It’s probably a good thing the weather let up enough that kids could return to school on this, my first day on Whole30. Now that sugar’s off-limits, I’m constantly reminded how much sugar there is in the house: the creamer in the fridge. The pop-tart crumbs everywhere. The cocoa mix. The peanut butter.
I was ready to help myself after making the kids their school lunches, but I couldn’t touch it. Not a spoonful. Not a nibble. Not a bit.
You can imagine the crabby demeanor that came over me then.
BUT.
I am doing this for Bo. For my littls Bs. For me.
It’s just 30 days.
I can do this!
And so far on this Day 1, I am doing this. I’ve kept myself to veg and meat for my meals. I’ve had black coffee or water. I’m going to try cooking some Whole 30 dishes this weekend, so if one of them turns out, I’ll let you know. For now I’m going to keep it simple for Bo’s sake with meat’n’potato type stuff. That’s usually a bit kinder on the wallet, too. Did you know clarified buttercosts 10 bucks??? Nooooo thank you, I’m going to make my own.
In the meantime, the first of my free monthly fiction installments is here! If you head on over to Free Exclusive Fiction from the Wilds(you should see a link in that menu bar thingey towards the top of the page) you’ll see a link for a short story I wrote. No, it’s not related to River Vine; it was inspired by an artist’s photo a long time ago. The story hit me so hard I had to get it down…and then it sat. And sat. And sat. Unread, unloved.
This is the perfect opportunity for me to share it with you! I do hope you’ll share your thoughts on it with me. I’m tempted to explore that universe some more, but only if there’s interest among you, awesome readers.
There are other times, however, when inspiration is the last thing I get from my family.
Take this month. Writing’s been a tough racket, what with preparation for a new term, snow days, and teachers cancelling school for “professional development.” But I am a hearty Midwesterner and shall prevail! I continue working on the third Fallen Princebornnovel while prepping the first novel, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen, to go on sale for ALL OF FEBRUARY.
(Oh yeah. Watch out for that price drop. Tell your fantasy-lovin’ friends!)
I’m also brainstorming up some fresh’n’FREETales of the River Vineand a few other stories to be shared exclusively with newsletter subscribers.
So I’m developing another project, one I alluded to a while back: a fantasy adventure story featuring twins who need to learn the strengths of brotherhood. (Can’t imagine where I found the inspiration for that story…)
There goes Bash of the Yukon on another expedition…
I had an epiphany about what to name the brothers, but realized the names would require permission from a big-time person in order to pull it off. That meant having a title and rough synopsis worked out. Typing up a wee synopsis was one thing, but the title…ugh, the title. This is a title that must reflect fantasy, adventure, and NOT romance. For once, let’s have a story where protagonists don’t find love and/or sex in the plot. The title needs to reflect that absence. Something strong…otherworldly…
I poke the back of Bo’s neck, for surely Blondie’s math homework doesn’t have to be reviewed right this minute.
Hey. You’re a guy.
“Yeeees?”
I need your take on a title.
“Shoot.”
Race the Bronze Breath.
Bo’s face twists. He stifles a laugh…then gives up and lets it out. “Seriously?”
What? It’s racing. It’s fantasy.
Bo’s still laughing. “What’s that even mean?”
I…I dunno. I just thought it sounded cool and steampunky.
“Well racing’s fine. Racing says something’s got a time limit, and it’s, you know, tense. But what’s bronze breath?”
Okay, I get it, it doesn’t work. What kind of fantasy adventure title would work for dudes?
Bo without blinking: “Not Game of Thrones.”
That is not a title.
“Says you.”
I think about my brainstorm of race names, the current YA titles out there that are really long, a touch blunt.
How about Break the Centurion or Die Trying?
Bo throws down the pencil: “Again, what…are you trying to be Sergio Leone?”
Well then YOU think of a cool dude title.
“Racing Adventure with Marathon Quest.”
O-kay. But that doesn’t sound really dangerous.
“Super Killer Race of Deathly Death.”
No.
“Bloody Hearts of Death Kill the Dead.”
NO.
Blondie looks up from her fraction muddle. “Bloody Heart of the Dragon’s Throne!”
Hush, that doesn’t…well, hmmm. I write it down anyway, even though I wasn’t planning on having any dragons this time round. Time for a squeeze and a kiss for my eldest.
Thanks, Kiddo. Now back to those fractions!
