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Are You Ready to RUMBLE?
Bust out your bugspray; dust off your sleeping bag.
It’s getting to be that time again, folks!
As June dawns, so does the first yearly installment of Camp NaNoWriMo, and I’m signed up for the torture glory of roughing it through 50,000 words in a month again.
For those of you who don’t know, Camp NaNoWriMo is an offshoot of NaNoWriMo proper, a month long endeavor to pump out a novel in the 30 days of November. 50,000 words, start to finish, 1,667 words per day. NaNo proper is always in November, but last year they started summer camp. There are two sessions — one in June and one in August — and this writer is going to hit both.
I have a tradition to maintain of going at this challenge rebel-style, which is to say I’ll be working on finishing the first draft of my existing WIP. The “rules” are to start from scratch, but they’re not picky about people following them as long as you’re going second star on the right and straight on till 50k.
As is Emmie-licious, I like to put my own little twists on things. So if you’re interested in pumping up the action and injecting Camp NaNoWriMo with a little steroid syringe, get ready!
Here’s the sitch:
I watch a decent amount of TV. Right now it’s Game of Thrones and The Vampire Diaries. But every marathon on Netflix costs me writing time — so this time around, I have a solution.
Everyone has their vices. Some of us might share the Damon Salvatore vice, others might have other things that get in the way, like ironing your underwear or making snoods from angel hair pasta.
Just TRY to tell me you don’t want him to be your vice too. Even if you’re a straight male or a nun. I dare you.
Whatever it is that you like to do but that keeps you from writing, fix it in your mind.
Got it?
Okay. I give you…..
Commander Emmie’s Can-Do, Communal Camp of Creation!
Statute the First: Write 2,000 words per day.
Statute the Second: Spend at least two hours per week doing something that rejuvenates you.
Statute the Third: Earn your vices with words.
The first two are self-explanatory, so here’s what I mean with the third one. If your vices, like mine, get in the way of your writing, turn the table upside down on them. Want to polish off the last four episodes of Next Food Network Star? That’ll cost you 4,000 words.
An hour of television costs 1,000 words. Reading is GREAT, but if you’re like me, you might snuggle in between the covers of an old favorite and end up realizing four hours later that you didn’t touch your WIP today. Pay for your reading time minute for minute. Thirty minute writing sprint? Thirty minutes curled up with le book. Going out drinking with your mates tonight? Not till you hit your goal. They can sit in your living room and entertain the cats while you polish off your 2,000 words.
Want to go extra hardcore with earning your vices? I’m trying to lose some weight, which means I’m fighting my super-lazy metabolism AND the estradiol progestione I ingest each day to avoid any untimed joy bundles. If I want to see what happens in the season one finale of Vampire Diaries or the next round of The Bachelorette (I know, I know…everyone gets a guilty pleasure, right?), I have to earn it. 1,000 words for every hour AND fifteen minutes of upped heart rate, gasping for breath.
Why do I want to do this to myself?
Damn fine of you to ask, I say! Capital! Capital!
The first reason is to complete a first draft of a novel in less than two months (it’s already begun). If I hope to make a career out of my scribblings, I’m going to need to put out more than just one book every three years.
The second reason is that I really want my tattoos. And I’m not letting that happen until I’ve gotten back down to a healthy BMI and my goal weight.
The third reason is that to accomplish any goals, it takes discipline. Camp NaNoWriMo (and NaNoWriMo proper) is a writing bootcamp disguised by chunky graphics and happy fonts. I like to take it a couple steps farther because I believe in a holistic approach to life. If you’re making things happen in one area, you can make things happen in others.
So. Who’s with me?
A thin veil for thirty days of sweaty, feverish typing.
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Saor Alba: Why I Believe in Scotland’s Independence
I ought to start this with a disclaimer. I do not hold a British passport; I am not a subject of the Queen. I will have no legal right to vote on this subject in the autumn of 2014. But it matters to me.
I hope one day to make my home in Scotland. I would like to raise my children there. I want to bring my family back to to the land of my ancestors. There are Scots on every branch of my family tree. Some of them are closer to the trunk than others, but they’re all there. Since 2004, I’ve spent a lot of time in Scotland. The first time I ever went, I was alone. It was me, a large rucksack, and two months that changed my life.
The north-west point of mainland Scotland, John O’Groats.
I spent over eight weeks there that summer. Listening, learning, absorbing. I saw everything from misty glens to sheer faced cliffs. I climbed Ben Nevis and visited chambered cairns and standing stones. But what I recall most about that trip were the people.
From the Glasgow cabbie who cheerfully bid me “Welcome home!” when I told him I had Scottish ancestry to Robin, a young man from Rothesay, who took me out with his friend Neil to fly on the beaches of St. Andrews — they accepted me and welcomed me. Kind and gracious and welcoming are the Scots.
