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A Drift of Quills for December 2018

12/21/2018

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It's Not TOO Late - Even Though It’s Quite Late

As you know, we Quills typically post on the first Friday of each month. Unfortunately, as happens with everyone from time to time, things got away from us a bit this month. Still, it’s never too late to talk about, and to do, a bit of giving. Don’t you agree? So today we post our thoughts on gift-giving—and we are including a bit of a gift to you in the form of our Fantasy eBook Giveaway. More on that to follow!
Here are some thoughts about giving from Robin Lythgoe, author of ​As the Crow Flies.
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I know what I have given you... I do not know what you have received.” 
― Antonio Porchia

It has been a strange year, sometimes awful, often amazing. [And] in this time of affliction and adversity, it’s Christmas all the time…

Follow the link for more!

Next up is P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse.

Christmas is coming. It's just around the weekend corner. And I'm finished with wrapping.

I just finished reading Jonathan Stroud's Screaming Staircase, and as usual, Stroud has this incredible knack for creating unique and clever voices in his characters. His descriptions are vivid and often hysterical. (His Bartimaeus trilogy was a good example. So that's what I'm doing. Reading good books, drinking a bit of 'nog, and enjoying the Christmasy lights, music, and raucous excitement from the boys.
That's right, there's more at the link!

Now, for my thoughts ...
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This is the season of giving. As I look at the many, many packages I’ve wrapped and put beneath the tree just for those in our little family (there will be six of us for Christmas Eve), I can see that it will take hours for us to go person-by-person, gift-by-gift, as is our tradition, to open them. This way everyone gets to see what everyone else got. And here’s the crazy part: there are sure to be more wrapped gifts to come when my beloved son, darling daughter-in-law, and amazing daughters show up on Christmas Eve.
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​So why do we give gifts, anyway? I think it's because a gift is a simple but effective way to show someone how much they mean to you, how often you think of them, how you hear them when they say there is something that they would like or could use, or even how you can see inside of them when they don’t voice those things, yet you are able to identify their wishes and desires. A gift can say, “See? I saw that need of yours.” Or perhaps it might say, “I saw this and I thought of you.” In my mind, giftgiving is an art. It is a giving of time, self, thought, and creativity. Some gifts may cost a few dollars, but it is not the cost that is important, it is the message the gift conveys.
​And so today, we Quills also have a gift for you—a GIVEAWAY. You’ll notice it is just in time for the holidays. Running until January 1—New Years Day—you’ll want to be sure to enter for your chance to win. If chosen, you will get to start 2019 with a bang!
​Wishing you the happiest, healthiest, most rewarding and promising holidays and the absolute best for 2019!
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A Drift of Quills for October 2018 - This and That - or Throwback Friday - (or something!)

10/12/2018

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October is upon us and I've found as I often do come autumn, that time is flying by faster all the time. That is so true that for our post this month, we each decided to offer something we'd previously posted here or elsewhere. We're calling it "This and That," which is precisely what you are about to get.
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P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse is reposting one of his most-loved prior offerings. Here goes!

As I dug back through my top shared posts, (that is, those collaboratively published with the our Quills writer’s group), I found, surprisingly, that the fan favorite, by a healthy margin, was The Prophet & the Assassin, a Jonah-like short story I published exactly one year ago.

Be sure to follow the link for more!
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Robin Lythgoe, author of ​As the Crow Flies, has something special for you. Find out more with the link!

​Polishing my All Seeing Eye, I carefully scanned all the Quill posts, searching for that one treasure would light up like a beacon. That one post that everyone loved more than all the others. But wait, what’s this?  There’s a tie?
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That leaves me. For my part, I decided to re-post something I wrote about five years ago and posted elsewhere, entitled ...  

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The Bookmobile is Here!

​What are your earliest memories of reading? Of finding yourself surrounded by the musty smell of books begging you to open their pages, to peruse their inner glories? I know this post will age me, but for me those memories date back to a time when I was growing up in a small rural community.
 
When I was quite young, we were a single-car family. My father worked elsewhere and “hobby” farmed. My mother was home with us eight—yes, count them—eight children. (Eight “girl” children, to be exact!) As you might expect, this meant that we did not often go places. Entertainment was found in our own backyard. We created stories that we sometimes acted out, encouraging the few other neighborhood children that were around, to engage with us in our make-believe escapades. One of our favorite pastimes was to play “Harriet the Spy,” a game (obviously) named from the book of the same title. With our notebooks in hand, we would try to creep up unaware on one another, taking notes of what they were doing, leaving behind little tidbits for other to find ... Finding someone’s notebook unattended offered a plethora of fascinating information about the antics of others. From whence did ideas of this ilk come? Reading—of course. And, where better to pick up those ideas than from the books we checked out from the bookmobile that made its way to our little community from time to time?

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I suppose the bookmobile had a schedule. It must be that it showed up every second Tuesday or Thursday (or whatever) through the summer months. Truth to tell, I don’t remember, although my mother might. I’ll have to ask her one day. I just recall hearing those magic words from time to time: “The Bookmobile is here!” The hunt would begin for all those books we’d taken out the last time, read and then perhaps misplaced in the interim, so that we could return them and select new ones: mysteries, like Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys; fantasies, like The Little Witch or Mio My Son; adventures, like The Oregon Trail; animal stories like Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows; and so on.  Ahhh yes, those were the days—when the library came to us.

