of the entire Chronicles came to me, so I wrote it. My alter ego, the fictive redactor of all the tales, realizes the parallel world just ended and the one love of his life perished with it.

Yes, I wept writing it and wept reading it to my best friend. But I have always known this was how the story ends.

It is good to be writing.

--the BB

Le weekend

Yesterday was BBQ. Our monthly dinner group came to my place and I had a couple racks of ribs. We had appetizers, ribs, baked beans, salad, biscuits, and red velvet cake for dessert. Since I was not driving anywhere I had more wine than I usually do at these suppers. Lots of fun.

Church this morning followed by lunch with Bill and his father, Jack. I ask your continued prayers for Jack as the years finally catch up with him.

After lunch Bill and I talked about the Italian adventure next spring. Step one: set dates. Step two: flights purchased. Now to work on lodging, then what we want to see. Rome and Florence this trip. We moved Paris, Venice, and Ravenna to 2012.

Early this evening I was on my knees pulling weeds. I don't mind that I have to do this periodically but have I mentioned lately how much I hate HOAs? Yard Nazis, I swear. Do they really think I am going to let it grow into a jungle?

I am up later than I wish because I have been working on consolidating my notes on the hostages in my novel. I need to rewrite the scenes in which they appear. When I started this tale I had given them names and ages and not a lot more. Now I have their family trees and have determined at least their superficial physical appearance. As is the case with aristocratic families, there are lots of interrelationships. Since the tale is about a civil war, most families have members fighting on opposing sides. It gets very complex very quickly. I finally feel I can begin imagining scenes again. Whew.



Here are side-by-side charts of two hostages who are second cousins. They are also second cousins to one of the pretenders to the throne, though neither gives his allegiance to their cousin.

One of the joys of fantasy fiction, and probably of all fiction writing, is discovering more and more that you did not know when you started. Characters seem to reveal themselves to you, even if it is all springing from your own warped brain cells.

And now it is time to take my weary bod and aching knees to bed.

Sweet dreams, my playful platypi.

--the BB

Working my way back into writing

T's wife, Lady L., had not seen her husband for weeks. [H]er father-in-law, spoke words of encouragement but his pale gray eyes were so like his son's that L. only thought about T. all the more.

Hardly great prose but my heart really goes out to L. She married someone whose ambition turns him into a somewhat nasty piece of work. Worse, he might have been a decent enough guy if his sister's ambition were not the true driving force (think of a Lady Macbeth only a sister instead of a wife). L. bears the brunt of it as her husband rides of to ostensible glory and actual disaster. She cannot even turn to her own side of the family. Her father has just been killed, her sister is hostage to the family of another claimant to the throne, and her brother fights on behalf of yet another claimant.

Even I do not know for certain what will become of her.

Then again, I finally have picked up the threads of the tale (and it was one tangled skein, let me tell you).

--the BB

Heraldry tonight

After days of working on family trees and spreadsheets, I have a pretty good idea who the remaining leaders of the Northern Alliance are and where they and their troops are located. This means I can describe a few more scenes.

Next: the Eastern Alliance and the Southern Alliance.

Meanwhile, tonight I sketched the arms of the original eleven houses allied around the Northern Plain. The banners and the tunics of the rulers do get described from time to time in the tale and sometimes the head of an aristocratic house is nicknamed by his/her arms. The Silver Stallion, for instance, refers throughout to one of the cousins claiming the throne.

That I am no professional artist becomes evident when my fox passant looks more like a depressed rat with a fluffy tail. Ah well, at least I can visualize the arms easily now (in my mind's eye, that is).


Yes, all this means I really am gearing up to write again and I am pleased about it.

Looking at all it takes to recount this civil war in a single principate I shuddered this afternoon to contemplate the Great War of 1291 waiting for me several volumes ahead. That tale was told in quick strokes and a mere hundred pages back in the early 70s but it will take two entire books to narrate properly now that the world is fleshed out and I know so much more about history, setting, and characters than I did then. It is the richness of the characters that intrigues me; otherwise there would be little pleasure in writing (nor, I suspect, for others in the reading).

--the BB

Trying to keep track

Vinat, Jugdal, Tjunar, Evnat, and Heggel are all allies of Jarnor. How can you doubt it when you can see rulers of all five regions linked by marriage in the chart above? Heggel, however, has been co-opted by the party of the Princess Vinat is also related by marriage to Ocnathal and Ocnathal is linked by family ties not only with the Northern Alliance but also with the neutral border territory of Uhli and the County of Orgl, the latter being firmly in the Eastern Alliance. It is truly a civil war, with siblings and cousins fighting on opposite sides. The personal conflicts are many.

I try to keep track of forty towns and cities (feudal territories) in the principate and who is currently where as armies move about the land.

