Fish Out of Water

Today I have an excerpt for you! It's from a piece I began--that may or may not go anywhere--in which I was attempting to re-imagine faeries. It sort of warped into a Fish Out of Water, Man Out of Time story as I went along, and I'm not at all sure where it's going now. But here's the beginning. I hope you enjoy it.

Itoro stood on the hill, long, dry grasses waving about his knees with the gentle breeze. His clothes were worn and patched, both leather and cloth. An unkempt beard graced his square chin, hiding the grim set of his jaw. His eyes, a soft but determined gray set deep above a long, crooked nose, surveyed the valley below him, lingering on the small collection of brightly-colored tents huddled against the base of the mountains. 

The thin chestnut horse beside him snorted softly and nudged his shoulder with her dirt-encrusted nose. 

He nodded gently as if she had spoken aloud, and gently took hold of the tattered leather reins. Finally turning his eyes down to the uneven ground beneath his feet, he carefully began to pick his way into the valley. A strange sense of foreboding knotted his stomach as he walked, though he did his best to brush it away. 

The mare limped beside him, doing her utmost to put as little pressure on her rear left leg as possible. The blood had finally crusted around her wound, leaving her haunch stained with a deep, rust-colored streak. But, like her companion, she kept her big, brown eyes fixed on the tents on the other side of the valley, only occasionally tossing her head in complaint. 

By the time they stood on the valley floor, the tents had disappeared from view, leaving the two weary travelers alone in a sea of dancing brown grass, the mountain peaks before them their only guidance. Very slowly, the strains of music appeared in the distance, beckoning and welcoming the weather-beaten strangers. Drums and rattles grew louder, more distinct, with every step. Eventually, voices joined the energetic mash of rhythm and deep, breathy flutes, chanting and singing in a light, lyrical language. 

He found himself humming along, though he could not remember the words. It had been far too long since he had come across a Faeling clan. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would recognize any of them. Or if any of them would recognize him. 

Oops and Pseudonyms

Two weeks without a proper Saturday post. I'm so sorry! *Falls to the floor and begs forgiveness.* Last week I was out of town (buying my grandfather's car and driving home from Ohio), and yesterday...well, yesterday, I just plain forgot. But I'm here now--a day late--and that's what matters. Right?

Whether or not you forgive me, this week I want to talk about pseudonyms and pen names. I've been writing under Emer d'Ange for several years now, but I've recently realized something: it's hard to remember. And hard to remember (and spell, I'm sure) is not a good thing where pseudonyms are concerned. If you're going to write under a false name, make sure it's one that people can pronounce. So, thanks to some shallow soul-searching and advice from a few professors a couple months ago, I have decided to change my fake name. As of right now, I will write under the name Emerson Singer. Simpler, cleaner, no random apostrophes from French that no one will understand, and pretty gender neutral. Now to go change all my professional emails and usernames on various writing forums. To the internet!

But before I go, a little snippet to make up for being MIA for two weeks. Random little comedic moment from chapter eight of Savior. I hope you enjoy it!

Trick jolted awake to the feeling of lips on his cheek. He surged upright and smashed his head against Suoh’s, eliciting yelps of pain from both of them. 

Raja laughed raucously as the two men fell away from each other, cursing in different languages. 

“What the hell did you do that for?” Trick bellowed, pressing the heel of his palm to his pounding temple. 

“She told me to,” Suoh whimpered in reply, his head in his hands. “Gods, you’ve got a hard head.” 

“Gaviru! You’re the one with a hard head!” Trick cursed again as he forced himself to sit up, glad that the room wasn’t spinning. His fiery gaze flicked back and forth between the poltergeist beside him and the pixie a few feet away. “And don’t do every damned thing she tells you, Hatichiin! Just because she’s an Agent doesn’t mean you have to listen to her.” 

Raja smirked. “Actually, it does. Since he’s still our prisoner and all.” 

“Was there a reason you needed me awake?” The elf snarled instead of replying. 

“Besides providing me with entertainment?” She snickered and dodged Trick’s blow aimed at her face.

