Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

I’ve seen a lot of things on this five-year climb.  The road winds up the Mountain, sometimes so steeply my wrists ache from the constant typing.  I can’t type fast enough and come up for air, gasping, arms hurting, hungry and bleary eyed, only to realize I was supposed to have gone to bed hours ago.  Sometimes those steep climbs merely dump me into another Valley of the Shadow of Death, all the more unexpected because of the heights I thought I’d reached.

A soft voice whispers on the still night air:  There’s no safety on this Mountain, didn’t you know that, silly grasshopper?  No stage of the Mountain is easy.  Other than quitting and trudging home with my tail between my legs. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how flat and safe the way back appears if I turn around, and how steep and dangerous the road remains ahead. 

Don’t look back, the voice whispers.  Don’t look down.  Don’t stop now.

~ * ~

Why the melodramatic references to the Mountain today?  I’ve been thinking off and on for days about expectations–specifically reader expectations.  For the first time, I’m writing a book with full knowledge that PEOPLE will actually READ this book.  Not safe people…like my beloved sis and Wanda who are going to love me even if I mess up this story, although they’ll YELL at me until I fix it…but….READERS.

Laugh if you will, but that’s a rather scary proposition.

Oh, I don’t know when, exactly, that this Valley began to inch its insiduous shadow into my path.  It might have been while reading a piece May is writing about The Ruthless Reader.  Or more likely, it’s my own ruthless dissatisfaction with a recent book.  Mix that in with some positive reviews on my own work, and I suddenly find myself wanting to huddle by a campfire and peer around fearfully at the shadows instead of trudging onward.

Those shadows start to whisper such horrible things.  What if…the writer’s question, you know…I’ve messed up this book?  What if people hate me because I killed a character?  What if people are sickened by the villain(s)?  What if people want to tar and feather Shannari because she…No, no, why not stich a big red “A” on her chest?!? 

Worrying about what people might think, I started making little mistakes.  I flinched away from scenes I knew must happen.  In fact, I tried to hide the very complex and gritty characters I’d struggled so hard to breathe life into in a silly effort to make them safe, clean, and pretty.

Instead of letting them bleed and rage on the page in all their dark glory.

Oh, okay, Gregar was still pretty, even when I messed him up, but you know what I mean.

On the bright side, at least I realized I messed these things up and have already fixed them, instead of finishing the first draft and realizing… oops!  Will the real murderously sexy Gregar please return to the story?  Will this whiny, whimpy Shannari PLEASE go away? Will this insanely secure and never ruffled Rhaekhar please fall down on your sword and let the jealous, aggressive Khul back on the page, please?

I finally realized today that I’m in my Dark Moment.  I hit this Valley with every book, the moment when I quail before the feat and wonder what the hell I was thinking.  I thought this story would be safe.  I thought I’d write confidently to the end and not flinch from the truth of my own premise, but even this story threatens me with doubt.  Even these beloved characters wonder if the light truly shines brighter in the midst of the midnight’s shadow, if in the end, even love can save them after the misdeeds they’ve committed and/or seen.

I realized there is nothing more ruthless than a writer doubting herself in the darkest moment of Story.  Yet the moon shines above, dimly but still there, a silver beacon of beauty and love and I know what I must do.

I block those whispers from my mind.  I refuse to consider the shadows writhing on either side.  And I trudge on through the Valley.  Don’t look back.  Don’t look down.  Don’t stop now.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

First, a killer review of Survive My Fire and The Fire Within by Bethanie here.  She blew ME away. 

Point of view. The was one of the coolest things about this story for me: Throughout, the narrative switches point of view from 1st to 3rd person depending on which character’s head we’re in (the dragon-woman is 1st, the male is 3rd). I’ve read about this technique, but have never read anything that actually used it.

It was really effective. I liked it a lot, in fact. Why? Well, for one thing, it was very clear when the POV changed, and as we all know, I am a huge fan of clarity, so that is certainly part of why this worked so well for me. But I also think the 1st person POV had a lot to do with how tightly I was drawn into the dragon-woman’s head and why I ended up feeling so strongly what the character was feeling. That line between reader and character became thinner and thinner and thinner until I forgot it was supposed to be there at all. Which was awesome.

I’ll admit the POV switching between 1st and 3rd was purely accidental.  One of the things I like to do for character development as I run through the Emotional Toolbox and Hero’s Journey is a first-person character letter.  It helps me get deep into the character’s head as I explore the key defining moment(s) in the backstory.  With Chanda, she came through so loud and strong from the first word of her letter that I simply could not avoid writing in her in 1st. 