A picture of Blondie and her bottle snowman, just because. x
Bo follows me as I scribble in my notebook, all the way down the hall where I plop down on our bed. I click the pen in that fast, annoying fashion Biff adores, and say:
The problem is I do want a bit of camp to it, like Death Race 2000.Suppose I can’t call it Lethal Prix or Killer Run.
“Not if you don’t want Roger Corman to sue you…oh hey! Let’s Get Sued! Great title. And then I can get an autograph.”
“Killing Starfighters of Justice. Keep it vague on purpose so people question if the starfighters are killing people, or if we’re killing the starfighters.”
The grammar humor of Airplane!likely ain’t gonna translate to the teen male audience.
“Well then there’s only one title that’s going to reach those readers.”
What?
“Amazonian Thrill-Whores.”
…
“Boob Race.”
Okay, okay. I give up. Forget I asked–
“Outpacing the Inevitable….wait for it…Boobs.”
OH WOULD YOU JUST STOP IT
Sooooo I’m still working on that title. It’ll come to me. Hopefully without the aid of Amazonian Thrill-Whores, but who knows…
Human nature’s a funny thing. One minute, Blondie and the boys can be sharing Legos, talking up a whole world of transforming mystery cars and ships racing across the arctic to find the polar express and rescue Santa buried under a mountain of presents. The next:
“Bash, I want that piece!”
“You can’t have it, Biff, it’s mine!”
“Mooooom, Blondie’s got a piece I neeeeeeeeeeeeed!”
Suddenly, they don’t want to give. Suddenly, there is something so wanted by one child’s nature that they would rather sacrifice the peace, the fun, and the television privileges in order to punch one another into submission.
That’s usually not the kind of sacrifice we as readers or writers like to celebrate. Such a turn against the greater good for one’s own gain is often seen as the Betrayal, the mark of a hero turned villain. There’s a fair few of those in literature and film alike: Winston in 1984, Casca in Julius Caesar, Peter Pettigrew in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Some, like Edmund in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, do come round and redeem themselves. Others, like Mr. Wickhamin Pride and Prejudice, do not, even under duress. Yes, these sacrifices are crucial to the narrative arc: they are, after all, a chance for characters to show their true colors, incite incidents, climax, etc.
But as today is Thanksgiving, I’d like to focus on the kinds of sacrifices people both real and imagined will make for the sake of…well, for the sake of a Good.
Lots of little sacrifices are made every day. Or night, if you prefer.
Take Biff here.
After I kiss him and Bash goodnight and turn off their room light, this boy flicks on his mining hat from the museum to read. Every night he stays up to dig deep into pages of Calvin and Hobbes, monster trucks, outer space, Snoopy, fairies, biology, droids, and everything between. I take care to check in on when I go to bed, for Biff often falls asleep on top of the book with the light dimly flickering across the tip of his nose.
For this son of mine, the sacrifice of sleep is worth the chance for one more journey into a good book. I doubt few of us would disagree with that. 🙂
Time is often sacrificed in this life, sometimes by choice, and sometimes not. I’ve written about the difficulty in giving up writing time. This month I was determined to dedicate at least one evening to my daughter, and take her away from all school, writing, and brotherly obligations to revel in one of her passions.
The Zoozort event at school gave kids a chance to learn and touch some amazing animals, from an endangered fennec fox to an albino Burmese python. (Yes, Blondie actually pet a python. Not pictured: the tortoise that peed everywhere. Also not pictured: the hilarity that ensued.)
Doesn’t sound like much of a sacrifice, a mere two hours. But for a daughter who’s so often had to occupy herself when the boys act up, who has to catch us running up and down the hall in the midst of cooking/dinner/cleaning/dishes/ laundry/teaching/writing/ choir/on and on and on just to show us her picture, her story, her A+…Two hours of a parent sitting still next to her, focusing on her, and reveling in her excitement is no “mere” anything.
Now don’t let this moment get you thinking I’m such a kind, sweet mother. When Bash woke up sick, my first thought wasn’t, “Poor thing, how can I make him better?”
No. It was, “Dammit, there goes my writing time.”
Oh, I wasn’t going to give it up easily. I threw on his favorite Transformers up on the tv, found his favorite music, whatever. Gave him books, encouraged him to sleep.
But in the end, all he wanted was Mommy. He and Hoppy even came to the table, set up a toy computer.
“Look, Mommy, I can work with you!”
Fine, just let Mommy work.
