A Fanfic Celebration

It's been a whole month since I posted - and one of the busiest I've ever seen.

You probably remember that I launched my first attempt at NaNo, with not 50, not 30, but 20,000 words as my goal - and just baaaarely squeezed in a win. Not that I stopped there, because the plot decided it wasn't finished with me and I bashed out another 4,414 words. Meaning I have to trim down the draft 4,414 words. I sent out the first draft of it to my readers yesterday evening and am refreshing my inbox obsessively. *cough*

This is a cover I made for my short story. I may or may not have been procrastinating when I made it.

It kind of counts as fanfiction because it's a retelling of Cinderella for this contest: http://anneelisabethstengl.blogspot.com/2013/05/five-glass-slippers-writing-contest.html
Yes, I probably have too much on my plate. Do I care? No.

December is going to be pretty busy too, because I have promised Certain People that the draft of my first novel will be to them by Christmas. So don't expect the posting rate to pick up again right away. I'll be guest posting in a couple places in the near future, though, so look out for that!

As a sort-of celebration of my sort-of return, I'm going to post my very first piece of fanfiction that I wrote for Stacia's contest over at her blog: http://sjaisling.com/2013/07/01/artwriting-contest-when-imaginary-worlds-collide/

Yes, it involves Iri, who is very glad to be back and is already waiting to soak up the fangirls' accolades. It also involves Stacia's character Rykel, of whom I have been a fan for some time.

(That is Stacia's sketch of le Rykelface. Gah, I wish I could draw my characters like that.)

I had the time of my life writing it, nibbling peppermint chocolate in my bedroom floor and toasting my toes in front of a space heater. (To those of you who are inevitably wondering, this falls right after my prologue.)

Without further ado - Iri-Rykel fanfic!

            Iri’s fingernails whitened round the edges of a snow-white scale as his other hand pressed a rag to the rift in his dragon’s colorless hide. A phantom pain throbbed in his left forearm and Snow whimpered, hanging her great head down in a fervent desire to lick the wound. ‘No,’ Iri snapped, glaring up at her.

            She swung away, eyes screwed shut. ‘Iri, it hurts!’

            ‘Be still.’

            Something nagged him about his bad mood. Maybe it was because he wished he hadn’t used his magic up and could heal her instantly instead. Maybe because he’d assassinated a princess yesterday and left her body to rot in that abandoned temple. Or maybe he was just tired from the battle.

            Tiredness. That was it.

            “Sir!”

            Iri turned and felt the swift, immediate movement behind him as Snow pulled the wound out of sight to nurse it. Damon, a fair elf and one of the few other Carseldians in Klista’s service, bowed in deference to Iri’s new status as head of the Riders. A bit of the pleasant glow from his promotion reignited in his tired limbs. He straightened, stretching his cramped fingers. “What is it, Damon?”

            “There is a…stranger at the gates asking to see you. Seems to know you.”

            “I can’t take visitors now.” Iri let his head sag to the side in exasperation. “Besides, practically everyone knows me.”

            Damon’s eyebrows seemed to hunch forward in confusion. “He’s asking quite…forcefully. When the guards apprehended him, he threatened to…blast us. Or something of that nature.”

            “Magic?” Iri scowled, wrapping the bloody rag round his palm. “Is he a Rider?”

            “He – he – doesn’t look like any Rider I’ve ever seen.” Damon glanced down as if to check his information against something and found his empty hands to stare at. “He also mentioned” – his voice fell to a near-whisper – “a world called Earth.”

             Iri tucked his chilled fingers into his palms. Earth.

            He brushed past Damon and strode toward the gate.

            The Riders moving through the courtyard bowed to him, greeting him briefly in the Andunian language, but no one wanted to get in his way. Even the dragons coiled up stray wings and tails from his path.

            He realized at the gates that Damon still trailed him and waved the Rider off with a flick of his fingers. His sword hung on the rack in his rooms – he thought to have no need of it today – but his dagger still sat firm and cool in its sheath against his thigh. His finger arched over the top of the curved pommel, back and forth, as the guards parted at the door of a room adjoining the gates. Usually their captain shared this room with an absurdly small desk, but today an altogether bizarre young man lounged against the edge of said desk, tattoos cascading over his crossed forearms.

