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.

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 ...

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.

​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!

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.)

​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.

​Standing near the communal bonfire, twisted tendrils of acrid smoke surrounded me, irritating my throat, stinging my eyes, and making me cough.

​My heart raced as I watched the elders change their places. Soon, they encircled me. All the while they clapped their hands to their thighs in a steady rhythm. The eerie wailing of a wooden flute joined their percussive mix.

​Earlier, I had begged mother to tell me about the ritual event, but she just spouted the same word she used whenever she didn’t want to discuss something with me: “Throwback.” Although I’d tried, repeatedly, to get her to explain, she’d refused. Each time she struggled to hold back tears and then changed the subject, behaving as though she’d already said too much. 

But I’m pretty sure I know what she meant.

Mother used the word to describe me because I am like those of our clan’s long ago days. I know that much from paintings on the walls of our village buildings. I look like those ancients—but I differ from everyone around me. My skin is darker. Across one cheek and the bridge of my nose, runs what appears to be a jagged scar—although Mother insists it, and a similar circular marking on my left cheek just below my eye, is a birthmark. Self-conscious, I wear a bandana over that part of my face to cover the area as best I can. A bronze tattoo runs from my chin down my neck. I have a vague memory, like a dream, of getting it. I don’t suppose I was even three summers old at the time . . . Also, my eyes are a deep walnut color—not the warmer tones of a spring fawn like the other villagers. And . . . I see things—unexplainable things—that they do not. Then of course, my body type is— Well, Mother calls me “sturdy.”

In short, I am different. And everyone knows it.

I remained standing, motionless, my eyes downcast, when quite unexpectedly, the cadenced clapping and odd melancholy fluting, ceased. Only the crackling fire sounded out.

Not a soul moved.   

​The smoke, having settled closer to the earth, leveled out at about knee-height. It swirled and billowed around me.

​Gasping with anticipation—or perhaps it was fear—I looked up as the ring of adults suddenly broke open. Then from outside of it, a single hooded figure approached. I couldn’t tell by its body size, the width of its stance, or the length of its stride, whether it was a man or a woman, but soon enough his—or her—gloved hand stretched my way, palm up. 

After the figure guided me outside the circle of adults, we walked on, leaving the gathering behind. Soon we reached a building at the edge of the river. As directed, I stepped inside first. Then I turned back just as my guide removed the hood that had covered her face. Yes, I could see her now for what she was. But the surprise was not in discovering her gender. Rather, it was in observing that she looked so very like me. 

Dropping hard into a nearby chair, I gasped, staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Ahhh—”

“I am Aytama,” she said.

Still, I stared. Never before had I seen anyone I resembled. Then, “I’m Codee,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

“What is this all about? Who are you? Why am I here?” I threw questions out without pausing for answers.

“I have come for you. As a Throwback, it is time you took your place.”

My head cocked, I repeated her. “A Throwback.”

“Yes. You understand.”

“Ahhh . . . no, I’m afraid I do not.”

Staring at me, her eyes narrowed.

“My mother has used the term, but she’s never explained it to me.”

Aytama sighed. “Yes, I suppose I might have expected that of Damira. I think she never came to grips with your situation.” She shook her head. “Well then, what do you think it means?”

“Well . . . I assume it means that I’m somehow cursed, that I’m to be some sort of outcast—that I’m unworthy of—”

Aytama rapped her knuckles against the side of my head and scoffed.

“Ouch!” I cried.

“Be not daft,” she scolded.

I glared at her, wincing, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “Well, what am I to think? I know I look like our village ancestors, but I’m different from all those around me—and they avoid me. So, I assume I am something lesser, or something—”

“Tssssk!” Once more, she knuckled the side of my head, this time more forcefully. “What is the matter with you? Do you think that one’s likeness to others makes them equal? Better? Superior, even? Goodness, I would have expected Damira to have taught you better than that!”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said, scowling.

​Aytama watched me carefully, as though assessing the veracity of my words. Then, “Codee,” she said, “our people have suffered over the past generations, following war, famine and disease. Along the way, they lost their strength. But you— You are not cursed, you are blessed. You are a Throwback. That mark you bear identified you as one, at birth. You have the physical, mental, and spiritual powers of our forebears. Like other Throwback children, you were raised in your village so you could learn the ways of our people.” 

Aytama sat in the chair opposite mine, folded her hands, and set them in her lap. “You are not inferior to those around you, Codee,” she continued. “If anything, you have a superior calling. Our people have great need of you.” She patted her chest. “I have need of you, for I am old, as you can see.”

