Difficult But Great

Sometimes I want to talk about the books, movies, or music that have influenced me the most.  Tolkien is obviously one of my favorite authors, and just about any lover of fantasy has read at least The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.  I love these books and re-read them every few years.  As a matter of fact, I am reading the LOTR to my two sons right now for the first time.

In my opinion, though, Tolkien's Silmarillion is perhaps the best of his books.  It is a difficult slog at first, so many readers do not put in the work to get the most from it.  I daresay many readers don't believe that reading should ever have to be work, and I can appreciate that point of view.  However, in this case I believe these readers are missing out an work of breathtaking beauty.


I tried reading it first as a teen, and I have to admit I wasn't thrilled with it then.  I tried again more than a decade later, but this time I did it right.  Each time I encountered a place-name that I didn't know, I paused to find it on the map.  Each time I didn't recognize the name of a person, I went to the appendix and read about them.  Yes, it was long and hard to get through it this way, but I finally realized how brilliant the book was and I fell in love.

I so wanted to see some of the major stories from the book fleshed out into full narratives, such as was done with The Hobbit or LOTR.  I never wanted these beautiful stories to end.  I assume most readers already know what the Silmarillion is about, but perhaps there is someone who doesn't.  Where The Hobbit and LOTR are traditional fully-fleshed fantasy stories, the Silmarillion is a high-level story, more like a history book about Middle Earth.  It does contain stories, some of them quite intricate, but nevertheless they are written in a more remote, poetic format than the more detailed Hobbit and LOTR.

If you are ever feeling ambitious and haven't tackled this book fully, I highly recommend doing it the way I have presented above.  Do it right, making sure you truly understand each place and name as Tolkien presents it, and you will be rewarded in the end.

I'll close with a link to my favorite edition of The Hobbit.  I am trying out the Amazon Associate program, which gives me some sort of credit if any readers happen to purchase anything through the links I embed in my posts.  I wouldn't do this for money, but only because for some few books, songs, or movies I actually do love them enough to want to review them and present them to any who might not yet love them as much as I do.  I wanted to put my favorite edition of LOTR here also, but it doesn't appear to be available at the moment.  I am normally a paperback person, but with these two books I found the versions with Alan Lee's amazing art to be fully worth the extra money.

Motivation and Procrastination

While thinking about a post I read tonight on Nathan Bransford's blog, I realized that I truly have a harder time motivating myself to edit my work than I do to write it. Motivating myself to write was never easy, but I was able to do it often enough that my inability to make myself get on with the editing process is getting embarrassing. I told myself all day today that once the kids were in bed I would make some progress on editing only to spend the evening listening to music and playing hearts and solitaire. Pathetic!

I think the reason for this is that when I write, at the end of the session I have created something. There is some tangible reward for doing it and I take pride in that. With editing I get to the end and feel like I basically have nothing new. Sure, the text has changed, hopefully for the better, but the amount I have is not much different than before. I don't get the sense of accomplishment.

London

Since I spent the past month and a half in London, I figured I might as well put a few photos up that I took during my stay. Note that Blogger for some reason crops and stretches them a bit, so click on them if you wish to see what they should look like.

I liked this 'crooked house' in the small town of Windsor to the west of London. It reminded me of old feudal towns such as the ones I have in my novel. I never wrote any crooked buildings into my book, but I like the look and feel of these old-style English places.

Below is a shot of the Houses of Parliament. The weather was bad pretty much my whole stay in London. It was the coldest February in thirty years. Still I did quite a bit of wandering about London, which is one of my favorite cities in the world. This was my fourth visit there, and I will be taking my family there again in June.

The next shot shows the huge ferris wheel and Big Ben and parliament beyond the bend of the river Thames.

This trip was the first time I visited Windsor Castle. It was nice, though I was frustrated that I couldn't get any nice wide shots. I had previously visited the older, smaller Leeds Castle, which I like better because it has a truer medieval feel to it. Anyhow, I had loads more photos, which anyone can see by clicking the link in my favorites. Despite the cold, it was nice to spend so much time in a city that I really love.

Potential New Prologue to The Shard

I like the way my book opens now, but I do think I could make it even better. I want something to make my main character, the minor noble Midas, have a more intense personal issue to tackle right off the bat. In the story as it goes now, I have him agonizing between wanting to raise his two teenage sons properly and train them to be great warriors and leaders versus his desire to keep them safe. I have been toying with the idea of him having had an older son who was killed, thus increasing the potency of this conflict.

There are a few reasons this needs to be a prologue. One is that the POV character is not one of the POV characters from the main story. The main reason, though, is that this event takes place about three years prior to the start of my main story.