Five minutes later: “Can I sit on your lap?”
No.
Three minutes later: “Can I pleeeease sit by you?” Hoppy squeaks and nods towards the big chair by the fireplace.
My NaNoWriMo word count shames me. I owe another writer interview answers. I’m supposed to reach out to a few other writers about co-promotion. I need to market. I need to plan. I need to write.
Yet there’s a tiny, sick little boy at my side, asking for Mommy’s comfort. How long will those tiny hands and tinier voice reach out to me, a source of love in his world?
Oh Bash. You are the source of love today.
I left writing behind that day to nestle with Bash and Hoppy to read Care Bears, talk about school, Christmas, and any thing his little six-year-old mind could think. At one point he looked outside and saw the half-moon, pale and shy in the blue sky. “Look, Mommy, a Dream Moon!”
What kind of dreams does the Dream Moon give?
“Dreams of looooove,” he says with that sly grin of his, eyes all squinty. Then his forehead furrows. “Or nightmares. That’s why you have to go to the Apple Castle and talk to Prince Hoppy.” And so the story went, filled with candy races and carrot swords.
Most stories we read contain sacrifices a bit more grandiose than lost writing time.
The website Ranker came up with an interesting list of fictional characters who sacrifice themselves to save the day. I’m sure some of the choices wouldn’t surprise you: Snape’s on there, and Gandalf. Both Obi Wan Kenobi and Darth Vader. Spock. That guy at the end of Tale of Two Cities (Yes, I know he has a name. Yes, I had to look it up. It’s Sydney Carton, if you’re curious.) Heck, my own heroine Charlotte gives up her own life and all her dreams for a future in music in order to save her sister Anna from the curse of River Vine.
Would Star Trek: the Wrath of Kahn be so memorable of Spock just gave more time to the warp core and repaired it? Would we still be quoting Sydney Carton if he said, “It is a far, far better thing to give up one’s weekend in the law library in order to discover the legal precedent that negates the Habeus Memphis Randu and blah blah blah”?
Probably not. We just don’t associate “high stakes” with giving up an evening. We expect to see life on the line, be it one, a hundred, a million, more.
And a quote I came across on Goodreads strikes upon why:
“Real magic can never be made by offering someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn
Stories of power are born out of sacrifice. They come from the conflict in us to relinquish that which we hold dear in order for another to fulfill her dream, for another life to go on. We cannot help but admire the selflessness, and cheer them on for saving the Good and vanquishing the Evil.
But as writers, it is our responsibility to remember that sacrifice doesn’t have mean having yet another Sydney Carton iteration in our story. Sacrifices can be just as harrowing without death to create engaging narrative that inspires characters and readers alike: giving up custody of a child to the one who can truly parent and support. Turning over power of attorney to one’s children. Leaving vices behind for the sake of the family. Handing over a night of hard-earned tips to the homeless family outside the mall. Giving children a chance to experience the toys and books we’ve kept locked in boxes for years in the name of nostalgia.
Giving up a night of work to sit with a little girl and watch a tortoise pee on other kids’ shoes.
Sacrifices do not have to require death. They have only to require love.
Eight years of love went into this novel. One of the most important themes I got to explore in those eight years was that of family. Families are not always connected by bloodlines. So, so often, families are made with stronger stuff: love, respect, kindness, compassion, and…well, sacrifice. On this day of family and gratitude, I’d like you to have Fallen Princeborn: Stolenfor free.
Yup. Totally free.
All I ask in return is that you leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. Every review, and I mean EVERY review, helps a writer’s visibility in the virtual market.
As autumn closes with a celebration of gratitude, I’d like to say thank you, fellow readers and creators, for giving my stories so much love. This weekend I found that FOUR of my six Tales of the River Vinehit the top ten in free YA monster fiction ebooks on Amazon, and they’ve stayed there.
I’m floored, humbled, and thrilled all at once. To have stories that engage so many people…it’s as beautiful as the first snowfall of the year. I can never say “Thank You” enough!
2019 Update: Due to recent changes in the
publishing relationship between Aionios Books and myself, Tales of the River
Vine has been pulled from the market to be repackaged and distributed in fresh
editions
~A wee excerpt from Fallen Princeborn: Stolen to whet your appetite~
Arlen sits in the other armchair, opposite Charlotte, and sips his tea slowly, all the mischievous sparkle gone. When he fixes upon Charlotte again, her stomach hardens: he bears the same expression as Dad’s partner did when he came to the door ten years ago. “We are not speaking simply of fairies and folk tales. We are speaking of that about which man no longer knows anything at all. Ancient, real, and powerful.”