It was true. Aytama was old. Even the birthmark across her cheek that so resembled mine, and the copper tattoo at her chin—again, like mine—drooped with her wrinkled skin.

“I have waited for you to come of age,” she said. “I have not much time left and if you are to be of any value to our people, you have a great deal to learn before taking my place. So together, we will journey to the forest home of the Throwbacks. There, all your questions will be answered. There, you will learn all you need to know so that you may be of service to our people.” Pausing, she took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and then continued. “But first, you must agree to put childish things aside.”

“Leave here!” I cried. “B—but what of Mother?”

“What of her?”

I pulled back. “Well . . . I didn’t get to tell her any of this.”

“Your mother has known from the moment of your birth, child. I assume it is why she never told you. She could not face that I would return one day to take you from her.”

“Return? When—”

“Was I here last? On your naming day, of course.”

Aytama picked up a carafe of water from the table at her side. She poured two cups. Handing one to me, she said, “Codee, you were born to help your people, to bring them wisdom in the years to come. A great force will aid you in your endeavor. But you will not be able to perform your duties faithfully if you cannot leave some things behind. Do you think you can you do that?”

“What must I leave?”

“Your home. Your mother. Your . . . immature and fruitless thoughts—first among which is that you are lacking in some way. You, girl, are exactly as your Maker intended you to be. You would be incapable of seeing to your calling if you were anything else.” She paused for effect. Then, “Can you do that?” she asked again. “Can you leave your childish beliefs behind?”

Somehow I knew as I gazed deeply into Aytama’s eyes, that everything she told me was true. I had a purpose—and it was one I was anxious to pursue.

“Well?” she prodded.

​A faint flash of a possible future danced before my eyes. Then, “Yes, Aytama,” I said, nodding, “I am ready.”

Josmund tied the stained apron around his waist as the back door of the pub swung open, pouring warm light into the dark evening. 

“Hurry up! Yer late,” the cook called.

As soon as Josmund stepped inside, he reached for the tankards of ale and pitcher on the back counter. 

​“Thirteen,” the cook said groggily, having tested the ale himself one too many times. 

“Thanks Briggs, you’re a life saver.” Josmund grinned over his shoulder as he left the kitchen for the front counter.

In his fourteen years of work in the pub, Josmund had only been late twice, once when he forgot his apron, the other when his mother caught the bird fever. Had he known that was her last day under the sky’s eye, he would have stayed home, but he was only eleven then.

“What held ya today?” Ryan, a bus boy, called.

​“There’s a new ship on the dock,” said Josmund amusedly. “One I ain’t ever seen before.”  

​Ryan grinned, “That’s what’s got everybody buzzing. She’s here!”

Before Josmund could ask who or what, Ryan disappeared in the swells of thirsty sailors, thieves, and mongrels, but Josmund wasn’t concerned. He knew he would have all the information he needed soon enough. 

Taking three tankards to a table of old, sea-weathered fishermen, he heard one croak, “Aye, ’olds only 23 men and the cap’n. ’S why she’s so swift on the seas. No man e’er saw ’er comin’.” 

It was the ship Josmund had found himself gazing at for a time too long. She was sleek and tall with four pale, folded sails. But what caught his attention was the wood, dark as tar in the torchlight of the pier. 

“Midnight Marauder,” a grizzly-haired drunkard called out from table fourteen. “Ne’er saw ’n quite like ’er,” he mumbled to his slumped companion. Josmund topped off the man’s tankard and removed the empty plates before moving on.

“A dangerous ’n, that cap’n is,” a raspy voice whispered as Josmund grabbed more finished plates from the next table. “…Soiled three merchant ships in a fortnight. ’Course they couldn’t hold it all—just let ’em sink.” 

“’S a shame,” a gruff voice replied. 

Upon returning to the kitchen, Josmund threw the scraps out the back door for the hounds before grabbing the soups and bread for tables six and seven. 

“Ya ’ear ’bout the cap’n?” the cook called.

“Not yet,” Josmund replied, “only that his vessel’s called The Midnight Marauder.”

The fat, grease covered cook grinned. “Careful, boy. Cap’n’s a she.” 

​Refusing to believe the cook’s outlandish claim, and wanting to hear the truth from the sailors for himself, Josmund hurried back out to the floor. Listening more carefully, he ignored the crooning of the sailors’ songs, their cacophonous laughter, and the bettors’ cajoling for “more time.” Finally, a low and speculating tone sounded out. 

“I heard she’s a half-breed,” a wiry cabin boy in tattered clothes murmured. “Mum was a West Indies slave on some French ship.” 

