When in Doubt

Chas the Bull, publican of the Blue Shadow inn, folded his hamhock arms and leaned back against the racks of liquor with a grin. The two men in front of him continued the debate.

“And after they destroyed Hope, they came marching out from the crypt entrance, and challenged that bastard Beckhardt right there,” said the thin man with great intensity. His thin face was bright-eyed with the story, and his gloved hands danced like swallows in front of him. From his golden complexion, dark hair, and pointed features he was a Purayu.

The other man, elbows on the bar and brooding over a tankard, was heavy in the shoulders and brows, with a good many fighting scars on his forearms. He shook his head slowly. “That's not what I heard. I heard that, when the sky cleared, Beckhardt's army found them crawling up out of the grave dirt. And then Beckhardt threw down his sword.”

“That makes no sense,” interjected the Purayu. “Why would he do that? And if they were buried in grave dirt, how did they fight Hope?”

“If I knew the answer, I'd be working for Lady Angharad and not hiring out to protect you,” came the bleak reply.

This made the Purayu scoff. He was polite about it; it was just a sudden arch of the eyebrows and a faint sneer. Chas' grin widened slightly, but he straightened up to remind the two that he was there. Egos got touchy in a place like the Blue Shadow. It was a place where old veteran adventurers would come to trade stories about their glory days, and discuss how hard it had been to retire from The Life. A lot of adventurers came through there to meet the famous and prove their own place, and some of them got pretty terse about it.

Of course, Chas had built the Blue Shadow in Last Chance, which was a town that wouldn't even exist except for the notorious Tower of Folly. The Tower loomed about two miles out of town, and Last Chance started as a cluster of merchants waiting to capitalize on the steady stream of desperate treasure hunters and foolhardy glory seekers who attempted to brave the Tower. Now it was a town of its own, populated by the sons of merchants and the adventurers who confronted the absurd lethality of the Tower and decided to retire.

Even though very little of interest had come out of the Tower in recent years, it had become a kind of pilgrimage for people who dealt in sudden death and heroic violence. They would come to Last Chance, spend a lot of money to celebrate or bolster their courage, and then go to wander the now-emptied entry halls of the Tower. The brave (or stupid) went much further, and most of them didn't come out again.

“Lady Angharad has to have actors and bards run around to protect her reputation,” continued the Purayu. “The common man is my herald. Everyone knows that I won the Rout of Dardanti. I was in Pesh for the Ogre War, and I even fought a gavarrhan in the wasteland of the Dohoroz. Hope was some kind of washed out healer turned bad, from what I hear. Not so impressive.”

“Maybe so,” said the brooding man. “But her people killed Martel.”

The counter got quiet for a moment. Hope was something abstract, a shadow from a legend up north where the Leandrites sang of holy war and danced in their courtly tapestries. But Martel was real to many of them. Many had lost friends, lovers, parents, children to Martel. Even dead, Martel's reputation loomed in their minds.

“If they did,” said the Purayu politely, “They must have gotten lucky. Or Martel wasn't as dangerous as all that.”

Chas laughed, and some of the grizzled, jade-eyed people drinking alone at the bar smiled. Chas rarely laughed, but when he did, it was to put someone in their place.

“You never fought Martel,” announced Chas to the Purayu man, who looked unimpressed. Chas poured himself some mead, looking down at the Purayu with his small, sharp eyes. “But I did, and if it wasn't for my companions, I'd be dead right now.”

Even if anyone doubted Chas, it was bad form to dispute the reputation of the man serving you drink, but the Purayu's hesitation was enough for Chas to push on. “We went against Martel, six of us. We were four when we escaped him, and we might have been less but Martel let us go. Who can say why? The Gorecrow liked to mock his foes.” Chas took a deep pull from his mug. “Lady Angharad went for him with only her three companions, and the fight burned down part of Arn. So, even if I had no grudge for Martel, I tell you that I'd respect her and hers for finally bringing the monster down.”

There was a murmur of assent from many of the older adventurers, and then someone lifted their tankard.

“Death of Martel,” he intoned in a somber voice.

“May the slain be content at last,” intoned another.

“Death of Martel,” filled the Blue Shadow, and then silence as most of the occupants drank.

Chas, mug emptied, looked down at the Purayu again. “Heading into the Tower?”

