By way of update, a little over a week ago I finished the second draft of Stoneslayer. I had hoped to reduce the word count under 120k, but I ended up making it about 450 words longer, ending at 123.5k. I've sent it to a ton of beta readers (~20). We'll see whether they get to the end :) So far their suggestions have been to add more...
The University Vignettes:
I suppose I should make a mention of a longstanding project I've had called The University Vignettes (working title). I wrote a random kernel of a short story back in March 2015, which I rediscovered in August 2016 and finished. That project became "The Future's Price", a commentary on the cost of higher education through a very grim fantasy story. You can listen to a reading I did here.
But it doesn't end there. I got the idea to make a series of commentaries in this fashion, which I've tentatively titled The University Vignettes. There will be five short stories all told. They're all separate stories (well, #'s 1 and 4 are from the same POV), but they reference each other and focus around a particular event at the university, the breaking of the Jewel of Tusco (a giant stained-glass window).
Just the other day I finished the second of these stories, named "To What Degree?" The alpha reader reactions have been overwhelmingly positive, which is encouraging. This is a slow burning project though, so there's no telling when exactly I'll make it to the next vignettes. I do already have the epilogue written. I'd like to say I'll finish before the end of summer, but with the helter-skelter angle I've taken with this I'm much more comfortable saying the end of the year. Once they're all done, I'm going to publish them in a little anthology.
Showing posts with label benny hinrichs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label benny hinrichs. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Magic Systems
In the earlier days of fantasy, magic was often a given nebulous force that accompanied the story. As the years have progressed, people have conjured up increasingly diverse scenarios and put new sets of constraints on their magic. From this there has arisen some sort of rift in the fantasy community between those who prefer a softer or a harder magic system.
Definition of Magic
I think it’s important that we first define magic. To me, magic is anything that is not possible within the bounds of the reader’s physics. Some people who prefer a soft approach to magic will say that anything that takes a more systematic, scientific approach disqualifies it from being magic. I say that whether or not it’s considered magic by the characters in the book is irrelevant to whether or not it’s magical to the reader. Because all of us live in the same world with the same physics, I think it’s safe to talk about the things outside of our laws under the umbrella term “magic”.
A Call for Mystique
Another argument I see a lot is that magic must have an air of mystique, a sense of wonder, a shroud of mystery. These people are conflating their preference with definitional limitation. That would be the same as saying magic must involve mental exertion, runes, ingredients, demons, handheld conduits, flashing lights, dead gods, temperature changes, incantations, exhaustion, sacrifices, or any other number of requirements. Certainly someone can have favorites, but personal penchants do not nullify all other options.
The Basis of Fantasy
The basis of fantasy and all good speculative fiction is that it poses a question and then explores the answers. The question is almost always in the form of, “How would humans react if they were put into a situation where [blank]?” (Possibilities for the blank: the gods interacted with men, dragons roamed the earth, there were other sapient species, certain people could control the weather?)
We live in a world that has figured out electricity and magnetism, wireless data transmission, nuclear power, space travel, DNA modification, vaccines, and endless other marvels. In a world where magic was relatively widespread, it would require great suspension of disbelief to pretend that that world’s humans hadn’t made any investigations into the nature, limits, and uses of that magic.
Now, there are possibilities of regressions, dark ages, and that their discoveries haven’t advanced very far yet. Maybe a god is keeping them from learning too much. Maybe they’re religious and kill anyone who uses magic outside the prescribed methods. Maybe they live in an extremely harsh environment and don’t have any extra time to devote to study. Maybe magic is only available to very few people. There are many good reasons why the world wouldn’t know very much about the limits of their magic. But human ingenuity, curiosity, and persistence are powerful forces, and I believe that wherever possible, they will have made at least some investigations into the strange powers at play in their world.
The Limitations of Constraints
I believe that constraints inspire more creativity than sheer freedom does. You see it in music when a composer decides, for example, to create something in a whole tone scale, never use the key’s base chord in the progression, write in 5/4, or use at least one augmented chord per measure. Working within limitations allows you to push the boundaries; when working with pure freedom there are no boundaries to push.
I hope the above explains why I lean more toward the hard magic end of the spectrum. Let’s take Sanderson’s Mistborn, specifically the steel push and the iron pull. At its core, these two powers are nothing more than telekinesis. However, the constraints that Sanderson places on them turns them into so much more. These include
That being said, some people prefer a less systematic approach, just as some people prefer not to listen to music in 5/4 or music that has an augmented chord in every measure. Both opinions are right for those that hold them.
Conclusion
Both hard and soft magic systems are valid, even if you prefer one over the other. I have read, enjoyed, and written both kinds. However, I typically get more enjoyment out of hard systems, so I tend to use those in my bigger series so I can flex my creativity against the constraints.
Definition of Magic
I think it’s important that we first define magic. To me, magic is anything that is not possible within the bounds of the reader’s physics. Some people who prefer a soft approach to magic will say that anything that takes a more systematic, scientific approach disqualifies it from being magic. I say that whether or not it’s considered magic by the characters in the book is irrelevant to whether or not it’s magical to the reader. Because all of us live in the same world with the same physics, I think it’s safe to talk about the things outside of our laws under the umbrella term “magic”.
A Call for Mystique
Another argument I see a lot is that magic must have an air of mystique, a sense of wonder, a shroud of mystery. These people are conflating their preference with definitional limitation. That would be the same as saying magic must involve mental exertion, runes, ingredients, demons, handheld conduits, flashing lights, dead gods, temperature changes, incantations, exhaustion, sacrifices, or any other number of requirements. Certainly someone can have favorites, but personal penchants do not nullify all other options.
The Basis of Fantasy
The basis of fantasy and all good speculative fiction is that it poses a question and then explores the answers. The question is almost always in the form of, “How would humans react if they were put into a situation where [blank]?” (Possibilities for the blank: the gods interacted with men, dragons roamed the earth, there were other sapient species, certain people could control the weather?)
We live in a world that has figured out electricity and magnetism, wireless data transmission, nuclear power, space travel, DNA modification, vaccines, and endless other marvels. In a world where magic was relatively widespread, it would require great suspension of disbelief to pretend that that world’s humans hadn’t made any investigations into the nature, limits, and uses of that magic.
Now, there are possibilities of regressions, dark ages, and that their discoveries haven’t advanced very far yet. Maybe a god is keeping them from learning too much. Maybe they’re religious and kill anyone who uses magic outside the prescribed methods. Maybe they live in an extremely harsh environment and don’t have any extra time to devote to study. Maybe magic is only available to very few people. There are many good reasons why the world wouldn’t know very much about the limits of their magic. But human ingenuity, curiosity, and persistence are powerful forces, and I believe that wherever possible, they will have made at least some investigations into the strange powers at play in their world.
The Limitations of Constraints
I believe that constraints inspire more creativity than sheer freedom does. You see it in music when a composer decides, for example, to create something in a whole tone scale, never use the key’s base chord in the progression, write in 5/4, or use at least one augmented chord per measure. Working within limitations allows you to push the boundaries; when working with pure freedom there are no boundaries to push.
I hope the above explains why I lean more toward the hard magic end of the spectrum. Let’s take Sanderson’s Mistborn, specifically the steel push and the iron pull. At its core, these two powers are nothing more than telekinesis. However, the constraints that Sanderson places on them turns them into so much more. These include
- Must be a misting (born with the ability to burn a metal in your stomach)
- Must have your metal in your stomach; once out, so are your powers
- Can only push/pull on metals
- Can only push/pull in a straight, radial line from your center of mass
- Every push/pull reacts with a proportionate pull/push on you
That being said, some people prefer a less systematic approach, just as some people prefer not to listen to music in 5/4 or music that has an augmented chord in every measure. Both opinions are right for those that hold them.