It’s on this beach I tried to fly. Parachute. Harness. Gust of wind. 20 feet in the air only to be dropped on my arse. I washed it off in the North Sea and found sand in various orifices for weeks to come. Weeks. Thanks, Robin and Neil.
That land snared me so tight that I found ways to go back year after year. At Christmas in 2006, a few New Zealanders introduced me to the Scottish band Albannach. Albannach means, quite simply, “Scottish” or “Scots” in Gaelic. Their music is reminiscent of a time when drums served to make you dance, to make you fight, to stir your soul. From the first strains of Donnie’s pipes, they caught me. I’ve been fortunate enough to meet them several times and to see them live more times than I can count now — they breathe a fiery passion for their homeland, and they believe that a Scot is a Scot, even unto a hundred generations.
Even then, I’d seen Braveheart. It’s a romanticized portrait of a violent former time, to be sure, but the facts as they are remain unmolested. William Wallace was a hero. He led the Scots to many victories and a few losses. Some of those victories, like that at Stirling Bridge, were brilliant displays of tactics and courage by the outnumbered Scots. And it remains that Wallace paid for Scotland’s freedom with his blood and a horrific, torturous death long before Robert the Bruce was able to rally his countrymen to victory on the field at Bannockburn.
The Wallace Monument at Stirling. The bridge is long gone, but you can see Wallace’s sword at the top of the tower.
Robert Bruce himself is a paragon of Scotland’s heroes — and a bit maligned by Braveheart’s writers. He saw Scotland freed, and she remained thus for four centuries.
It should be noted, in the interest of fairness, that Scotland’s greatest enemy has — at times — been her own rulers. Nobles wooed by prospects of English titles or land, lured by empty promises at the expense of those who had no voice.
While doing my research on my family, I found a line of Scots that people on Ancestry.com were quick to believe came from the Earl of Panmure. It was exciting to think that perhaps I came from some noble house — but the facts didn’t line up. Some were content to leave those gaps unfilled, but I’m not. That Scot, with all the other Scots on my tree, was most likely a peasant. A crofter or a farmer, and likely no one of note. Indeed most of my Scottish ancestors had no voice. They were subject to the whims of their rulers, and I’ve no doubt that the political machinations of the time are what forced my forebears from their homeland.
For the first time, the people of Scotland have a say in what becomes of her. They didn’t have much of a choice when James Stuart, sixth of his name, landed on the thrones of both Scotland and England. They didn’t get to vote on the Act of the Union in 1707, and many Scots dissented — and were forcibly put down.
Monument at the Culloden Battlefield, where hundreds of Scots died fighting to return a Stuart to the throne. The battle was nearly a massacre in proportions, and what followed was brutal retaliation against the Highlanders.
Three hundred years have passed since then.
This time round, there is a chance for Scotland’s independence to come without bloodshed. This time round, I doubt it will come to that. I can most sincerely and fervently say that I hope it will not. The basis of my belief in Scotland’s independence is one of principle. Scotland is a discrete nation with a distinct culture and history. Why should she not have self-determination?
It bears mentioning as well that Scottish history is not the national history taught in Scottish schools. Scottish children learn British history, which is by and large an Anglocentric pursuit. I think that if more Scots had grown up learning more in-depth about her long and fascinating story, there would likely be greater support for independence. As children progress past primary school and onto secondary, a bit more emphasis is placed on Scottish history and identity, but it’s not the same.
I remember how I felt when I found that certain parts of American history had been glossed over in my classes. History should be the property of the people. It affects us and the choices we make.
From a political perspective, a split of the United Kingdom would be difficult. Would Scotland retain membership in the European Union? What would happen to the North Sea oil reserves? What would change? Would they get to keep golf? (Okay, that last was a joke.)
Those who are against Scottish independence say that the United Kingdom is more prosperous as a whole and that membership therein does not compromise the individual identity of its member nations. But under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (which the UK has signed), Scotland has a right to self-determination if she so chooses.
Scotland of course benefits as a part of one of the world’s major powers — but what if the status quo in your country’s foreign policy grossly diverges from your wishes? Such was the case in the last major election in the UK, with the Conservatives (Tories) winning on a national scale (England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland) when in Scotland they garnered a tiny 15% of the vote. Yes, you read that right. 85% of Scotland did not vote for the current UK government, but they don’t have the option to get out of it. Scotland is significantly more liberal than England, and when your country has five million people to your neighbor’s whopping 59 million, your voice gets lost in a very large crowd.
It’s difficult to be objective in a case like this, but then I’m not trying to be. I’m merely trying to express an opinion and give a few reasons for it.