            When Iri entered, the stranger flicked a ragged edge of hair out of his eyes and levered to his feet. The guards’ spear shafts clacked together in front of his chest. The stranger lifted a pierced eyebrow. “Tell them to buzz off, would ya?”

            Iri shifted weight from his sore leg, enjoying his advantage a little bit longer and using the delay to study his visitor. The eyebrow wasn’t the only piercing – he had some kind of rings in his ears, though Iri had only ever seen women wear them there – and he wore a curious tunic with ragged tears at the shoulders where the arms should have been. Blocky markings crossed the front of it. Letters, but they spelled no words that he could make out. Ac, dc. Aack duc. Who put words on their clothing, anyway?

            Despite all his oddity, Iri’s first thought was that he knew him.

            His second thought was that he would like to see whether the muscled youth would put his solid-knuckled, calloused hands to good use. The weight of the rank pin at the breast of his uniform checked him. He had responsibility now; he couldn’t start fistfights for no reason. But still…

            Pay attention. Act like the leader you are. “Threats aren’t the best way to put them at ease.”

            The stranger shrugged. “They messed with my Indian.”

            “Your – what?” There went the poise. It reminded him too much of his father, anyway.

            “Oh, don’t tell me.” The young man raked scarred fingers through his mop of overhanging hair. “Dangit. You don’t have those here. Yeah, I know – some of the kids at Poly read fantasy novels. Pretty freaky stuff if you ask me. But I had to get here somehow. Not my fault if you’ve never seen a motorbike before.”

            Iri frowned, curling his first finger round the dagger pommel. Familiar or not, what Iri knew of Earth and the people there gave him more than enough reason to be wary. “Who are you?”

            “Jack Rykel. You can call me Rykel. Now can you tell ‘em to buzz off?”

            Iri hesitated only for a moment. Strangeness aside, this Rykel seemed well-connected to Earth, and ill treatment of a representative could lead nowhere but trouble.

            Besides, he seemed already far too comfortable in a world different from his own, and Iri wanted to see what he thought of dragons.

            “Stand down,” he ordered. The guards lowered their spears, their narrow eyes sharp with interest. Iri shot a smile at his visitor as he turned to the door. “Whatever magic you may have, you’re in the Riders’ headquarters now. Watch what you do.”

            “Dude, it’s not magic,” Rykel said to his back. Iri grinned and led the way out into the courtyard.

            The first dragon they met was relatively small – a blue belonging to an Elvarian desert-dweller named Nyvien – but she was impressive enough as she reared her angular head up out of the recessed pit lined with rushes for padding. The courtyard bustled with dragons and their Riders – larger fighting beasts resting from the takeover three days ago, small couriers coming and going, the two or three broody females rustling their wings protectively over their eggs as others passed.

            Iri glanced back at the stranger sauntering behind him – sauntering truly was the best word – to gauge his reaction. Rykel’s mouth had narrowed to a pucker which presently let out a low whistle. His eyes followed the path of a green courier as she circled the courtyard and dived out of sight behind the walls of the compound. “Don’t have those where I come from.”

            Snow raised her head guiltily when Iri stepped to the top of the recessed pit where she sprawled, her impressive, serpentine bulk set off by the dark rushes patterning the light stone beneath. He jumped to the bottom, turned back to face Rykel, and leaned against her side. She curved slightly to accommodate him, her tail flicking between him and the newcomer, a motion that said mine, mine. Rykel stood at the top of the steps, hands on hips, feet set wide.

            Rykel had the high ground, but Iri had a dragon.

            “So you haven’t told me what you’re doing here.” Iri crossed his arms, letting the weak sunlight glance on his gold armbands.

            Rykel shrugged again and settled into a comfortable crouch, digging a packet of something out of a pocket in his tattered pants. “Your author’s had my info on her laptop for ages.” He methodically placed a slender paper tube between his lips, lit the end of it with an odd blue device, dragged a breath on it, and said in a puff of acrid smoke, “I figured I’d come meet you.”