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I have not seen a bookmobile for many long years—but I did a little research.  They do still exist.  It seems the first “taking of collections of books to people” was in 1893. By 1899 there were 2500 “traveling collections.” Apparently, Melvil Dewey was the genius behind the idea. (The information and statistics shared here are found here.

In very early days, some book collections traveled by horseback. By 1900 some libraries sent books by mail to those who could not even reach the traveling collections. Then came the first motorized bookmobile in 1912. In 1929 the term “bookmobile” was coined.

​Check out these statistics: in 1950, there were about 600 bookmobiles; by 1956, over 900; by 1970, over 2000. As might be expected, when fuel costs increased, the number of bookmobiles decreased. By 1990 there were only about 1100 remaining, and by 2000, there were fewer than 900—roughly the same number as in 1956.

I think of children today who do not have libraries near them and wonder how many budding geniuses, how many creators of their own stories that could be shared with the world, might be lost with the demise of the bookmobile. For my part, I will always hold dear memories of those sticky hot summer days when my sisters and I would heed the call:  “The Bookmobile is Here!”

Thanks for stopping by. Please share your comments. See you next month!
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A Drift of Quills for September 2018

9/7/2018

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This month we Quills discuss what has been our biggest writing challenge regarding our current work (or works, as there may be more than one) in progress. (Incidentally, you might find this discussion on the difference between the phrases "work in progress" and "work in process," interesting.)

Reasons for delay! Goodness, but there are so many. So, where does one begin?

I thought we might start with comments from P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse. That said, I can't imagine what could possibly stand in Parker's way of getting something, anything, done! It's not like he might be busy at home with his wife and three little boys, or that he spends many hours at his full time job ... Right, Parker?
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I am currently working on a distinctly different story than anything I've done before. This new novel is not at all related to The Unseen Chronicles, and while I certainly miss Essie Brightsday and the cast of characters we met in A Hero's Curse and Nightrage Rising, I am loving the new setting. Inter-dimensional travel, a mad scientist, two brothers, a detective, a runaway...There is so much to investigate and explore! So many new characters to interact with!

(Follow the link for more.)

Next is Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies. Now, I happen to know that Robin has got some things happening in her life these days, but I can't imagine they could stand in the way of her writing. Right, Robin?
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My experiences in the novel-writing game are relatively few, but so far, every novel has posed at least one challenge. I’m not talking about the Usual Life Challenge that pops up every time you choose a cool project and Things Happen. Like the furnace goes out, or you get the flu, or you remember at the last minute that a Quills Post is due tomorrow… No, I’m talking about novel-specific snags and pitfalls. Like the Beisyth Web in As the Crow Flies, or the (top secret now) timeline issues in Flesh and Bone. This time, right-this-minute, I find myself surrounded by a virtual cloud of delicate perfume as I ...

(Follow the link for more.)

Ahhh ... so now it's my turn. Well, here goes!
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​There are so many: (1) ways to stumble; (2) reasons to delay; and (3) opportunities to turn one’s attention elsewhere. It seems in one way or another, all of these things have happened to me as I’ve worked on Volume Four of The Oathtaker Series.

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​As to my “stumbling,” I spent a year on a work that I am very pleased and proud of. Unfortunately, I feel compelled to wait to publish it until someone I know personally is able to come to grips with my doing so. Because the project put me behind on other things—including my writing Volume Four—I realize that in fact, I didn’t just stumble. In fact, I fell ... as in I fell way behind. 

But, finally, I’ve managed to get back up and to concentrate on my new work in progress ...
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​As to my reasons for delay, I’m sure I needn’t dwell on them. I’m still a practicing attorney by day, and as the economy has (finally!) improved after nearly a decade of stagnancy, things have picked up at the office. As a consequence, it is harder to find down time, and harder yet to use it productively—as opposed to using it to rejuvenate. In addition, like everyone I know, there are other things happening in my personal and family life that take time and attention, causing yet more delay ... Still, I want to, I strive to, put my family first, so this is not a complaint, merely a observation ...
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As to opportunities to turn my attention elsewhere, I admit that I’ve been having an unexpectedly good time writing some quick flash fiction stories of late. I never considered myself a short-story writer, but the concept of trying to tell a big story with few words has captured my imagination.
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I’ve worked on stories for joint blog posts with my fellow Quills (Her Golden Hair, The Resistance, and Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!), as well as on another story in the course of my connecting with two young women interested in writing. (Find my story,  Throwback Awakening, and the story of one of these young women at the link). When I talked with these two about flash fiction, they were very excited to give it a try. Since then, not only have I spent time writing with them, but also, I’ve taken my hand to editing their materials, pointing out issues they face, researching specifics to help them to find answers, and so forth. It has all been in an effort to try to speak into their lives and their art—and that takes time. That said, I’ve had so much fun doing it, that it has pulled my attention away from Volume Four.