Yet I wanted to switch to the hero’s POV, too, so I could widen the story and show her through his eyes.  I needed to warm up the story and emotions a little, because let’s face it.  Chanda is rather brutal and cold when the story first opens, at least emotionally. 

Hundreds of warriors have braved my domain.  They came, and they died.  I killed them all.

Too much of that strong POV would have suffocated the story, I think.  Anyway, so that’s how I came to write back and forth in mixed POVs, something I’d never done before.  The only other book I’ve read recently that mixed POV like that was Holly Lisle’s Talyn.  I won’t say I won’t do it again, but it takes a special story to pull that off, I think.

Thank you so much, Bethanie!  I’m still beaming like an idiot over here.

As for my Fess Up, I’m still grinding away.  I need to put the finishing polishes on the second pass of BD editor revisions this morning and get that shipped back.  I added a little 700-word scene, and it’s okay…but it’s missing that extra OOMPH that says it must be added exactly right here to balance the story.  So I need to think about it more and see if I can tie it more strongly to the theme and arc of the character.  I promised it back today.

Then back to Road.  I’m still in the aftereffects of that long agonizing torture/interrogation scene.  All threads on the Plains are coming together into one big knot, but so far, I think the knot is exactly where I need it to be.  All that remains…is the final road to Shanhasson.  The final showdown.  Basically, Act III.  But it could be 20K yet.

I hope all mothers had a wonderful day yesterday!  The monsters treated me to breakfast in bed and a tear-worthy little hand-made book they illustrated.  It’s both hilarious and adorable.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Daisy at The Long and Short of It Reviews has given Rose another great review:

Ms. Burkhart also gets bonus points for illustrating the best way to deal with tangled extra-long hair. Start at the bottom and work your way up. So many fantasy writers give their heroine butt-length hair and never mention the every day maintenance of it. One cannot get through a sword fight, or run for one’s life without having to deal with hair-related consequences later.

Rose of Shanhasson is a gritty, sweaty great start to what I believe will be a promising trilogy. I’m really looking forward to getting my hands on the next one! This one’s recommended for fantasy and romantic fantasy readers who like a little Conan in their heroes.

The part about the hair really tickled me.  This might sound dumb, but I remember in the first draft a hundred years ago, I had Shannari’s hair loose under the helmet and someone called me on it.  And I was like…yeah…duh.  Loose long hair is ridiculous.  So from there, I tried to make it REAL, as real as possible.

My warriors even wear socks.  (That’s a joke in the epic fantasy world.) 

Read the whole review here.  Thank you, Daisy!

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

So there I was, writing away at the bottom of the Well, slamming words left and right…and I suddenly realized I’d paddled into stormy waters.

The water became thick, more like Jell-O, and every stroke about pulled my arms out of their sockets.  “Hmmm,” says I.  “Must have made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.”

I knew this scene.  Even in the old terrible first draft from years ago, I’d had this scene.  The key players had changed, of course, but in general, I knew where it was going.  So why was I stuck?  I started going through the mental check list.  Was it a sex scene?  (Sometimes those bog me down.  All those hands to get right, don’t you know.)  Nope.  Was it a fight scene?  (Ditto on the choreography.)  Nope, but it was a violent scene.  Torture.  I need the good guys to torture some of the bad guys…just enough…to get key information out of them.  They need to know who the traitors are. 

But I knew all this going into the scene.  So the problem was deeper.

After struggling to get even 200 words last night, I finally realized what I’d done around 10:00 p.m.  I’d turned my heroine into a weakling.  Shannari couldn’t watch the torture.  Why?  Because that was easier than letting her do what she needed to do. 

She needed to do some of it herself.

I didn’t want her to participate, but oh, boy, she certainly did.  As soon as I backed up and deleted the weak whiny stuff, she took over in a hurry, sliced and diced a while, and now this scene is going somewhere.  Whew.

Back to drowning in the Well, I hope.

No Friday Snippet today, but if you want to read something, go back to yesterday’s character interview.  I’m struggling to get scenes in Road that don’t spoil something…either the key developments at the end of Rose, or how those things worsen in Road.  So I’ll have to think about what I can share through snippets.  If I have time this weekend, I’ll peruse my old files and see if I can spruce up something enough to give away.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Welcome back to the show “Every Character is the Star of His Own Story,” brought to you in order to create more satisfying secondary characters.  The star of the show today is Theo, a very vile villain from the Shanhasson trilogy.  This interview dumped some very startling information into my lap, which I’ll be using as I come down to the climax and resolution of the Road to Shanhasson.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

A period of unrestrained indulgence in an activity; spree; binge: a crying jag; a talking jag.