            “That can’t be the only reason.” Iri tapped his fingernails on the armbands; he knew it was a mannerism most people hated, but it helped him think.

            “No, you’re right.” Rykel rested one elbow on his knee and waved his hand, trailing a streamer of smoke across the watery blue sky. “So I thought I’d do a little snooping while I was here. I have no restraint. It’s a curse.”

            It wasn’t, Iri thought, watching the upward tilt of his square chin, a curse he was particularly eager to remedy.

            “Your author leaves stuff everywhere. Notes, plans, timelines.” He placed the cylinder in his mouth again. The end glowed with fragments of fire. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

            “You don’t want me to decide that you’re wasting my time.” Iri examined his fingernails, blue-crusted as they were with his dragon’s dried blood. “I have an evening scheduled with a courtier who’s a lot prettier than you.”

            “You really don’t listen well.” Rykel bounced once on his toes, his hair flopping up and down again. “Fine. In plain language, I’m trying to warn you.”

            “Warn me?”

            “Whatever you’re doing, believe me, you want to stop.” Rykel’s startlingly blue eyes narrowed for an instant, in something like concern. “I read ahead, man. It doesn’t end well.”

            “And why do you care?” Iri stifled a thought that was beginning to sound a lot like Why would anyone?

            “Because.” Rykel’s knuckles paled on the white cylinder. “You don’t.”

            Iri was suddenly, inexplicably angry. “It’s not as easy as you seem to think,” he snapped.

            “Changing? Oh, I know.” Rykel huffed a short breath and leaned forward so the white letters wrinkled across his chest. “Heck no, it’s not easy.” He rose in a smooth motion, shrugging the shoulders of his odd tunic straight again. “But –”

            “Go back to your own blasted story!” Iri shouted, blind with an anger that struck faster and hotter than lightning. Snow, reacting, rolled half to her feet and hissed a cloud of chill air, ruffling the edges of Rykel’s tattered sleeves.

            “Easy, snowflake, I’m not gonna hurt him,” Rykel said in an offended tone, backing a step. “Gosh, you people take things so seriously.”

            “Take your warnings and your motor-bike and go back to Prolly –”

            “Poly.”

            Iri gritted his teeth. “Wherever you came from!”

            “Dude, I can take a hint.” Rykel raised both hands in surrender. “Don’t overreact, okay? Just – for what it’s worth.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll, uh, see myself out.”

            Iri watched him swagger away, winking at a female Rider who had no idea who he was. His eyes narrowed.

            ‘Iri?’ Snow’s wings spread over the floor, enclosing him in a blanket of warm, scaled leather. ‘Who was that?’

            Iri caressed his dagger hilt. ‘An enemy.’

So, what do you think? Does fanfic suit me? ;) Are you happy to see Iri back, or should I do a different character next time? Who should it be?

Not-So-Calm November Eve: Assassin Photoshoot and an Explanation

At 4:13 PM on the sixth of November, a teenage maniac dressed in a black turtleneck, black breeches, high black boots, black gloves, and a black beret, was seen in the back garden of the Lewis home. It alternately tramped through the weeds, carried around handfuls of broken glass and asparagus berries, and ripped morning glory tendrils off the barn walls. The siblings who sighted it did not seem concerned. Regardless, we will keep you updated on the doings of this strange creature. A lookalike was spotted wearing a white hoodie and striped sweatpants, but upon investigation it claimed to be a writer, and anyway it was eating chocolate and could not be bothered.

This stemmed from my absolute and total frustration with my writing, my graphic art, and my laundry. In a fury of jilted creativity, I yanked my pirate boots and leather gloves out of my closet, pulled a black turtleneck and breeches out of my dresser drawers, and donned a black beret from my mom's closet.

I had noticed several days ago that the back garden would make an absolutely idyllic photoshoot location, either for something wistful and nostalgic or for a desolate, dystopian-style set. Given my mood, dystopian it was.