Conclusion
Both hard and soft magic systems are valid, even if you prefer one over the other. I have read, enjoyed, and written both kinds. However, I typically get more enjoyment out of hard systems, so I tend to use those in my bigger series so I can flex my creativity against the constraints.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
New Novella: Orluvoq
I know I never update this and no one ever reads this, but just in case here we go.
Yesterday I finished writing my novella Orluvoq. It's 30,600 words long (which correlates to about 120 printed pages) and inspired by Inuit (specifically Greenlandic) culture. Here's the blurb:
Yesterday I finished writing my novella Orluvoq. It's 30,600 words long (which correlates to about 120 printed pages) and inspired by Inuit (specifically Greenlandic) culture. Here's the blurb:
In the highest north, the world has an end. Black oblivion gapes out forever beyond the plains of rotting snow, the two separated by the infinite drop of an ice cliff holding all the world’s dead.
In the highest north, hunters ride kites into the aurora to fell narwhal from out of the sky. Chandlers set the beast’s tusk in columns of tallow. Shamans exact powers from the burning candles—powers to walk with shadow or the wind, to turn away frostbite and fever, to stay warm on the darkest night in deepest winter.
But the narwhal’s tusk has other powers. Darker powers. When consumed, it floods the devourer with an inimitable high. Once consumed, the devourer will never be satisfied with anything less. Every shaman is taught not to eat the tusk. If forced to choose between healing and warmth or the high, the shaman can’t always be trusted to be stronger than the addiction.
But not every shaman does as they’re taught.
And so, we follow Orluvoq, a drug-addicted, eight-year-old shaman, as she climbs down the ice cliff at the end of the world to find her dead parents. Will she find answers, or will she only find that her hope is all gone?I don't have any information on a publishing date, but I'm sure I'll post here once I do. In the meantime, you can read the beginning here.
I found this picture and thought, "That's Or lu freaking voq."
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Anglish
So, good news. I've officially resumed work on Stoneslayer. It's beautiful. I just did a read through with a bit of editing and am sitting at 85,000 words. I expect the finished product to require around 35,000-40,000 more words, so hopefully I'll hit at least 120k with this book. Time and hard work will tell. If I can get my butt in gear I should have the first draft done before the end of August. If not, then hopefully before September's over.
But the other interesting thing is a major series of edits that I made during this read through. See, in this book there's a tribe called the Hanoshites that broke off from the main character's tribe 400 years ago. Because of this, I wanted them to be able to understand each other, but to have distinct dialects. Originally I just had them speaking in sort of an old-timey drawl. But I recently got the idea to have them speak Anglish. Now some of you are thinking, Benny, I think you mean English. But no, Anglish is a purist version of English that only has Germanic roots. Sort of a, "what if Modern English had developed from Old English without any Latin/Greek influence?" Here's an example from the text:
In the end, I think that the Anglish decision has added a great deal of depth to the work and I'm glad I did it, though it took many days. In those remaining 40k words the Hanoshites will appear yet again, so I'll have to delve into the Anglish Wordbook once more.
But the other interesting thing is a major series of edits that I made during this read through. See, in this book there's a tribe called the Hanoshites that broke off from the main character's tribe 400 years ago. Because of this, I wanted them to be able to understand each other, but to have distinct dialects. Originally I just had them speaking in sort of an old-timey drawl. But I recently got the idea to have them speak Anglish. Now some of you are thinking, Benny, I think you mean English. But no, Anglish is a purist version of English that only has Germanic roots. Sort of a, "what if Modern English had developed from Old English without any Latin/Greek influence?" Here's an example from the text:
“We of Hanosh like our crowded gladness—though not to the mark of drunken daze; this the Bodings fastly forbid. In eight of the months, each Tent takes their stint throwing a simbleday. Songwrights, craftsmen, cooks, and so forth make show of their knacks. The other four months, the coming of the yeartides, as they’re hight, are the times of highest gladness. The whole of Hanosh gathers and shares in the best of mirthmaking and feed—though I warn thee, thou mightest never need feed again.” He smiled at his quip. “As luck would have it, the Tamez Simbleday lined up flawlessly with thine incoming.”And that's about what it sounds like. It has a certain elegance to it. But here's the crazy thing. Doing these edits I had to check literally every. Single. Word. To see what its etymology is. The other frustrating thing is that sometimes, there literally aren't any fitting Germanic words for it. One example is tent. Try though I might, I couldn't come up with a suitable substitution. In other instances I had to come up with my own word. Like for encampment I used haltstead.
In the end, I think that the Anglish decision has added a great deal of depth to the work and I'm glad I did it, though it took many days. In those remaining 40k words the Hanoshites will appear yet again, so I'll have to delve into the Anglish Wordbook once more.
Monday, January 11, 2016
A New Plague Cover Reveal
So I sat down today knowing only that I wanted to make a cover for my novelette A New Plague, which, as you can see in the sidebar, is complete. This is what I came up with. It will be out soon after some edits. You can read the intro section, Germ, here. As a brief summary, it's about a man whose job is to make new plagues, and, well, he makes a new plague. Even though it deals with some heavy topics, it has a general jovial air about it. I like to refer to it as a work of grindark.
Friday, November 6, 2015
A New Plague: Germ (chapter from new story)
I got a random idea and wrote this last Friday. It's the prologue to a novelette (hopefully around 15,000 words) I'm calling A New Plague. It will consist of four sections titled Germ, Body, Plague, and Death. I'd like to create some shorter work that will get people interested in reading my longer efforts. I present to you now section one: Germ.
Belit’s eyes danced through the crowd before him. So many people. Browsing. Buying. Bustling.
Breathing.
How could there be so many?
He cleared his throat. “You know what this city needs?”
His companion, Derf, sent him an askance glance. “Enlighten me.”
“A new plague.”
“Belit, no.”
“Belit, yes!” His eyes danced to the pudgy man.
Derf sighed. “It's hardly been a year since the third hellthresh threshed its last.”
“Exactly. Just look how happy they all are.” Repulsive. They had no right.
“Maybe that's because they're not systematically crapping out their intestines in black globs.”
“Precisely. Morale is too high! Who let them get this cheery?”
The plump fellow scrunched his right cheek in an unenthusiastic smirk, then let it fall. “A spunge or
two might have had a hand in that.”
Belit scoffed. Expungers. Their bones could erode. “We need to do something about them eventually
as well.”
Derf pursed his lips. “Something like throw them a banquet? You know your hobby would be cut
woefully short if they weren’t there to stanch the plagues every time.”
“But their hobby would disappear if I did. They need me.” A woman walking by brushed his arm.
Belit shuddered and wiped at the arm. Disgusting.
“Expunging isn’t so much a hobby as it is an occupation,” Derf murmured, rubbing his brow with soft fingers. “Do you really need to pitch in? We recently had the eleventh yellowing that lasted a month, killed forty-eight. The eighth frenzy went nearly six weeks and left opportunity for eighty-nine new graves to be dug.
“Kudda is more a plague to the epidemes than he is to the general populace.” Belit watched two little girls playing with a doll. Nauseating. “You yourself just said he released his eleventh yellowing and it was expunged in a month. How long did my first hellthresh last?”
Derf made his best show of looking uninterested. Probably because he was. “Forty-one months.”
“And the second?”
“Forty-two.”
“And what about our most recent hellthresh?”
“Forty-three.”
“Do you have any idea what it would mean if my fourth hellthresh lasted forty-four months?” He kept his voice low enough to be shielded by the mumble of the multitude, but his eyes threatened to jump out of his skull.
“No.”
Belit glared at him. How he hated the man’s eyes. The way they protruded made him look sickly even when perfectly sound.