​Finally, in truth, I spent some time waiting for inspiration. I believe it is shaping up now, but the subject matter of Volume Four can be a bit difficult at times. Consequently, it urges me to other ventures. Still, it is a subject worth addressing, and so, I go on . . .
​So, there you have them—my main obstacles to writing Volume Four. Notwithstanding them all, it is in the works.
What sorts of delays keep you from getting to your projects?
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A Drift of Quills for August 2018

8/3/2018

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As is typical, the summer months here in the north-country are quickly flying by. With August upon us, we’ve already lost, since the summer solstice, almost a full hour of sunlight per day. (So sad . . .) Still, this is a good time to reflect on the issue we Quills are pondering this month, which is: when we are away from the writing desk, what do we do? What gardening or improvement projects keep us busy? Are they inspirational? Do they help us to focus? Or ... ?

I'll go first, then present posts from my fellow Quills, Robin Lythgoe and P.S. Broaddus.
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I used to be quite a gardener. I had a huge plot. I can’t even estimate its size. I grew berries, beans, corn, squash, melons, peas, and on and on. Admittedly, even at the best of times, I tended to lose a fair amount of my crop because I couldn’t eat it in time and wasn’t big on storing methods (although drying herbs or beans was always a hit with me). (That said, I usually had an abundance. Don't believe me? Check the pic here of just one wheelbarrow full of tomatoes from one year.) Also, in truth, I lost some crop to overzealous weeds that would come along about the same time that I threw my hands up and nearly quit, as I was no longer having fun.

​But I don’t garden like that anymore ... ​

​Some years ago, I designed a new front to my home with steps down to the lawn and tiers for gardens. From time to time, I revise the space. It is quite lovely. Here are a couple of different looks from over the years:
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​However, this, too, has become almost too much for me these days. I find with age that I do fine for snippets of time, but I don’t want to spend my days on projects of this nature—like I once did. Notwithstanding my fairly vigorous workout routines, my body just won’t put up with it anymore. I guess it’s time to hire someone. (?)
 
So that leaves home improvement projects. I’m re-doing a bathroom now. It is a creative outlet, but anyone who has ever engaged in such a project can appreciate the difficulty of being without a bathroom for any length of time. So yeah, that’s ... fun ...
 
Actually, I’ve a new project of late that I can’t say I find exactly inspirational, but I hope in the end that it will help me to focus.
 
These days all the rage seems to be about “de-cluttering” and minimalist living. I’ve read about how I should go on a one-year plan to remove everything from my home that I’ve no longer any use for. Well, one year is grossly insufficient for me. I’ve lived here for 30 years (and my generation, it seems, was about acquiring stuff). Also, I have a home that has become the repository for things my children have no room to keep. So when my youngest dropped by recently and left a bag of ... I don’t even know what ... behind, I asked what I was to do with it. “Oh, I’ll get it later,” she said as she ran out the door. That had to have been at least six weeks ago and it still sits here ...
 
So there is no way I could fully de-clutter in a year—by which I mean go through everything. But I’ve set a goal to go through things one room at a time, starting with the upstairs bedrooms (yes, they are the easiest). I’m finding clothing to give away, throw away, and try to sell at consignment stores; books to go; children’s projects to store for them (yes, I’ll store them for awhile yet); old prescriptions to bring to an acceptable drop-off location; eyeglasses to donate; and so very much more. If I get through a single drawer or cabinet in a day, I feel I’ve accomplished something—which is more than nothing—and so whenever I manage to do that, I’ve had a good day. 
 
In fact, just a week ago, I addressed the issue of the two finches I’ve been keeping for my middle child for the past year. She can’t have them where she lives, so they’ve been here. In truth, I don’t want them, or their mess, or the responsibility of feeding them or of cleaning up after them. I didn’t think she’d let me, but she said I could give them away—cages and toys and all! And better yet—I think I found a taker. So yes, today was a good day (although I still have her former bedroom to go through, the closet of which is full of things she decided it is too early to take with her as yet). Still, with the finches gone (I hope), I'll be one step closer to gaining some focus—and to appreciating the freedom I should (but all too often do not) have at this age to be able to come and go as I please.
 
How about you? What’s your project de jure (or de l’annee, or even de la decennie, as the case may be)?
Now that I've unloaded, I'm anxious to hear what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has to share with us. Well, Robin? What's your current non-writing artistic (or other) outlet?
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My writing desk follows me everywhere. Virtually, anyway. Overheard conversations make good fodder for dialogue. A turn of phrase from a television show or movie often suggests an entire scene or plot point. I realized during a discussion about some people in my life that one of them in particular would make a fantastic model for a character. (No, I will not say whether protagonist or antagonist!)

I try to jot these ideas down on my phone, but sometimes I really have to tell my desk to go to its room and give me a break. Have you ever noticed that not thinking about a thing is like a magic solution for finding an answer to it?

“Whim” has often been ​the instigator…

And finally, we hear from P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse. What say you, Parker?
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I don't often get the question, "What keeps you busy?" That's usually because I have three little boys running around and through my legs. I also work as a full time real estate agent, running my own business and managing property for myself and others. I have a master's degree in film, but I've taken a step back from film production and editing to give more time to my love of writing.

And while I enjoy real estate and homes and remodeling and flipping, that isn't necessarily where I get inspiration or rest. I don't garden - the wonderful wood nymph I married is in charge of that department. Likewise, film and film editing is work - enjoyable work, but work nonetheless.

There are a couple of things I do that fill me up, that aren't work, and sometimes even provide inspiration and encouragement...