I believe that Scotland should be free. She should have the chance to go it alone and make what she can of this new era. Her people are capable, hardworking, generous, and kind. They have eked out a living on a hunk of largely barren rock for ten thousand years. They have fought back superior forces and given us people like David Hume, Alexander Graham Bell, Alexander Fleming, Andrew Carnegie, Robert Burns, Adam Smith, Kirkpatrick MacMillan (Like bikes? He invented them.), Craig Ferguson, Julie Fowlis, and many more.
Why do I care about all of this? I guess it comes down to who I am. I am a Scot. What makes a Scot? Is it blood? Yes. Is it ancestry? Yes. Is it birth? Yes.
But beyond all those things, I think what makes a Scot is a passion for the land, her people, and her heritage. It’s the beauty of her languages — the cadence of Scots and the fluidity of Gaelic. It’s her haunting stories, lively reels, whirling jigs and the piercing sound of the pipes. It’s a belief, in her history and her perseverance. It’s hope for her future. It’s fire and passion born of rock and rain.
Even if you don’t support the coming referendum, a Scot can be any of those things and all of them. I am one. MacLennan and MacLachlan, Maule and MacMillan, Brown and Hamilton, Taylor and Mears. By blood and bone and the stories passed down from my ancestors who never forgot where they came from — I am one. And this Scot happens to believe that Scotland is a living place, and she must and shall go free.
Saor Alba.
Rainbow over Loch Ness — one of my favorite moments ever.
The aforementioned Scottish band Albannach are offering a new album entitled The Independence EP for free on their website. If you click the image below, you’ll be taken to the page where you can download it.
Cover of The Independence EP — click to be taken to the download page.
They are a band of patriots, people who genuinely believe in Scotland’s ability to govern herself. One of their dear friends, writer and historian David Ross, passed from this world two years ago. His life was a testament to that belief and will not be forgotten by any of us who were lucky enough to have met him.
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Lighting the Fires of Life
Blessed Beltane -- and may your fires burn ever bright.
Today marks the beginning of the season of light. Halfway between the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, Beltane has been celebrated among the Celtic cultures for eons.
So many people suffer from seasonal depression in the winter months when the sun hides his face from the earth and plant life lies dormant, awaiting the return of warmth and light. Beltane is the day to rejoice in the return of the sun, to revel in the beauty of life, and to appreciate the bounty of spring.
Today is about the central aspects of human existence and celebrating the joy they bring.
Food. Sex. Light. Growth. Warmth.
All these things we cannot live without. They provide the basis for our survival, as individuals and as a species. On Beltane, we honor these things and what they bring to us as the seasons change from scarcity to plenty.
Tell me you don't want to eat these.
Food
In past times, and even now for many people in rural areas or people who struggle beneath the poverty line, winter was a time of scraping by with what you had gathered the previous summer. Winter‘s rations were often monotonous and carefully portioned to ensure families could survive the cold, cropless months until spring. If rot set into storage spaces, it could decimate an entire village.
With the return of spring, animals come out of hibernation, crops are planted, and wild fruits and vegetables begin to surface. This marks a return to variety in diet, of lighter fare and fresher foods on the table. Beltane is a celebration of food, an offering of spring’s blossoms in expectation of summer’s bounty.
These Belarussians know what's up. Image via bbc.co.uk, Associated Press
Sex
Spring is all about fertility. The birds, the bees, the bunnies, the trees — everything yearns to reproduce. The earth comes alive with procreation, attempting to ensure survival of the young in the warmer months.
At Beltane, people celebrated sex and fertility. As the last of three fertility holidays (Imbolc and Ostara being the first two), Beltane is the full flush of blushing spring as it ripens into summer. Marked by handfastings and passion, young couples would initiate their love by leaping over a fire together. Some unions lasted the night, others lasted a year and a day (the “trial marriage” of handfasting), and yet others blossomed into marriage.
Bonfires and warm spring air — what better time to contribute to the continuation of the human species?
The return of the sun.
Light
Winter was a dark time, especially in the north where the Celts marked the turning of the seasons by the presence or absence of light. Samhain, the Celtic new year, is a celebration and honoring of death and darkness. Beltane represents the return to the season of light and life and the renewing of the earth. None of spring’s gifts would be possible without the sun.
Humans need light. The sun gives us vitamins and helps our bodies release endorphins (and in my case, more redness than melanin). It is also a symbol of hope. If the winter solstice is dawn, Beltane is a shining bright morning. Light chases away the ghosts of winter darkness and turns simple scenes to dusky gold.
Budding life.
Growth
Winter is a season of stagnation, of biding time. It is a quiet season with its quiet comforts. With spring, stagnation and biding give way to budding and growth. Animals begin to mature; plants don their leafy cloaks and reach their arms toward the sun. It is a time of renewal and vigor, where the sighs of winter can be sloughed off to reveal brightness and life.