And so I use complex spread sheets (sorted and filtered and color-coded) with formulas to track how old the players are (and if they are still alive). I use genealogy software with over 1800 fictional characters stored therein. I keep referring to my maps and timelines. What is the phase of the moon? Which stars shine above?

Because if I don't, readers will. LOL.

This is really rambling commentary to note that I have done work on family trees this weekend. I also wrote a scene for the next-to-last book in the series. Almost a year may have passed since I was last in full swing but I feel as though I am, indeed, about to plunge in once more.

--the BB

Oh yeah, she's good

M. considered E’s messenger. Her green eyes held his, her face betrayed no anxiety. She sat erect and poised in the saddle, composed and self-contained. She had not given her name yet her behavior was not rude. An arrogant person could have taken offense by the simplicity of this greeting. M. was impressed, as she meant him to be.

Yes, this signals that I am writing again, trying to figure out where the heck this story is headed. I know how it ends, but am not quite so clear how it gets there. The fates of the principals is fixed in my mind, but we have a ways to go. I have not even sorted out quite what happens from the parlay prefaced by the snippet above.

The only way forward is forward. I will probably end up having wrestled with this scene and the one after all weekend. Which is still rather rapid progress. There is hope.

Since I preach extempore, this is evocative of sermons where I spin out several threads and then wonder, as the congregation no doubt also wonders, how I will ever pull it all together. It usually comes together in the end. But not always. Helps keep me humble.

It is about eight months since I worked on the book, a huge loss of time. I am not getting younger and this is only volume three. I want to write ten before I die. Time to win Powerball so I can retire and write.

--the BB

Two different worlds, I live in two different worlds....

I am posting more photos from yesterday evening below but the real update is that I have resumed writing volume three of the chronicles. Got several paragraphs into it and thought, maybe I need to go back and check the genealogies. Good thing. I was writing about the baroness and here I find she had died years earlier. Her brother is the baron. Ah well. There is a reason I could never write without a computer, and I don't just mean word processing.

Oregano

Singing in the Rain rosebud

John F. Kennedy rose

Delphinium

Piñata roses

--the BB

Il y avait une fois....

I got up to around page 120 in Volume Three today. This is part of the long, slow process of re-engaging my fantasy world and the current tale so I can pick up where I left off and finish telling it.

Things that need clarification or expansion or simple rewording show up on every page but basically I feel very pleased that I can tell a rich and engaging story. Well, pride goeth before a fall and all that. Nonetheless, it is gratifying to follow the adventures of characters I not only created but love dearly (or hate passionately).

From the beginning, back in 1972, these tales were only meant to be ripping good yarns and pure escapism... but with serious content wrapped in narrative. Entertainment is the primary goal (though I confess that moral formation lurks within the adventures).

I guess they are really children's books for grownups. Yep. That sounds right.

It all began as a bedtime story, and now it is time to put this weary body to bed.

--the BB

Tonight's question

My BFF took me out to dinner tonight in an advance celebration of my upcoming natal festivity. We discussed cabbages and kings. I was talking about the books (that I have not been writing for months now) and he asked me if I had come to terms with living in another world.

I believe I have.

Sweet dreams.

--the BB

That had not been the case when her mother committed her to the keeping of foreign prisoners....

The nineteen steps were engraved in R. and N's memory and this night they took them slowly, blindly, alert to any noise. They made it to the landing and paused until all were assembled with weapons at the ready.

Slow progress today, yet a few more paragraphs. The tale advances.

Finally

Flush with victory and vengeance for their father’s death, they listened eagerly as Mordal laid out his new plan.

After being stuck for two months, I finally finished yesterday the chapter I had begun so long ago. Whew. Also began the next chapter. I feel ready to engage the tale again and just hope I have time and focus to go forward. Way too much on my plate of late.

To my delight, the princess has continued to come into her own. In the first two books she was mostly a victim; now she emerges as a strong protagonist and I'm loving it.

This is the sort of thing I don't know when I begin a tale and learning it makes story-telling such a satisfying adventure.

“Is it ever really over? Do dreams stop and memories disappear? Does our past drop away never to haunt us again? If it were only so, but I do not think so."

--the BB

She is also Lalut's granddaughter; don't underestimate her

"I am here before you to state, with neither threat nor treachery, that I lay claim to the throne of my father and his father before him and my grandfather before him.”

The princess declares her purpose to one of the Regents. She is not going to lay siege to the capital, as one claimant has already attempted. She sends no assassins into the castle by stealth. The Regents will have to decide whether to open the gates to her or not. For now, all remains in flux.

As usual, no writing over the weekend, but I did make progress last week (finally).