Dorjan’s eyes drift toward the fire as he sucks the last of the jam off his fingers.
Charlotte spins her finger to spool the air. “Whatever. Just tell me what I need to know so I can get my sister out alive.”
“That is my point, Miss Charlotte. I doubt your sister lived past dawn.”
Need a little music while you read? I got you covered! I wrote about some of the composers and soundtracks that helped me with various points of the narrative of Stolen. Do check out their work for reading, writing, living.
While I wrangle kiddos and candy sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner with my family, please be sure to leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads! Every review, and I mean EVERY review, helps a writer become more visible on the virtual bookshelf.
A rare gift comes to the writer when the story and its mixed tape of music ka-chunk and transform. No longer is the music merely the writer’s atmosphere, her source of ambience while storytelling. Oh no. The music is the heroine. The music is the villain. The music is the tension. The music is the scene.
This happened to me during 2010’s National Novel Writing Monthwhen I first began drafting Fallen Princeborn: Stolen. At the time I was only using instrumental music for storytelling, while music like The Who’s Quadropheniahelped me survive the piles of grading in my dropbox. The month had barely started, so I was early in the story of Charlotte and her sister leaving their abusive family in the Dakotas for Wisconsin. Their coach bus breaks down in the middle of nowhere. Another peculiar bus appears with far-too-friendly good Samaritans, and despite Charlotte’s suspicions, she gets on, too.
And….now what?
I tried magical feathers. I tried mysterious goo in the axles. How could I get Charlotte and her sister to the Wall if I can’t make this frickin’ Samaritan trap–I mean, bus–have a plausible reason (for humans, anyway) to break down near the farmland by the Wall? I shoved the story aside and opened up a batch of essays. In the midst of telling the umpteenth student to please remember her thesis statement in the introduction, The Who’s “The Real Me” came on…
…and I saw it.
I saw the scene. I saw it all, frame by frame like a movie trailer. I knew what had to happen: utilize the shapeshifters’ gifts, the song to feel Charlotte’s fear race like a heartbeat.
For this song, I realized, embodies Charlotte.
The percussion, guitar, and style of singing are defiant to the point of raging. The song demands anyone, everyone, to look past the surface and see the pain, confusion, and ambition to be.
In this snippet of the story, though, it is Charlotte who does the seeing. Only she sees the bus driver’s inhumane ability, and realizes they’re all trapped. I could feel all this when I first drafted the scene with the song on repeat in 2010.
Eight years later, little’s changed.
~*~ From Fallen Princeborn: Stolen ~*~
Charlotte bites back the snark and hides in her headphones again. She starts “The Real
Me,” thinking, The bus SMELLS old and gross, but nothing FEELS old and gross. Give me two seconds and I’d be out cold, it’s so damn comfortable.…
… At least food has settled Anna down. Now she’s content to walk that quarter from Uncle Mattie up and down the fingers of her right hand. Then flips to her left. The quarter continues its deliberate tumble from pinky to ring to middle to forefinger to thumb and back again. Up and down. Then down and up. Like practicing scales on a piano, observes Charlotte.
“Nice moves.” Studchin’s face betrays a lack of skills with a napkin.
“Thanks. My uncle taught me.”
Charlotte does a quick passenger check: Potential Homicidal Maniac sits as far from Anna as possible. Twitchy is de-threading his own coat. Mumbles starts singing “Lizzy likes locked things.” The Sweenils argue over who won that Waters Meet Bingo tournament. Mr. Smith sings too softly for her to hear.
Black feathers fly across their window. Violet flashes, a cackle rumbles.
Charlotte spins ’round and stares at the back of the bus.
Jamie is gone.
“Where is he?”
Anna bats those damn glitter-lashes at Studchin one more time before asking, “Who?” Slurp.
“The crazy acne boy with the bags. Where is he?”
Anna opens another cake. “Probably bathroom. Why, wanna ask for his number?”
“What’s this about numbers?” Studchin’s breath reeks of mouse turds and sugar. “Cuz I’ve got one, if you want it.” |Charlotte’s chest burns beneath the pendant. It’s burning like hell, she’s going to pass out— “Can you see the real me, can ya? Can ya?” What the—? Who the—? Who has the audacity to sing a Who song OVER The Who? Charlotte swivels around in her seat, trying to locate the source. Not Studchin, he wouldn’t know good music if a chorus of show girls sang it from a Jacuzzi of custard. Not his bandmates and, thank god, not Mumbles. Potential Homicidal Maniac? Nope. Dead silent, head still.