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A Drift of Quills for July 2018

7/6/2018

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July is upon us. Happy 4th everyone! I hope that you had a wonderful holiday. Now I invite you to continue the celebration with we Quills, by taking a look at our latest flash fiction tales.

This time, Parker selected the pic we are using. Here is is: 
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This and more work by the artist Zhiyong Li, may be found here.

It seems Parker wanted to give us a lot to work with, as this piece is very busy. For my part, I've been challenging myself to keep my flash fiction tales as short as possible, in an effort to try to give the most for the least. Last time, my flash fiction story, title and all, ran exactly 1000 words. The time before that, my piece ran just over 400 words. This time I've found myself in-between, having used, title and all, a mere 800 words. So . . . here goes!


Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!
by Patricia Reding
​Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

​Having arrived at the port in Corsair, the largest city in Metzphlat, Kira and her mother stepped off the ship’s deck and onto the wharf, then shuffled through the bustling crowd. Signs all around, in assorted sizes, shapes, and colors, directed folks, informed them—and no doubt warned them—of numerous matters.
 
Suddenly, came a jostling from behind. Kira’s grip loosened and a second later, she found herself quite alone.
 
Quickly she looked ahead, but could not catch sight of her mother in the still growing crowd. Unsure whether the gangs hurrying both directions had swept her beloved parent back the way from whence they’d come, or had caught her up and whisked her forward, Kira choked back a cry.
 
Mother had warned her not to appear weak—to do so would make her a ready target of the pirates and criminal riff-raff that bandied about. Taking that advice to heart, Kira stepped to the side, away from the center of activity. Catching the eye of a nearby pickpocket as he masterfully performed his unique version of prestidigitation, lightening the financial wherewithal of his latest victim, she squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, and tipped her chin up into an “I-double-dare-you-to-try-to-mess-with-me” expression.
 
That’s when movement from above caught her attention. Her jaw dropped at the marvel of the sight. Flying machines! First came one in the shape of a fish. Behind it prowled another looking very much like a cat. It gained speed quickly, as though it meant to gobble up the first—as felines are wont to do with seafood. Kira had never seen such machines before, but she’d heard of them, and she knew that magic powered them. Word of their existence had made it to her provincial little town shortly before she and her mother had set out on their venture.
 
She thought back to the night that Jack-the-peddler had stopped in Pauperton. Whenever he made his way through, the townsfolk gathered to see his wares. But this time things differed. This time instead of trying to outbid one another for the most unusual and therefore coveted of the peddler’s fare, the townsfolk spent the evening discussing the loss some months back, of their resident magician. Without a person of magic to tend to the weather, they’d soon also experienced the inevitable failure of their annual crop. The town’s stored goods wouldn’t last much longer. Indeed, hunger had already set in.
 
Jack had suggested that someone set out for the grand city of Corsair. There, “ships the size of mountains come to port,” he’d claimed, and “flying machines that deliver people and equipment from place to place, fill the air!” Magicians ran those machines, so surely, one could be found one in the city, Jack had reasoned. Moreover, Corsair boasted its own training grounds for young witches and wizards. 
 
And so, without further ado, Kira and her mother—whom the Pauperton residents valued as one of their wisest—set out.
 
Kira leaned against a wood pillar around which hung ropes that held the ship close, while water slapped its sides. Fear visited her as hunger pangs gripped her.
 
She had to think. Perhaps mother went straight to the school of magic, intending to meet back up with Kira there. Yes, that made sense. So, she should set out to do the same.
 
Something caught her eye. A steel bar held at the end of some rope from a hook was being hoisted up into the air, although by whom, or for what purpose, Kira could not tell. Still, she ran to it. If she could get a good look at the city, she might get her bearings. Then, perhaps she’d find what she sought.
 
Quickly, before it was too late, she jumped. Teetering on the edge of the bar, she steadied herself as it rose jerkily into the air. Cautious, fearing she might lose her balance, Kira didn’t even consider reaching for the orange drink she found at her side. Better she just concentrate, she reasoned.
 
Slowly, the bar rose, higher and higher. Then, quite suddenly, it ceased its ascent, although it did wobble a bit from side to side for a minute or so. Kira held on tightly. Then, shortly, the bar went still.
 
She looked out at the glorious city before her, and that’s when she noticed—really noticed for the first time—all the signs. There were signs everywhere! And that’s also when Kira came to grips with the immensity of her difficulties. For the signs provided all the information she could possibly need—information that could point her in the direction she sought. There was just one problem. Unfortunately for Kira, it was a big one. A really, very, monstrously, outrageously, big problem.
 
Kira couldn’t read Metzphlatish.
Some of you might remember that I mentioned Metzphlat in a recent post when we Quills discussed whether we create our own languages for our fantasy tales. It was fun to work the concept back into this little tale . . . 
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Well, let's see what P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, has for us this time around.

Parker? ​Paaaaarkerrrr! You're uuuuup!

Oh, there you are! (Be sure to follow the link for the rest of Parker's story.)

​Morrowsky, the First Flying City
by P.S. Broaddus
​Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Twelve-year-old Zee Anderson liked straight lines and right angles. Unfortunately for her, the city of Morrowsky had very few straight lines and no right angles. Instead it had sails and balloons, walkways and cupolas, turrets and towers—all built on top of each other with little reason or rhyme—except to reach higher into the sky.
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What fun! Thank you for sharing. Every time I read one of these, I find myself wanting more. I'm sure that will be the case with the next flash fiction tale from Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies.