And slightly evil. Yes, those are asparagus berries, and they are not as poisonous as they look, though "mild gastrointestinal distress" is a threatening sort of phrase.

This is the smile you hope to never see me use.

And the Head Tilt of Impending Doom. Similar to but not to be confused with the Nostril Flare of Total Rejection (kudos to anyone who gets that reference.)

Several of these shots couldn't decide whether they were artsy or just badly aimed, as I had no one behind the camera and a grocery bag encasing it to protect it from the rain that stopped three minutes after I got outside.

Suggested music for this image: 528491 from the Inception score.

 I like the hyper-focus on this one, almost like that moment of adrenaline-induced alertness just before someone jumps out at you. Namely me.

Obligatory shots of the props, just because they were turning out so nicely and because I was tired of seeing my over-dramatic face.

Ahh, you were expecting an explanation of some sort? Why, may I ask? Oh, right, the title. Well, anyway. This is my excuse for not posting for several weeks and not having the rest of the contest winners up by now.

This, my friends, is the entire second draft of Wings of Hope, the first book in the Wings Trilogy. This being the first time it has existed in its entirety in hard copy. I was giddy the entire day. I had rushed to finish it the night before, on the prompting of my mother who offered me a trip to St. Louis as incentive for finishing it on time. The very next day, we arrived at the print shop. And THIS came out of that printer.

272 pages. 142,000 words. My first novel. Ever.

Yes. I am far too excited and took far too many pictures. Sue me.

 Those of you on Facebook have likely already heard about this, but not in connection with my inactivity or my negligence in the short story postings. This is my reason. Well, that, and this little gem of annoyingness right here:

That's right - my first ever attempt at NaNoWriMo. But I couldn't just do NaNoWriMo, oh no. I had to bend the system. So that's me attempting to write 15,000 words instead of 50,000 words in a month. I only need 500 words a day. Ha ha, law-abiding NaNoers. (Never mind that I'm behind anyway. My plot was eating itself like a literary version of Ouroboros.) This is my attempt at a Five Glass Slippers story, a contest for retellings of the fairy tale Cinderella, which closes on December 31st. Yes, I know I'm insane. I had a dream with a concept I couldn't resist.

So. This is how this is going to work:

1. I scream and everyone else fangirls and nothing gets done.
2. I realize that nothing is getting done.
3. I buckle down on NaNo, taking a break from the novel while my mom marks it up.
4. During December, I edit both the novel and the short story, fixing any glaring errors and shining it up a little.
5. I print out additional copies of Wings of Hope.
6. Wings of Hope goes to the draft readers probably near Christmas, and the short story goes to the judges.
7. I scream and everyone else fangirls and nothing gets done.

The posting on this blog will likely pick up again during or after December. Apologies to all those waiting for the additional results of the contest.

If you are one of my trusted draft readers, you probably know who you are and have poked me incessantly for months. If you don't know who you are, don't despair. You will find yourself shortly. (Actually, a few copies will also go to some die-hard fans and other friends who have been waiting, so until the list is finalized and all my emails sent, don't assume you're not getting one. Unless you don't know me. Then that would be creepy.)

(Like an assassin. Heh heh.)

(Oh yeah. All these images [except the ones of my story] are under Creative Commons. Which basically means you can use them for whatever you like without asking or crediting me, though I would love to see what you come up with. If you want unedited and/or larger versions of any of these [excluding, once again, the pictures of my story] comment and I'll see what I can do.)

E

Finding Angel by Kat Heckenbach: A Review

            The first time I met Kat, she was wearing more rings and ear cuffs than I could count, a headband that barely kept back a mass of curly reddish hair, and a black shirt with red letters that read ‘vampires don’t sparkle.’

            “Are you Kat?” I asked, eyeing the stacks of Finding Angel she was plunking down on a long table in the conference bookstore.

            “Yes!” she exclaimed, dropped her last stack, came round the end of the table, and enfolded me in a hug.

            Needless to say, we hit it off.

