Hard gym workout. 3300 words, need to sketch out a battle.
Chapter One: Mules and Meetings
“The eastern border is too quiet for you, isn’t it.”
Countess Elizabeth von Sarmas, colonel in the armies of the Eastern Empire, looked up from the Lander artifact she’d been playing with to find Archduke Lewis Babenburg glaring at her, arms folded, green eyes snapping with an all too familiar expression of frustration. Puzzled, she blinked and inquired, “Your grace?”
The lean, dark-haired man stared up at the whitewashed ceiling as if imploring Godown for patience. At least Elizabeth assumed that’s what he was asking for. She seemed destined to inspire near-permanent irritation in the emperor’s younger brother. He repeated, “I said, do you not think that it is too quiet?”
She set down the bit of swirled blue and yellow plaztik and metal and laughed without mirth. “Your pardon, your grace, but Duke Grantholm would beg to disagree. As would the poor women fleeing what remains of Sheel and the peasants fleeing the Morloke borderlands.”
Lewis walked to her worktable and leaned forward, planting his hands on the dark wooden surface. She’d been surprised to realize that he was not much bigger than she was—his lean build and closely cut jackets and breeches made him look taller. But then she loomed over the most fashionable beauties in the Imperial court, even without her wig. Lewis glared down at her, almost nose-to-nose. “That is exactly my point, Colonel. Tayyip and the Turkowi are consolidating, not advancing. When have they ever done that?”
She blinked again, idly noting that he needed a haircut before campaign season began. Although some of the court dandies had begun sporting long hair, tied back with ribbons. Perhaps he intended to imitate them? He was the only remaining unmarried archduke, after all. Don’t try the shaggy look, your grace. You’re too old, she thought at him. “I do not know, your grace. We have no histories of the Turkowi before their first crossing of the Dividing Range,” she reminded him. “There are rumors that someone has been harassing their eastern borders, but,” she shrugged.
“I know.” He ducked his head, giving her a glimpse of grey in his black hair. “My nephew’s . . . associates . . . can learn nothing.” Prince Gerald André, head of Imperial foreign intelligence, knew people who knew people in every port, market, and monastery, or so it seemed to Elizabeth. If he knew nothing, then there was probably nothing to be known. She shivered, thinking, or because no one has survived whatever is harrying the Turkowi.
Lewis pushed off of the worktable and Elizabeth grabbed at an especially fragile piece of metal and glass before it could fall off its little wooden stand. “The ambassador from Frankonia inquired after your health.” Continue reading
To whom it may concern:
I am appalled by the low-quality phishing and fraudulent e-mail filling my inbox. You are not going to get my funds or personal information unless you improve the quality of your work. To wit:
1) I am as likely to respond to broken English as I am to a supposed Brit using American slang. Especially if it comes from the keyboard of someone who is purportedly the head of an international bank in Kuala Lumpur.
2) Keep track of which official you are impersonating. I highly doubt John Ashcroft is still in office with the US government, nor that his e-mail to me about funds being held for me by the Department of Homeland Security has been caught in traffic this long.
3) Pick country besides Nigeria or Singapore or Ireland.
4) When borrowing a corporate logo, use the correct colors with the design. Hint, hint, Federal Express’s logo is generally not done in brown and white. Nor does the Royal Bank of Scotland use crimson and gold. And trying to get me to click on a link to Northern Rock was just mean, although I give you points for a sense of irony.
5) There are far fewer princes in Africa than there used to be. Try again.
6) If your spouse was a missionary, you’d better spell the name of the religious denomination correctly or no one will take you seriously.
Thank you and have a nice day.
4700 words despite mild electronic chaos. Two miles.
3000 words despite multiple interruptions and distractions. The cover of Elizabeth of Vindobona is complete.
And telling that pesky mosquito “Oh, bite me” was counterproductive. Next time I’ll tell her to sod off. And be faster with the swatter.
It takes rain to make rain. The most frustrating part of living in a drought may well be the nightly weather forecast, when the weather dude (or dudette) says, “All the ingredients for a good rain are here, but until we get some moisture, the system has nothing to work with.” And so you open the morning paper to see that the area a hundred miles east of you got pounded with flooding rain, ping-pong-ball-hail, and farmers are griping because it’s too wet to harvest the winter wheat. Meanwhile dust is dancing on the morning wind and the cracks in the ground of your yard are so deep that you’re pretty sure if you look carefully, you can see a group of people in a park practicing tai chi.
Without moisture in the ground, there’s nothing to evaporate and fuel the storms that bring more rain. All the air does is bake, sucking more water out of the plants and soil. It takes rain to make rain. Only after something pumps starter moisture into the area, be it the remains of a hurricane in the Gulf or the Pacific, or something sucking southeasterly winds up into the Plains with dew points in the 50s F, can the rainmaking weather systems produce rain.
Writing and culture seem to be a lot like waiting for rain. It takes someone saying “Hey, I’m tired of elegantly written, beautiful books without plots. I want characters that stand up and defend what they believe in. I’m tired of reading 400 pages of ‘brilliant prose’ about a woman having existential angst about her midlife crises over the course of a day of shopping.” And someone else chimes in, “Yeah. Me too. I want some big damn heroes.” And a writer ventures out into the waters, publishing a little electronic book and saying, “Hi. You might like this.” Or “Dear Big Publisher, sod off. I’m writing what I want to read and if other people buy it, great.”
One story becomes two, becomes three, becomes the first faint gust of moist wind. Other proto-authors see the new books, or encounter a reprinted swashbuckling classic, and say, “Hey! I’ve got one of those in my drawer.” Or they decide to venture out into the publishing waters with their own tale of adventure. (Captain Blood in space, anyone?) The damp gust becomes a stronger wind, bringing inspiration and ideas and motivation with it. And then the rain begins, or a wave. Let’s call it “human wave,” a storm of books about people of all colors and flavors, human and otherwise, fighting for truth, beauty, justice, and the right to be left alone. Or to win the hand of their true love. Or to defeat the evil wizard. Or just to survive on a hostile planet. And so the rain falls, bringing more rain, and refreshing readers thirsty for well-told tales and pretty-much happy endings.
You don’t need a hurricane to bring rain, just a steady, water rich wind.
2000 words, rest of chapter sorted out, good work out at gym. I’m really getting the sense that Blackbird will be the longest Colplatschki novel.
Gripe: if you are write a fantasy novel set in the 1800s, do not use “gift” as a verb. Even in the character’s native language, the word for gift cannot be verbed. The usage threw me out of the story. I’m not asking for linguistic purity by any means, but eschew quasi-slang verbiage, please.