​Take it away, Robin! (Again, follow the link for more.)


Opposite Tricks
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

When Toady says they’re to paint the Widow Grayling’s house, Akasha stares along with everyone else. 

“Orange.” Uneven teeth make his smile particularly fiendish. The gang erupts into hoots and shouts of laughter at that. The widow’s a quiet woman of modest means. Her house used to be brown, but most of the color’s chipped off now. It would no more willingly wear orange than would the widow.

“She needs some brightening.” Zekan always backs up Toady. If their illustrious leader decided they should all become acolytes at the local temple, Zekan would hand out the cassocks and thump anyone who questioned the choice. Same if Toady resolved to filch grub down in the Bellows—Royal Ghost territory, where Toady’s Azure Fang Gang would swiftly find their end. Hopefully not a permanent one… Did the Ghosts kill children?
Thanks for visiting with us all. We Quills so enjoy sharing the joint post we do together on the first Friday of each month. Do leave your comments, and stop in again.
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A Drift of Quills for June 2018

6/8/2018

3 Comments

 
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I admit that May 2018 was a month for the record books! Hopefully, June will settle a bit. So let's start it out with a new Quills post. This time our topic is whether we finish books we hate. Do you want to guess in advance what each of us said? Be sure to click on the link for each of Robin and Parker so as to get the rest of their stories.
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In truth, I can't imagine my fellow Quill, Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, reading anything to the bitter end that she doesn't very much like. But perhaps I'm wrong . . .

Well, Robin?

We’ve all come across them—those books that are so badly written you wonder if the author was even an earthling. Or, assuming that they weren’t hatched on another planet, if they bothered to attend grade school. Or if they live in a sensory deprivation chamber and have no freaking idea what the real world is like. The first pages of such a book are usually painful. Do you risk the agony of finishing the entire book? You want to know my philosophy?
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P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, do you read things to the bitter end? Even when you hate them? I suspect you might be a bit more likely to do so than Robin, although I can't put my finger on why I think that might be . . . Am I right or am I wrong?

What to do with a book you hate? Or, even worse, a book that was just, 'meh.' It doesn't even warrant the energy of hurling it against the opposite wall. It barely deserves a sigh and a shrug, and certainly won't get a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Too much effort for a story that simply didn't captivate.  So what do you do with that story? Are you a finisher? A staller? Or a tosser?
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Does anyone want to guess what I'll say, in advance? Do I read things to the bitter end, or do I not? What do you think?

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Do I finish books that I start, but hate? I can answer this question with a single title: Moby Dick. I found it utterly incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly boring, and odd—and downright awful. I hated it. Nothing anyone could say about a color or its significance, or what the author may have intended that color may have symbolized, could resurrect this title for me. I found a solid 70% of the work to be complete nonsense. Lest I be mistaken, let me put it simply: I truly and completely abhor this work. Perhaps more than any other I’ve ever read. So, I think the early readers of Moby Dick—those who considered it a total flop when it was first published—were spot-on. 
 
So . . . yes, I hated Moby Dick. But you’ll notice from my comments above that I read it. From front to back, from beginning to end, I read it. Why, you ask? Excellent question! Unfortunately, I’ve not an excellent answer, except to say that before I felt I’d be justified in concluding that Moby Dick is/was an “utterly incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly” horrible read, I had to give it every conceivable chance to prove to me that it was something else. Sadly, it did not. It was not. It is awful.

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​Another book I truly did not like but read front to back, was War and Peace. As I’ve read a great deal of Russian literature—and for the most part, have found the works quite worth my time and effort—my problem with this 1000-plus page work was simply the plodding slowness of it. But I read it.
 
In the past, I rarely if ever put a book down that I didn’t like. However, I’m more prone to do so today. Perhaps that’s because I’m starting to measure my life (or what’s left of it!) a bit differently. That is, I know I no longer have all the time in the world. Another reason is because, whether the work is Indie or traditionally published, there’s a lot in the market that is not well conceived, written, edited, or presented—and too many times I find stories that . . . well, that I've read before. This is unfortunate, as I genuinely appreciate a new story with unique creatures and characters, freshly told.

So, today when asked whether I read to the bitter end, works that I hate, I can no longer say, “Yes. Always. I always complete a work I start.” Today, I’d have to say something more like: “Most often.” I really try to give a work every chance possible. That said, now when I find that I dread picking up my current read, I won’t necessarily deny myself the ability to choose something else. If I emphatically despise the one before me, I won't necessarily complete it just because I had the bad sense—or misfortune—to have picked it up in the first place. Of course, had I lived by this rule back in the day when I read Moby Dick, I would have dropped it, as a consequence of which I'd not now be able to emphatically say that it is an “utterly incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly" awful read.

So, did you guess right for any of us? All of us? Do share! 

Stop by again in July when we share some new flash fiction with you!
3 Comments

A Drift of Quills for May 2018

5/1/2018

2 Comments

 
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Of late, we Quills have had fun creating our own spine poetry and flash fiction stories. This time around, we turn our attention to more serious (???) things, namely, a discussion about whether we make up our own languages for our books, and if so, why—and if not, why not?