            To be fair, we had actually hit it off a few months before on Facebook when she asked for character Pinterest boards and I showed her my treasure trove. Our newfound friendship was sorely tested, however, when she began keeping a running count of days until the conference on my Facebook wall when I really didn’t want to be reminded. Becky Minor kept the peace by assuring me she would have smelling salts handy at the conference, which assuaged my fears. (Well, not really, but it at least made me realize I wasn’t the only nervous one.)

            Finding Angel was one of the few books written by conference attendees that I managed to finish before the actual conference rolled around. (I had a half-read copy of Merlin’s Blade in my dorm room the whole time. Sorry, Mr. Treskillard.) When I saw Kat’s disappointed status recently, saying she’d had a dream that Finding Angel got another review, I decided to surprise her. (Are you surprised? Well are ya?)

Overall: 3.5 stars

Finding Angel is the story of a girl separated from her magical heritage. She lives a normal life, until pieces of her past begin to catch up with her. A beetle, a charm bracelet, a boy with silver eyes…they all lead her back to Toch Island, the place of her birth, and her strange powers, which may help Angel solve the mysterious disappearances around the island – or reveal her to the evil man who desperately wants to find her.

This was a light, fun read with unique settings, new twists on the old fantasy elements, and a sojourn into a world where worldviews have consequences.

Concept: 4 stars

On the surface, this is your ordinary science-justified magic story. Dig a little deeper, and you’ll find such delightful creatures as fractal chameleons, modern-day unicorns, and elves with their own rock bands. During my mentoring session with Kat (though it felt more like a chance for us to sit down alone and fangirl about – well, everything) I reflected that when you meet creative people, you rarely fit them with their work on the first try. Perhaps it’s the preponderance of introverted authors, but usually it takes a little while for you to see their creativity shining through. Not so with Kat. When she started talking, I immediately saw through to the mind that created Toch Island – a flamboyant, colorful, I-don’t-care-what-you-think kind of mind.

Plot: 3 stars

Unfortunately, this book suffered from a case of SMS, or Sagging Middle Syndrome. The first third was good. The last third was great. The middle – not so much. For all that it was neatly paced, with things speeding up toward the climax (as they should), I felt Angel spent a little too much time socializing, training, and playing with animals. Of course, this may be due to my allergic reaction anything approaching relaxation or warm fuzzy feelings. Give me TRAGEDEHHH!

That said, I loved the way the clues to the mystery were sprinkled through the story. It was one of those “aw, shoulda seen that coming,” moments.

Characters: 2.5 stars

My favorite books are usually the ones where I can tell you what the characters would do months later. Few live up to that hope – Incarceron, and Outlander, and The Restorer. The trouble with Finding Angel was that I wanted to love the characters – they were unpredictable, they were human, and they drove the story well. However, I had trouble telling their personalities apart, especially the main characters. This is something I suffer from myself. Besides a few overarching characteristics, my FMC often plays hard-to-get and I end up having to make her behave the way she needs to for the sake of the plot. (Odd thing, actually wishing the characters would take the scene and run with it.) But oh well; that’s what development and rewrites are for.

Technical: 3.5 stars

Technical details are not something I pay a great deal of attention to unless there is a profusion of mistakes. I have a rather different method of dealing with them than most. Some people claim to throw the books, or yell, or write the author nasty letters. I sigh. If it’s really bad, it earns a closed-eyed sigh. Woe to the book that elicits such a response! Since I don’t recall any sighing for the duration of this book, I think it was clean of any glaring errors. (This, folks, is why you don’t write a book review months after reading the book.)

Execution: 3 stars

While not the most vivid writing I’ve ever read, the style of Finding Angel is clean, uncluttered work full of unique elements. In future works, greater attention could be paid to expanding the scenes and adding more action – not necessarily swashbuckling action, as I don’t think that would fit – but more action by the characters instead of so much summary. Still, it was a bold, admirable endeavor. Also, the author is delightful. Can I add extra points for the fractal chameleons? Thank you.

Fantasy(ish) Photoshoot!

I present to you, the fantasy(ish) photoshoot to end all fantasy(ish) photoshoots!

