November 25th, 2006
Hello, All!
It has been pointed out to me that it's been a Damned Long Time since I blogged here, and some of
the regulars are a little miffed. Which honestly surprised me - my usual thought process when
updating this is "Who wants to read this shit?"
Some do. And I have to bend forehead to floor and beg apologies.
What's really been happening is that I've taken the chickenshit option and started blogging on
MySpace. It's easier. I'm always online anyway, matter of an instant to jump over there and post
something quick. Whereas with SiteBuilder, I have to go through the agony of pulling up a
memory hog of a program, copy the previous blog into the Archives, and basically perform fifteen
minutes of preliminaries rather than just get to it. Which is fifteen minutes I haven't had lately,
until just now.
So before we go any further, here's what you can do when you're yearning for Dana: come see me
on MySpace. You can get there from here. I bit the bullet and set my profile to Public so you can
all drop by. My blogs are nearly always set to Public anyway, so why not? We'll see if a herd of
psychopathic fiends forces me to go underground again, but as I'm not under 18, this may not be a
problem.
If you're on MySpace, please be my friend! Just send me a message telling me you're you and I'll
get you added. If you're not on MySpace and want to be able to read the few blogs I set to Friends
Only, all you have to do is create a skeleton profile set to private, request me as a friend, Bob's
your uncle, Fanny's your aunt, and there we are.
With no picture, no information aside from a name, and every privacy setting on extreme, believe
me, you won't get pestered. I've been semi-public, and all I've gotten so far are a few Friends
invites from bands looking for new fans and one gentleman writer who hasn't made a peep. All he
seems to want are a lot of writers on his Friends view.
For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, a quick glance at my profile should
explain a lot.
Righty, then.
So what have I been doing other than haunting MySpace, a place I used to loathe but now am
rather fond of? Working my ruddy arse off, that's what. And it's ruddy because I've been sitting
on it non-stop. It's going to take on the permanent shape of my gliding rocker, which will be rather
unfortunate. That means it will be flatter than it already is and also turn square. They don't make
jeans that shape. Argh.
What happened was this: I went into November happily believing that all I was going to do was lie
about reading. Had decided against NaNo, after all. Had me freedom, didn't I? I had a
gargantuan pile of books ready to go. And then I started having scenes happen. Many, many
scenes. In fact, I just did a word count on the stuff I know I wrote in November, and (drumroll):
24,740. Not bad for a month in which I hadn't planned to write at all.
In this count is included a complete not-really-very-short-at-all story, a 14-page scene that is
practically a short story and answered some niggling questions about the whys and wherefores of a
land grant (trust me, it's a little more interesting than it sounds), and several scenes that have
helped me understand Sovaal much, much better.
I've met some very unique people I hadn't suspected inhabited my universe. I've seen the origins of
several key relationships and events. I've written some nearly kick-ass fight scenes and engaged Jim
as my editor for the rewrites on them. I realized many important things about the way things are
going to go and how history impacts the present and influences the future of my universe. I've had
a bloody fantastic time, despite the neglect of friends and family, the sleep deprivation, the insane
annoyance at being stuck at work when I could be doing what I have to do, which is write.
Although, to be fair, until peak season hit this week they were letting me go home early quite often,
so have to thank them for that along with the paycheck.
And in the middle of all this, I went to see Leaves' Eyes and Blind Guardian and got blown out of
the water. I adore them. That show kept me buzzing for days, and would have made it hard to
focus on writing at any other time.
Even finally added Kaden to my Friends Page here. Which I've only been promising to do since last
March sometime...
I re-discovered several albums in my music collection that have been sadly neglected and
unappreciated for years, but which I now love. Such as Iced Earth's Horror Show, and Blind
Guardian's Somewhere Far Beyond. And I heard one of the most beautiful black metal songs ever
created: it's by a band called Nargaroth, and it's entitled "Seven Tears are Flowing to the River." If
that title doesn't ensnare you, there's something seriously wrong with your imagination.