It’s Mr. Smith, singing right along with Roger. But how can he hear what she’s listening to on her headphones, from that far up front? Charlotte shakes her head and stares at the back of Burly Man’s head. He stares right back at her from the rearview mirror. Not even the Sweenils notice him singing. No one but Charlotte, always Charlotte.
“Charlie?” Slu-urp. “What’s going on?”
“Shut it.”
“Char—” “Can you see, can you see the real me?”
“SHUT IT.” To Anna or to Mr. Smith—Charlotte doesn’t care. Get away from my music, my head, my sister. Get away.
Ash-wind pulls on Charlotte’s nose. Black, green, black, green, black: the raven’s circling again. Get AWAY! “Can you see the real me, Preacher?”
“I mean it, where is that Jamie guy?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. Why do you care?”
“Dude, what is up with your sister?” Studchin to Anna. “Can you see the real me, Doctor?”
Ash chokes, feathers fly, song deafens, eyes glitter— “Can you see the real me, Mother?”
Charlotte sees Mr. Smith’s fingers drum along in perfect sync with the song.
And he stares right back. His teeth are painted, ablaze in his smile. “Can you see the real me me me me me me?”
The raven strikes.
~*~*~*~
Of course, using a song in a story is one thing. Getting permission to use that song is another matter entirely, as I explain in “Days of Walkmans Past.”
I hope you take deeper look at Fallen Princeborn: Stolenon Amazon, and perhaps grab a copy to keep! Click here for paperback, or here forthe e-book.Please don’t forget to leave a review on Goodreads or Amazon, too!
Blondie the Skeleton helps me say thank you!
My deepest thanks to all fellow writers and readers who have been sharing my stories and thoughts on craft. No matter how much I beat myself up for not writing enough, reading enough, living enough, you step up and share my words and make every struggle matter. Folks, these are writers well worth sharing, reading, and befriending, I promise you.
In the meantime, I’ve signed up for NaNoWriMo for the first time in years. It’s time to rewrite the third novel of the Fallen Princeborn Omnibus. I promise you even more mystery and mayhem, perhaps even a murder or two in the dank Pits dark and deep…
Are you joining thirty days and nights of literary abandon? Let me know so we can be writing buddies!
Pretty sure I’m not going to be breathing much today.
Today, from sunrise to sundown this Halloween, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen is yours.
Free.
What’s particularly awesome about this release of freeness (new word!) is that this edition includes an excerpt from the second novel, Chosen.
Not sure you want to snatch it up? Check out what these amazing writers and readers have to say about it:
The rich sensory images and tight POV kept me so tangled in the story that I had to keep reading to see what would happen next. I particularly enjoyed the dynamic between Charlotte and her sister, Anna- the love and pain and frustration that can only come from family. Charlotte’s determination to protect Anna, whatever the personal cost, endeared her to me. The dark world beyond the Wall is fascinating, the shadowy characters an intriguing blend between Light and Dark. While the story arc had a satisfying wrap-up, it also left me eagerly awaiting the next installment! –Amazon Reader
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“This gripping YA fantasy about Charlotte’s encounter with the fae comes complete with a prince… but he’s no Prince Charming, while they’re definitely nothing like Tinkerbell.” —S.J. Higbee, Sunblinded trilogy
~*~
I love that this novel takes place in a fantasy realm quite different than most out there, which makes it harder to guess what’s going to happen next. Charlotte is an interesting heroine to root for, and the book is an overall good mix of adventure, humor, and romance. I got caught up in the story and read this in just a day or two, and now I can’t wait to read the next one! –Amazon Reader
~*~
“Part psycho hitchhiker movie, part road trip to Rylyeh, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen drags the reader deep into Faerie, burns it down, and caramelizes expectations.” —Moss Whelan, Gray Hawk of Terrapin
~*~
Lee writes from a third-person, present-tense point of view, but the tale is still told very much from Charlotte’s perspective, spurning exposition in favor of snippets of teenage angst. Charlotte emerges as a believable survivor—strong, determined, and devoted to her sister, but also vulnerable, with a deeply buried sense of hope…. Anna is similarly convincing as the resentful younger sister, while the fairy folk walk the line between being straightforward villains and antiheroes. The fairy realm itself is more grim than enchanting (think the Upside Down from the Netflix TV series Stranger Things), and the fact that Charlotte is trapped there—an echo of her family situation—lends an uneasy edge to the would-be romance. –Kirkus Reviews
~*~
So, whatcha waitin’ for, folks? Halloween comes but once a year. When Halloween ends, so does this offer for a free adventure into a world of magic and mayhem, family and feeling. Don’t miss out!