This time, I'm inviting Robin Lythgoe, author of ​As the Crow Flies, to be the first to share her thoughts. Here goes . . .
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I have a kind of lazy love for language. My copy of the 17th edition of the Chicago Manual of Style makes me crazy, but… I’m one of those readers that will highlight passages in novels that sing to me. Sometimes I copy them into a file to come back to later so I can oo and ah over them. And I did take the equivalent of seven years of foreign language in high school. (I think I learned more about English there than I did in English classes!) Then there was Tolkien. Was my experience a recipe for conlang or what?

Thank you, Robin! Now, let's hear from P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse. Take it away, Parker!
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Klingon. Orcish. Elvish. Dwarvish. Or even Lapine from Watership Down. They are made up languages, which raises interesting questions about the constructs of language itself. It also raises interesting questions of the creator - do you have to have an artistic bent, or a mind for engineering and constructing? And finally, how does a new language help tell a story?

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My sincerest thanks to my fellow Quills. So now it's my turn!

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D’Abunzid Bayshofenskidoe stooped for the griggen. Past the field of hoff, ripe for picking—notwithstanding that creckenmat had only just begun, he waited for a response from Doblay Spitzen’blar. 

WHAT’S that you say???? What’s wrong? Don’t you read Mezphlatish? No problem, just check the glossary at the back . . .
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I love language and the nuances communicated through highly similar but different words. I think it is fair to say that the work I do in both of my lives (as attorney and as author) depends on a keen sense of words and of the manipulation of them. For these reasons among others,  I truly admire anyone able and willing to make up a language for a story and then to stick with the system religiously—which is necessary if the language is to work. If even a single instance occurs where it is not used but perhaps should have been—or perhaps could have been—then that failure could make a mockery of the entire system. But concerns over this issue present only one small reason for why I have created terms for people, places and things in my stories, but have not created new full-blown language(s).

My works include fantasy creatures that have their own peculiar features and names. For my ongoing fantasy series, The Oathtaker Series, I also created a world-order, and governmental, religious, and magic, systems. In many cases, words needed to be coined for those things because they do no exist in our world. But I’ve not gone further. I haven’t even made up names or words for the times of the day or for the days of the week or for the seasons of the year. Why?

I think it’s safe to say that no one knows my works as well as I know them. Yet I know that if I created an all-out new language for my stories, I’d have to refer back to the rules of that language every time I intended to put it to use. I’d have to keep track of all the words I created along the way, and I’d have to be certain that my every use of any of those new words was correct and consistent so as to maintain continuity (and thereby, credibility). But if I—the author—would have check back to the rules and terms already created whenever I put the language I created, to use, then what of my readers?
​ 
There are features typical of what I call the "quintessential traditional fantasy." Such features are one reason that some people love fantasy—and they are also the reasons why others avoid it completely. One feature of these stories is that in many cases, the characters’ names are . . . odd. There have been times, however, when I’ve refused to read a work (no matter how fantastic others have said that work is) upon discovering that I couldn't even read the characters’ names. Because I feel that way, I’ve chosen not to do that to my readers. Thus, the names I use are mostly common names, although occasionally, I’ve made one up. But even when I might pronounce a name that I’ve used differently than another person might pronounce that name, those names that I’ve chosen to use are easy to “sound out.” Thus, readers won’t stumble on them every time they come upon them. For a similar reason, I’ve not created full-blown new languages for my stories.

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For me, there is probably nothing worse while reading, that forgetting what something is. In those cases, I have to page backward to find when the thing was first introduced so as to refresh myself on the details about that thing or, if there is one, I must check the glossary. At least with a glossary, there’s an easy place to find the answers I require. However, stopping to check a glossary interrupts my flow as a reader. Thus, I’ve often chosen to skip stories that follow this pattern. Moreover, I’ve chosen not to create so many things in my stories that my readers must resort to the use of a glossary. In my experience, some fantasy stories require one because the primary focus of those stories is the world that the author has created. By contrast, my stories are first and foremost about the people who inhabit the world of my tales.
​

In short, I read to enjoy—not to make more work for myself. I expect my readers do the same. Thus, I choose not to go too far, thereby scaring away potential readers who might pass on my work because they do not speak Mezphlatish (or whatever other language I might have chosen to write my tale in).

What do you think? ​

2 Comments

A Drift of Quills for April 2018

4/6/2018

4 Comments

 
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This past October of 2017, we Quills thought it would be fun to delve into the world of flash fiction. We selected a single picture and then each told our own story for it. We had so much fun with our flash fiction that we decided we'd do it again.

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As noted in my October post, there are many types of flash fiction. Operating on the "up to 1000 word" standard, I can attest that my story today, including its title, fits in the category. I do hope you enjoy it.

First, here's a look at our inspirational picture and my fellow Quills' stories . . . ​This piece, by JuYoung Ha, can be found here, at the link.

Please drop a comment to let me know what you think!

So, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, what have you for us this time around?

The Myths We Didn't Tell
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

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Our city was rotting, from the inside out. Any city has a bit of corruption. It's the nature of our world. Everything is fallen. Except the naiads, if you believed the legends borne in the shadow of their sacred mountain, towering above us. But in Trichor we did not believe in myth and legend. Only gold and silver.

(Follow the link for more!)


Thank you, Parker!