“Neither do I.” He turned toward a door in the wall, a sloping thing that started elaborate on the high end and ended decrepit on the short. “All of Dodane, Derf. My plagues reached all of Dodane—even spilling a little into Jubea and Yap. There hasn’t been another pandemic on that scale for over a century. How many died? What was the number?”
Derf wiped his hand on his trousers before grabbing the knob and pulling the door open for Belit. “Five million six hundred thousand twelve. Belit, why are we at this place?”
“And how many are left?” He entered the threshold and was greeted by warm, damp air. Perfect.
“Across Dodane? More than six million. It’s estimated there are several hundred million in the entire earth though.”
“How dare they!” Belit ignored the exquisite right side of the room and trod into the sickly, ramshackle side. He loved the way the walls always looked like they had just been coughed on. “These expungers really need to learn to let nature run its course.”
“And yourself?” Derf asked.
Belit waved a hand. “I already learned that lesson. Now I’m on to bigger and better.”
The pudgy man grabbed his sleeve. “Belit. Why are we here? I assume you didn’t come all the way just for a sip of ale.”
“A sip? I’ll need a mug at the least.” Silly, silly, Derf. Didn’t he know anything about the workings of the world?
“Belit.”
The plague maker stopped.
Though no light came to blind him, Derf squinted. “What are we doing here?”
Belit supposed he’d have to tell the chap at some point. Irritating. “I need to get a germ. I’m going to bond with a new plague.”
Derf’s squinty, stupid eyes widened, making him look more like a fish than ever. “But...that’s… You can’t.”
“No, Derfolte,” said Belit. “You can’t. Kudda can’t. Bialt can’t. But they can’t do much more than make transient diseases, not even worthy of the plague title. Remember Dwastane? The last supreme epideme?”
Derf swallowed uncomfortably. “Belit...no. Don’t you remember how much damage…”
The epideme widened his own eyes and smiled.
“Belit, yes.”
Belit’s eyes danced through the crowd before him. So many people. Browsing. Buying. Bustling.
Breathing.
How could there be so many?
He cleared his throat. “You know what this city needs?”
His companion, Derf, sent him an askance glance. “Enlighten me.”
“A new plague.”
“Belit, no.”
“Belit, yes!” His eyes danced to the pudgy man.
Derf sighed. “It's hardly been a year since the third hellthresh threshed its last.”
“Exactly. Just look how happy they all are.” Repulsive. They had no right.
“Maybe that's because they're not systematically crapping out their intestines in black globs.”
“Precisely. Morale is too high! Who let them get this cheery?”
The plump fellow scrunched his right cheek in an unenthusiastic smirk, then let it fall. “A spunge or
two might have had a hand in that.”
Belit scoffed. Expungers. Their bones could erode. “We need to do something about them eventually
as well.”
Derf pursed his lips. “Something like throw them a banquet? You know your hobby would be cut
woefully short if they weren’t there to stanch the plagues every time.”
“But their hobby would disappear if I did. They need me.” A woman walking by brushed his arm.
Belit shuddered and wiped at the arm. Disgusting.
“Expunging isn’t so much a hobby as it is an occupation,” Derf murmured, rubbing his brow with soft fingers. “Do you really need to pitch in? We recently had the eleventh yellowing that lasted a month, killed forty-eight. The eighth frenzy went nearly six weeks and left opportunity for eighty-nine new graves to be dug.
“Kudda is more a plague to the epidemes than he is to the general populace.” Belit watched two little girls playing with a doll. Nauseating. “You yourself just said he released his eleventh yellowing and it was expunged in a month. How long did my first hellthresh last?”
Derf made his best show of looking uninterested. Probably because he was. “Forty-one months.”
“And the second?”
“Forty-two.”
“And what about our most recent hellthresh?”
“Forty-three.”
“Do you have any idea what it would mean if my fourth hellthresh lasted forty-four months?” He kept his voice low enough to be shielded by the mumble of the multitude, but his eyes threatened to jump out of his skull.
“No.”
Belit glared at him. How he hated the man’s eyes. The way they protruded made him look sickly even when perfectly sound.
“Neither do I.” He turned toward a door in the wall, a sloping thing that started elaborate on the high end and ended decrepit on the short. “All of Dodane, Derf. My plagues reached all of Dodane—even spilling a little into Jubea and Yap. There hasn’t been another pandemic on that scale for over a century. How many died? What was the number?”
Derf wiped his hand on his trousers before grabbing the knob and pulling the door open for Belit. “Five million six hundred thousand twelve. Belit, why are we at this place?”
“And how many are left?” He entered the threshold and was greeted by warm, damp air. Perfect.
“Across Dodane? More than six million. It’s estimated there are several hundred million in the entire earth though.”
“How dare they!” Belit ignored the exquisite right side of the room and trod into the sickly, ramshackle side. He loved the way the walls always looked like they had just been coughed on. “These expungers really need to learn to let nature run its course.”
“And yourself?” Derf asked.
Belit waved a hand. “I already learned that lesson. Now I’m on to bigger and better.”
The pudgy man grabbed his sleeve. “Belit. Why are we here? I assume you didn’t come all the way just for a sip of ale.”
“A sip? I’ll need a mug at the least.” Silly, silly, Derf. Didn’t he know anything about the workings of the world?
“Belit.”
The plague maker stopped.
Though no light came to blind him, Derf squinted. “What are we doing here?”
Belit supposed he’d have to tell the chap at some point. Irritating. “I need to get a germ. I’m going to bond with a new plague.”
Derf’s squinty, stupid eyes widened, making him look more like a fish than ever. “But...that’s… You can’t.”
“No, Derfolte,” said Belit. “You can’t. Kudda can’t. Bialt can’t. But they can’t do much more than make transient diseases, not even worthy of the plague title. Remember Dwastane? The last supreme epideme?”
Derf swallowed uncomfortably. “Belit...no. Don’t you remember how much damage…”
The epideme widened his own eyes and smiled.
“Belit, yes.”
Monday, August 3, 2015
Chronic Pain Pondering
Once again, I'm going to reproduce a comment that I made in a forum. This time it was somebody lamenting about their chronic pain. If you've never dealt with pain slowly erasing all memories of what life used to be like and all hopes of what life could be, consider yourself extremely blessed. That being said, here are my thoughts that apply to a range of personal challenges.
"Hey, I know how you feel. I've dealt with my pain for 8 years (I'm 22). I'm just a piece in the medical machine that always gets pushed to the next specialist.
But check this out.
Humans can't fly. Sure, we were smart enough to build machines that will fly for us, but we can never fly. I think one needs to view chronic pain like the lack of flight. Is is sad? Yeah. We all wish we could fly. But is it the end of the world and all things joyous? No. The trick is to accept that you can't fly and instead focus on the things you can do.
You mentioned learning languages and instruments. That's awesome. I speak Danish and play over 5 instruments. Success breeds success. When you make small, achievable goals and accomplish them, it makes you realize you can accomplish more. So you do.
For example, I also write books. I can't work out or do sports or even just go on a simple hike. But I can read and write. I'm on my third book right now (at 76,000 words). I have a daily word count goal that feels great to accomplish, and it drives me to write more. When someone's getting to know you through prose you've created, they have no idea you can't fly. They don't know that you're black, that you're blind, that you're allergic to pineapple, that you never wear shoes. They know you because of your mind. It's a wonderful wall that I like to use. That's also why I like to produce my own music (not that I'm spectacularly good at it). But they know nothing about me except for my musical ability. It's beautiful.
So that's my advice. Don't focus on the fact that you can't fly. Focus on the fact that you can run. Never stop running just because the birds above you can fly."