This week has also been rather slow on the writing front for me, seeing as my sister graduated from high school and I've had family in all week. However, that didn't stop me from starting a new project that I'm super excited about. As you've probably noticed, I've had a hard time sticking to one story for a while now, but I'm hoping this one makes the cut. It's more on the middle grade side of the young adult spectrum, which is a new experiment for me. I suppose we'll see how it goes. I'm including the first two paragraphs at the bottom of today's post.

This week also gave me a frustrating problem: the biggest anime convention in Colorado is the exact same time as the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer's Conference. They did this to me last year, and I'm pretty sure they're going to continue doing this to me every year. This year, however, two of my favorite voice actors are coming to the anime convention (yes, you are free to call me a nerd). I also haven't been to a nerd con in years, and this one sounds like so much fun. However, I've made a commitment to my craft. There are a wide variety of fascinating and helpful workshops at the RMFW conference, plus a chance to pitch Savior again, rub elbows with agents and editors, and meet other people totally engaged in writing, which is just plain awesome. So, for another year, I make the tough decision to skip the anime convention (much to the chagrin of my friends, and the geeky part of my heart), and attend the RMFW conference. After all, who needs to meet voice actors and figure out how to get into voice acting when one can feel like a real author for a weekend, right?

And, now, the excerpt, before I continue whining.

The door opened and Terrence snapped his gaze to the entryway. A big man squeezed into the little room, seeming to fill every available amount of space with his bulk. At first, Terrence thought it might be fat, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was all muscle. This man was huge! His shoulders looked as if they were wider than Terrence’s arms could reach when he stretched them, and the thin cotton shirt he wore was pulled tight over the solid wall of muscle the man called a chest. His eyes were kind, though, pale green and in danger of getting lost in a web of friendly wrinkles. He sported a thick, curly beard that fell down to his thick shoulders, and his long, red hair was bound up in two thick braids at his back, both of them ending in big, heavy-looking gold balls. 

He made Terrence feel small and scrawny by comparison. He hadn’t ever been terribly self-conscious, but every now and then, he felt extremely out of place with his big, blue eyes, dirty blond hair and freckles splattered randomly over his long nose. And seeing this man who seemed to be physically perfect definitely made Terrence feel that way. 

Oljiru Kovy.

Apparently, the world ended today. Too bad it seems to be going on just as normal. Maybe the world hasn't caught up with what happened yet. Does that sounds like something from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy or what? Sorry, the Vogons decided they had to reschedule. They won't be destroying us to make way for an intergalactic highway for another few years. Please go about your business. Nothing to see here; move along.

As for me? I spent most of this week concentrating on the new blog I've been hired to maintain for MedCenter Network: Connecting the Dots. So, if you're interested in reading more of my ramblings (this stuff on what the company is doing, as well as behind the scenes of video shoots and whatever else I feel like talking about), go ahead and check that one out. I'm trying to update it every weekday, and continue updating this one on Saturdays.

In addition to blogging and picking away at Savior, I've also starting playing with one of the faerie characters I created three years ago during my Celtic Mythology independent study: Amadán na Broina, an Irish faerie who possess the power to turn mortals mad with a single touch. I'm rather fond of writing crazy characters. Anyway, here are the first two paragraphs of the random little story I started with him this week. I hope you enjoy it.

Amadán crouched low as he crept through the tall grasses toward the tall dome of the hill. Power pooled in his footsteps like stagnant water, putrid, lively and disgustingly alluring. Madness hummed about him like a swarm of flies, undeniable, loud and beautifully dangerous. The top of his red, broad-brimmed hat bobbed above the head of the grass. His long, scarlet coat rustled gently with his movements. 

As he approached the hill, every strand of his obsidian hair bristled in its thick braid, the familiar magick both welcoming and forbidding. It had been a long time in this mortal world since he had set foot within the Sídhe. 

Two days ago, the registration packet for the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer's annual conference came in the mail. I got inordinately excited. A collection of wonderful workshops, chances to rub elbows with agents and editors, a pitch session, and, hopefully, a chance to see all the lovely ladies in my critique group again. What isn't to like? Well, besides the price tag, but I can easily justify that. And the fact that it's not until September. Though, of course, that just gives me more time to finish polishing before I pitch.