“...yes, of course. I've six companions, and this worthy here.”

The brooding man lifted his drink slightly in acknowledgment. “Slayer's Brotherhood, second class.”

Chas bumped the man's tankard with his mug for acknowledgment, and then nodded at the Purayu. “Good luck. I do have a question, though... you said you'd fought the gavarrhan. Well, I never have, but I have a couple of friends who did, and they told stories that made me lose my hair. So, did you win?”

The Purayu man blinked, started to say something, and then stopped.

Something Different?

One of the problems with blogging is coming up with something to say, when your words have been used up on expansive research papers or fragmentary but brilliant notes that never grow into anything brighter. It is even more difficult if you don't happen to be prone to small talk, and prefer to only speak when you have something very particular to say.

Aside from the grind of school work and the flurry of life as a busy middle-aged professional, I've had little time to dedicate to my work outside of random one or two page spats here and there. I've had a couple of promising stories evolve in directions that destroyed the original intent of the story, and rebirthed themselves as something entirely different... and in one case, I can forgive that. The story happens to be something fairly promising.

But frankly, I'm tired of something being promising. I'm tired of hammering away at projects I feel no fire for, and it seems ages since I've had a drop of inspiration. Ask me to come up with fresh ideas, and I can spin them forever, but none of the ideas I come up with at the moment particularly appeal to me. They all seem a little too much like work to be pleasant, and right now, I'd like to be working on something pleasant.

Where does a piece of writing cross the line? When does it happen? Everything I come up with these days ends up lifeless, and I cannot seem to resuscitate my writing. I find it particularly entertaining that after a long period of silence, I find myself writing here about being unable to write.

Oh, the agony and the irony.

Oh My Goodness

Sometimes you blink and the time whistles by like a bullet. By the time you figure out where the bullet came from, you have to dodge the next bullet. Now I've got some cover.
Just a couple of odd notes: First, given all the time I'm spending at a college these days, I'd like to mention that my experience of the average men's bathroom puts considerable doubt into our reproductive method. Seriously, the accuracy is Lacking. I'm amazed our population is as high as it is. I've heard tell that women's bathrooms are worse, but I have my doubts.
Second, Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness is lodged in my brainstem. This means I have Kurtz, in stereo, 24/7. The horror!
What follows is a kind of warm-up for a game session that I am working on. Yes, it is postmodern, surreal and fragmented. But I like tossing things like this out for players.

"The Lady is indisposed. Come back another time."

From a cobwebbed balcony, he watches the gray dancers below as they gust back and forth over the dance circle. They laugh and smile and touch with eyes, but they are silent, and their music is a succession of thin, strange memories that tangle the air like the clinging gossamer that blankets everything in the place. He watches them, forever apart, and he keeps no opinion. They are different from what was, and so is he; even his oath is finished, a trail of blood-stained shards leading back to a day when the court shone with art and beauty and he bent the knee to a great lady. And yet, he remains.
He must keep them safe. The Mother of Terror nests above, and must be watched over. Even in a place where forever can be measured, things must be done in the proper time, and time must be dealt with properly.
But caught in the timeless, he is alone, more than he has ever been. Once, it was his way. Now he has little choice. There is only one other court in the Manor now, and he will not go there.

"All I wish is to be free, but I keep my promise."

She must always run.
Her companions would help, but they fear him even more than she does. She cannot go back to her home, because it is full of memories that kill. She cannot go back to her brethren, because they are locked to a court where death cannot exist and a monster lords over them with his pain. So, proud as she has been, she must run, because he is always searching. The sky is her enemy; the black birds will show him the trail. The trees do not talk to him, but he moves through them as easily as the wind. Once, the gate was open, but now she must race back and forth, because of the day when the second palace burned and the humans died and the Manor drifted into slumber.
She cannot go back, and she cannot leave, because she will not abandon her beloved friend. One day she may know whether she can be let go, but until then she must escape his attention. He is all unfeeling animal fury and hunger and anticipation, and she knows that running makes him chase her, but she is too afraid to stay still.
One day she may know, and then perhaps her promise will no longer be needed.

"Dreams? There are no dreams here. Everything is real."