It really takes an adjustment of worldview. I'd love to work out and be physically active like normal people. But in order to be happy, you have to calibrate yourself to your limitations. If you're judging yourself on unachievable criteria, you'll never be happy.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Worldview Building
I'm not a psychologist, just an average people watcher. But I'd like to talk about the things that create a person's worldview. This is mostly for authors to craft more realistic characters. I'll give some real world examples and allow you to think how your characters would be affected in their particular worlds.
The First Impression
Perhaps the most important, and certainly the most fundamental, determinant in defining worldview is the first impression. I've found that the first impression is the hardest to erase, even when presented with contradicting evidence. That's not to say it can't be done. In fact, we have some very good instruments in our toolbox.
Betrayal
Perhaps one of the most effective tools in erasing the first impression is betrayal. It may take ten times, it may only take once. Even when the betrayal turns out to be an unfounded rumor, the new impression remains stamped over the first impression. Sometimes the distortion of worldview occurs in interpersonal relationships, and sometimes it happens on a larger plane, for example with religion. E.g. "I didn't know that [historical religious figure] did [action]. Why didn't anybody tell me?"
Superciliousness
Also known as haughty disdain or arrogance. Betrayal is often, but not always, the overture to disdain. It's the feeling that "I have secret knowledge and am therefore better," or "anyone who doesn't realize what I do is mentally inferior." It can also be derived from advantage of physical/monetary circumstance, but I've found for the average person it's knowledge-based. These feelings are often gleaned from reading/hearing language laced with the following fallacies: argument by emotive language, appeal to spite, alleged certainty, cherry picking, definist fallacy, historian's fallacy, is-should fallacy (naturalistic), political correctness fallacy, overwhelming exception, proving non-existence (burden of proof), and many others.
Repetition
I think we all know it's a logical fallacy, but that doesn't stop us from falling for it. Argument by repetition, or argumentum ad nauseum, is the act of repeating a premise over and over to bolster its veracity. A fantastic example is, "Fat is attractive." We're hearing this argument more and more (and more and more ad nauseum) until we reach the point that we start to think, "Wow, I don't think fat people are attractive. Maybe there's something wrong with me." Taking a step back and assessing the situation, it's easy to see that ignoring millions of years of evolution to validate aversion to self improvement is unsound and not those who aren't romantically attracted to obesity.
Shaming/Humiliation
Often accompanying argument by repetition is argumentum ad verecundiam, appeal to shame, closely overlapping strawman fallacy, appeal to emotion, and argumentum ad hominem. Let's take our fat attraction example. Society wants to thresh us with shame if we don't experience romantic attraction to obesity, thereby trying to short-circuit our brains and remove us from a logical, biological context and thrust us into an emotional, irrational context. This is often accomplished by setting up the defending party's views as a strawman (a grotesque misrepresentation) and then trouncing it. They shame you by telling you that you're shaming them.
Conclusion
In conclusion, there are many other things that influence worldview, but I think these are some of the strongest points. For example, aphorisms and proverbs can change worldviews, but how often do you think the people reposting maxims on Facebook actually apply them to their lives? To craft more realistic, flawed characters, I encourage you to study logical fallacies and program some of them into your characters' worldviews. Challenging a character's worldview is easy and compelling conflict. I'll close with one that I really like, the sunk-cost fallacy. It's the erroneous assumption that since you've already invested so much in a project/idea you have to see it through to the end.
Edit: I might add more as I think of them, but another important one I thought of is Indignation, or more specifically indignation affirmation. This isn't so much a change in worldview as it is a deepening of one's current view. It occurs when someone takes offense at an opposing worldview and then invests more emotion into their own. This reeks of the sunk-cost fallacy and self-imposed appeal to emotion, but we all do it.
Bonus fallacy: Argumentum ad Homonym - when you try and use there instead of their.
The First Impression
Perhaps the most important, and certainly the most fundamental, determinant in defining worldview is the first impression. I've found that the first impression is the hardest to erase, even when presented with contradicting evidence. That's not to say it can't be done. In fact, we have some very good instruments in our toolbox.
Betrayal
Perhaps one of the most effective tools in erasing the first impression is betrayal. It may take ten times, it may only take once. Even when the betrayal turns out to be an unfounded rumor, the new impression remains stamped over the first impression. Sometimes the distortion of worldview occurs in interpersonal relationships, and sometimes it happens on a larger plane, for example with religion. E.g. "I didn't know that [historical religious figure] did [action]. Why didn't anybody tell me?"
Superciliousness
Also known as haughty disdain or arrogance. Betrayal is often, but not always, the overture to disdain. It's the feeling that "I have secret knowledge and am therefore better," or "anyone who doesn't realize what I do is mentally inferior." It can also be derived from advantage of physical/monetary circumstance, but I've found for the average person it's knowledge-based. These feelings are often gleaned from reading/hearing language laced with the following fallacies: argument by emotive language, appeal to spite, alleged certainty, cherry picking, definist fallacy, historian's fallacy, is-should fallacy (naturalistic), political correctness fallacy, overwhelming exception, proving non-existence (burden of proof), and many others.
Repetition
I think we all know it's a logical fallacy, but that doesn't stop us from falling for it. Argument by repetition, or argumentum ad nauseum, is the act of repeating a premise over and over to bolster its veracity. A fantastic example is, "Fat is attractive." We're hearing this argument more and more (and more and more ad nauseum) until we reach the point that we start to think, "Wow, I don't think fat people are attractive. Maybe there's something wrong with me." Taking a step back and assessing the situation, it's easy to see that ignoring millions of years of evolution to validate aversion to self improvement is unsound and not those who aren't romantically attracted to obesity.
Shaming/Humiliation
Often accompanying argument by repetition is argumentum ad verecundiam, appeal to shame, closely overlapping strawman fallacy, appeal to emotion, and argumentum ad hominem. Let's take our fat attraction example. Society wants to thresh us with shame if we don't experience romantic attraction to obesity, thereby trying to short-circuit our brains and remove us from a logical, biological context and thrust us into an emotional, irrational context. This is often accomplished by setting up the defending party's views as a strawman (a grotesque misrepresentation) and then trouncing it. They shame you by telling you that you're shaming them.
Conclusion
In conclusion, there are many other things that influence worldview, but I think these are some of the strongest points. For example, aphorisms and proverbs can change worldviews, but how often do you think the people reposting maxims on Facebook actually apply them to their lives? To craft more realistic, flawed characters, I encourage you to study logical fallacies and program some of them into your characters' worldviews. Challenging a character's worldview is easy and compelling conflict. I'll close with one that I really like, the sunk-cost fallacy. It's the erroneous assumption that since you've already invested so much in a project/idea you have to see it through to the end.
Edit: I might add more as I think of them, but another important one I thought of is Indignation, or more specifically indignation affirmation. This isn't so much a change in worldview as it is a deepening of one's current view. It occurs when someone takes offense at an opposing worldview and then invests more emotion into their own. This reeks of the sunk-cost fallacy and self-imposed appeal to emotion, but we all do it.
Bonus fallacy: Argumentum ad Homonym - when you try and use there instead of their.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Oneironauts 2 Cover
So I had a grandiose idea about the cover of the second Oneironauts. It was going to involve nice cameras and paint in water. Unfortunately I couldn't muster a fish tank for the photos, so it turned out out to be only a dream...
It was at this point that I decided to take matters into my own hands. I fired up GIMP yesterday and came up with the following. It likely won't be the final draft of the cover, but it's a big step in the right direction. I'm going to try and finish everything tomorrow (interior included) and order a proof. If everything looks good, I'm going to publish These Apparitions next week. Until then, enjoy the cover. Please comment with any feedback.
Update 2 (6.18.15): The final cover is nearly complete. I just need to get a picture of my own model (as I don't have rights to the one I used). I'm in talks with some people right now, Hopefully I'll have the shots before the end of the week.