This past week on the writing front has been all Savior, all the time. Mercedes Lackey says that she loves writing revisions, but I much prefer first-drafts. I like getting all the stuff out there, and being able to play and not have to worry about the continuity or whether or not this plot twist is necessary or whether this sentence is much too long. I've been mucking through revisions for what feels like forever now. I know it means I'll have a nice, polished product at the end, but at some point, it just gets tedious. Good thing realizing that I can have a pitch appointment in five months seems to have given me a kick in the butt! I'm almost done with the major revisions and can move onto tweaking.

I would normally put an excerpt from this week in this space, but seeing as I'm currently reworking the middle section of the book, I feel that a snippet might give rather more away than I'd like to put out there at the moment. So, instead, I'll leave you with an excerpt from the beginning of the book. The first two paragraphs, to be exact.

Seven-thirty Ikol Avenue was a small, one-story house straight out of a children’s book: white picket fence, blue tiled roof, red and white checked curtains in the window, a beautifully sculpted, tulip-shaped knocker, and a spattering of blood on the doorstep. 

Trick Mathis hesitated at the gate, his back ramrod straight. His normally pale skin was a sickly shade of yellow, his delicate nostrils flared at the expected scent of blood. He tried to swallow in a dry throat. When that failed, he pulled the black uniform collar over his mouth and nose and pinned it in place  with the bridge of his oval-shaped spectacles. 

Oljiru kovy.

Writing on Shadows

As of right now, I think I'm going to tweak this blog just a little bit to include excerpts of what I've written every week. Unless I have something really, really interesting to say (like, for instance, the last query event of April at WriteOnCon is on Monday, wish me luck!), or some other insight into the writing business. When it get closer to time for the conferences I'll be attending this year, I'll likely be writing a lot about those; but for the moment, things are slow enough to simply post bits and pieces of my work, thanks to graduation and moving and all that fun stuff.

So, a bit of what I've been working on. Last week, I went on a school trip to the Anchorage zoo, and we attended a seminar about wolves after our little tour. It got me really inspired to write something wolfish, but I wanted to steer clear of werewolves and simply writing from the wolf's perspective. So, I dug out the old idea I used for my National Novel Writing Month novel: inspired by Jungian psychology, every person in this world has a Shadow, an animal companion that is irrevocably tied to them. Similar to the concept in the His Dark Materials trilogy, except that the Shadows have a single shape from birth, and they don't speak a language their partners (called Sources) understand. Hopefully, I've made it different enough from Pullman, while still sticking to the Jungian concept of the shadow and the anima/animus.

Anyway, this story has no overarching plot yet, but here's a taste of the beginning:

A howl cut through the night like butter. Ketina’s round, furry ears perked as she raised her head and turned it in the direction of the sound. She sniffed at the cold night air, searching for anything at all to tell her how far away the pack was. She had known the moment they entered this wood that there was a wild pack here, but her Source just wouldn’t listen to her protests. After a moment, she lowered her head again  and nudged at the sleeping man beside her with her soft, gray muzzle. 

Emris swatted at her and rolled over. “Not morning yet. Go back to sleep.” 

She growled softly, deep in her throat, and nipped at the back of his neck. Another howl pierced the night and Ketina felt her thick fur bristle. If her Source wouldn’t wake on his own, she would drag him like a pup, if she had to. Her survival depended on his. And, even if she was a Shadow, she was a wolf, through and through. And she was rather fond of living. 

“Sleep,” Emris grumbled, jabbing his elbow into the wolf’s side. “Remember sleep?”

Ketina growled again and locked her jaws around the young man’s neck, refusing to let him fall back into slumber. She shook him gently, not afraid to let him feel the point on her teeth, even though the sensation of her own canines in the scruff of her neck was a little unnerving. She brushed it off as best she could, knowing it was a side effect of the bond between Shadow and Source. All that mattered now was getting out of this forest before the pack of wild wolves found them. If she was any other creature, there would not be such haste. But a single she-wolf encroaching on the territory of a pack could spell disaster.