I’m in a writing jag, so deep in the Well that I can’t see the sun.  I don’t want to see the sun.  I hit 1K and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  2K isn’t enough.  I’d go for 3K but my right arm starts to tingle.

Over 17K in May alone already (not counting this morning).

I just can’t write fast enough.  The threads are tightening so fast they might strangle me if I’m not careful and I can’t use the ivory rahke to hack my way out.  I’ve got to trust that the threads fall into place.

And write faster.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Welcome to the show “Every Character is the Star of His Own Story,” brought to you in order to create more satisfying secondary characters.  The star of the show this week is Varne, Khul’s nearest Blood, from the Shanhasson trilogy. 

You’ve met Varne before in several of the Shanhasson Friday Snippets.  He asked to stop by the other day for an interview.  Evidently I’ve messed up his entire character arc, and he felt the need to set the record straight.  

Of course my co-host and Muse, Gregar, couldn’t let Varne drone on and on endlessly without putting me in a coma, so he stops by for a little while, too, to antagonize his old friend slash arch enemy.  Something Gregar does very, very well.   

Fine Print:  The host makes no warranties as to the validity of the character’s statements herein.  I can neither confirm nor deny future impact on Story.  No characters were maimed in the recording of this interview either, no matter what he may claim later.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

On April 21, I set a goal of 10K by the end of April.  I’m pleased to report that I wrote nearly 15,700 words before 4/30.  What’s even more impressive?  My totals for May are already over 13K.  Yes, I’m on a roll, or rather, I’m on the ROAD to Shanhasson.  I’m in good shape to finish the first draft this month as I hoped.

This week, more of the same.  I’m getting pretty high word counts so far in May, nearly 1900 a day, so I hope to keep this pace until Shannari finishes her business in Shanhasson.  I do have another round of revisions to complete on BD this week, so I might take a slight hit in word count.  We’ll see.

May is looking to be a NaNoWriMo type of month.  I easily have 40K to write yet, even though I feel like I’m on the downhill slope.  What do you hope to accomplish this month?

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Y’all know I’m a Missouri girl through and through, raised on a little country farm.  The most exotic thing I’ve ever done is take some French classes at Drury a hundred years ago, which I sucked at, by the way.

So last night was our little adult dinner get-together with That Man’s brothers and their wives.  We had a little surprise:  his parents arrived unexpectedly from the Lake of the Ozarks.  We left the monsters with their cousins and headed to the Metropolitan Grill, my choice this time.  We’re having a lovely time visiting, when Aunt BB left to use the restroom.

She came back glowing with excitement.  “They have a bidet!  You’ve got to try it!”

Now this wasn’t any boring old bidet by any means.  This one was programmable with a heated seat.  Oscilliate or pulse?  Front or back?  Dry? 

I’m not kidding.  We giggled and laughed throughout the rest of the dinner, with BB encouraging all of us to drink faster so we could all try the restroom.  She challenged me to try it, and you know I never refuse a challenge.  Write a zombie love story?  I’m there.  Try an electronic bidet?  Ooookay.

They had a sign in the restroom with instructions on how to work the thing, and the header was “To Bidet or Not to Bidet.”  That cracked me up and I was sold.  Of course I tried it.

I don’t think they’re going to let me go back to the Metropolitan Grill.

Kidding.  I didn’t blow up anything.  But you know my history with power cords…

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Clarissa has given a wonderfuly wicked review of Rose:

Those are just two words to describe “The Rose of Shanhasson” by Joely Sue Burkhart. Joely expertly blends Fantasy and Romance in a novel that will make your heart thump thump thump as mine did. She produces characters that pull at your heart-strings and you’ll ache just as they ache. They are well put together and absolutely magnificent.

She ends with a special request:

I want more! ….and a Gregar doll.

hehehe  I’ll keep my eyes open for a Gregar doll, but if I find one, I’d have a very hard timing letting him go!

Thank you so much, Clarissa!

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

I reached the midway turning point of Road tonight.  It’s nearly 1:00 a.m., I cleared 4K today to get here, and yeah, it pretty much sucks in a gloriously bloody heart-wrenching way.

May the thunder of the Great Wind Stallion’s hooves carry you home to His Clouds.

There your hooves and feet will never tire.

Your body will never falter or fail.

You will gallop across the sky at Vulkar’s side,

and we who remain will hear your thunder, and remember.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

This section comes shortly after the one from last week when Shannari cut the Shadowed Blood up pretty well.  If you’ve read The Rose of Shanhasson, you know that Shannari has a deeply ingrained fear when she’s grabbed or threatened from behind (another reason those little touches last week were so significant).  Gregar is determined to make sure she’s well able to defend herself if he’s not at her back.