Tonight a new piece of the puzzle manifested itself. I will need to write it into the narrative when I revise. A prominent minor character just acquired more depth.

I need to compose a lament (think David lamenting Jonathan) for this tale. Or at least snippets of it. It is one of the fictive sources of the story.

The Chronicles involve stories within a story. As an amateur historian I have to at least postulate my sources, and sometimes write portions of them.

Here is my first Turkish vocabulary word to master:


Tomorrow I will work on "no."

Sweet dreams, my snoozing serpents!

--the BB

At long last, another chapter completed!

As [the sun] sank at last behind Mount V., conflict halted and all sides took stock of the day, noted their dead, wounded, and lost, and turned to the tasks of evening. Singers hailed the evening star, bodies were tossed upon pyres, healers moved about bringing such help and comfort as they could, meals were prepared, and mortals longed for rest.

The next day there will be more fighting. And the day after that. And after that.

In the annual procession through the heavens the zodiac sign of Grandmother W., goddess of wisdom, shifts to the season when the Veiled One, goddess of death, is prominent. The people embroiled in this civil war and those affected by it all know this for the constellations are their deities, the sundry manifestations of The One.

The countenance of the Veiled Queen is said to be loving and gracious but none can see it until the moment of death. Her lullaby, the song at time of death, begins with the words "Come my children, and do not fear...."

Indeed, as one sets out on the star path, the anxieties and terrors of life are laid aside. It is time for feasting and rest.

Sweet dreams, my oleaginous owls!

--the BB

This site does not speculate on the relationship between wise birds and Wesson parties. There are places the mind need not go.

Slow going

The man who stood before her, clad in white and marked with ashes, had vacant eyes that opened to nothing. ... She wondered if the future of F. stood before her or merely one stanza of a very long song, a stanza sung and quickly forgotten.

It has been over a week and I have only half a chapter written. For fast-paced narrative in the first draft, this is slow for me. At least I am getting my mind back into it.

Sweet dreams, my chortling woodchucks!

--the BB

Now the probing dark eyes looked on Ušni’s face but no longer on the world

Across the river and not far from the great oak forest P’s slayer also wept. He had brought H’s body to the princess and the duke. H. of U., the noble hostage and brave fighter, had been a romantic figure to the young F. of V. They both intended to be brothers in glory, fighting for the princess and Fjorn. They had sworn eternal friendship and sealed it in blood, promising to tell their children and grandchildren about each other’s exploits. But H. would have no wife, no children, no grandchildren. F. had lost his friend.

While F., the muscle-bound younger brother of a character in the first two books, is four years into his manhood he is still only nineteen years old. To him this journey to fight with and for friends is a grand adventure. He formed a bond with a somewhat older but still young man who shared his romantic view of the glory of fighting. They were united in a cause and eager to make names for themselves.

We come to the day when harsh reality intrudes, when the former hostage and son of the late Lord Marshall of the principality engages a key player in the tale and is slain. F. avenges the friend he looks up to by killing his hero's killer. With a sword thrust through the back. Hardly the "honorable" way to kill, though immediately effective. F. takes his fallen oath-brother back to the camp, overcome with grief and shame.

Yes, I got soppy writing this scene. Fran can testify I was soppy writing an earlier scene between the princess and H. (back when we were at Doxy's wedding weekend).

Still, three events in one day have turned the tide in the battle for the throne. A lot of twists and turns to pursue before a new Black Lion sits on that throne and is acclaimed.

Of course it's an anti-war story, sillies.

Sweet dreams, my winsome wolverines!

--the BB

Fired up?

I am definitely fired up over health care, as you can tell by this evening's posts, and not a few leading up to them.

I am fired up over the shift toward autumn. I know it's technically almost two weeks away, but existentially it has clearly begun. The days and nights are cooler, leaves are beginning to fall.

I am fired up over the turning points in the war I narrate. Two really big events in one fictional day: it is D-Day in the battle for the Lion Throne.

These siblings are the arch-villains of my book. Their raw lust for power really drives the tale's action. She is like a Lady Macbeth only egging on a brother instead of a husband. I have been waiting a long time to send her to Ušni's hall.

P’s unconscious form had been quickly lashed to her steed so she was semi-upright, which kept her from drowning as the warhorses negotiated the river. T. held the lead and begged the stars to save her.

There will be lamentation on both sides of the river this night.

Sweet dreams, my gallivanting goldfinches!

--the BB

Finding common cause

The Count of Šork and the Baron of Nurvat are both loyal to the principality, but each in his own way. Šork is a Regent and his three-year-old granddaughter is the presumptive heir to the throne. He has no way of knowing that his daughter has been murdered and his granddaughter is missing. Nurvat supports the claimant from the eastern valley.