At Beltane, we celebrate the growing and thriving world around us and marvel at its wonders and its willingness to sustain us for another season. It is a time to gather ourselves, mind and body, to prepare for summer planting and harvest — both literal and metaphorical.
Warmth
Warmth
Above all, Beltane is a fire feast. Winter is cold, but spring returns the sun’s warmth to the land. Fire connects us to the sun. Fire consumes, but it also sustains. Fire is a tool. It forges steel from raw metal and refines gold and silver, burning away the dross. It seals ties and cooks our food. It warms our homes and brings us joy as we watch its dancing flames. Fire is to be respected; for all it gives, it can strip all away.
Fire is passion and life. Fire is anger and love and conviction. It purifies and makes new, just as spring makes the earth new after winter. On Beltane, the Celts would build fires from the nine sacred woods and light them to symbolize the return of warmth. This fire would lend its embers to all neighbors, who would use it to light the fires on their hearths.
Beltane is a day of celebration. What will you make new this Beltane? What will you celebrate today?
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Finding the Silver in Pain
Psychologists believe (and rightly so) that the vast majority of humans will go out of their way to avoid pain. Americans are notorious for our propensity to pop pills instead of just bearing the pain. Most of us have never known levels of pain beyond the occasional headache or broken bone or scraped knee.
Pain (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
As a reader, I’ve read shelves worth of books where the characters undergo immense amounts of pain and torture. I’ve noticed that some authors forego description of the actual sensations and just say “pain lanced through her” or “ripples of pain cascaded over him.”
I’m just about to finish Jacqueline Carey‘s Kushiel Trilogy, and her approach to pain has made me reconsider how I write this difficult human experience in my work. Her protagonist is an “anguissette,” a woman marked by their punishing god Kushiel and fated to always experience pain and pleasure as one. Yes, the books are NC-17 in parts — but if you are a reader who values the honesty of human emotion and stories that leave you wondering what’s real, take a chance on them.
First edition cover (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I got my first migraine in 8th grade. I remember sitting in class, trying to look at the white board, struggling to see the words there, having to look down at my dark-colored binder to give my eyes a respite. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I’ve seldom experienced the nausea that accompanies many people’s migraines, and mine often end after 10-15 hours, but in recent years, my migraines have taken a turn for the unbearable. What they lack in duration, they make up for in intensity.
I had one last night, and I struggled to finish the last four hours of my cocktail shift with the strange blurred aura around my vision and each oppressive light bearing down on me. I woke this morning with a pounding heart and shallow breath, not a little surprised that I had survived the night. Does that sound melodramatic?
I’ve always been someone to hurt myself a lot. I still have scars all over my legs from multitudinous skinned knees and run-ins with sharp objects. I’ve a scar on my thumb from mistaking the knuckle for a potato and removing my skin with the peeler instead of the tuber’s. I’ve had head wounds and broken bones, one bash on the skin that went down to the bone, and I’ve impaled my leg on a fence.
Beyond that, I’ve always suffered from severe menstrual cramps bad enough that they’ve caused me to lose consciousness. And there’s the migraines.
Last night, just driving home felt like torture. I almost never use the mirror flip on the rearview mirror to dim the lights behind me, but I used it last night and drove the 15 miles home with my left hand blocking out the reflection in my side mirror. I kept thinking, “Five more miles. Two more miles. One more mile. Three more turns, then home.” I came inside to only dim light and had to stand in the hallway to blearily tell Spouse I was going straight to bed.
I laid in darkness, first consumed by relief at the lack of light. But my migraines are not so forgiving.
When my kitten woke me up from a fitful sleep, pressure mounted in my head. My husband had come to bed and lay sleeping in the dark, but dawn had begun to light the sky and even the pastel dimness of the early blush of sun made me gulp with panic. I struggled to the hall closet in the dark, found a bottle of ibuprofen by touch alone, and counted out five into my shaking palm through waves of pressure that felt as though they preceded a nuclear bomb.
Laying in bed again, my heart gulped shallow beats against my chest. My head felt as though someone had taken an ice cream scoop to the inside of my skull and tried to fill the remaining cavern with too much air. I buried my face in my pillow to battle the blossoming dawn. And melodramatic though it might sound, I doubted my body’s ability to withstand the mounting pressure, ever-increasing and relentless.
I finally had to wake my husband. If I get a migraine during the day, he massages my head, helping to spur the blood flow in my neck muscles that have turned to concrete and the fissures in my skull that seem about to rend themselves with every passing breath. His fingers released the pressure in tiny spurts, careful and deft. My fluttering pulse began to strengthen. My panicked breathing subsided. And after a long while, I slept.