Be sure to leave your thoughts on Amazonand Goodreads, too, because seriously, every review means the world to writers.
Good morning, fellow readers and writers! Thanks so much for clicking on this post.
Yes, you read that title correctly. Fallen Princeborn: Stolenwill be free for 24 hours. Not only do you get the entire novel, but one of my short stories from Tales of the River Vine as well as a preview of the second novel, Chosen. I promise you, you won’t wind up like Charlie Brown with a bag full of rocks this Halloween. Grab this treat tomorrow while the grabbing’s good!
So many wonderful fellow writers and readers have been sharing their thoughts on my stories, or sharing their space with my writing. Please check out these amazing authors today!
My undying gratitude to these wonderful people–and to you, reader! If you have already read one of my stories, please be sure to share your thoughts on Goodreadsand Amazon .
Eight years of writing. Rewriting. Creating. Destroying. Crying. Laughing. Dreaming.
Now, after all those years, it’s just a couple more days until Fallen Princeborn: Stolenis released.
Let’s get into the mood for tricks and treats by stepping out and enjoying the bounteous harvest of pumpkins…and fellow writers. 🙂
My many, many thanks to these comrades in words for sharing their thoughts on my writing, or letting me share a bit of myself on their sites.
Writer and reader Cath Humphris provided a lovely book review of one of my Tales of the River Vine some time ago. I’d love to share it here now!
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Fellow Indie fantasy author Laurel Wanrow interviewed me on her site not too long ago. Read it here!
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Painter and writer Sue Vincent invited me to share some imagery from Wisconsin and how the landscape inspires my writing. Check out the post here!
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More guest post links and reviews will be harvested and shared over the next few days. If you have already read one of my stories, I’d love to hear what you think! There’s plenty of room on Goodreadsand Amazonfor your thoughts.
We’ve got a lot to cover, folks–studying Ray Bradbury, chatting with amazing indie writer Shehanne Moore, exploring a special facet of character development, and sharing The Who’sinfluence on my writing.
But before we go into ANY of that, let’s kick off this month of “ohmygoshiamactuallypublishinganovelthsimonth” panic–I mean, excitement–with some music I’ve known since college, music of vital importance to my telling of Fallen Princeborn: Stolen. Music of origins mythical and mysterious…until SoundCloud yelled at me for uploading it and pointed out the proper composer.
We begin with a simple CD created to accompany my college’s production of Medea. I didn’t make the cast that term (not that I’m still bitter about that. I’m not. Seriously. WHY DIDN’T I MAKE THAT SHOW?!), but my roommate, herself a theater major, was the stage manager and therefore in charge of all things technical, which must have been a challenge when the director decided to get all “experimental” with stage direction, set, and soundtrack.
Because this play was to be experienced like a film, apparently.
Thankfully, my roommate knew when to pull back the soundtrack so the audience could hear the cast. Yes, I put aside my inner grumblings and attended the show. I had a lot of friends up there and behind the scenes, and I wanted to cheer them on in what had to be the toughest show performed that year.
When I think back to that performance now…I don’t really remember seeing the show. I remember hearing it–my friends’ cries when the children are killed, the Greek chorus chanting, the raging howl of anger and revenge…and this music. This, this choir of Latin caution, eternally building with strings and low rumblings of percussion. The sudden sweep into thunderous drums and the harmonies of battle until the last scream pierces the air–
And all is silenced.
~*~
Fast forward to New Mom Me writing whenever baby Blondie sleeps. It’s National Novel Writing Month of 2010, and I’m writing what will be the first draft of Fallen Princeborn: Stolen. It’s the moment when Charlotte first meets the book’s villain and realizes the lethal situation she and her captured sister are in. They are surrounded. They are underground.
There is no way out.
There is no hope.
I used the music of Medea to imagine the scope of impossible escape, the cold darkness that buried Charlotte and her sister underground. You can hear it, too, in the first four minutes of this track.