Three, they watch the thing move slowly through a forest so gnarled and twisted that it is difficult to tell one tree from the next. The thing is equally awkward; all stilts and scarecrow, it moves like a crippled insect. But the three look next to the drifting lights that follow it, and the dark one nods.
"Something else comes," she whispers, and the other two pay attention; one swiftly, one slowly.
"For blood and wealth," says the hard-eyed one, and she smiles like an opened razor.
"Dancing, and then love, and then sleep," murmurs the third as if remembering.
"Foolish," bites the second. "One does not come here for joy."
"There is no joy in you," retorts the third, but her eyes are sleepy, and she strokes her clothing.
"What good is joy," snaps the second again, the sneer implicit. Her fists are clenched. "Joy is transient. It cannot last."
"Ah," sighs the third, touching her lips. "No matter how cold, your joy is enough. I have seen that."
The second cannot rebuke the third, because both fall silent at the whisper.
"Oh, the threads of the old shadow are coming, the old shadow unraveled and rewoven. The old shadow who left us before we were bound here. Come, sisters; we must sing."

"Redemption, like sin, is a human word, for human ideas. We tried to understand them, and it ruined us."

They watch over him. He stands, mid-step, his hair fanning out as if the wind around him had suddenly turned to ice, and the light that filters down through the glorious dome breaks around him through the uneven, pinkish crystal he resides within. They are small, dwarfed by the opalescence of the memorial tomb around him, and the place makes them restless, makes them feel alien and left out, just like his beauty does. They have accepted as much as they can, but they can do nothing for him. There is only the exorbitant tomb, full of the pale pinnacles of song from a hundred gold and diamond birds, full of sculpture so smooth that it seems grown, full of engravings so delicate and precise that the walls are a book. And yet, all this is not enough for him, and they fester at the inadequacy.
They want to belong.

"If you lose, I can go. If I lose, you can go. Simple."

Sometimes the ache and the longing was overwhelming. It was impossible to count how many deaths occurred here, nor how many times his companions changed. Others would come. Some went around him, dodged his wary eyes, and were snared. Others met him and he threw himself against them, a tornado of frustration and will. There was no point in warning them; nothing would come of it, save more blood among the flowers or another statue in the hall.
It had been too long, he thought, but he remembered fearing the dana aelf and their ways, and he remembered years of howling exultation, of steel and sweat and heat and breath. Sometimes the writing almost spoke to him, as if it could give him all that time back again, but everything else was nothing more than the hollow sounds of the great hall and the compelling oath, the silent and invisible goad that prickled over his heart like brambles.
He loved so much that he had no choice, and he no longer dreamt. He had heard that no one dreamt here, but then, he was more part of the hall than a human being now.
Watching the woods, he tapped a finger on his weapon, and waited for destiny to arrive.
Again.

"I cannot reconcile the fact of my son."

There is a mirror. He spends time staring at himself in the mirror, and it shivers like a pool of blood when his eyes touch it. Others do this too, when his eyes touch them. He is aware, but he is indifferent.
He picks up a crystal goblet, practically invisible but for its shape.
This, he thinks, is nothing but a collection of wounds that have not yet happened.
As if to punctuate this thought, he lets the goblet fall from his hand to shatter into jagged, beautiful points, scattered across a polished floor.
He studies this casual act of ruin for a long moment, and then realizes that there has been a lull in the singing. Turning slowly, looking past the bower of long-thorned white roses, he sees the crescent of shapes made ghostly by a waxing moon.
They attend me because they crave me, he thinks, not because they wish to.
Their singing resumes, another of the old songs (which he loves, though the songs have grown as pale as the space between them and the moon), and he turns away again to face the mirror.
What must I do, he thinks, and in a fit of sudden rage, he points at the shattered goblet.
"I wish for my court to dance."

Writing Pains

I've been doing a great deal of writing lately, but I'm afraid none of it would be interesting except to scholars of literary criticism. Though it is certainly good practice, it doesn't scratch the creative itch very much. As a result, my writing brain is feeling increasingly restless, as if it just had a very large dinner composed entirely of popcorn. It wants something rich, fulfilling.

Work on my various projects has been slow, largely due to new workloads and some changes in schedule. Part of writing is always about schedules, and I'm afraid my creative outlets are just going to have to suffer a bit until I get back into a decent work rhythm. The small random bits of fiction I've been doing to whet my inspiration's appetite haven't been bad, but they really don't go anywhere for me.