So today I woke, feeling shaky and abused. I couldn’t think of what to blog about. All I could think of was the ten hours of last night that the migraine claimed. I scarcely remember the last few hours at work, and the drive home exists only in flashes of bright light and cringing. Migraines, at least mine, create a phobia of light. Where every patch of glowing brightness makes me flinch away and I trade breath for darkness as I bury my head under pillows and blankets — even then there is a spotlight glaring behind my eyes, illuminating the inside of my head as if I’m staring at the sun with no eyelids to shield me, no way to blink, no way to scrunch them shut.
As a writer, I have to embrace these experiences. Maddening and frightening though they can be, they are gateways. My inability to escape them makes me vulnerable, but being forced to wade through them liberates me from using descriptions like “pain lanced through her.” If you read the description of my ten hour ordeal, you will see that I never once used the word pain.
As much as humans want to avoid it, pain is an essential human experience, and one that is as inevitable as the earth’s continual circling of the sun. It may be unpleasant, but in ways it is exquisite.
Writers, consider this challenge: next time you are writing of love, of pain, of death, of hope…do so without using those words. And readers, glut yourself on the wealth of description in books. Let your favorite characters be your avatars of experience. For better or for worse.
Related articles
- Kushiel’s Dart – Book Review (mycogds.wordpress.com)
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Wednesday Woman: Min Farshaw
One thing I’ve always loved about the Wheel of Time is that the women are well-rounded and exquisitely developed. While there is one glaring smack in the face to feminism that threads itself throughout the series, I can manage to ignore it most of the time because I love the story so much and because most of the women are portrayed as powerful and equal.
Min Farshaw is introduced early in the series as a blunt-spoken, dagger-wielding young woman who wears men’s breeches and keeps her hair cut short. She gets a lot of flack for her personal choices, but from the get-go she can take care of herself. The evolution of her character shows some softening in her mode of dress, but in the sense of her fire and determination, she’s anything but soft.
I'm thankful for trousers every day. Skirts are rather cumbersome. Image via wot.wikia.com
Min sees auras around people. Sometimes it shows her when they’re going to die or who they’re going to marry, or something as simple as a color she can interpret. When I first read the books, I disliked Min. She is straightforward and sometimes a bit rankling. I remember being jealous on behalf of Elayne and Aviendha for the amount of time she gets to spend with Rand, which is silly.
As I re-read the books, however, Min grew on me. She is the product of a humble upbringing, raised by aunts in the mining district of Andor. She supports and protects herself, and she has an independence that is admirable even in a world where women are portrayed as equals with the men, more or less. As a child, I always wanted to play with trucks and Ninja Turtles, but I remember being constantly told by boys that those were boy things, and I should go play with dolls.
I resented that.
I can relate to Min on that level, of being pushed and prodded into what others expect of you, whether it’s gowns or dolls or a certain career path — and I imagine it’s much the same for everyone. All of us at some point have had to put up with someone plunking us into a box based on our gender, our race, our sexual orientation, or any number of other factors that people like to stereotype about others.
Min digs in her boots and hangs onto her daggers — staying steadfast about who she is in spite of people telling her that the way she dresses is vulgar. She just looks at them until they’re finished and keeps doing her thing. Even if you’ve never read the Wheel of Time series, there is something to be learned from Min Farshaw, and that is why she is today’s Wednesday Woman.
Wednesday Woman: Min Farshaw
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Everything I Need to Know, I Learned From Dragon Age
It’s no secret that I’m a gamer. If it is a secret, it’s a pretty crap one. Ever since my early infatuation with the Diablo franchise and scaring the bejeezus out of myself clearing various dens and dungeons, I’ve had a thing for fantasy RPGs. There’s something about them I can’t get enough of. And when Dragon Age: Origins came out a few years back, I fell all over myself trying to get my paws on a copy.
I’ve probably played the entire game through about five times. And I’m the type who does the super-thorough playthroughs. I’m a little bit of an achievement junkie. I think for DA:O, I’m only missing three total, including the downloadable content.
>Nerd.<
And don’t you forget it.
Even if you don’t play video games at all, there is a lot to be learned from the world of Dragon Age. I’ve kept a little running sourcebook of lessons I’ve taken from the game, and now I will share them with you! Enjoy!
Lesson the First: It doesn’t matter if you’re born a human noble or a lowly casteless dwarf in Orzammar, you can still become a hero.
Some of the most inspiring people on the planet came from humble beginnings. It doesn’t so much matter where you come from, but the decisions that you make along the way to where you’re going. If you happen to be a casteless dwarf, you might have to work twice as hard to get half as far, but origins don’t dictate destiny. I may have been raised with a hole in the ground for a toilet, but now I have one that goes flush, so hey, people can move up in the world.