But as the baddies learn, you can bloody Charlotte, but you can never break her.
I’d repeat the change in music at the 4:17 marker to watch Charlotte rise up & fight back. The music careens up out of despair and dives, talons at the ready, to draw blood and breath from every evil. Over and over I listened to this music to catch the fire, the blood, the defiance, the sacrifice.
Eight years later, despite all the changes Stolen has experienced, that scene–and its music–remain the same.
Now that I know Scottish composer Craig Armstrong wrote this score, I’m excited to wander his music and pocket a few seeds to plant for stories years in the making. What music of your youth still nurtures the storyteller within? Perhaps it’s time to put on your headphones, close your eyes, and fly into the harmony of story.
~And now, a brief excerpt from Fallen Princeborn: Stolen, coming this Halloween~
Rot, age, old bones, twice-burned ashes—they choke the air like gasoline. What Charlotte feels is cold. Lots of cold. All she can trust is what she sees, and what she sees right now is white, brittle wood beneath her, the lavender light pulsing more intensely now from her feet and spreading out and down the tunnel. Occasional claw marks. One bloody handprint that begins on one root and is dragged across seven more before vanishing. It’s not a big handprint. There are little traces of purple in it too, almost like purple glitter. Glitter. Didn’t Anna have purple glitter? NO. Get your freakin’ act together, Charlie, and focus. Dad, I wish you were here. “Charlie?” The voice is rich, deep, and kind. And dead. Charlotte’s free hand wavers when a new breeze of gunpowder and chili wisps by. “D-dad?” The power of this place can’t summon the dead. Dad’s buried in holy ground far from here. “He can also take you to your sister, if that is what you wish.” The pulse light beats faster from Charlotte, racing to catch up with her heartbeat, so damned fast, she prays Campion cannot hear it from his perch among the last of the tunnel roots. His eyes are swirling, almost glowing, as the rest of him turns still, like the living tree-bones behind him. “After all, this place is where dreams come true.”
~HEY! I’M SHOUTING FOR SHOUT OUTS!~
Shy about promotion? Me, too. So let’s try and share our stuff together, hmm? I just started up the monthly newsletter From the Wilds of Jean Lee’s World.It’s a separate set of updates from that of WordPress. In the newsletter, I share not only updates on my own fiction, but I’ll share updates on your wild creative endeavors, too! Just email me at jeanleesworld@gmail.com to snag a slot in a future edition.
It’ll take too much time. C’mon, is it reeeeeally necessary for the sake of the story? Just watch a video or something.
Jean, you’ve got no life experience for context. No member of your family ever did it. No mere video will give you the sensations and emotions, to build upon for the plot and character development.
So what?! I can still make up stuff.
Jean, you gotta do it.
No!
You gotta.
I don’t wanna!
Do you care about the story or not?!
…Yeah.
Then you go in there and face that source of embarrassment and anxiety.
My ineptitude in the kitchen is legendary. I’ve started no less than three fires in my oven. I’ve burned food to the bottom of pots so badly we had to throw the pots out. Even the most basic of cookbooks goes all twisty-turny in my brain so that I switch ingredients, switch steps around, mix up cooking times, etc.
But field research isn’t about doing what’s easy, or doing what we already know well. It’s time to step outside those comfort zones and experience something new, dammit!
Now granted, there’s only so much one can spend in the name of field research. It’s not like my family’s budget allowed for me to take a hot air balloon ride solely for “experience” to write “No More Pretty Rooms.”I simply drew on the experience of parasailing with an improperly buckled harness. Puh-lenty of excitement and terror in that memory from the teen years.
So to begin this adventure into canning, I get some books from the library with emphasis on making small batches with natural ingredients.
(Yes, I was won over by Marisa McClellan’sinclusion of many pictures so I had a clue what the finished product should look like.)
I poured through the recipes with focus on canned fruit. Something with a realistic fruit for Wisconsin, and with minimal ingredients to befit an impoverished pantry in the wilderness. (That, and fewer ingredients means a smaller dent on the food budget.) Gimme something with five ingredients or less, you books!
Aha!
Look at that: four ingredients. Peaches are…okay, they’re a bit of a stretch, but doable, as peaches supposedly came to the American colonies in the 1600s. Since Wisconsin became a state in the 1840s, it’s reasonable to expect peaches are in the state by the early 1900s, which is when “Preserved” takes place. The only other items I need are a lemon, some sugar, and bourbon.