Robin! Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies! ​Oh, there you are! It's your turn now!

Trapped
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

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She'd lived for so long in the monster’s dreams that his reality felt false. Too bright on her eyes. Too sharp against her skin. Too pungent in her nostrils. The flames, though, they were the same. They licked at her as they always had. Insatiable. In the dreams they did her no harm. In reality they would consume her.

(Follow the link for more!)


What fun! And now, for my offering . . . 

The Resistance
by Patricia Reding
​Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

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They call me stealth. No, not that kind of stealth. Let’s see . . . How can I make this easy to understand?

Oh, I know!

Imagine the largest man you’ve ever seen. You know the one. He has legs the size of a cathedral’s pillars, and biceps like boulders. His neck is reminiscent of a bull’s. He might be a bit—yes, all right, quite a bit—overweight. His middle hangs over his beltline . . . And don’t even start me on what happens when he bends over. Honestly, that is a sight I do not want to think about.

There. Can you picture him? That’s right. He’s the guy the others call, “Tiny.” So . . . that should give you an idea of what I mean when I say they call me “Stealth.” In short, I earned the nickname because I’m anything but.

I stood in the open window frame and looked out. Thanks to the noise I’d made earlier, the guards on duty had quickly lit all the torches and then run off to what they thought was the source of the trouble. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang and I all spread out, each to find his own way out of this fix. In any case, the place is lit up brightly now. So what should have been a quick nighttime entry and snatching of the goods, followed by an equally hasty departure, might as well have been planned for midday.

I looked below and caught sight, off to the castle’s far west end, of a horse and rider galloping off. I recognized them instantly as Rusty and his trusted steed, Vellum.

Thank goodness our fearless leader got away!

Finding myself up too high, unable to jump to the ground safely, I shielded my eyes from the direct light of the torch’s flames, and then surveyed the grounds below.

Seconds later, I shook my head in frustration, unable to conceive of an escape route.

I pulled back into the recess of the window, took in a deep breath, and then peeked out again past the edge.

This time, I noted to my right, a tree reaching toward the castle. If I could balance myself and walk along the ledge to the next window, I might be able to jump into its branches. From there I’d be just a few long strides, a somersault, and a jump away from escaping into the night.

From nearby came the sounds of another horse and rider as they took off. I couldn’t tell if it was one of our own.

Until now, the leaders have been willing to give me a little space. They seem to like my youthful enthusiasm and know I have much to learn. But tonight I might have fixed all that. You see, tonight, I wore my new leathers for the first time—and likely, tonight was the last mission they’ll ever allow me to join.

Honestly, I’m not sure what I’d been thinking. I knew I needed dark clothing to remain largely unseen at night. After all, that’s when we of the Resistance do most of our work. But what I hadn’t figured on was the sound that leather makes. You know what I mean, right? That crunchy, squeaky sound that comes when you turn in your saddle? Or in my case a short while ago, the sound it made when potential danger entered the room and I pulled back my bow . . .

Yes, that sound.

So now, on account of my vanity—in wanting not just any dark suit, but rather, a smart new outfit to wear—my comrades and I are in deep trouble. Or to be more blunt, if caught, we’ll face the gallows.

“Blast!” I muttered.

Assuming I make it back safely, I expect Rusty will relegate me to some duties at our hideout. As it is, I’d had to beg him to allow me to go along tonight—which he was not wont to do given the catastrophe that followed me the last time . . .

I can see it now. Rusty will have me divvying up the spoils when the gang returns. The very prospect makes my head spin. I’m really not that good with numbers and of course, it’s not like everyone gets an equal share. Oh, no no no! Nothing so easy as that! No . . . shares are determined by a member’s age, rank, experience—and most important of all, on the level of threat each individual assumes on any given mission.

Uuugggh.

Of course, if Rusty doesn’t have me doing that, he’s sure to find some other dreadfully unpleasant duties to assign to me, like . . . running errands, cleaning up behind the gang, doing the laundry, or better yet, emptying the spittoons and keeping the privies in respectable order. You get the picture.

I glanced down as a wagon pulled up almost directly below me.

“That’s it!” I whispered to myself.

That wagon was my salvation—and lucky for me it was a filled with . . .

Oh no. Say it isn’t so.

Manure?

No . . . it can’t be. Surely, that’s just food. Maybe rotting food . . .

I took in a long, deep breath.

No, I was right the first time. Papa says that’s the smell of money because where there’s manure, there are animals, and where there are animals, there are well-fed folk. But if that’s the smell of money, then I think I might prefer to live destitute.

The operative word here, of course, is the word, “live.”

​Recognizing I needed to move if I intended to do that going forward, I prepared to take a leap of faith.

“Steady, Stealth,” I cautioned myself, as I stepped to the ledge. With my toes hanging over, I crouched, swung my arms back and then forward as I followed through with the rest of me . . .


4 Comments

A Drift of Quills for March 2018

3/2/2018

2 Comments

 
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​It’s March, and as the temperatures in my neck of the woods are holding steady at just above freezing, we Quills are posting our latest.
 
Some months ago, we tried our hands at flash fiction. This time around we’re offering some of the flashiest—by which I mean shortest—flash fiction going. That is, spine poetry.

In truth, the real poet in my family is my middle child. But I’ll give it a whirl! Take a look first, at what my fellow-Quills have come up with.