Lesson the Second: You might think that demon-possessed boy just needs to be killed for everyone’s sake, but the easiest way might not be the best way — and you might never win the love of Alistair if you opt for the express decision.
Sometimes there are no good choices. Sometimes life is one big, fat, blurry gray area. You might have to choose between paying for rent and paying for heat, or paying for a phone or the meds Aunt Gertrude needs to stop hearing voices. On occasion, you might be forced to take the easy route and offend someone you care about — or prove you care about them by doing it the hard way anyway.
My secret Dragon Age lover. Don't tell the hubby. Gorgeousness brought to you by dragonage.wikia.com
Lesson the Third: Choices Matter in the Big Picture. You can side with the werewolves, the Templars, and Prince Bhelen if you want, but then you’ll have to face a horde of grotesque Darkspawn with only melee fighters, and then where will you be?
I know, I know, something about trees and forests and how you can’t see one through the other, but perspective is important. Take it from someone who thought it would be a good idea to drop $120,000 on an undergraduate degree (which I paid for myself with loans and scholarships) and then go into a program (let’s call that program Smeach por ‘Murica) that required me to take on more debt and ended up with a net worth of around -$80,000 at 27. Each one of those choices wasn’t horrible, but they add up to the cost of a mortgage…well, a mortgage if you happen to live anywhere outside of a major metropolis.
You might think you’re being compassionate and open-minded by letting the cursed werewolves get their revenge on the Dalish elves for years of slaughter (and, you know, making them werewolves in the first place), but you might need the Dalish later. And their longbows. I’m just saying.
Who wouldn't want to side with this gal? She's all foresty. Image via dragonage.wikia.com
Lesson the Fourth: Sometimes you have to say the right things or you’ll ruin the chances of a romantic relationship. If you’re going to insult something close to your target’s heart, like say…Duncan, you have to expect Alistair to be a bit miffed. And to not like you. And if it’s too much trouble to be yourself with someone, you should be looking for someone else. Like Morrigan, maybe. Or Bodahn.
Everyone says to be yourself, but people seldom listen. I remember when I was in junior high and I decided I liked someone. I barely knew him, but by golly, I was going to like him. Because of the tingles. Turned out, we had less in common than a dragon and a nug-wrangler, and it took me a solid ten years to learn that particular lesson.
If you’re looking for love, you’re not going to find the love you want if you’re busy being someone you’re not. Worst case scenario, you succeed and then end up miserable for the rest of your life and wither away hating the game you pigeon-holed yourself into.
Yeah, don’t do that. Bad idea.
Aw, look at the wee nug. He's so...pig-like. And bunny-like. With a hint of rat. Image via terenastavern.com
Lesson the Fifth: Sometimes the hardest job of all is left to you. Sometimes the choices you made in turn make it so there are no other Grey Wardens to slay the archdemon, leaving you to sacrifice yourself for the world. Maybe there is another Warden, but you can’t let him or her make that sacrifice. Or maybe you kept them alive so you wouldn’t have to be the one.
When it all comes down to it, we choose our paths. Whether we started out a noble or a nug-wrangler, where we end up depends on our choices, and we’re the ones who have to lie in the beds we make. Whether we succeed or fail is in our own power. Sure, sometimes a meteor will fall from the sky and make you the owner of the best star-metal sword in the land without even earning it, and sometimes that same meteor will crash right into the house you’ve so painfully constructed and wipe out your life’s work with no notice, but we always have control over our choices. For good or ill, we’re steering this tugboat.
So when the credits roll and the world is safe from the Darkspawn threat, who do you want to be? Do you want to be the Hero of Ferelden who beat all the odds to push back the tides of evil? Do you want to seize the throne and beat down anyone who challenges you? Or do you want to end up dying in quiet ignonimy? Whatever you choose, choose it and do it.
But hey, I’m just a gamer. Your life’s up to you.
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- Bioware says next Dragon Age will draw from Skyrim (arstechnica.com)
- Skyrim’s Success Hasn’t Changed Plans for the Next Dragon Age [Dragon Age] (kotaku.com)
- Dragon Age 3 Features Open World !?! (gamingphanatic.com)
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Video Game Fantasy and the Evolution of Experience
I’m a gamer. When I’m not writing, reading, or hanging out with my husband, I can often be found in the world of Kirkwall (Dragon Age 2) or the various cities of Albion (Fable), or sometimes in Renaissance Italy (Assassins Creed). Right now, the flavor of the decade might just be Skyrim.