I am concerned about the use of flashbacks, since I have not really used them before and I don't know if I pull it off successfully here. Any feedback is appreciated. It should go without saying that I retain all rights to my work, but just in case, I am stating it here!

Potential New Prologue
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     Two white moons, the larger half full and the smaller just a sliver, shone through the bare branches of the willows, though the sun had not yet set. Miros sniffed and caught a hint of smoke in the crisp autumn air. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and felt the first tingles of apprehension as he watched Dalthis slither forward another pace and gaze down into the rocky dell.

     Five men-at-arms crouched nearby, along with old Sir Meldon, who had trained Miros and his younger brothers in the knightly arts for as long as Miros could remember. All wore the red and black checker pattern of Welby on their surcoats. Off to the right, Miros saw his father Midas glance over at him and wink. Miros smiled in return. The apprehension remained but was nearly overpowered by the pride that welled up in his breast. His father had never before included him in a dangerous undertaking. I’m fifteen now; it’s past time, he thought.

     That morning three villagers had arrived at the small keep in Welby, begging to see Midas, their liege lord. Steward Larken led them to the great hall where Midas’s family and retainers were breaking their fast. After Larken whispered in his ear, Midas beckoned to the villagers to join them at the table. The two men looked relieved and found open spaces on the nearest bench, but the woman, her graying black hair in tangles around eyes red from weeping, ran forward and dropped to her knees near Midas, her hands clutching at his breeches.

     “Please, milord,” she said. “My son. Please help us.”

     Midas took her hands and raised her to her feet. “None of that,” he said. “I’m not the king. Here…sit down.” Midas sat next to her on the bench and placed an arm about her shoulders. “Your son? Go on.”

     The woman wiped her eyes with the hem of her cloak and met Midas’s gaze. “He’s gone, milord. Taken. Just like the sheep.”

     Midas glanced at the two men who had arrived with the woman. The better dressed of the two stood and sketched a bow. “It’s like she says, milord. A couple of sheep went missing two days ago. All the land round our hamlet’s tended ‘cept a small willow wood, so we figured some bandits might’ve taken up in the hollow down in the ravine in the woods. Ain’t none of us warriors, so we was afraid to go look.” The man pointed at the woman sitting with Midas. “Then Mavvy’s boy didn’t come home after play yestereve. We came straight here first thing.”

     Midas had agreed to bring some men immediately to try to find the boy. Miros was thrilled when his father nodded to him and told him to get ready. As he leaped up to go prepare his equipment, his mother beckoned him close, enfolded him in her arms, and whispered to him to be careful and obey his father. His two younger brothers pressed in to grasp his arm each in turn, envy and excitement warring on their faces. His youngest brother Alekas grinned ruefully at him and said, “It’s probably the only chance any of us will get. There’s never any danger around here.”

     It was true. Except for some problems with the barbarian tribes beyond the wall of mountains to the east, the Known Lands had been at peace for eight centuries. The tiny province of Welby hadn’t had anything more troubling than a few bandit attacks during Miros’s life, though he did recall a pack of wolves once taking some chickens and sheep from a hamlet on the border with Vimar Keep. Perhaps it’s wolves again. Would wolves take a boy?

     Now as he shivered at the mouth of the ravine, Miros wished that it had been wolves or even bandits or goblins. Dalthis, his father’s captain of the guard, was a splendid tracker. When the villagers showed them the pasture from which the sheep had disappeared, it hadn’t taken Dalthis long to find the tracks. Midas looked shocked when he knelt down near Dalthis to inspect an imprint in the yellowed grass. He shook his head and muttered something Miros couldn’t hear. When Miros joined his father he paled at what he saw--a print far larger than anything he had ever seen before.

     His father glanced at him and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “A troll.”

     Miros shuddered. Few creatures were more dangerous and cunning than trolls. He’d heard stories of them his whole life, but trolls never came this far into the civilized regions of the Known Lands. How did one manage to get all the way here? All Miros knew was that any trolls remaining in the realm lived far to the east near the Hellisgaard Mountains that separated the Known Lands from the wilds. He thought about the young boy who had vanished and shivered again. I don’t think this will end happily.

     The woods, mostly willow but with a scattering of oak and ash, were not far from the pasture; it had taken less than an hour to approach the ravine at the center of the thicket. Miros watched intently as Dalthis slid back from the edge and huddled with Midas.

     “I can’t see the hollow from here,” Dalthis whispered, “but there’s a fire going.”

     Midas looked at each of his men, his gaze settling on Miros last. He tugged at his graying brown beard. “Should’ve brought more men. I’m not sure we can handle this with just nine of us.”