First draft, edited for content to reduce spoilers to the first book in the series. 

From the eager look on Dharman’s face as she faced him with a rahke, Gregar had certainly been correct. The boy looked more than happy to receive the same kind of punishment that she’d given the Blood yesterday.

“It was not punishment, Khul’lanna. You honored me greatly.” Gregar laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “You honored me so much that now Khul demands to drill with you as well as these lads. Soon even Varne will demand the chance.”

“She shall refuse.” Dharman bit off each word, his jaws straining.

Gregar gave him a considering gaze and nodded. “Aye. I should not like to see Khul’lanna drill with Varne any time soon.”

How dare they dictate whom she drilled with? As though either of them had any say in what she intended to do. “I believe I’ll march back to Camp, find Varne, and demand he drill with me immediately.”

Dharman blanched, his hand fisted on his rahke, but Gregar bent over laughing. Shaking his head, he straightened and slapped the boy on the back. “You have my sympathies, Dharman. Watching you attempt to order her about will prove quite amusing.”

Irritated, she turned away and started walking back toward Camp. She didn’t much appreciate Gregar’s sense of humor, not when he backwards encouraged the boy to try and give her orders. A boy! She–

A footfall behind her was the only warning. Arms locked about her, one hand about her throat, another pinning her arms to her sides. Fear curdled her stomach, until she recognized the boy’s sweet scent of buttered honey.

Because he’d made her afraid, she quaked with rage. She fought him, slamming her head back, kicking his shins, raking at his face with her left hand.

Her left hand. He’d only pinned her right. She reached across her body and dragged the rahke from the sheath. It felt awkward, even more so than when she’d first taken the small six-inch knife into a hand well-used to a sword.

“Good.” Gregar glided around in front of them. His eyes glittered in the sunlight, faceted obsidian and shadows, his voice cold and hard. “Most men are right handed and so typically eliminate that threat first. Since you’re a woman, a man will likely want your throat in his hand, too. He won’t consider your left hand a threat at all.”

Dharman kept his hand firm on her throat, but he didn’t close off her wind. He actually held her very carefully indeed, which only pissed her off more. Her best effort had done nothing but make the boy sweat more of that sweet innocent cookie scent. “The rahke feels strange in my left hand. I don’t know how to hold it so I can stab him.”

A small tremor flickered through the boy at her back. Not fear. Anticipation. His fingers tightened minutely, his body shifting slightly as though in…welcome. Her stomach clenched with dread.

“It shall be easier once you carry my ivory rahke,” Gregar said. “You should wear it on your left. You’ll know when to use it rather than the black.”

“I’m not going to carry your rahke,” she retorted. “This is pointless! I’m not going to stab anyone.”

Gregar lifted her left hand and turned the rahke in her grip so the blade pointed down and back along her wrist. “This is the position for rear defense. You can hide the blade relatively well by keeping your hand down and holding the rahke flat along your forearm. When you strike, let the blade drop into your grip at right angles, like this.” He demonstrated, wrapping his fingers around her hand firmly.

Stepping closer, he moved her arm back slowly until she felt the blade point dig into the boy behind her. Her palms were so sweaty she likely would have dropped the blade without Gregar’s fingers on hers. Dharman held himself very still. As tall as he was for his age, she could only imagine exactly what body part she threatened with the vicious rahke.

“Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. If someone grabs you, unsheathe a rahke and smoothly stab backward, like this. Then drag the rahke up with all your strength. Slash side to side if you have time.”

The thought of maiming the boy like that made her light headed. Breathing shallowly, she closed her eyes and concentrated on deeper, slower breaths so she didn’t thoroughly embarrass herself and faint.

“Although it hurts like the Three Hells, this is not necessarily a killing blow,” Gregar continued. “The more you scramble his intestines, the better your chance at escape and his death.”

Her eyes flew open, locking on his face. “If I did this to you, you’d die.”

He smiled slowly, flames flickering to life in the dark shadows of his eyes. “Do you think so? As a Death Rider, I’m already half dead. Some argue more than half dead. To win this ivory rahke, I climbed the jagged slopes of Vulkar’s Mountain and sliced my body to ribbons. Thankfully, Vulkar accepted my sacrifice, else I would have died on those black slopes. I saw the fiery lake at the center of His Mountain, but the cost was part of my life. I’m very, very difficult to kill, Khul’lanna. All Death Riders are. If one were to grab you thusly–”

His jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. Dharman gathered her closer to his body, his grip comforting, now.