As I’ve been playing with my new Kinect and sweating appropriately, it’s made me think quite a lot about some of the other possible venues for fantasy writing. Namely, video games. If you’ve ever played a large scale, open world RPG, you’ll know just how much writing and world building goes into those things. I get tingly thinking of writing for Bioware (home of Dragon Age and Mass Effect), and the more I play Skyrim, the more I’m convinced that the writers have a ball down there in Bethesda. I’ve even met a few of them — I think I have their autographs floating around somewhere.
I got a taste of where fantasy RPGs might be headed when I played the in-store demo of Puss in Boots at Best Buy. You slash your arm like a sword, claw things, jump, etc. In Kinect Adventures, you dodge obstacles, jump over things, duck under other things, and reach to collect pins and gems. If this sounds easy, it’s not. I broke a sweat, and my arms are very sore after a couple days of this.
As someone who has always loved the sword and sorcery type of games, the idea of slicing, shooting, or slamming enemies with magic is intriguing, to say the least. In Puss in Boots, you can jump to pounce an opponent, then scratch your hands over and over to claw him. HA! And don’t even get me started on Fruit Ninja.
As I played Skyrim with a controller last night, I thought about how it might end up, with our bodies going through these adventures. Granted, without the long miles of walking and the sleep/food deprivation, but I think it’s safe to say that thanks to Kinect (which destroys the Wii, by the way), gone is the gamer couch potato. Oh, I’m sure he’ll turn up here and there with some crumbs stuck on his butt and a ghostly pallor, but no longer is “gamer” synonymous with “lazy bum.”
As someone who has been a gamer for a long time, I neither take offense or mean any insult to my peers on that count. We all know what the stereotype is, and we accept it.
How cool is it to move your hands and see something respond on screen? Well…very. To slash at something and have it fall into chunks in front of you (Fruit, silly…not people. Yet.), to punch and kick and move your body to play a video game? Extremely. It’s not the equivalent of a kung fu class, but it sure as hell beats having your blood congeal in your arse for twelve hours while you play. It’s tiring — I played Kinect Adventures for a half an hour and had to take a break. I’m sure games will still be released with controller options, but I’m really curious to see where the world of the fantasy RPG goes from here. For me, all I see in the future is an evolving, evocative experience of game play — and I can get behind that.
And if I can’t make a living as a novelist, maybe Bioware could find a place for a fantasy-loving gamer-writer.
Hey, I can dream.
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- Getting Fit The Skyrim Way [Well Played] (kotaku.com)
- Playing Skyrim with Kinect looks surprisingly good [Video] (inquisitr.com)
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Friday Fellows: Chris Galford
Hello, gentle viewers, and welcome to the second weekly induction to the Friday Fellows! For those of you who weren’t here last week, go check out my post about Nila E. White to bring you up to speed on who you missed.
The Friday Fellows are a group of writers and bloggers who I want to share with my readers. They’re people who keep an active blog and are active in our WordPress community, who take the time to read posts and write thoughtful comments. Some of them will be published, some not yet. The point is to honor and edify other writers and spread the love around a bit more.
Today’s new Friday Fellow is:
Chris Galford
Chris is a fantasy author who spins beautiful worlds out of the raw clay that is words. He is a poet and a blogger, and he keeps his site active and engaging. I demand highly suggest that you trot over to The Waking Den and check out his site.
Some awesome and exciting news to share as well, Chris’s first novel, The Hollow March, has just hit publication. You can purchase the e-book here or order a hard copy here. I bought it a couple weeks ago and have started reading it — I’m not super far in yet, but I’m already impressed with Chris’s use of language and the development of his characters.
Welcome to the Friday Fellows, Chris Galford! The badge is yours to shoe box or display on your blog if you like!
And then there were two. 
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The Inauguration of the Friday Fellows
With all the awards that flit and float about the blogosphere, I’ve decided to give it a bit of new spin. I had an idea Wednesday night as I came off the buzz of three hours of trivia sandwiched in the middle of my cocktail shift at work. I blog every day, which is a lot. I have a lot to say, and you all just seem to keep coming back for more (without throwing tomatoes at me, I might add — and for which I thank you most humbly). I am also quite cognizant of the fact that there are plenty of others who have a lot to say as well, and as words are some of my most treasured possessions and trinkets, I think they’re best when shared.
Thus, I present to you the Inauguration of the Friday Fellows.
Each Friday, I will track down some surprised soul to join the club, someone whose work and writing I admire and whose scope I want to widen in my own little way. It could be anyone. It could be you! The point is to edify fellow bloggers and to provide readers with new and enjoyable content they may not have reached otherwise. Everybody wins! What a sexy concept.
In addition to my admiration and general esteem, the Friday Fellows will also get this nifty badge to display with pride (or hide in a shoebox whilst shuffling their feet and pretending to like it):
That's the Friday Fellow Phoenix. Perhaps we should call him Felix for the funsies (and alliteration).