Rivers have been a bit of a theme, actually. Sovaal, it turns out, while being mostly a Nightwish,
the Gathering, Leaves' Eyes, and Loreena McKennitt man, has an abiding fondness for both
"Seven Tears are Flowing to the River" and a song by Dismal Euphony called "A Thousand
Rivers." Both are incredibly melodic. This could explain it. But I think it's the sentiment. For
instance, this verse from "A Thousand Rivers":
We are nothing but autumn leaves
Swirling in the circles of time
Haunted by the shadow in our past
In fact, he is now so captivated by this image that he forced me to include a reference to it in the
story we just wrote. I'm hoping to polish up the metaphor a bit, but he insists it stays. He has been
that autumn leaf captured in the endless circle of time. He has been haunted by the shadow in his
past. And so he wants that image of an autumn leaf in there, and I think it's a nice enough tribute
to a band I love, so I'll go along.
I would gladly include a snippet from "Seven Tears are Flowing to the River," but the bloody
thing's in German. Haven't the foggiest what it says.
I've done a wee bit o' reading. Waded through The Dreaming Tree from sheer stubbornness, hating
very nearly every minute of it. Tried to go back to Guy Gavriel Kay, but he distracts me too much,
so instead I started re-reading Pratchett. I can actually set the Discworld novels aside for hours at a
time to go write because I've got them practically memorized.
Spent Thanksgiving with the folks and discussed war with my father, which went very well. I am
now old enough and wise enough to understand a bit more of what he's saying, and ask some of the
right questions, and keep my mouth shut otherwise. To an extent. Look, it's me, I run my yap.
But at least some semi-intelligible things were coming out of it this time, and I was able to clamp it
down more often than not.
All of that war research paid dividends I never expected. Now, if he ever reads one of my books
and tells me I got it right, I'll be overwhelmed. And incredibly happy.
That is pretty much the Life of Dana Hunter. It goes on. Hopefully will catch a bit of a break here,
spend some time reading and watching movies and doing hanging-out things rather than
courting-carpal-tunnel things. I love writing. I've not been this thrilled in a long time. But the
nicest thing about writing is to have written, and let the brain cool off a bit before the next session.
Besides, I've got sixteen tons of research left, a lot of background to work up, and sundry other
chores to get on with before I can take these scenes and insights and turn them into a coherent
novel.
Seattle is only four and a half months away. And when I get there, it begins. Ye gods.... where does
the time go?
Until Again,
Dana
Some Things I Am Holding On To
October 11th, 2006
Hello, All!
I've been remiss. Not only have I failed to update this blog for many weeks, I've also forgotten to
post the bi-monthly article. While I'm not sure how many people actually breathlessly await such
things, I apologize anyway, and have corrected the situation.
In defense, it's been a chaotic week.
It began on Friday, with notice that the complex has decided that now is a good time to rip out all
of the old pipes and install new ones. Granted, most complexes wait until the resident has moved
out to do such maintenance. But Sendero Ridge has odd ideas on what's protocol. And so the
weekend was spent (aside from going out with Eric on Saturday, which evolved from simple
lunch-and-a-movie into MacLargeHuge conversation on life, myth, oddities, and everything, fueled
by plenty of alcohol, only then followed by a movie and home)... that was a rather long
parenthetical remark, let us refresh: the weekend, aside from that, was spent tearing my house apart
in preparation for the arrival of plumbers, who of course can't do their work with all my shit in the
way.
On top of this, in order not to be underfoot, I switched to days and started hauling the cat north to
Scottsdale. The logistics of dropping off a very angry cat in Scottsdale and then making it to work
on time during rush hour were, simply put, a bloody nightmare. Add to this the fact that after so
many years on night shifts I can't sleep at night, and you have a recipe for a very, very distracted
and incapable human. Thank the gods this was the Month o' Fiction. I can lie abed and read while
exhausted. Can't write while same. Can't research well, either. So that much has worked out.
Thankfully, day shifts are over, although the plumbing work is not. But all they have to do is patch
and paint the drywall, and they can bloody well do it in the afternoon.