“Gut him like this, but don’t assume he’s disabled. The best way to kill a Death Rider is to slit his throat and offer his own blood sacrifice to Vulkar as quickly as possible. Aim for the large veins in the neck and groin. If you don’t finish him quickly, he’ll slaughter you with his own intestines tangled about his legs. We do not stop. Not for anything.”

“You did,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.

“Nay.” He stepped back. “I have not stopped, Khul’lanna. That is why we shall do the drill again and again and again, until you would stab even Khul if he dared seize you from behind unawares.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Aye, you can, and you will.” The look in his eyes made her skin crawl. It was as though he looked into the future, reading the weft and weight of some tapestry she was only vaguely aware of. “Your life depends on it. If Dharman doesn’t bleed from a dozen wounds within the hour, I shall be severely disappointed.”

 

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

The scene I’m writing in Road showed me exactly what a coward I still am sometimes.

Oh, I think I’m so brave.  Boldly writing exactly the kind of story I want instead of suffering to fit a square peg into a round hole and wondering why it doesn’t work.  Shipping off contest entries to be reamed.  Proudly earning the rejection badge of courage with agent query after query shot down.  I’ve grown as a writer, nearly five years old now.  I know a few things.  I’ve survived.

So brave.

And yet when a scene comes along that I’ve been dreaming of for years and years…I cheat.  Skipping ahead to this dream-come-true scene, I write the set up, happily, but when I get to the heart of everything this story is, I write a one-paragraph “summary.”  I know it’s not right, but I’m so frozen, so full of dread and fear, that I can’t do it.  So I let that paragraph ride and I go back to the main story line.  I shouldn’t skip ahead, I tell myself, but in reality, I need to write something safer.  Assassination attempts, political manuevering, battles, even another sex scene, because hey, that’s a hell of a lot easier than facing the scene I fouled up.

Word by word, page by page, I’ve caught up to that foolhardy cowardly paragraph.  I had skipped ahead in my glittering confidence, sure I could bang that “candy bar” scene out; now, I can’t afford to mess around with it.  This IS the candy bar scene of scenes.  This is what so much of the journey has been about.  I can’t mess this up.  I can’t sit here and play this scene safe.  Safe will kill this story, and if I kill THIS story, then I kill myself as a writer.

I’ve got to hang it all out in the wind and take my punches.

So I did it last night.  I finished the brutal scene that should have been a pleasure, a dream come true, and was in fact harder to write than slaughtering a beloved character.  The scene’s not right yet, but at least I quit being a coward.  At least I took the shot, I took the risk, though I haven’t decided if I hit the basket or not.

I guess in the end, that’s what matters.  At least that’s what Gregar told me when he hauled me out of the Well, dripping wet with my lungs full of water.  Lying there, gasping for breath and coughing, I realized something.  It all seemed so clear (I hear near death experiences do that).  I never could have written this scene two years ago, even one year ago.  Hell, I barely wrote it now.  It wasn’t on the realm of possiblity when I first started out nearly five years ago.

It all began to make sense.  Why this story had to take so long to come to fruition.  Why I had to dream about it for years.  Because in the end, I never could have written it right until I’d suffered and bled and earned the right to be here.  All of these years, I’ve been climbing up Vulkar’s Mountain, bleeding a little more each day, and hoping, praying I would reached the top.  I almost turned back so many times.  

This Mountain has nothing to do with success, not like I thought at first, and everything to do with Seeing, myself most of all.

Last night, I found the lake of fire at the top of the Mountain, I saw the heartfires of the earth dancing toward heaven, and I understood.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Since we’ve been talking about a book that really pissed me off last week, I thought I’d do a “readers meme” of things an author does that you as a reader deem Unforgivable.  What makes you throw a book against a wall and scream “Never again?”