However, as a very pleasant bit of news, I recently sent a copy of Dungeon magazine to writer Richard Pett for an autograph. My friends had so much fun with the dinner party for 'Prince of Redhand' that I wanted Mr. Pett to know about it, and it remains one of my absolute favorite adventures in any publication. Mr. Pett was very gracious about it all, and along with the autographed magazine, he sent his regards and thanks to all of you who participated. He was very entertained with my account of how things went, and very pleased that we enjoyed his work so much. If I'm ever in England, I'll have to be sure to stop in and cook for the man.

So, hey, all you players who made the Redhand dinner party happen? Take a bow.

That is one of the most rewarding aspects of creation for me; the trading of inspiration, and the wonder of seeing what other people do with the works you create. Of course, sometimes you run into the horrors of bad fanfic, but there is always going to be someone out there who sees a vision in your vision that you have never seen. When they describe it to you, your own breadth of vision is amplified and enhanced, and you add another color to your palette. Creative interplay of this sort occurs very often in RPGs, which is one reason I keep on playing them, and I am thankful for knowing as many clever, imaginative players and GMs as I do.

More when the sparks light up the kindling.

On Being a Cynic

One of the natural drawbacks to being a cynic is the inclination to recognize the worst in human beings and to generally accept the worst as status quo. As such, I really don't need the world to keep reminding me of this fact, but the world isn't listening.

One of the natural drawbacks to being a writer is that people tend to assume that you are unprofessional, unreliable and generally not much of a contribution to society. As the emphasis on profit margins continues to grow, the low opinion of writers also increases. People see little value in the art of language, and I find it ironic that in putting aside the importance of good writing, they are also putting aside the value of good communication.

Previous entries have addressed the book 'Twilight', by Stephanie Meyer. In these entries, I defined a good AUTHOR as someone who successfully reaches an audience with their work, regardless of whether or not they intended their writing to do so. A good WRITER is someone who writes with technical skill. I continue to maintain that, voluntarily or not, Stephanie Meyer is a good AUTHOR. She communicates the feel of adolescence so well that it has created a chord of powerful sympathy in thousands of readers. This is a form of communication. If the purpose of literature is to generate an emotional reaction from the audience, Stephanie Meyer is quite successful in creating literature, because most people seem to either adore her work or absolutely detest it.

Interestingly, I notice that very few people offer up a way that she could have made the story better. Mostly, they just shoot down the notion of sparkly vampires, denigrate the sexual-stalker-dysfunctional over (and under) tones in the book, and so on. And on. Of course, this is similar to how much the fans of the book rant on about how beautiful the book is... because it is beautiful.

So, is it society or human nature that makes the population tend to polarize their opinions? People get so caught up in wanting to prove someone else wrong that they don't really address the issues outside of their own context. They don't want to offer a solution to a problem, they just want to point out that someone else's solution isn't going to work. We're seeing a lot of this in the government today; old grudges in the political arena are getting a lot of play, in my opinion, and I am heartily tired of the constant wrangling between people who use 'liberal' and 'conservative' as insults.

What words mean and how they are used is essential to communicating very clearly, and clear communication is essential to creating dialogue. Without dialogue, there is no true conversation. You only have two people making statements about themselves or their experiences at each other, and responding in the same way. When you boil down arguments, the majority of them come down to the fact that one person thinks the other person's experience is wrong. That's really all there is to it... but the thing is, if you don't understand the other person's experience, how can you really call it wrong?

Do I like Stephanie Meyer's writing? No, I sure don't. Do I like her main character? Absolutely not; she's a self-destructive, whiny, melodramatic adolescent who uses her intelligence to justify her own actions to herself. And yet, I recognize that point of view. I've seen that point of view, and I've been that adolescent. I also recognize that her writing reaches the lives of more people than mine probably ever will, and I can give her a nod of acknowledgment for that. It is an accomplishment, voluntary or not.

Similarly, do I like Obama? Not so much. He's just another politician, playing at being a politician. Do I like him better than McCain? Yes, I do, largely because I feel Obama is actually looking at things from a standpoint more appropriate to our changing circumstances. I will give him credit for his drive to follow through with ideas for health care and so forth. If nothing else, his attempts to create change have exposed a powerful undercurrent in the American public; the reactionary mess of the public health care debate is evidence that people are looking to find something to be angry at. Something concrete.