Update 3 (6.19.15): I ended up just using myself as the model for the cover. I would have preferred someone else, but meh. I can change it later if I want. I spent all day yesterday doing the eBook for book 2 and fixing the eBook for book 1. My proof is on the way, so it should be published next week! Anyway, here's the final cover:
It was at this point that I decided to take matters into my own hands. I fired up GIMP yesterday and came up with the following. It likely won't be the final draft of the cover, but it's a big step in the right direction. I'm going to try and finish everything tomorrow (interior included) and order a proof. If everything looks good, I'm going to publish These Apparitions next week. Until then, enjoy the cover. Please comment with any feedback.
FYI: the word count for this book is about 97,000 words. It will be 344 pages (not including front and back material).
Update (6.16.15): I've finished the interior. The chapter names took quite a while. Luckily I learned some good lessons from my first time around so creating the interior was a fairly smooth process. I also posted my cover on an authors' forum and have gotten some feedback which I'll be implementing.
Update 2 (6.18.15): The final cover is nearly complete. I just need to get a picture of my own model (as I don't have rights to the one I used). I'm in talks with some people right now, Hopefully I'll have the shots before the end of the week.
Update 3 (6.19.15): I ended up just using myself as the model for the cover. I would have preferred someone else, but meh. I can change it later if I want. I spent all day yesterday doing the eBook for book 2 and fixing the eBook for book 1. My proof is on the way, so it should be published next week! Anyway, here's the final cover:
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
The Unofficial Author's Contract
Series. We've all read them. And we've all read an under construction series, id est, an unfinished string of novels. It can be excruciating waiting for the next sequence of events concerning characters you've invested time and emotion in. At the same time, sometimes part of the fun is grouping up with other fans online and trading theories or commiserating. But sometimes you realize it's been several years, and still there's not much news about that next installment... What's going on?
I'd like to address what I term the Unofficial Author's Contract. It reads, "By publishing the first of a series of books, I, the author, do promise to complete the remainder of the novels in a timely fashion. I will honor this agreement even if I occasionally have to ignore other activities that seem more entertaining, and even if I grow weary of my own story and characters."
I finished the first Oneironauts in 2012 and published it in October 2014. I finished the first draft of the second book in March and just finished the second draft tonight. All together, it's about a 200,000 word sequence. I was going to school during the second one, which explains why it took 7 months to write, then I waited for finals to be over to edit. I will have physical copies before July, a 9-month turnaround from book to book. Part of what motivated me to keep writing even though school was pressing was the fact that I had people waiting for book 2. I was locked in the Contract.
Now there are writers like Martin and Rothfuss who have made big promises on books they will produce, but take great periods of time to deliver on those promises. Game of Thrones came out in 1996. The intervals for the next books are 1998, 2000, 2005, 2011, TBA, TBA. That's 5 then 6 years for two books, and it will be at least 5 for Winds of Winter. Rothfuss published in 2007 and 2011, and the third is TBA. So 4 years for the first gap, then at least 5 for the second. The reason why readers are annoyed with Rothfuss' output is that when the first novel came out, it was announced that he had the series complete.
For some contrast, I've compiled a small list (some word counts are estimated from page lengths):
Patrick Rothfuss
720,000 words in 9 years
George R R Martin
1,770,000 words in 20 years
Jim Butcher
3,200,000 words in 16 years (not including his forthcoming novel)
Steven Erikson
3,300,000 words in 12 years (for the Malazan novels alone)
Robert Jordan
3,400,000 words in 16 years
Brandon Sanderson
3,900,000 words in 11 years (this is including short stories and Shadows of Self)
Now, all of these authors have put out a bit more than what's shown here, but the fundamental information is obvious. I won't speculate on the various factors that affect the authors' release schedules, but I will say this: Sanderson, Erickson, Jordan, and Butcher all consider their fans while they write. The fans are the only reason an author can write for a living. If you don't consider a consumer when creating a product, it will likely flop.
Let's draw a parallel to Google+. People were mental about G+ from about 10-4 months before it came out (I can't exactly remember). But Google kept doing invite only. Eventually buzz died down. Then they released it and it flopped marvelously. If they had put it out about half a year before, there would have been a massive migration over to G+. But they waited and people lost interest.
Books obviously have a longer timeline than social media, but honestly, the longer an author waits to deliver on a book, the more the hype dies down (generally). Martin is surfing on back catalog orders for the first five borne by the success of the TV series. Rothfuss is still riding on the fact that he was going to release the three books within 3 years of each other. Butcher, Erikson, and Sanderson however consistently put out new material that readers enjoy. They honor the Contract, and I love them for that.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
To Letchera: A Nonsense Poem
I started this a while ago but just finished it last night. It's inspired by Lewis Carroll's Jaberwocky. I don't know whether I'll rework it at some point in the future. Hope you like it!
I sopped a bit of bintle in my ebolestic broth,
Though frettled at the farlow that the spintel fellow quoth,
"'Tis lomesy and bewretched whence we letcherants do roam,
The meanest apocarthy wouldn't dare our crembous home.
The alkaline distincture and the lepazani tare
Categorize and extincture proseletics do beware.
Curcudgeon though a phalanx might through frome and slaken dust,
The legion’s mallegoric crow would pitter in the crust."
I tarrowed as I heard the laird escape the fellow's jaw,
Proposity seized and I abbreaved the challenge he laid askraw.
"To haunt an eng toward the same ascriptions you've applayed
Has always been surriliquous, a passion that abade.
So if you chantly danter and consent to be my guide,
To morrow neath a curbid dawn, to Letchera we ride."
Thus two hands struck a crimping twee that eve in Coelath Bray.
We nestled then in giltered dreams as darkness crept astray.
To aft a fortnight of a sudden lingered rife with prints,
And there astride the edgelands skriggled out my frame a wince.
The beasts that bear our burdens tarrowed treadless at the frome;
We lighted of and sauntered in whence letcherants do roam.
“Beware,” said he, “the craddleswee.” And motioned to the dirt.
A flint of fang betrayed the same, a grithing beast alert.
“And fear,” he said, “the straffoged. ‘Twill nay but feed ye death.”
I spied it gripping fast a branch and twithered out a breath.
Of time diurnal or nocturnal no sign I apprehended,
‘Twas a fortnight out from Coelath Bray the sun had last ascended.
The lomesy dank enthronged us so, it leckered in my skin,
And nigh a corpse, with fainting pulse, the destert cough began.
I hearkened half-hearted ‘tween haken hacks to hear the howl of Harn,
The echos embearing a promise that my passing would be warm.
‘Twas all for vain, my eared strains, the yowl not once arose—
Least from the throat of Harn—but me, I howled whilst in remose.
Through hacks and twithering, porous yowls, bemoaned I every second,
Adjuring time to wander back then fail at being reckoned.
“O, currish day in Coelath Bray,” I was so wont to groan.
My sevid guide of Letchera would gander me and done,
“Ye fromey, stanched Gevatheran, ‘twas ye what forced me here!
Ye’ll swiftly feed the craddleswee, and dust shall be yer bier.
I’m brisling o’er with all yer fuss, so twain a choice I lay,
Ye kinter tight yer lips anon, or skraw straight back to Bray!”
So on we strode, our pace unlenting, driven by depravity,
Body ‘long with thoughts yon deeper into obfuscavity.
The bractle waste disumed my flesh and dribbled on my soul;
A baling knell in the hintermind, droned death at each a toll.
The anguish tore me straight and savage, hope was but remote,
I teetered off the brink and wailed a blade out of my throat.
A grisled hand clamped o’er my mouth, and harshly spat my guide,
“You’ve sentenced us, Gevatheran. We’ve functerally died!”
He conjured strength from realms unknown to Gevaths such as I,
And darting ‘tween great palls of gloom, defined the verb ‘to fly.’