1. The Imhotep Syndrome:  The hero does something unheroic live action in the book, like leaving the love interest behind to die.  This is what made the recent book unforgivable for me personally and earned the Imhotep reference.  Yeah, Anck Su Namun does leave him to die at the end of The Mummy Returns, and she receives an appropriate recompense.  Unless you’re going to kill the hero for payment of such cowardly behavior, this is unforgivable in my book.
2. The “Who Shot JR” Syndrome:  Ever since the last episode of the season for House, M.D. (season 2 or 3?) was a dream sequence, only revealed at the end, I’ve refused to watch it.  I love musicals but despise Oklahoma!  Again, because of that retarded dream sequence.  Now if I *know* it’s a dream and the dream ends up crucial to the story, that’s different.  But as a reader or viewer, I despise being tricked.  (For those of you too young to remember Dallas, the evening sitcom very popular in the 80s, a very large mystery involving “Who Shot JR” was later revealed to be a dream.  At least that’s my foggy memory of the show, and if that’s an invalid reference, let’s call this the #$*@ Dream Syndrome.)
3. The “I See Dead People” Lie:  I loved Sixth Sense.  I loved watching it the first time, completely unawares, and then watching it again and catching the little clues.  I get goosebumps when stuff like that works.  As a reader, I relish those little crumb trails and follow it eagerly to the Gingerbread House in the center of the woods.  I want the Witch there ready to eat the little children.  If it’s all just random garbage thrown in there to trick or confuse me, and those little crumbs lead absolutely nowhere?  That’s unforgivable with a potty word flying from my mouth as your book hits the wall.
4. The Dr. Who Are you Again?:  I don’t actually watch Dr. Who (I’d love to but That Man is too busy watching Matlock and MASH), but one of the kisses of death for me as a reader is when it’s just not memorable.  When I’ve been reading the book, put it down to cook dinner, and then have a free half hour to spare between monster baths, dishes, bedtime stories, etc.  I look at the book, and I can’t remember the characters’ names.  Oops.  Why should I pick up that book again?  Definitely unforgivable.
5. The Death-By-Chocolate-Caramel-Butterscotch-Banana-Split-Everything-But-the-Kitchen-Sink Soup:  Oooh, paranormal is hawt!  Lots of sex is hawt!  Menage scenes are selling like hotcakes!  I’ll throw it all together and make a killer dessert!  Who cares if none of it actually makes sense….
6. The Perfect Record Seatbelt Law:  We should always follow the speed limit and wear our seatbelts because readers don’t like us to take risks.  It’s too shocking and not very politically correct either.  Safety first!  Meanwhile I’ve smeared ink on my forehead because I fell asleep on the book. 

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

I’m going to have to make some tough decisions this year.  Looking at my list of everything I want to work on, I’ve realized I simply can’t do it all.

At first, I was rather gloomy about it.  If only I had more time, I could finish more projects.  But this is my reality.  I have to make it work.  I have 1-2 hours each morning to write, depending on how early I can drag my ass out of bed.  Any time during the evening that I can write is gravy.  That’s it.

Meanwhile, April is a page I’ll soon be ripping off my calendar, and the year is slipping through my fingers.

Now that I’m under contract, I have commitments that must be met.  That’s a very good thing indeed.  That gives me my highest priority.  Road will be finished this year.  A third Keldari novella will be finished this year.  Book 3 in the trilogy will follow on those heels–maybe I’ll write the first draft as my NaNoWriMo novel this year, or at least start it.  Next year, Charon’s book for the Mythomorphoses world, unless Deena asks for it over Return to Shanhasson.

I might, if I work really hard the last part of the year, be able to get through revisions on ONE story.  One.  While I’ll be grinding through editor revisions and promo on two other stories at the same time.  In my head right now, I hear the record guy from Walk the Line asking Johnny Cash what’s the one song he’d sing.  If he was dying in a ditch and this was his only chance to tell God what he felt about this life…

I love Letters.  I do.  But.  I don’t know that it’s the smartest choice for me right now.  Based on recent contest feedback, it might be better shelved.  It’s definitely a love it or hate it kind of story and it does nothing for my brand.  But.  That story’s a gut-wrencher and powerful in many ways.  The revision is almost finished.  Hmmm.  See why I keep waffling? 

RHP or Night Sun Rising.  Not sure which, yet.  The latter has a ticking clock associated with it and I know I’ve seen at least one other similarily premised story announced in Publisher’s Lunch already.  Both are rough first drafts.  RHP is a departure in many ways for me.  Both need so much work it makes my stomach clench with anxiety just thinking about sitting down and locking on to one or the other. 

But that’s exactly what I need to do.  One of these two stories is a definite must do for the second half of the year.  And the rest, well, will just have to be gravy.  With a cherry on top.  *winks*

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

What a great weekend! 

Saturday, I drove down to Joplin (a bit of an achievement because I really don’t like to drive on the freeway, but I didn’t have any problems) to go to a Ren Faire with my Beloved Sis!  I got to catch up with Pesh and meet her husband as well as several other friends.  They are a hilarious bunch, let me tell you, but with Molly as a friend, I expected nothing less than to come home with my sides hurting from laughing. 

Conn was rather disappointed with the weapons demonstrations, but otherwise, it was a lovely day.  Not too warm or too crowded.  I picked up some neat hair garlands for the monsters with matching magic wands.  They’ve been dancing around giving out wishes ever since, but oddly, no laundry or dishes fairy has shown up yet.