Whether you are outraged at 'Twilight' or ranting about 'bed wetting hippy liberals' or 'fundie warmongering conservatives', I think you're going to have to accept that these little items you are fixated on really don't matter so much. There is so much that needs cut out and replaced in how we live that if you focus all your energy on these tiny outrages, you're not paying attention to the big picture, and I don't think we can afford to ignore the big picture these days. The world is moving faster than we are, in terms of population, technology, social change and many other fields. The world is shrinking very quickly, and the shaky foundations we've built under us are showing their flaws.

Our flaws.

Sure, be angry. Be angry at the authors who get printed and make huge amounts of money. But rather than complain about them, or spend all your time writing forum posts about how awful they are.... write a better book. Write something that shows a related perspective in the positive way, and read that author very carefully so you can explain why other people LIKE the book as well as why you hate it.

Is that a metaphor? Why, yes it is.

Greater of Two Evils, Reprise

Having posted a little something to show the high end of the good guy perspective in Caradoc, I thought I might drop this one down to show one end of the bad guy perspective... though the Kingmakers aren't as nasty as some.


Closing the heavy cover of the Book of Lies, Lord Endelcar took his seat at the wide, mirror-polished black table. There were nine seats; the one at the head of the table was empty.

“This Convocation has begun,” he announced after a sip of wine. “We have had time to consider our courses of action, given what information we have brought to each other. There are a few decisions we must now resolve.”

“Indeed,” said the Advocate in his mellifluous voice. The voice did not match the seamed, scarred and craggy face it slid out of, nor did it match his hard eyes, which were like black stones. “And I for one am anxious to begin our work in earnest this year.”

“Our work is always earnest,” replied the Pander smoothly, narrow chin resting on the slender knuckles of one hand. Her smile made her rebuke an gift, and the Advocate merely nodded in acceptance.

“Don't mince words,” said the Reeve, eyes sliding like razors over the Pander's bare shoulders.

“Indeed not,” broke in Lord Endelcar. “We have a good many choices to deliberate over, and the sooner we bring our counsel to the Monarch, the better. Shall we begin?”

As he began to lead them down the list, he silently admitted that he too shared the Advocate's feelings. With a Monarch in the council at last, Lord Endelcar felt like a young man again. The bleak coals of his hard-won wisdom were afire with the subtle knowledge that now, just as the Advocate said, their work could truly proceed.

As they voted to collapse the economy of the port city Dardantus, he considered that all of the other Kingmakers were feeling the same elation in some way, even if they did not openly show it. The Manciple's debaucheries last night had been extreme, even for her. Even the normally austere and reserved Sacristan had exhibited more pomp and circumstance than usual when they'd met earlier in the evening. Indeed, the decision to have the Convocation at the mercenary pleasure-city of Arn was just as much a chance to celebrate as it was a safe place for them to meet.

“Do we remove Caradoc Manzoran?”

“He is troublesome, but he does not directly oppose us,” murmured the Pander, two fingers on her cheek in thought. “He cannot reach us readily, he knows it.. and neither can we remove him easily.”

“Further, he provides a hub of political and financial influence that is useful to us in the long term,” added the Voltigeur as he regarded his wineglass.

“The council therefore says no.”

Marking yet another decision voted upon, Lord Endelcar saw the differences in this Convocation. They were all ready to push, to drive forward and see bounds of progress instead of the small, careful steps they were prone to. All of them were people of great influence and power, and none of them ever made foolish mistakes. But now, they felt aggressive.

Changes are coming, though Lord Endelcar with satisfaction.

The questions moved on, and the Kingmakers chose.

“The Canon of Doctrine in Yhelm is proving problematic. Do we bring another church investigation forward to distract her?”

The wild-eyed Imprecator sneers at the Sacristan's conservative opinion. The Sacristan is unmoved by the Imprecator's scorn, and his deadly quiet voice continues to levelly defend his view against the precise arguments of the Advocate.

“Betrani trade embargoes against the Purayu islands continue. Do we break them?”

The Pander sways the Advocate again with nothing but a glance, and the Reeve notices. He folds his deadly hands in envy, perhaps. The Pander smiles warmly at the Advocate for everyone else's benefit.