     Dalthis shrugged. “Six of us have bows, milord. I think we can take him.”

     Midas turned his gaze to the moons and remained silent for a minute. “At least that red moon’s not up; should bring us luck.” He tugged at his beard again. “All right, let’s give it a try. But I don’t want anyone closing with him. We’ll lure him out and use our bows.”

     Miros’s heart began to thump so hard he wondered that it didn’t burst in his chest. He forced himself to breathe deeply as he strung his bow.

     “Son, I want you to move back to those boulders,” Midas said, pointing to a spot well back from the ravine.

     Miros felt his breath catch in his throat. He looked into Midas’s eyes. “Father, I can--”

     Midas tilted his head slightly and tightened his stare, an expression that Miros knew well. It meant, Don’t argue with me right now.

     Miros looked at the ground. “Yes, father.”

     “Give your bow to Sir Meldon.” Midas turned and crawled back to where Dalthis was giving instructions to the men-at-arms.

     Miros handed his bow to Sir Meldon, who tousled Miros’s hair and said, “Next time. This one’s too dangerous.”

     Miros watched Meldon move to join the others, then turned and stalked toward the tumble of boulders his father had pointed to. He felt relief mix with his disappointment. Trolls were nothing to be messing with. This thought made him worry about his father. He turned to watch, leaning his right arm against the largest boulder.

     Sir Meldon and the men-at-arms had the bows and were skirting the eastern edge of the ravine in order to get a better view of the hollow. Midas had drawn his sword and taken up his shield. He stood chatting quietly with Dalthis.

     So intent was Miros on watching what was happening in front of him that it took a few moments for him to realize that something didn’t feel right. The woods had fallen silent around him. He heard a slight scuffing sound. A jolt of fear spiked through his chest. His training screamed at him to dive forward, but his instincts betrayed him and he whirled around instead.

     He saw his death standing before him. The troll was enormous, at least four paces tall, and wider than any two men. Miros glimpsed rusty chainmail, matted hair, and two large fangs thrusting up from a jutting lower jaw, but his eyes focused mainly on the huge iron maul the monster was holding up over its head.

     I should’ve dived, he thought. He knew he couldn’t avoid being crushed by the maul. Time seemed to slow, and despite his terror Miros felt his mind clear. He looked back toward his father. Midas was looking at Miros with a stricken look in his eyes, his face drained of blood, one hand reaching out, and his mouth just opening to scream. In that last second before he died, Miros felt the fear drain out of him, replaced by the anguish of knowing his beloved father’s heart was breaking.

Waste Not

In my last post I wrote about the frustration of wanting to write a story within Tolkien's world of the Silmarillion, but knowing that I never could. Having a great story idea that you love but cannot write does not mean that one should simply discard the idea. Keep it in mind, and perhaps you can figure a good way to incorporate it into another work.

I did this very thing with my first fantasy novel. The story revolves around three main point-of-view (POV) characters: a minor lord named Midas, an elderly ranger named Edo (who actually just gives voice to the main character of this story arc, his mute partner Orcbait), and a teenage boy named Geldrath, off to serve his two year tour-of-duty guarding the lone pass into the Known Lands.

For that third story arc, I used both names and story elements from the original Tolkien storyline that I had wanted to write. Geldrath is similar to the young Edain warrior, though perhaps a bit more naive and untrained as a warrior. He is being taken to East Gate, where he is to serve his two years, by three dwarves in a trading cart. One of the dwarves is named Gorm, and he plays a significant role in the rest of the story. So, you can see that I did indeed recycle some of what I liked about the original, unusable story. And, though they never encounter huge spiders, once Geldrath's story arc combines with Midas's, they do go on an adventure beneath the mountains, just as in my outline for the Tolkien story.

In the second novel that I am writing, a sci-fi prequel to the first novel, I am doing a similar thing. While living in Moscow during the early 1990's I had come up with an interesting action story involving a young woman studying to become a teacher who, due to her drug-using brother, ends up being chased by the local mafia. I never started writing that story, but it lingered in my mind for years. I had begun developing an idea set in the 2100's about scientists trying to perfect a form of immortality. The idea was neat, but the story itself lacked punch, until I remembered my old mafia story and realized I could use it. I pushed the story of the scientists into the background and made the young lady the POV character. Rather than it being about the mafia looking for lost drugs, I had the mafia looking for stolen data chips from the scientists instead. I incorporated several scene ideas I had from the earlier story, and the new novel's outline practically wrote itself.

Never discard old story ideas; they can often lend the necessary spice to a new story.