I did get a little writing done each day and I’m close to my 30K goal for April.  May is forming up to be a brutal month with at least 30K to finish the first draft of Road.  I mean, hello, I’m not even ON the Road to Shanhasson yet…  However, I’m definitely on the metaphorical Road, and some agonizing events must happen first to force Shannari’s feet onto the Road where she doesn’t want to travel. 

I’m just scenes away from Gregar’s heart’s desire.  That scene’s been years in the making, and I’m actually dreading it.  Lots of expectations and worries twisted together into such a simple scene.  I’ll just have to jump into the Well and hope for the best.

A new month is just around the corner.  Are you thinking about your goals yet?

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Soleil Noir has given a terrific review of Rose!  She says:

 It took me three days to finish reading this book, and I have no doubt the characters and their world will haunt me for the rest of my life.

My hands are still shaking.

I highly recommend “The Rose of the Shanhasson” to any lover of romance, fantasy, or even better, both. I am seriously considering putting it above even the likes of The Princess Bride. (No small compliment from me here as I love that book. But, honeys? I’m so sorry, Wesley has got nothin’ on Rhaekhar, in my humble opinion.

Joely, you tore my heart out with this story and made me loved it! My heart’s still racing and my eyes are still a little moist, I need to go grab some Klennex.

What a fantastic review!  Thank you so much, Soleil.  Gregar salutes you.

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

I’m cursed, I say, cursed.  I’ve had so many computer problems over the years, almost all involving power cords in some fashion.  This laptop is not quite a year old yet, but it’s been through hell. 

There was the coffee spill…  I was sitting outside in the garage while the monsters rode their bikes last summer, and Middle Monster ran into my chair on her bike, spilling coffee all over me and the laptop.  Brand new keyboard, but at least the motherboard was fine.  However, while it was in the shop, they had to replace the power cord for some reason with a junky replacement one.  The original Toshiba cord just quit working.

Then two nights ago, I was sitting here in my green chair writing while That Man watched TV and I heard a strange snapping sound.  Coming from my computer.  No, coming from the power cord…  YIKES.  The flexible bendy part had a short in it!

So I went back to the computer place yesterday for yet another cord.  At least he had one in stock that does fit, and it’s a better quality one than the other.  (Cost me double, too.)

Writers beware:  keep my away from your power cords!!

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

I’m working on the first draft of Road with a goal of hitting “The End” by the end of May.  Since this is the second in a trilogy, I’m not going to be able to share a lot without giving away huge spoilers.  So I will edit these for content to hide certain facts that I don’t want you to know until you read Rose.  I know, I’m wicked.

Dharman and Sal are two young men (Dharman’s the oldest at age 15) and they’re making a bit of a nuisance of themselves.  Shannari doesn’t quite know how to handle them, but right now, they’re the least of her worries.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Blood and Shadows world snippet without some Gregar action…

Dharman and Sal had been joined by a third boy with golden hair that glinted in the sun. Grazing nearby, Wind nickered softly, pressing her soft muzzle into Shannari’s back. The gesture was typically comforting, but she couldn’t help but worry. What did they want?

They said nothing and made no move to intercept or speak to her, but they watched. Every day, they lingered, making an appearance right as she left Camp to drill with the Blood. She highly suspected they followed to spy on her.

“Do not worry, Khul’lanna,” Gregar said, his voice carefully light and unconcerned. He touched her back lightly, a small soothing caress, his hand instead of the mare’s nose. “I’m glad they remain near. If I slip while we drill, shout Dharman’s name. He’ll hear you and reach you before Khul may.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “I’m certainly not going to call for the boy, and I’m not afraid of you, either.”

Gregar could have called her on the small lie, but he let it slip. Standing across from him with knives in their hands was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and he’d promised to do it every single day. After nearly two weeks, it was a little easier, but her heart still pounded frantically. Sweat trickled down her back, her palm so damp the hilt felt oily in her hand as she drew the rahke from the brilliantly colored belt.

Wind didn’t like their drilling sessions, either. The mare hovered, bumping into her, snorting at the Blood and striking out at him with her hooves. She never kicked him, but her warning was clear. “Wind, enough. Go graze.”

The mare threw her head up, shaking silver mane in denial.

“Go on,” Shannari insisted, giving the horse a friendly swat. “I can’t practice if you interrupt. Go!”

Gregar inclined his head to the horse and touched his right fist to his heart. With a final fierce snort, Wind trotted off into the distance. Not too far, Shannari guessed, the same as those boys. Bloody hell. She might as well have Rhaekhar standing around playing nursemaid too.