“The House of the Sun has taken a passive stance on their border conflicts with Jashapur; is it in our best interests to foment conflict between them again?”

Laughing with a mouth that is not even his, the Voltigeur comments about the Manciple's expensive tastes. She watches him with pale eyes, and wonders things he might be able to imagine. The Sacristan folds his arms, shuts his brooding eyes and considers.

Finally, as he finished tallying the last vote, Lord Endelcar looked at the empty chair where Tristan would be seated, and then panned his gaze around at the other Kingmakers.

“Lastly... as you know, Prince Beckhardt Naseran Winthelgrim informally abdicated to Lady Angharad, and yet rather than formally abdicate, he has sent a huge tribute to the ones who slew Hope and preserved his province. We know that he shows no signs of relinquishing, and we know that Lady Angharad feels that the province should be hers. So... who shall we have as ruler there?”

Random?

Writers write, and I certainly have no shortage of things to write. While I'm attending to that shortage, I have a number of thoughts today that some of you may even find interesting.
I finished 'Twilight' a few days ago. After having let the book sink in a bit, I came to the conclusion that no, I did not particularly enjoy the book. I do stand by my previous opinion that it is an excellent depiction of a world seen through the eyes of an adolescent, and whether or not this was voluntarily done by the author makes little difference to me. That she has provided this view in a literary form is significant, and judging from the success of the book, she wrote it at the exact right time. It provides an extended metaphor for the uncomfortable process of self-knowledge and the advent of sexuality, even as much as the story glosses over both of these subjects (after all, Bella doesn't get where she is in the process, and few teens ever do). I can already see the literary essays on the hidden stories in 'Twilight', because they would be really easy to write, but I'll spare my audience here.

One of my commentators stated that I was being too kind to the author. Let me amend that. I downplayed my irritations with the book because everyone else seems interested in expressing their irritation with the book, and why be redundant? Further, I really do think that as a piece of literature, 'Twilight' is significant in this day and age. I think everyone should read it.

Once.

I am not enthusiastic about reading any further books in the series, and briefly, I am going to tell you why. Bella is annoying. She's not as loathsome as Thomas Covenant, say, but I'd love to put the two of them into the same room (and my money would be on Covenant). Her involuntarily placement as Center of the Universe takes on an almost hilarious aspect by the end of the book. Her supporting cast of characters end up coming off more as incompetents, sycophants and stalkers (roughly in that order of frequency). Let's face it: vampires in the world of 'Twilight' are dumb. I really don't care that they sparkle; they are so super-everything in every other sense, why not sparkle? And isn't it refreshing how their beauty is a disadvantage? (I guess). I'll give Meyer this; she makes vampires how she wants them to be. Unfortunately, her depiction of hundred-plus year old super-humans is distinctly lacking.

Anyway, when conflict in 'Twilight' extends beyond relationship issues between our desperately obsessive Edward and poor talented and beautiful Bella, the book suffers a lot. I'm not going to spoil the story for anyone who hasn't read it, but I'll leave it at this: it is a really predictable book, and the end will not surprise you.

Closing notes: The dialogue is sometimes painful. The story is trite. I found only one interesting character in the whole book, and he's second-shelf, two-dimensional like everyone else. Also, some people talk about how many times the word blood is used in 'Macbeth'; I will mention how many times people smirk, snicker and roll their eyes in 'Twilight'... because they do. All the time.

Well, that's it for 'Twilight'.

Also in the news, the characters in my DnD group apparently consider going to a remote dungeon location that has nothing to do with a huge overarching plot to be a VACATION. Can we say professional adventurers? I knew we could.

A few random other comments:

To all food manufacturers: STOP PUTTING SUGAR IN MY FOOD. Tomato sauce doesn't need sugar. Fruit juice, of all things, does not need sugar. I reiterate: STOP PUTTING SUGAR IN MY FOOD.

To all governmental structures in the United States: The purpose of having a government is to provide a framework for building the future. If you are an elected official, and are sincerely interested in the future of whatever place you happen to govern, STOP CUTTING MONEY FROM EDUCATION. Take the long view, people. Why are my teachers taking a 10 percent pay cut just to stay in the game when you aren't? Leadership isn't about accolades or personal gain. At its root, leadership is about sacrificing yourself for the whole. Put your money where your mouth is.