Josmund’s ears perked up at this as the boy’s older drinking mate replied, “Aye boy, you ought know yer ships better.  The Adelaide was the best of its kind, ’til it was caught in the storm and dashed to pieces on the reef!”

After dishing out soup and bread to the men at tables six and seven, Josmund began clearing the long tables where a crew of eight had just been sitting. Nearby, six men sat huddled, as though trading secrets, though their drunkenness made them loud.

Among them, a bald man with a stump for a leg cried, “’Er father was the cap’n hisself! When they wrecked on that craggy island, only ’e and the babe survived—they ’adn’t chained ’er up yet—” 

’Er wrists were too small, woulda slip’d right through!” a dimwitted looking oaf interjected to the irritation of the first man.

“I woulda kil’t ’er,” a scrawny sailor sneered in a nasally voice. “Let ’er drown like ’er mother!” 

“He woulda!” the bald man exclaimed. “But she was the only heir ’e ever sired. ’Course, ’e didn’t really want ’er, but ’e thought God might spare ’im if ’e spared the child. Swore ’e’d even raise the mutt if ’e got off that blasted island.” 

“How’d they survive?” a young lad with wide eyes asked the storyteller. 

​“They say the babe’s cry was ’eard. ’S why the cap’n—” 

“Josmund!” Ryan called, “Table three needs refills!”

“Got it!” he replied. He abandoned his eavesdropping and grabbed a nearby pitcher to fill at the cask in the corner. 

While there, a sniveling, common thief whispered to his companion, “…Scar’s up half ’er face from a fight with three crewmen. They say she lost an eye, but they lost their lives—all three throats slit by the same blade.”  

Josmund wanted to listen longer but knew he had to get back to the kitchen. He quickly refilled the men’s drinks, snatched straggling dishes and empty tankards strewn across the floor along the way, and collected his next orders. 

“Eleven and nine!” the cook called. 

Josmund left the kitchen with his new orders and swung by the bar. As he was grabbing the specialty drinks, the bartender called after him, “No more for table two ’til Eric pays his tabs! I don’t wanna hear any more of that scum’s excuses!” 

Simply nodding, Josmund went on his way, light on his feet among the traipsing and staggering guests, careful to step over the snoring man on the ground. Rowdy laughter and a string of curses filled the air, but he focused on the conversations of those who had only drunk half their ale.

One man drawled “…Tattooed herself with the symbols of her people, snake lookin’ marks, but only half of ’em. Can’t imagine why…” 

​At table five, an ancient fisherman missing all his teeth gummed, “Killed the captain herself and took the ship. O’ course a few crewmen mutinied, but she finished ’em off like some sort of siren.”

Refraining from chuckling so as not to start a fight, Josmund could only shake his head at the sailors’ tales. After years of practice, he had learned to sift myth from truth, but tonight seemed especially full of fishermen fantasies. Indeed, as the evening progressed, the rumors only grew stronger, with each story building off the one before. 

In the wee hours of morning, the gossip dwindled to a murmur. By the fireplace, one pirate played a worn fiddle, while another sang of a heartbroken sailor and his lover. The flickering lights of the fireplace and lanterns danced on the walls, mesmerizing watchers. While most of the pub’s inhabitants had been lulled into a drunken stupor, Josmund still heard the occasional whisper of the mysterious captain.

“Eh, boy,” the bartender gestured, “Come ’ere.” 

Curious as to why he didn’t call out like usual, Josmund drew near the counter, ready for his instructions. 

“There’s a guest in twenty-three—didn’t want to be disturbed ’til now. See to ’em,” he said gruffly. “And be careful,” he added.

​Josmund glanced at the back end of the room, a place people went to for privacy. Bringing a pitcher with him, he stood outside the curtains, thick layers of sheer that allowed guests to see out without allowing for onlookers to see in. The inhabitant pulled back the curtain, a signal for him to enter.

A single candle lit the room, so all Josmund could make out was a lone figure leaning on the table. As his eyes adjusted, he sucked in a sharp breath. Before him sat the rumored captain of The Midnight Marauder.True to the tales, she was a half-breed with scars on her face and a snakelike tattoo twisting from her chin to her throat. Wrapped around her dreadlocks and across her face, an ornate strip of cloth hid her left eye.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she smirked, her voice low and melodic. “All the tales are true. Well…except the one about the mutiny—” 

​Pausing, she set her gaze on Josmund, candlelight glinting in her eye, “There were four men.”

​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:

​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.

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.

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?

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.

​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.