Without further ado, gentle viewers, today I would like to pay homage to a charming and witty blogger. This woman was the first to befriend me on WordPress when I decided to dust off this blog more than once a month. She got me on track merely by existing and doing her thing — and because she so often took (takes) the time out of her day to stop by my little corner of the internet and leave a bit of encouragement behind.
Today’s first ever Friday Fellow is none other than the lovely Nila E. White, gentle viewers. If you’ve been hanging around with me for a while, no doubt you’ve seen her here.
Nila was one of the participants in my NaNoRebel Challenge — and not only that, she killed it!
Nila writes flash fiction, short stories, and novels. She has been working on revisions to her novel, Blood Moon, and if you visit her website, you can see some of the awesome cover art she has been experimenting with. Her novel is historical fantasy, set on the Iberian Peninsula in the 15th century, and to be frank, I am itching to read it. It sounds gritty and lifelike and really, really exciting to me. I love history. I love the idea of a giant creature plaguing the countryside.
Want to know more about Nila? Visit her blog, check out her published short stories. You can buy the anthology featuring one of her stories here. Stop by and show her some Friday Fellow love and help foster the creative, friendly, quirky community of readers and writers.
Since writing the above, I discovered over at Nila’s blog that her first copy of First Contact Imminent, the anthology containing her short story, It Begins, arrived to her home. That gave me a warm fuzzy because it miraculously coincided with her induction as the first ever Friday Fellow. Go give her an extra huzzah for having her name in print — in her hands!
Peace and many, many words to you all. Happy Friday!
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Mommy, Why do Vampires Sparkle?
Thursday has officially become “Thorsday!” This is the day where I will blog about whatever is thundering through my world as part of a new way to keep my little Emmie mind focused on providing you with some fun-tastic content. Enjoy!
I write urban fantasy. Some of you might not be exactly sure what that means, so here’s the quote from Wikipedia:
“Urban fantasy describes a work that is set primarily in a city and contains aspects of fantasy. These matters may involve the arrivals of alien races, the discovery of earthbound mythological creatures, coexistence between humans and paranormal beings, conflicts between humans and malicious paranormals, and subsequent changes in city management” -Wikipedia
As with many writers, my writing hits on most of those major points (although I don’t have any aliens in this go), but I also tie in some elements from other fantasy sub-genres. Historical. Tads of epic. My goal was to create a world within our own, using recognizable settings and characters that jump off the page into your lap. It’s a pretty simple goal, but deliciously fun to flesh out.
Urban fantasy draws people. People love vampires — and just try to argue that they love vampires only since Twilight. People love magic and quests and conflict and myth.
So what’s the draw of this genre? It’s been popular for decades, which goes to show that even as many books and series exist already, the market is not likely to become “saturated.” People still gobble it up just as they gobble up mysteries and thrillers and romances. (And if you waltz into a Barnes and Noble, you’ll see that as many vampire/were/speculative fiction books exist, the aforementioned genres still rather dwarf them.)
Not this kind of dwarf, even though I love him. Image via lotr.wikia.com
The sparkly vampire is this: urban fantasy offers us into a glimpse of a world that could be ours. If you scratch the surface of those of us who read urban fantasy, you’ll find kids in capes or wearing fangs (or both) or waving wands at the light switch and yelling lumos when no one is looking. We love magic. We love the idea of it, the tingling tension and the mystery of what’s different in this world. In essence, we love chasing the rainbows. They’re real and present, and we can’t help but wonder if there’s some way to see what’s on the other side.
Double rainbow all the way. Image via Wikipedia.
We read it because we love that tiny, teensy little possibility that whispers to us that maybe it’s real. That perhaps someone could bring us a letter to Hogwarts. Maybe something extraordinary could happen to us. Maybe just beneath the surface of our world, something magical exists. We don’t have to start out in Middle Earth or Emond’s Field — we can start out in Washington D.C. or Portland, Oregon. Maybe somewhere there is a warehouse full of vampires, witches, and shapeshifters whose job it is to enforce Council law….oh wait. That’s my book.
I’ve heard people say that the market is getting over-exposed with urban fantasy, but I beg to differ. There’s still room for the genre to grow, because readers are hungry (not for blood, thank dog). Are there too many mysteries? Too many romance novels? People read them, and a lot of them.
I like that I’ve made my home here, among the fangs and furries and spells of the world. I feel at home with them. I know millions of others feel that way too. Keep looking for the magic, gentle viewers. Even if running through a pillar at King’s Cross won’t take you to Platform 9 3/4, I’ll do my best to bring you to Hogwarts in my own little way.
I want to know what you think. Why do you like fantasy/urban fantasy? What draws you in?
Keep reading, and when something goes bump in the night, smile and hold on tight.