Their forces meet, unexpectedly. Both are there to prevent the claimant from the northern plains from capturing the capital and taking the throne. A far larger force is engaged with the northerners at the moment. What shall these two do?

Join forces against the northerners, of course. I suddenly thought of shifting alliances on the globe... and the game of Risk.

The unlikely allies ride downriver to capture the ford and cut the northerners off. I pass over that clash with few words. There is violence enough in this war; I don't have to describe all of it.


So, a little bit of progress in telling the tale this weekend. One chapter ended and another begun. I will take it. I am tired.

Methinks a mere 400mg of ibuprofen will suffice for tonight, along with the antibiotic to clean up after that abscess. Back to work tomorrow.

I hope you all had a good, and safe, Labor Day weekend.

Sweet dreams, my rasty ridgebacks!

--the BB

Chaos and War

K’s body lay limp across F’s arms. No sparks flew from her now, though flashes of sunlight reflected from the small silver coins sewn about the hem of her voluminous skirt, its great folds dark as the last blue before the night sky turns black. F. held her head close to his cheek as though he cradled his own child. The old woman was tall and large-boned but looked frail as a sparrow in the Norrung’s huge arms.

R. shivered as she remembered F’s brother carrying Ian down from Mount Rğan and reminded herself that Ian was ultimately all right. She hoped this was true of K.

Memories haunt and comfort us. The greatest warmaiden of the eastern forest has a flashback here on the battlefield, recalling the morning F's brother raced up the mountain, struggling against the scree, to bring the great hero down. He who saved the world from the darkness seemed lifeless. What she beheld this day was too evocative of that earlier struggle. Was every victory of the Light only momentary?

I just returned from church by way of the grocery store. A quick bite to eat and all too soon to bed. Tomorrow morning I see the endodontist at 8:00 to evaluate the tender tooth.

Ah, now there's a title for a short story: The Tender Tooth. Or perhaps a band? I am rapidly becoming silly. Time to close this post.

Sweet dreams, my altruistic alstroemerias!

--the BB

Vrana of Orgl reminded herself to breathe.

There was still the sound of the Fiona flowing past the city but otherwise a profound silence such as she had only known on the stillest nights. She could see vague movement but hear nothing. Perhaps creation itself needed to breathe again, to release its grasp, to return to whatever passed for normal.

Ah, a sprinkling of voices drifted up to her as people tried once more to speak. A world of white began to take on faint shadow, to limn itself in growing color, to become visible.

Never in her fifty-eight years had she seen anything like what she had just witnessed.

One lone woman had become—-for a few moments—-a star, a god standing on the earth.

We can breathe again. The death spell failed though we are not yet sure at what cost.

The battle resumes. Both sides sustain losses but the world did not end.

Shabbat shalom, my naughty night herons!

--the BB

Not a good day for sorcerers

Time stretched out as B. raised his stone blade, sensing each muscle in his arm and thinking for a moment that he was weightless. Knife, hand, arm all seemed to move of their own accord. A slight movement of air made the sweat trickling everywhere on his body cool and he thought he saw a sparrow hopping at the corner of his eye. The blade hovered and began its descent, returning from the heavens and the daystar on an endless journey downward, earthward, darkward. As the sharpened flint approached the twitching animal, B. felt himself falling beyond all life, all hope, unreachable by gods or mortals.

Every "person of power" who plays a role in this tale was touched by the events of the twenty-second day of the Herb Month. All were alarmed and by noon one is dead and three are exhausted. And the author? His bad knee hurts a lot right now. At work he takes breaks and stretches; writing at home he just sits and lets it hurt until he can't ignore it. Naughty writer!

I just finished composing one of the most dramatic chapters of the book. It is possibly the most evil moment in the tale and one of the most hope-filled. There is nothing subtle in the battle between light and darkness in this scene. The old woman commanded to help the princess recites a spell evocative of St Patrick's breastplate or lorica. It also clearly casts a circle, invoking the four elements and the four directions. The elements are easy to discern, the directions require a knowledge of the geography of my fictional world.

All those years studying Church history, liturgics, and various spiritual paths do make it easy to draw on sources of imagery and themes without cracking a book.

In this fantasy parallel world both pre-Christian and Christian imagery is saturated with light mysticism. Their version of the Prologue of the Fourth Gospel would begin thus:

Annan dechrad n Solus jeroh,
L an Solus lei Zdvas jeroh,
L Zdvas jeroh n Solus.

"In the beginning was the Light...."

Not a difficult stretch, nor alien to the Christian tradition of our own world.

Chapter 64 of the book (First Draft): Light 1, darkness 0.

And now to bed, earlier than last night, thank you Jesus.

Sweet dreams, my sprightly sparks.

--the BB