Carved roses dug into her palm. Staring at Gregar, she struggled not to flinch back into a defensive crouch.

The Shadowed Blood stood with the sun at his back, his face lost in the brightness. He simply stood there, without the rahke in his hand, and she knew the cold suffocating terror of nightmares. When he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave, low and rumbly bass. “Attack me.”

She took a deep breath, focusing her will, gathering her courage. Fighting him tested every last one of her skills, and she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the much shorter blade. The mirrored lake glimmered in her mind, and she methodically pushed her fears and thoughts into the water, letting them flow from her. Rather, the waters welled within her, filling her, bubbling up like a pure, sweet spring.

A vision flashed in her mind: a strange tree, a trunk gleaming like bone, and drops of blood on shadows for leaves.

“The kae’sangral,” he whispered, his voice so low, so dark. “I am your Shadow, and I will bleed for you this day. Attack!”

She darted forward, swinging the rahke in a quick arc, and he leaped back, his eyes glittering, taunting.

“Faster, Khul’lanna. Do not hesitate. This day, I want you to feel the cut of rahke through flesh, to measure your strike for exactly the right amount of blood. Remember, shallow, thin cuts will honor me. No injury, no stitches, just blood. Can you honor me? Can you bleed me?”

Blessed Lady, he knew exactly the best way to challenge her. She settled the rahke better in her palm and went after him. Even though he held no weapon and couldn’t block her strikes even if he’d wanted, he was incredibly fast. He let her have nothing easily.

Dripping sweat, she finally felt the rahke catch him in the abdomen in a long flash of red. Her stomach pitched queasily and she faltered, her hand shaking.

“Good,” he said, his low voice thrumming her spine. “But you can do better. This is a bit deep. Try again. Honor me, Khul’lanna.”

The scent of his blood ripened on the air, dark syrupy caffe and baking bread, heated by the sun. It was easier to place the next cut on his arm, the next on his opposite shoulder.

When she would have called a break, he urged her onward. “Excellent. Feel how shallowly you cut? Control the blade. It is merely an extension of your hand. You can fight closer, whether with surprise or challenge, and my longer reach and greater strength is not as great a factor as when you wield the sword.”

“Your longer reach means nothing if you don’t even draw a weapon yourself,” she panted. Sweat burned her eyes, but she dared not pause until he told her. He was a fierce task master and could put her Rashan swordmaster to shame for barking orders. “No assassin will let me attack without fighting back.”

“I am not any assassin.” He laughed, and the sound slithered through her like dark chocolate. “Keep bleeding me, Khul’lanna.”

Fear clutched her stomach. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I bleed for you.”

Originally published at Joely Sue Burkhart. You can comment here or there.

Continuing the discussion from yesterday, yes, I’m still reading the problem book and I’m getting madder.  According to a very reliable source, I’m going to be even more pissed once I read the ending, and it has NOTHING to do with whether or not there’s a HEA.  I could care less.  Seriously.  I was all set for this book to NOT be a romance.  Whether or not HEA happens has nothing at all to do with my overall enjoyment–or more likely dissatisfaction–with this book.

Let me just get one more thing off my chest.

Riddick is an anti-hero for a reason.  Yes, he was going to leave the settlers behind in Pitch Black.  He had that power.  He didn’t have any moral obligation to them–all he cared about was himself.  He chose to go back, not because he felt like it was the right thing to do, far from it.  He went back because he could.  Because he was the only one who could.  That’s why he’s an ANTI-hero.  (Yeah, he’s also a murderer, but I still think he’s an incredible character.)

One cannot have a HERO make that same kind of decision and have me believe they’re heroic.  A hero cannot leave people behind.  I don’t care how scared they are.  I don’t care how many times they think “I’m not heroic.  I’m not.”  YOU, the author, TOLD ME this person was heroic by setting the character up as the protagonist of the story.  I don’t care if the hero then has a change of heart and does save said people.  I don’t care!!  IT’S TOO FRICKING LATE.

Said hero is done for me.

What’s even more alarming?  The one left behind was the LOVE INTEREST.  I’m supposed to believe they care about each other?  Instead, I’m staring at this book like Imhotep at the end of The Mummy Returns as his beloved turns and runs, leaving him to die.  Yeah.  Real heroic, hun.

Now such a set up might work as backstory — and then the book is about how the hero overcomes this past and grows beyond it.  But when such a thing happens live action in the book and then I’m supposed to believe the character grows in the last 100 pages or so?  It’s not happening.  Sorry.

I’m going to finish the book because I want to see how badly it all ends.