I stippled off in idle chase, dread heelnips from from a foe,
To my request for motion rejured back my body, “No.”
My drasted yelp of agony belied our dire state,
‘Twas answered by the craddleswee and teeth preclined to sate.
So there I lay, my folly oozing, pining after home,
My final breath a twithered sigh with lips upon the frome.
I sopped a bit of bintle in my ebolestic broth,
Though frettled at the farlow that the spintel fellow quoth,
"'Tis lomesy and bewretched whence we letcherants do roam,
The meanest apocarthy wouldn't dare our crembous home.
The alkaline distincture and the lepazani tare
Categorize and extincture proseletics do beware.
Curcudgeon though a phalanx might through frome and slaken dust,
The legion’s mallegoric crow would pitter in the crust."
I tarrowed as I heard the laird escape the fellow's jaw,
Proposity seized and I abbreaved the challenge he laid askraw.
"To haunt an eng toward the same ascriptions you've applayed
Has always been surriliquous, a passion that abade.
So if you chantly danter and consent to be my guide,
To morrow neath a curbid dawn, to Letchera we ride."
Thus two hands struck a crimping twee that eve in Coelath Bray.
We nestled then in giltered dreams as darkness crept astray.
To aft a fortnight of a sudden lingered rife with prints,
And there astride the edgelands skriggled out my frame a wince.
The beasts that bear our burdens tarrowed treadless at the frome;
We lighted of and sauntered in whence letcherants do roam.
“Beware,” said he, “the craddleswee.” And motioned to the dirt.
A flint of fang betrayed the same, a grithing beast alert.
“And fear,” he said, “the straffoged. ‘Twill nay but feed ye death.”
I spied it gripping fast a branch and twithered out a breath.
Of time diurnal or nocturnal no sign I apprehended,
‘Twas a fortnight out from Coelath Bray the sun had last ascended.
The lomesy dank enthronged us so, it leckered in my skin,
And nigh a corpse, with fainting pulse, the destert cough began.
I hearkened half-hearted ‘tween haken hacks to hear the howl of Harn,
The echos embearing a promise that my passing would be warm.
‘Twas all for vain, my eared strains, the yowl not once arose—
Least from the throat of Harn—but me, I howled whilst in remose.
Through hacks and twithering, porous yowls, bemoaned I every second,
Adjuring time to wander back then fail at being reckoned.
“O, currish day in Coelath Bray,” I was so wont to groan.
My sevid guide of Letchera would gander me and done,
“Ye fromey, stanched Gevatheran, ‘twas ye what forced me here!
Ye’ll swiftly feed the craddleswee, and dust shall be yer bier.
I’m brisling o’er with all yer fuss, so twain a choice I lay,
Ye kinter tight yer lips anon, or skraw straight back to Bray!”
So on we strode, our pace unlenting, driven by depravity,
Body ‘long with thoughts yon deeper into obfuscavity.
The bractle waste disumed my flesh and dribbled on my soul;
A baling knell in the hintermind, droned death at each a toll.
The anguish tore me straight and savage, hope was but remote,
I teetered off the brink and wailed a blade out of my throat.
A grisled hand clamped o’er my mouth, and harshly spat my guide,
“You’ve sentenced us, Gevatheran. We’ve functerally died!”
He conjured strength from realms unknown to Gevaths such as I,
And darting ‘tween great palls of gloom, defined the verb ‘to fly.’
I stippled off in idle chase, dread heelnips from from a foe,
To my request for motion rejured back my body, “No.”
My drasted yelp of agony belied our dire state,
‘Twas answered by the craddleswee and teeth preclined to sate.
So there I lay, my folly oozing, pining after home,
My final breath a twithered sigh with lips upon the frome.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
The Stoneslayer aka Moby Dick With Golems (Chapter 1)
So I've had a story idea bouncing around my head for a month or so. Today during a break between classes, I got on my computer and started writing. Several hours later I was finished with the first chapter of a project that's tentatively titled The Stoneslayer. It could be classified as an epic fantasy novella. I project that it will be around 30,000-50,000 words long. I may or may not post any more excerpts of this until it's finished. For now just think of it as Moby Dick with golems. Enjoy and tell me your thoughts.
Edit 7/26/2015: If you've noticed in the sidebar, I have almost 70,000 words. I got a lot more cool ideas as I wrote and expect it to come out to 115-120k.
Evrom raced up a grassy hill, thick metal cudgel on one shoulder, boltslinger on the other. He paused to survey upon reaching the top and frowned. The evnarals, giant rock beasts, were cresting another mound two hills over.
The clatter of clothing beside him signified that Alyozam had made it to the top as well. Evrom pointed. “It’s going to take a mighty pair of legs to catch those beasts.”
Alyozam huffed, trying to regain his breath. “Legs which you surely have, Evrom.”
“I fear they are not as fine as yours, Alyozam,” replied the winner of the footrace.
They both turned as two more men reached the top, completing their party. The oldest of them—though only forty-three—Kerbin, spoke between heaving breaths. “Brothers, these evnarals may be too swift for us.”
“Surely they are not too swift for you, Kerbin,” said the fourth member, Losheimap. The general goal of addressing other people was to prove oneself humbler than they. People often found ways to work around this by saying obviously sarcastic comments in the levelest tone possible.
The men on the hill were stoneslayers, the most impressive occupation one could hold. If it weren’t for their intrepid expeditions to hunt quarries of evnarals, their villages and cities would have no shelter. Their mission was to hunt the living rock so the masons could have dead rock to work with.
But the living rock, the evnarals, were vicious when provoked, tireless, and nigh impenetrable. Being a stoneslayer was no mean task, and the mandatory retirement age was forty-five. The others in the band of stoneslayers enjoyed reminding Kerbin of this in the humblest way possible.
Kerbin smiled. “You are a kind man, Losheimap. Though I could only hope for such success accompanied by you.”
Evrom was the youngest of the group at twenty-four, but he had been hunting the living rock since he was sixteen, the time when Hadaratzians were granted vocational freedom. Alyozam and Losheimap had both been on the hunt for nearly half their lives, being thirty-four and thirty-five respectively.
“Do you think we have strayed too far from home?” asked Evrom. He let the head of his mace fall to the ground.
“I’ve been farther,” Alyozam replied. He slung his boltslinger onto his shoulder and stroked his beard. “It was maybe eight years ago when Kreitah was still hunting the rock. We made it to the Pass of Jerr before we slew the quarry. It was a living terror carting the dead rock back to Desek.” He paused. “Recalling that return trip makes me question whether it would be worth it to pursue these evnarals any longer.”
They all looked toward Kerbin, who steeled his brow in thought. “We will follow for one day longer, then reroute toward Desek if unsuccessful to search for more quarries.”
The three younger stoneslayers nodded in agreement. “Excellent judgment,” they intoned.
The group descended the hill to their horses and carts. Evrom walked up to one of the stone and metal carts and tossed in his cudgel and boltslinger. He turned next to the attached horse and patted its side. Though he wasn’t a short man, he didn’t even come up to the creature’s shoulder. He reached up and unhitched the horse, letting it roam. Kerbin did the same for the other cart.
Losheimap and Alyozam set out in the waning light to gather some dustbush leaves for the fire. For reasons unknown yet not unwelcome, dustbush leaves burned for an inordinate amount of time compared to other plants. A fire could be kept alive for hours off a small bush.
They returned quickly and dinner was soon cooking. The conversation topic of choice was the upcoming coupling.
“It’s been far too long since I’ve coupled,” Losheimap declared, pointing at the others with his spoon.
Alyozam strained some misplaced stew out of his beard and chuckled. “And so it has. But of course you know that we all have been deprived of women for the same amount of time.”