Welp, the kids weren’t gonna touch the stuff anyway.
That be a lot of peaches.
Okay. I gotta just hack them up to get the pits out, boil the jars, boil the fruit and then plunge them into ice, skin them, cook sugar water, pack peaches, pour some cooked sugar on them, add the bourbon, then cook the lot. Sounds straightforward enough.
So, first: a pot and a round cooling rack.
You know, the round cooling rack YOU DON’T HAVE.
NO! I WILL do this! I just need to utilize that beloved resource most assuredly available one hundred years ago: The Internet.
Aha! I can build one of my own with aluminum foil! That’s…not entirely appropriate, but at this point, I don’t care. I didn’t buy 6 pounds of peaches for nuthin’. I need the sensory experience of canning, not the…you know, technical whozamawtzits.
With foil grid thingey in place, I can start boiling the jars. I’m only making four pints’ worth, so I can get these jars done in one go.
Eeeeexcept they don’t fit in our pot.
Well…whatever, I gotta slice the peaches up.
“Eeeew, peach brains!” says Bash, all too eager to poke’em around. Blondie makes puking noises. “I’m never eating peaches again.” Biff just shoves a peanut butter sandwich in his mouth and continues reading his Calvin and Hobbes,devoid of interest.
“Scoot you, Mommy’s workin’.” I go over the book’s directions again to see what else I can do while the jars are heated. Hmm, I gotta simmer the lids, okay, and then cook sugar water into syrup, and boil the peaches for one minute at a time to be tossed into the ice-water for peeling.
Well I can’t wait to see you swing that, Jean, since you only have TWO WORKING BURNERS on that stove.
Bo comes in from work to find the kids munching supper and me staring at the stove, utterly flummoxed. “Well?”
“This is going to be an epic failure,” I say, and lob another peanut butter sandwich over the kitchen counter to Biff. “We don’t have a stock pot or the right cooling rack. And we don’t have four burners.” I tip a tablespoon’s worth of hot water from our electric kettle onto a small bowl with the lids.
“Waaaaaaaaaait, wait wait.” Bo puts his lunch cooler down and looks at the directions. “You did read this before you got started, right?”
“Yes!” I’m all indignant about it, but how well did I read it, really? I was so fixed on finding a recipe with minimal ingredients, let alone fixed on canning in general, that I didn’t once stop to study the logistics of it all. I just assumed one needed a pot, some, jars, and some fruit. Wasn’t that how it used to be?
If field research is to be helpful, we can’t treat it as some slipshod affair. One can’t try ice fishing without the right gear. One can’t learn to sew without certain materials. So one sure as hell ain’t gonna can fruit unless she’s got some basic tools like four working burners on a stove. Had I bothered studying the recipe’s logistics, I’d have seen the futility of this field research and saved myself a lot of time…not to mention six pounds of peaches.
“Honey. Schmoopie. Darling.” Bo takes me by the shoulders and kisses my forehead. “I love you. I love how smart and creative you are. You’re beautiful. You’re amazing. You’re not afraid to try new things outside your comfort zone. But with all that research and prep, you’ve been foiled by boiling water?” He turns off the burners, pulls down the Halloween Oreo cookies for the kids.
“No. I’ve been foiled by that flippity flappin’ stove.” I harrumph and try to peel the peach skins, despite the peaches not even being ripe enough for this exercise, or cooked long enough, or cooled long enough.
Of course, it doesn’t work.
Hmm. Maybe I can utilize my frustration into the narrator. Maybe he doesn’t get the canning done the way he normally does because he’s being distracted by taunts over transformers and peach brains and grilled cheese and…maybe not that last part, but still, there’s an emotional bit of field research done here.
And a wise lesson learned, too:
GET A NEW STOVE.
No, no…well yes, there’s that.
Always have a chest freezer in case you end up with two baking trays filled with peaches that will hopefully keep for a winter’s worth of peach cobbler.
Yes, okay, I GET IT. My point, patient writers and readers both, is this: never let ambition lure you into the field before your creativity–and your common sense–are ready.
October is almost here! That means a new installment of my monthly newsletter will be hitting your inboxes on the 1st. I like giving kudos to kindred creative spirits in my newsletter, as well as sharing updates about my Fallen Princeborn Omnibus and other writing endeavors. If you haven’t subscribed yet you can do sohere.
Jean Lee's World 