The other distracting thing was illness. I came down with a cold on the same day Aunty Flow came
to visit. Life was a bit of a misery for a while there. I still can't smell properly, which is good,
considering that with the plumbing work, I had to forego showers in the mornings. Other people
may think I smell fine, having bathed the night before, but...
Add to all of the above a growing sense of dread. The news keeps getting worse and worse. We
come ever closer to dictatorship. I have a feeling of watching a country founded with the best of
intentions lose its way completely and fall into darkness. I won't say I'm terrified, but I'm worried
and deeply annoyed. Frequently outraged, as well. I spent my time of illness reading political
articles. It wasn't comforting. But I've decided that MySpace is for politics and this is for other,
more important things, and so I'll refrain. For those of you who enjoyed my political rants, you
can find me on MySpace by searching by email for tarlah1@hotmail.com. If you don't have an
account yet, it's easy, free, and hasn't so far led to gloom, doom and endless spam. All you have to
do is set up an account and request me as a friend. Simple stuff, and I will be happy to have you all
as friends.
There. All caught up. Now on to the important stuff.
As you regular readers know, I've been putting up with over a month of unrelenting depression.
I'm actually happier now - I got happy the day Aunty Flow came over, which tells me that 90% of
my black moods are exacerbated by hormones - but it's precarious. I keep teetering on the brink
between happiness and utter despair. My friends have been instrumental in keeping me from
tipping over into a chasm of emptiness until Seattle and mid-term elections, a fact for which I owe
them more than I should probably let them know. The other things that have rescued me are the
onset of fall and the fiction I'm reading.
First, let's deal with autumn. It's the dying time of year, and usually, I get a little dreary with the
fall of leaves, but this year's quite different. It's been utterly wonderful going from blast furnace to
cool nights and mild days. And let's face it - Phoenix doesn't have a lot of falling leaves anyway.
So no skeletal trees to bring me down. These seasonal blahs aren't so awful, anyway, but it's good
that fall has made me happy rather than blue.
But the absolute most important thing has been reading fiction. And for this, I have Amazon.com
to thank. They're the ones who recommended Guy Gavriel Kay to me. I adore them for this.
I started my fiction marathon with George R.R. Martin, however. A Feast For Crows. I'm starting
to realize why I'm compelled to read his books despite all of the things I hate about them. It's
because they're so bloody honest. Good guys don't win. Bastards do. And yet, every once in a
while, you get a good guy who can either be a bastard or is protected by bastards, and the good
guys win a skirmish. I've actually been relieved to read such things, because they don't present such
a dichotomy from the real world: there's no real good, no real evil, just flawed people doing all of
the stupid things people do when they want power, and other people suffering for it. It's
depressing, yes, but also comforting in an oddball way. And George is a damned fine storyteller.
He's not pretty, but he's good. His worldbuilding is excellent if not utterly unique. He's done his
work. That world gets more real and more original with every book. And I get progressively more
obsessed. I'm afraid it's reached the point where I'm going to have to buy the damned hardcover
for the next book because I know I won't be able to wait for it in paperback.
Grrr.
So I finished that, felt utterly lost since the next one's not out yet, and in desperation turned to The
Lions of Al-Rassan as a good transition piece between Martin and Gaiman, or perhaps a lead-in to
Pratchett. I expected the book to be pleasant, entertaining, a nice light read. I didn't expect it to
leave me sobbing at four in the morning. Such things happen. I am now a rabid fan of Kay and
have spent my day off going to bookstores and snatching up everything of his I can lay my hands
on. He is exactly what I needed. He's lyrical, witty, and handles the death of a world. We won't be
all that similar - he's writing books that are heavily based on history, and the civilizations that end
are replaced by others - but he's taught me unexpected lessons about how to handle such huge
themes without bogging the reader down. He's going to be a huge part of what prepares me to write
the Fall of Xtalea.
Did I mention I'm obsessed and enthralled by him?
It was like drinking pure, sweet wine after a long interval of flat water, weak tea and harsh alcohol.
George R.R. Martin is intoxicating and addictive, but doesn't lend well to lyrical, epic,
philosophical drunkenness. Kay does. Kay is precisely what I was searching for.