I'm inviting Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, to be the first to take the stage.

​Have at it, Robin!
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​My taste in poetry is questionable.

I gravitate toward freeform (usually only my own—how arrogant!), the unusual (sample below), or limericks and “revised” song lyrics (for which I blame my husband).

In my teens I went through an angsty period where I wrote reams of freeform poetry, 98% of which were terrible. Wrist to forehead dramatically, I determined I would make my living as a moody poet. Until I discovered…

Thank you, Robin! What fun! 

Now P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, will regale us with his musings.
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Poetry pushes us to the limit of our understanding – to the edge of ourselves. That’s why it can be so chaotic and disorienting, but it can also be where we learn something new. Something that we couldn’t have known before, had we not been challenged. 

But the challenge of poetry is a soft one. A gentle breeze that carries us beyond, to a new place, and then brings us back, changed. Because when you learn something, you change. You become something new. The old has died...

That is great stuff, Parker. Thank you.

Finally, my thoughts . . .
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​These days, as I’m wrapping up my latest work, I’m realizing how much of what I write is intended for—is directed specifically at and to—young women. While I’m certainly old enough, I have no grandchildren of my own. I’m finding, however, that the grandmother in me is coming out anyway. She comes via my life as an author, and my granddaughters include any young women who’ll listen. So, I guess you might say that I’m doing a bit of “spiritual grandmothering.” I think this is reflected in my spine poetry today.
 
Here goes:

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If I had to add punctuation to this, I guess it would look something like this:
 
The Signature of God

Beyond glory, the hiding place,
Spiritual mothering.
Our sacred honor
Under God.
What do you think?

Now it's your turn to share your spine poetry!
2 Comments

A Drift of Quills for February 2018

2/1/2018

0 Comments

 
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Oh . . . it's cold in my neck of the woods! It must be time to snuggle down with a good cup of coffee and a great read. Today we Quills are talking about something that may or may not be related to finding a great read. Specifically, we're discussing whether low-rated reviews are helpful or not.

First up is P.S. Broaddus, author of ​A Hero's Curse.​ Parker?
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Interacting with criticism is never easy as an author. There's opportunity to grow, to shape our stories, and do better, but it still isn't easy. 

From the reader's point of view, reviews can provide a wonderfully unvarnished perspective on what to expect. I read reviews on everything from books, computers, a new lawn mower or a plastic doodad to organize junk. Just how well does this doodad organize? How well does a this mower mow? How well does this computer compute, and how well does this book read?​

Thank you, Parker! Now for Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies. Robin? 
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The more I thought about this particular can of worms, the more I wanted to put a lid on it! Yes, people have the right to express their opinion. No, it’s not always kind, helpful, or even necessary. Yes, the person under the glaring light of criticism might learn something valuable. No, that doesn’t give Everyone Else the right or the duty to shred someone’s work to pieces.
Did it just get really foggy in here? 

And here are my thoughts . . .
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​I believe that in general, the more reviews, the better. When I see a book with few reviews and those posted are all 5-stars, I tend to think that the author got a few friends to post positive ratings in an effort to promote sales for the book. By contrast, when I see a book with quite a number of reviews, I expect that I will find that some highly praised the work, while others were considerably less flattering.
 
When I review a work, I try to put myself in the shoes of the its average intended reader. If it is geared to children, I consider how they might receive it and what their parents will think. Likewise when I review something for school-grade readers. I try to give reasons for why I liked a story and/or what did or did not work for me. I have found that this is quite an unusual approach. For many, a book they like is an automatic “5”—even if it has serious issues, while one that didn’t speak to them personally is an automatic “1” or “2”—even if it was extremely well written or at least presented a unique story not told before. 

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All that said, even while I know that people look at reviews of my books, and even while I know they can be helpful—especially if there are a wide range of differing opinions—I rarely look at the reviews of others to determine whether to purchase a book for myself. Why?  Because I’ve found that a review doesn’t have to have any connection to the book at all. I’ve read reviews that left me fairly certain that the person never read the work. Since many sites allow people to leave reviews even if there is no record that those people purchased the item or items in question, it is entirely possible that a particular reviewer may not have read the book for which he/she left a review. 

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I did a bit of research and discovered that books I found quite good, and/or about which I’ve heard great things, almost all have one or more 1 or 2 star reviews. When I look into the history of those reviewers, I often find a long string of similar reviews. Often they are nasty one-liners that offer me no insight into what the reader found objectionable about the work. So in short, occasionally, a poor review offers genuine insight, but only if the reviewer provides reasons for why the story did or didn’t work. Accordingly, while I try not to let great reviews of my works go to my head, I also try not to let poor ones strike at my heart. They reflect, after all, only one person's opinion (and that person may not even have read the book!).
 
(I must add that there are always those reviewers who rate works according to what they would have done differently had they written the story. These readers seem to find it difficult to turn off their interior author/critic/editor voice and just experience the story before them . . . as told by someone else! (Moreover, they seem to conclude that they would have done a better job. Hmmm . . . I wonder . . . For the most part, I try to just ignore those reviews!) 
 
For myself, I’ve concluded that, overall, reviews don’t mean anything except that if a work has a number of them, it is more likely that because others have given the work a chance—regardless of how they rated the story, more may do so in the future.

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