Another Slow Week

Not much to say on the writing front this week. Again, packing and finishing up the semester seem to have made my words all dry up. I get restless every time I sit down to work, and it's tough pounding out at least a few paragraphs a day. Oh, well. I'm almost done.

I did get rewrite my query letter, though. That's always fun and exciting.

This week, your bit of fiction is the beginning of an old, old story that I'm reworking. Enjoy.

“Get down!” Ellianna T’fos shouted as she leapt from her hiding spot. She easily cleared the man’s head, landing heavily in the mulch. Dead leaves and debris scattered from the place her boots touched down. Without a moment of thought, she drew her sword to parry the  attack aimed at her head. Steel sang against steel. She moved one foot back a step to brace her against the force of the blow. Recovering quickly, she forced her attacker’s blade back at him and followed with a quick thrust at his gut. 

He barely managed to knock her blade aside in time. 

“This really isn’t—” The man behind her, who had been the target of the attack, spoke in a soft, pleading voice. Until the attacker’s dagger landed in the tree behind him, inches from his hooded head. 

“Shut up,” Ellianna hissed, ducking a blow aimed at her head. She rolled into her opponent’s guard and drove her blade up, into his stomach. If he was what she thought he was, her strike would do nothing but slow him down. Worth a shot, at least. True to her instinct, the man simply staggered back, cursing. She felt a sharp tug at her chest, the center of the magic that kept her alive, as the wound in his stomach knitted itself together again. So he was an Andra, after all. Damn it. That would make things much more difficult.

Excerpt

This week has been up and down writing-wise. Packing and finishing up my last year of college apparently tends to make me less motivated to work on the things I really want to get done. Like finishing up the rework of Savior so I can start querying again. Oh, well. Life is silly like that.

To make up for the fact that I don't have much to say today, I present you with a bit of a story that may or may not go anywhere. I began this tale for my senior project and re-imagined it a bit to fit into the "Tarot Stories" series. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this snippet of a dragon story.

Scales hissed across the stone floor. Initaveske strode slowly, deliberately, toward the mouth of her cave, her long, white tail dragging on the ground behind her. Her milky eyes fixed on the oval of sunlight that was the entrance to her little home, despite the fact that she had not seen in hundreds of years. Even by dracenian standards, she was old. Ancient, even.

And this would be her last day.

She reached the tepid warmth of the mountain sunlight and turned instinctively to the right. Just outside the cave entrance perched a small ledge, only large enough for a clutch of three dracenian eggs. All three were as snow-white as the old dracen beside them, each one shuddering at its own pace as the hatchling inside struggled to free itself.

Initaveske pressed her warm, scaly nose to the nearest of the eggs, feeling her offspring’s heartbeat through her nostrils. This one would be strong. Good. Her last clutch would not fail her. She puffed a breath of hot air onto the egg and moved onto the next one, gently rolling it over to feel the heartbeat of this second hatchling. A quick, hard thrumming. Another leader.

She had to crane her neck over the makeshift nest to reach the last of the eggs. Her nose gently turned it over and over, searching for a sign of life. Finally, she felt it: a soft, fluttering heartbeat, irregular and gentle. She snorted in surprise, jerking her head back. The great wings on her back twitched, shedding a few snowy feathers down into the canyon. In all her fifty broods, she had never encountered a hatchling with a heartbeat like that. Irregular hatchlings existed, of course, but her bloodline had never produced anything except the strongest. Those with weaker hearts in the egg generally became a traitor, an exile, a disgrace. Very few managed to remain within the clan.

She could end it now, before it hatched, and save her line the humiliation. Push the egg out of the nest; let it plummet to the canyon floor as so many others had done. It would be the honorable thing to do. But the rhythm had been so fragile, so delicate. In her heart, she knew fragility was not a thing any dracen could possess if he wished to live, but she had grown sentimental in her own age. Delicacy was so rare that it was beautiful.