Upon getting home, I spent hours on Amazon weeding through lists of books. I now have the
shopping list that will beggar me. It's a good thing overtime will be available for the duration of
the holiday season, because I'll probably need it. But I refuse to regret. Damn it, I needed this.
So, come this weekend, I'll be ordering several books by Patricia A. McKillip, Susanna Clarke, Neil
Gaiman, Guy Gavriel Kay (yes, there are some I didn't find locally), William Goldman, and Gene
Wolfe. I'll be spending this month and most likely the next reading fiction. And it feels better than
I can ever explain.
Going to Borders helped in another way, too. I noticed the proliferation of children's fantasy titles.
For me, this is good news. This means that new fans of the genre are being generated, and thus
when I'm happily published and older than I am now, there will be readers, and they will be
expecting quality fantasy and science fiction. Which I can provide.
I've discovered something about myself. In browsing the shelves looking for new things, I realize
how far I've moved from my original tastes. I used to like things like Salvatore and Feist, gaming
inspired high fantasy. Nowadays, I tend to go for the richer, heady stuff. I want the language to
flow over my tongue like honeyed wine. I want the worlds to be deep, rich, varied and original. I
love the stuff that's set in our own world, too. Urban fantasy has been a favorite of mine for a long
time, but now I'm moving toward the alternate histories, the stuff that's very much like the most
intriguing parts of our history but different. The Lions of Al-Rassan is based on Moorish Spain. I
remember reading a science fiction book by Alan Dean Foster a couple of years ago that postulated
what might have happened had the Aztecs survived and influenced our civilization. There have
been others. I used to have no patience for them, but now I deeply appreciate them.
This is influencing how I want to write. I have no patience with the things I used to want to write.
This change has been taking place for years, but I think we're coming into the time when I'm ready
to settle in. I want to write lyrical but grittily realistic books that have the depth and scope of an
ocean, and as far as urban fantasy goes, well. Let's just say it won't be quite like anything else out
there. And damn it, no wankers.
For the first time in months, I've actually started seeing scenes again. I want to write fiction again.
So I think that while I'm not going to put myself through the torture of NaNo, I am going to dabble
with a few of those stories planned for Many Worlds: Interpretations. I need to write fiction again.
The next few months will be the Months o' Fiction and Fiction writing, with perhaps a bit of
research thrown in (for instance, I got an absolutely delicious book on Zen from Borders that begs
for attention, and I still want to read the rest of the Wen Tzu). I shall enjoy them.
These are some things I'm holding on to. Here's one more, and it's the hardest: the Tao. You see,
while I was reading first Martin and then Kay and dealing with all of the horrific news coming out
of Washington, not to mention the rise of terrifyingly intolerant conservative religious fanatics, I
started getting very, very scared and despairing. The world is so full of hate and brutality and
ugliness right now. I'm terrified that in a few years, there will be no place in this country for a Zen
Buddhist Taoist with Odinist leanings. It seems there may be no place for tolerance, and that all of
the things we have worked for - multiculturalism, freedom, hope - will be gone. It seems that what
Kay presented, the necessity for people who otherwise love each other to have to choose sides and
kill each other, is an all-too-real possibility. The middle ground is falling away. Everything I've
ever held to, believed in, wished for, is sliding toward disaster.
And so, standing on my porch with tears in my eyes and agony in my chest last night, I had to cling
very tightly to the Tao Te Ching: Under heaven all can see beauty as beauty only because there is
ugliness. All can know good as good only because there is evil. It is desperately hard to accept that
there has to be ugliness and evil, that these can be needful things. But I have to. There has never
been a time in human history when there hasn't been conflict, strife, hatred, killing, suffering and
fear. Humanity has not yet reached a point where it can be humane.
And so I love the beauty more for the ugliness around it, and appreciate the good more because it is
imperiled by so much evil, and assure myself that should worse come to worse, I can at least leave
the country. There are a few nations left where the middle ground is thriving, and there is a place
for a Zen Buddhist Taoist with Odinist leanings and cherished gay friends who only wants to tell the
very best stories she can.
Until Again,
Dana
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