Warm. It’s July in Texas.
August 5 and 6 I will be at AmaCon, the pop-culture Con in Amarillo that is sponsored by the Amarillo Public Library. I will be with Peter Grant, Dorothy Grant, J. L. Curtis, and the Lawdog. I will have books available for purchase and to sign, or you can BYO. (Carpathian Campaign and Alexander, Soldier’s Son. Ivan’s paw-tograph is available for the Alexi book).
Shikhari, the first book in that series, will be out in September. It is suitable for younger readers, say 13 and up, but I’m not marketing it as YA. Continue reading
Two inch rain – drops fall two inches apart. Not to be confused with the mudballs that fall two inches apart on the ground but completely cover your vehicle.
Just enough – just enough rain to splatter your windshield and make mudballs but not enough to water anything Continue reading
One of the fascinating little churches I poked my nose into on this past trip was St. Thomas in Tribsee. Although it is now Protestant (Lutheran), like every other church in the region, it began as Catholic and during the Reformation, the parishioners saved some of the artwork, including a fascinating altarpiece. The church was affiliated with a Cistercian Monastery. It was Cistercians who first moved into the area and developed farming and livestock-raising. You are in the swampy part of Germany, and the Cistercians looked for empty wilderness to move into. They found lots of it up in this area, between Hamburg and Rostock.
Focus on the central panels.
People what’s the life of an author like. Um, quiet, unless Life has decided to Happen. Far quieter than school (accidental fire drills, student cabals, a murmuration of teachers, the occasional parental explosion, the occasional chemistry explosion…)
Johannes Gutenberg, being introverted. Or the author, hiding.
So, in an attempt to cure any of my readers who suffer from insomnia, here is a day in the life, in this case a Sunday. Continue reading
Tycho Galnaar Rhonarida settles in for a quiet winter. Perhaps.
Chapter Five – Winter into Spring
The notary-mage studied Tycho and the seal, then stood. He walked around the merchant and out the open front of his work-area, into the main market and currency exchange. The stocky man pulled a stout cord hanging beside the door.
Clatter-tap, clatter-tap, clatter-tap. Everyone within hearing paused and looked to the notary. He raised his hands to his mouth and called, “Is there any man of good repute who can identify this person standing beside me?” He pointed an ink-stained finger at Tycho.
After a moment, three men in merchant’s or craftsmen’s clothes walked up, along with one of the ship-captains. “I know him. I am Ventris Bormanson.”
“I know him. I am Henk Wesserman,” the captain said.
“I know him. I am Gregor Smithson.”
“And I am Haako Peltzerman, and he is Tycho Galnaar, husband of Gerta Galnaar born Krewatzi.” Continue reading
Clickita clickita clickita Ye Author types away, working on something.
Motion where none should be catches her eye, dark against the smooth white firmament of the ceiling.
Clickita clickita clickita If she ignores it, it will go away.
It does not. Continue reading
“Take Down Monuments to Native American Oppression” states the opinion essay by Julian Brave NoiseCat (Secwepemc/St’at’imc) in the High Country Journal. The author argues that once Lee, Jackson, Forrest and other statues are gone, streets re-named, schools re-named, and the human face and valor of those who fought for the Confederacy or who owned slaves have all been eradicated, it is time for Columbus, Father Serra,* Juan Oñate, and others to vanish as well, lest any honor be given to the perpetrators of genocide, slavery, and racism. Continue reading