“You are, of course, right, my friend. I was merely stating something we all could resonate with,” Losheimap replied.
“An apt judgment,” said Kerbin. “Six months is much too long between couplings. But of course it is as Gnolom wills it.”
“I firmly believe that you have control of your desires at this point, Kerbin. After over fifty couplings, have you not filled and drained your cup enough times to satisfy?” Losheimap asked with honest inquisition.
Kerbin smiled at the subtle jab at his age. “No matter how many tables you sit at, hunger will drive you to another,” he stated. “It is only a week away, my brothers. Praised be the name of Gnolom for allotting us a time to interact with his daughters!”
“Yes,” Alyozam concurred. “The older I become, the more I cherish their very presence. My desires now are different from my first hungry couplings. I despair that we are only given two days together.”
Evrom let his spoon sink in his stew and stared into the fire. “How many repeats do you usually couple with?” he asked his elders.
“Repeats?” Losheimap almost scoffed, though his humility gave no room to open mockery. “Life is too short and couplings too few to limit myself to one woman. There have been two or three couplings that I spent the entire duration with one woman though.”
Alyozam reclined and looked to the stars. “I’ve had two different repeats. I was foolish and thought I might love them, and I couldn’t stop myself. I have since tried to be more zealous for Gnolom.”
“I myself have had one repeat,” Kerbin admitted. “I was young and foolish, more so than Alyozam here. We spent three consecutive couplings together then got wiser the fourth time around.”
Evrom took their words in with a clenched jaw. The next week would mark his fourteenth coupling and, if plans held, his thirteenth repeat.
The others noticed his tension. “To be caught between two brawling evnarals is better than to be caught with a woman,” Losheimap cited from the Third Message.
“If you carry perplexities, Evrom, do not fear sharing them with us. We are your brothers, not your accusers,” Kerbin said, finishing his stew.
Evrom hesitated. “It’s just...why can we not read the Messages?”
Kerbin grabbed his waterskin and poured some into the clay dish. “The Messages are meant to only be read by the most humble. Tell me, have you ever felt a swell of pride as you ride into the city with a cart full of dead stone?”
Evrom bit his lip. “Yeah. But do you really think that the king has never had any prideswells?”
“It’s not that the king and his court have never had any prideswells, Evrom. It’s that their amount and intensity are so much lower than we could even imagine.” Kerbin waved the bowl around to remove large drops of moisture.
Evrom sighed. The king, Farauv, according to theology was the humblest person on the planet. If it weren’t so, he could not also be the only Deathslayer alive. As the ultimate test of humility and precedent to his coronation, the king underwent a special sacrificial ritual. He lay on an altar and had his throat slit. Five days later, he would rise again completely whole. In the interceding days he would be taught by Gnolom, then return to Hadaratz with a new Message for the people.
Or that was how things once were. There hadn’t been a new Message for over four hundred years. It was declared in the final Message, the twenty-fifth, that there would be no further Messages; the instructions of Gnolom were complete. It also declared that the title of Deathslayer was to become hereditary, though anyone could petition to gain the title at any time. They would simply have to pass through the sacrificial ritual themselves.
“Excuse me if I overstep my bounds, but your demeanor suggests that you might be in the power of pride even now,” Kerbin observed.
Evrom inhaled sharply and tried to purge the feeling from his insides. “Yours by twice,” he said in thanks.
To express gratitude and humility simultaneously, a certain phraseology had worked its way into the Hadaratzian vocabulary. It began as, ‘your life is greater than mine by twice,’ and eventually morphed into just ‘yours by twice’. Of course, a significant level of gratitude was expressed by ‘yours by five’, and the utmost display of humble appreciation was found in the words ‘yours by ten’.
The others had finished and were cleaning out their dishes. “Tell me, Kerbin, in your superior years of experience, have you ever arranged a tryst with one of your couplings?” Losheimap asked.
Kerbin stared into the fire without speaking for a moment. “Such a thing is difficult to manage as a stoneslayer. But as I have just declared that we are brothers and not accusers, I will share something with you. As I said, I was much more foolish than Alyozam. The same woman that I coupled with thrice, I met with her outside of any city on nine separate occasions.”
“Nine!” exclaimed Alyozam. “Gnolom knows if the Paramours have coupled so many times!”
Kerbin smiled ruefully. “Yes, we had actually discussed going to join them. To live with one another out of the king’s reach and be able to love, no holds barred. It was a tantalizing offer.”
“Well what made you change your course? I can’t think that you were caught, for you’re here with us today,” said Alyozam.
Ezrom’s heart paced more quickly as the conversation progressed. If Kerbin and his lover could pull it off, what could Ezrom and Matak accomplish?
“It was what happens to any addicted fool. I kept telling myself that I didn’t love her. I could stop meeting with her at any time. And then I heard a sermon by one of the king’s advisors. He read the part from Message Six where it says, ‘And he loved her, and was filled with pride.’ It was enough to smack me out of my stupidity and recognize that I loved her. Only then was I truly able to humble myself and break it off. I went to the next tryst we had planned and told her we couldn’t meet any more. I told her I didn’t love her. She wept, and so did I as I ran home.” Kerbin’s eyes were dotted with tears even as he told the tale.
“For Eternity’s sake, brother. Have you ever told anyone?” asked Losheimap.
Kerbin shook his head. “You three are the first. I’ve always known that it should be told to some of my stoneslayer brothers, but I never felt right about it until now.”
Ezrom fought a tempest inside. Kerbin’s story—if one tweaked the ending—sounded exactly like what he desired.
“Well I’m glad you trust us enough. Such an admission is a mark of true humility, brother,” said Alyozam.
“Yours by five for your compassion toward my iniquities.” Kerbin smiled at his friend.
“Yours by five for telling us, brother,” said Ezrom. And he meant it, if for different reasons than the other two might.
“But while I’m at it, I have one more confession.” Kerbin gazed over the dark plains toward home. “It was a lie I told her then, and it is a lie even now. I still love her.”
Edit 7/26/2015: If you've noticed in the sidebar, I have almost 70,000 words. I got a lot more cool ideas as I wrote and expect it to come out to 115-120k.
Source: Kari Christensen
Evrom raced up a grassy hill, thick metal cudgel on one shoulder, boltslinger on the other. He paused to survey upon reaching the top and frowned. The evnarals, giant rock beasts, were cresting another mound two hills over.
The clatter of clothing beside him signified that Alyozam had made it to the top as well. Evrom pointed. “It’s going to take a mighty pair of legs to catch those beasts.”
Alyozam huffed, trying to regain his breath. “Legs which you surely have, Evrom.”
“I fear they are not as fine as yours, Alyozam,” replied the winner of the footrace.
They both turned as two more men reached the top, completing their party. The oldest of them—though only forty-three—Kerbin, spoke between heaving breaths. “Brothers, these evnarals may be too swift for us.”
“Surely they are not too swift for you, Kerbin,” said the fourth member, Losheimap. The general goal of addressing other people was to prove oneself humbler than they. People often found ways to work around this by saying obviously sarcastic comments in the levelest tone possible.
The men on the hill were stoneslayers, the most impressive occupation one could hold. If it weren’t for their intrepid expeditions to hunt quarries of evnarals, their villages and cities would have no shelter. Their mission was to hunt the living rock so the masons could have dead rock to work with.
But the living rock, the evnarals, were vicious when provoked, tireless, and nigh impenetrable. Being a stoneslayer was no mean task, and the mandatory retirement age was forty-five. The others in the band of stoneslayers enjoyed reminding Kerbin of this in the humblest way possible.
Kerbin smiled. “You are a kind man, Losheimap. Though I could only hope for such success accompanied by you.”