Well Rounded vs. Brilliant

This is a question that has nagged me for as long as I have been a father. I know I have loads of talent, and not just in one particular area. I have demonstrated excellence in areas as diverse as writing, mathematics, chess, soccer, baseball, basketball, guitar, piano, photography, and many other lesser skills.

I have done well enough to have played chess against most living world champions, gain a masters title and win a U.S. Amateur co-championship. I was offered a professional contract in soccer when I was sixteen (my mother wouldn't sign it since it entailed me having to move to Mexico City). I won every single competitive baseball game that I ever pitched. However, I have never become elite in anything. That doesn't concern me too much. I have some 'what if' moments about several of my hobbies, but I enjoyed being passionate about so many things.

The problem is with my children. I believe they are becoming passionate about many different hobbies precisely because they see what I have done. It worries me that one or both of them might have been able to become something truly special if I had only supported them in narrowing their focus to one particular skill. Sure, the idea of being 'well rounded' does sound politically correct and nice. However, when I truly admit the truth to myself, what matters most to me about our history on this planet are those who did something to stand out - the Michelangelos and daVincis and Mozarts of life. It bothers me to think that one of my sons could have perhaps had the chance to be such a person and I incidentally got in the way of this.

If my sons had never demonstrated any particular talent for anything, I don't think it would worry me. But, they have. They both show signs of having the same musical talent that I got from my father. My older son shows great talent for artistic endeavors. I try to support him in this, but it is a difficult area to know where to focus. He loves constructing astonishing things with Lego’s, but that isn't something one can normally strive to excel in. He does well with drawing, so it makes me wonder whether I shouldn't invest in a top-notch computer graphics program, where he just might be able to stand out as an artist. My younger son is far more competitive than the older, and has shown stretches of brilliance in several areas. When we lived in Beijing, he was by far the best striker in the soccer league. The second best scorers in the league were a pair who scored 8 goals on the season, while my son easily took the trophy with 15 goals. I haven't prevented him from continuing, other than the fact that my job has taken me to two countries now where he simply couldn't play. I think those were three critical years that he lost there.

Okay, so I just try to tell myself to be happy that they are great boys and well-rounded, talented individuals. It's just that I will always wonder what could have been with them, just as I do with myself.

Opening Don'ts

I ran across a post in Absolute Write today that I liked. It was about openings of stories that are so overused that agents may reject your story on sight just for this reason. The post mentioned 1. waking, 2. looking into a mirror, and 3. beginning with dialogue. It challenged posters to come up with an opening that used one (or more!) of these three, but do it well enough to merit consideration rather than instant rejection.

I liked the challenge, especially since I had already been considering rewriting an old short story of mine. I had not intended to begin the short story with one of these three no-nos, but I figured I would give it a try. This is what I came up with:


"I'm going to kill them all today, so I need you to unhook your mother."

Javier rolled his eyes and eased himself further into the folds of the couch. He glanced at the nearest wall speaker. "Kill whom, father? I've never heard you joke before."

"I don't joke, as you well know. Now do as I ask and unhook your mother. Before one o'clock please." The calm voice always irritated Javier; it was meant to simulate the way his father had sounded when he had been physically alive, but it lacked proper emotion.

"What do you mean? Who are you going to kill?" Javier shrugged his slim shoulders. "How can you kill anyone anyway?"

"I have a way. No matter. Meshing is destroying the world. I'm going to save the world by killing them."

Javier leapt to his feet, his face pale. "The meshers? You can't do that. That's...what...twelve billion people. Madre de Dios!"

"One o'clock. Unhook your mother."


I wrote this short story called, "All Meshed Up" about a year or so ago. I was never quite happy with it, though I thought it had a lot of potential. There are only three characters. The main one is the young man, Javier, who was until recently a mesher himself, until his father managed to get him unhooked. Meshing is the newest form of addiction. It came about when it became possible to connect one's mind directly with the Net. The experience was so powerful that many came to prefer meshing to actually living their own lives. They purchased special beds that could autofeed them and take care of their waste. Many would simply never detach themselves.

Javier's father was a legend. It was he who had finally developed protections so strong that viruses of all sorts could no longer infect the Net. He had had a hand in developing the mind/data interfaces (called 'slots') that everyone now wore just behind their left ear. Secretly he worked on perfecting the downloading of mind data into digital format, so when he died he continued to live on within the Net.

Javier's mother became a mesher herself. This was nothing unusual considering that by the time the story begins more than 80% of the people in the world are meshers.

Although I am still tinkering with this as a short story, I have really decided to fold it into a sci-fi novel that I have been fleshing out, set in Moscow in the year 2138.