Well, not really. Mostly it was 45 minutes of clambering around in a tree and trying not to whack the camera on branches and sweating and laughing and swatting mosquitoes. But my epic writer friend Grace and I came up with a few shots that may or may not be any use to anybody. ;) (Read that: 174 photos exactly that I had to pare down a lot to figure out which ones to post.)

I'm going to spam you with all of these, which I might mention are under Creative Commons so you may use them for stock if you like. If you want any of the full-size, unedited versions, comment asking for whichever ones you'd like. (To do that, click on the photo - it should give you a bigger version. Hit "view image" and it should give you the image all by itself in a tab with the file name at the top of the tab; mention the file name and I'll send you the picture. Or you could just describe the picture. Extensively.)

So first we posed in her really, really cool house. And huge. Did I mention huge? It has this amazing chain of staircases where you can stand at the top and watch whatever's going on at the front door, and it makes for some cool angles. I was a bit distracted when I took these or I would have experimented more. I'll have to do that next time.

Yes, that is Grace down there, not me, though our moms mistake us for each other. Same height, same hair, same dark author brains...

Oh, yeah, and Grace's cool sword! Which is actually a replica of Glamdring a.k.a. Foe-Hammer, only with the alphabet on it instead of runes. Which is kind of slightly strange, but ok since we didn't really have that many close-ups of it.

Then we went up to the top of the staircase and posed there. We were a little backlit by the window, and we had to keep telling each other "Tilt the sword this way. No, not that way. This way. No, no. Your other right. Your OTHER - I'm coming up there."

After that, it was outside. It was lovely breezy and humid with a goodly helping of bugs, but like the tough authors we are we trekked around in our leggings with our hair blowing all over our faces and posed.

 The grounds are almost as cool as the house. And three times as huge. She took me into this little pathway where I had to step carefully past dying poison ivy and duck under branches that wanted pieces of my hair.

Once past that, we came out into this little sanctuary under the trees. I couldn't resist.

Yes, that's me acting dramatic.

After that, we came out and found a more open path with a neat little spot where you could crouch down and see a miniature forest under the hedge. 

And some pictures on the path:

After that, the tree. They call it the Spider Tree or the Avatar Tree, and even though it doesn't glow like the Tree of Souls, it's just about as cool.

I wish I'd gotten a picture of it from farther away. It looks like a huge bush - the whole thing is just one big mass of leaves from the outside, and you can hardly see into it. You have to part the branches to get through. But once you're inside...

It's one huge mass of a tree in the middle, with other trees adding to it on the outside. Ivy carpets the ground under it and you can hardly glimpse the sky through the leaf roof.

Even better, the tree is wonderfully climbable. You can just walk along the branches near the ground and (even with a big heavy sword throwing you off balance) not be afraid to fall, they're so thick.

At this point, Grace had to run off and console the baby, who was crying for her. So I kept myself busy with the sword for company.

When Grace came back, we spent almost the rest of our visit clambering around the tree, playing Bored Elvish Rangers.

Staring out from the watch post...nothing new today...sigh.

 Smiling cockily down at an intruder.

Could it be - gasp! Something happening??

 They're HERE! They're here at last! (Not sure who it is, but she's excited. xD)

I have more pictures of me on the ground than in the tree, because once we got up there Grace  seemed perfectly at home. Way more like an elf than I felt. Maybe because it's her tree (not that I would mind having it at our place at all.)

 Me with a slightly weird look on my face.

 Me climbing. My brother said I looked like a frog.

On the watch...

Closeup time!

 Aaaand another! Frizzy hair for the win!

Bonus: Blooper shots...

 This is my "Grace, stop it!" face. Also the shot where I have a fantastic moose headdress.

 If you look really close, you can see a mosquito on my forehead. Great capture, Grace. ;)

 Best handlebar mustache. Ever.

"I'm gonna drop the swo-ord!"

So, sorry for spamming y'all, but I will probably do it again, next time, with different outfits. ;) If you end up using any of these, link me so I can see, please! :D