Evrom was the youngest of the group at twenty-four, but he had been hunting the living rock since he was sixteen, the time when Hadaratzians were granted vocational freedom. Alyozam and Losheimap had both been on the hunt for nearly half their lives, being thirty-four and thirty-five respectively.
“Do you think we have strayed too far from home?” asked Evrom. He let the head of his mace fall to the ground.
“I’ve been farther,” Alyozam replied. He slung his boltslinger onto his shoulder and stroked his beard. “It was maybe eight years ago when Kreitah was still hunting the rock. We made it to the Pass of Jerr before we slew the quarry. It was a living terror carting the dead rock back to Desek.” He paused. “Recalling that return trip makes me question whether it would be worth it to pursue these evnarals any longer.”
They all looked toward Kerbin, who steeled his brow in thought. “We will follow for one day longer, then reroute toward Desek if unsuccessful to search for more quarries.”
The three younger stoneslayers nodded in agreement. “Excellent judgment,” they intoned.
The group descended the hill to their horses and carts. Evrom walked up to one of the stone and metal carts and tossed in his cudgel and boltslinger. He turned next to the attached horse and patted its side. Though he wasn’t a short man, he didn’t even come up to the creature’s shoulder. He reached up and unhitched the horse, letting it roam. Kerbin did the same for the other cart.
Losheimap and Alyozam set out in the waning light to gather some dustbush leaves for the fire. For reasons unknown yet not unwelcome, dustbush leaves burned for an inordinate amount of time compared to other plants. A fire could be kept alive for hours off a small bush.
They returned quickly and dinner was soon cooking. The conversation topic of choice was the upcoming coupling.
“It’s been far too long since I’ve coupled,” Losheimap declared, pointing at the others with his spoon.
Alyozam strained some misplaced stew out of his beard and chuckled. “And so it has. But of course you know that we all have been deprived of women for the same amount of time.”
“You are, of course, right, my friend. I was merely stating something we all could resonate with,” Losheimap replied.
“An apt judgment,” said Kerbin. “Six months is much too long between couplings. But of course it is as Gnolom wills it.”
“I firmly believe that you have control of your desires at this point, Kerbin. After over fifty couplings, have you not filled and drained your cup enough times to satisfy?” Losheimap asked with honest inquisition.
Kerbin smiled at the subtle jab at his age. “No matter how many tables you sit at, hunger will drive you to another,” he stated. “It is only a week away, my brothers. Praised be the name of Gnolom for allotting us a time to interact with his daughters!”
“Yes,” Alyozam concurred. “The older I become, the more I cherish their very presence. My desires now are different from my first hungry couplings. I despair that we are only given two days together.”
Evrom let his spoon sink in his stew and stared into the fire. “How many repeats do you usually couple with?” he asked his elders.
“Repeats?” Losheimap almost scoffed, though his humility gave no room to open mockery. “Life is too short and couplings too few to limit myself to one woman. There have been two or three couplings that I spent the entire duration with one woman though.”
Alyozam reclined and looked to the stars. “I’ve had two different repeats. I was foolish and thought I might love them, and I couldn’t stop myself. I have since tried to be more zealous for Gnolom.”
“I myself have had one repeat,” Kerbin admitted. “I was young and foolish, more so than Alyozam here. We spent three consecutive couplings together then got wiser the fourth time around.”
Evrom took their words in with a clenched jaw. The next week would mark his fourteenth coupling and, if plans held, his thirteenth repeat.
The others noticed his tension. “To be caught between two brawling evnarals is better than to be caught with a woman,” Losheimap cited from the Third Message.
“If you carry perplexities, Evrom, do not fear sharing them with us. We are your brothers, not your accusers,” Kerbin said, finishing his stew.
Evrom hesitated. “It’s just...why can we not read the Messages?”
Kerbin grabbed his waterskin and poured some into the clay dish. “The Messages are meant to only be read by the most humble. Tell me, have you ever felt a swell of pride as you ride into the city with a cart full of dead stone?”
Evrom bit his lip. “Yeah. But do you really think that the king has never had any prideswells?”
“It’s not that the king and his court have never had any prideswells, Evrom. It’s that their amount and intensity are so much lower than we could even imagine.” Kerbin waved the bowl around to remove large drops of moisture.
Evrom sighed. The king, Farauv, according to theology was the humblest person on the planet. If it weren’t so, he could not also be the only Deathslayer alive. As the ultimate test of humility and precedent to his coronation, the king underwent a special sacrificial ritual. He lay on an altar and had his throat slit. Five days later, he would rise again completely whole. In the interceding days he would be taught by Gnolom, then return to Hadaratz with a new Message for the people.
Or that was how things once were. There hadn’t been a new Message for over four hundred years. It was declared in the final Message, the twenty-fifth, that there would be no further Messages; the instructions of Gnolom were complete. It also declared that the title of Deathslayer was to become hereditary, though anyone could petition to gain the title at any time. They would simply have to pass through the sacrificial ritual themselves.
“Excuse me if I overstep my bounds, but your demeanor suggests that you might be in the power of pride even now,” Kerbin observed.
Evrom inhaled sharply and tried to purge the feeling from his insides. “Yours by twice,” he said in thanks.
To express gratitude and humility simultaneously, a certain phraseology had worked its way into the Hadaratzian vocabulary. It began as, ‘your life is greater than mine by twice,’ and eventually morphed into just ‘yours by twice’. Of course, a significant level of gratitude was expressed by ‘yours by five’, and the utmost display of humble appreciation was found in the words ‘yours by ten’.
The others had finished and were cleaning out their dishes. “Tell me, Kerbin, in your superior years of experience, have you ever arranged a tryst with one of your couplings?” Losheimap asked.
Kerbin stared into the fire without speaking for a moment. “Such a thing is difficult to manage as a stoneslayer. But as I have just declared that we are brothers and not accusers, I will share something with you. As I said, I was much more foolish than Alyozam. The same woman that I coupled with thrice, I met with her outside of any city on nine separate occasions.”
“Nine!” exclaimed Alyozam. “Gnolom knows if the Paramours have coupled so many times!”
Kerbin smiled ruefully. “Yes, we had actually discussed going to join them. To live with one another out of the king’s reach and be able to love, no holds barred. It was a tantalizing offer.”
“Well what made you change your course? I can’t think that you were caught, for you’re here with us today,” said Alyozam.
Ezrom’s heart paced more quickly as the conversation progressed. If Kerbin and his lover could pull it off, what could Ezrom and Matak accomplish?
“It was what happens to any addicted fool. I kept telling myself that I didn’t love her. I could stop meeting with her at any time. And then I heard a sermon by one of the king’s advisors. He read the part from Message Six where it says, ‘And he loved her, and was filled with pride.’ It was enough to smack me out of my stupidity and recognize that I loved her. Only then was I truly able to humble myself and break it off. I went to the next tryst we had planned and told her we couldn’t meet any more. I told her I didn’t love her. She wept, and so did I as I ran home.” Kerbin’s eyes were dotted with tears even as he told the tale.
“For Eternity’s sake, brother. Have you ever told anyone?” asked Losheimap.
Kerbin shook his head. “You three are the first. I’ve always known that it should be told to some of my stoneslayer brothers, but I never felt right about it until now.”
Ezrom fought a tempest inside. Kerbin’s story—if one tweaked the ending—sounded exactly like what he desired.
“Well I’m glad you trust us enough. Such an admission is a mark of true humility, brother,” said Alyozam.
“Yours by five for your compassion toward my iniquities.” Kerbin smiled at his friend.
“Yours by five for telling us, brother,” said Ezrom. And he meant it, if for different reasons than the other two might.
“But while I’m at it, I have one more confession.” Kerbin gazed over the dark plains toward home. “It was a lie I told her then, and it is a lie even now. I still love her.”
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