Silver Phoenix review

I met Cindy Pon some years ago on the discussion forum at SFReader, shortly after my novelette "Dragon's Eye" was published. Some of my fellow contributors to the anthology hung out there, and one day Cindy showed up (as "Cyn") and started posting interesting, thoughtful, and uncapitalized messages. I could see right away that, besides her aversion to the shift key, Cindy was smart, fascinating, and a darn good writer. Like many of us, she had a work-in-progress, a fantasy set in a China-like empire. Like most of us, she wondered if she would ever be published.

Well, she finished that book, found an agent, and got an offer, all in record time.

Silver Phoenix is the story of Ai Ling, a young woman who embarks on a fateful trip to escape an unwanted marriage and to find her father, who left one day on a mysterious errand to the emperor's palace and never returned. Her own journey to the Palace of Fragrant Dreams is part physical, part spiritual, and entirely magical. The danger is great, for someone or something wants Ai Ling dead, and creatures of legend come to life in pursuit of her. But Ai Ling is not alone; she meets friends along the way who help her through both tragedy and triumph.

The prose is spare and understated, in the deceptive way that a Chinese brush painting is spare and understated--only at first glance, until one sees the elegance and lyricism of line and color. Cindy Pon is a master of the written word, and not incidentally, of the brush as well. I deeply enjoyed Silver Phoenix and look forward to the sequel with enthusiasm.

Cindy is holding a contest on her blog, with great prizes (one of her gorgeous paintings, framed! A $100 gift card to the bookstore of your choice!). Those who post reviews of Silver Phoenix are eligible for raffle tickets. Details here.

Silver Phoenix book trailer here. (I would embed it, but I don't know how.)

While I admit I am motivated to win one of those marvelous prizes, I would have reviewed this book here anyway and said the exact same things about it. :)

Yay, Cindy.

Horse Love

UPDATE: The local paper just published an article about the place I ride, and the remarkable woman who runs it.

Here it is two days past the equinox, and I haven't written a single post for the new year.

So what do I blog about?

Horses. No, I have no idea why I want to talk about horses. I just do.

I fell in love--passionately, obsessively in love--with horses at a very young age. One day when I was about two or so, a horse living in a pasture across the street got loose and wandered over to make lunch out of our front lawn and to stare at us through the picture window in the living room. I remembered my mother screaming, and the owner was called up to come fetch the beast, but instead of being afraid, I was smitten. I was continually trying to drag my mother across the street so I could look at that horse. She, being most definitely not a horse person, tried to discourage me.

But it was too late. I had been bitten by the bug, though it remained latent until a few years later when my older sister went through a horsey stage (for me, it was never a stage. It was the air I breathed.). Since I admired and imitated her in all things, this was like putting a match to tinder. She was interested in horses; I became consumed with horse love.

I read horse books--or rather, I inhaled them--drew pictures of horses, played with models of horses, fantasized about horses, and dreamed of the day when I'd have my own horse, which would look just like the Black Stallion and I would ride him just like Alec Ramsey. Or I'd have a whole stable of horses, unexpectedly inherited, like Velvet Brown.

We didn't have much money for extras--my dad was an NCO in the Air Force and we moved constantly--so real horses simply weren't in the picture. I desperately wanted riding lessons, at least, but even that was considered financially too dear. So I actually sat on a horse in my childhood maybe three or four times, when my parents could be persuaded to let me go on a guided trail ride or to rent a horse at the local stable. And on those rare occasions I faced a very uncomfortable truth.

I was afraid.

No--I was terrified.

I didn't feel powerful, like Alex Ramsey galloping the black stallion through the surf or racing to the finish line, kicking dust in my opponents' teeth. There was no partnership, no deep natural bond.

There was no control. This huge beast could do whatever it liked, and sometimes it did, much to my dismay and terror. I was a wee bug on its back, to be tolerated, or shed at the first convenient moment. Or else the animal schlepped along, indifferent, lazy, tired, dull of brain, and wholly uninspiring.

You'd think this would have killed the horse love, but it didn't. The fascination was as intense as ever. I continued to play with my stable of Breyer horses (with whom I did of course have a deep natural bond); I continued to devour horse books and horse stories, at least until I grew old enough that the magic of make-believe, any make-believe, disappeared.

Until I rediscovered it in writing.

So whatever happened to the horse love?

When I was in my mid-twenties, I decided to learn to ride properly. So I took lessons.

Thirty years on, I still do. In the intervening time, I learned to ride hunt seat and to jump, but very much not like Velvet Brown. I was not a natural. I got dumped off a few times, broke my wrist on one occasion and my tailbone on another, and once ended up in the hospital with a concussion. Never could get the hang of judging the distance and the horses I rode knew it.

Then I discovered dressage, which does not involve dangerous leaps over hurdles. I even owned a horse for awhile, then had to sell it because it either the horse or the kids, and I couldn't sell them.

Nowadays I ride with a group of ladies in a dressage class. I don't own a horse, though I've thought about owning one from time to time.

So (you probably assume), you got over your fear, right?

No.

It's still there, like a little black worm hiding in bushel of shiny red apples. I keep it boxed up so the rot won't spread. On occasion, though, it chews through the duct tape and comes out snarling, usually when I end up on a horse I can't control.

I've had to accept that I will never be the sort of person who can jump on a fiery stallion and ride him to standstill, or in a race to the sunset. Except in my dreams and in my stories.



***
Within a very short time Darric discovered why Keldians preferred eating horses to riding them.
Of course, it had always been ingrained in Keldian thinking that riding was an activity peculiar to barbarians. On the far western edge of the empire, the Ardythian warriors rode a breed of thin-necked, slab-sided ass, which had afforded the trained Keldian soldiers much amusement but little trouble. The Ardythians, while fierce, were notoriously undisciplined, and some two hundred years ago they were duly absorbed into the empire, asses and all. As the empire had always been quick to adopt anything of tactical value from its conquered subjects, Ardythian sword-making techniques were soon embraced with enthusiasm, but ass-riding had somehow never caught on.

Shortly after Ardyth had been subdued, the young empire turned its acquisitive eye eastward to a small but rich continent across the eastern sea. The northern inhabitants, the Cuhlnari, rode the first horses the Keldians had ever seen, creatures a good bit larger than an ass and, so Darric had read in the histories, much more pleasing to look on. The mare he rode now was certainly taller and more graceful than her stubby-legged, large-eared cousins across the wall, but she possessed a spine made of knobbed stones strung on an iron bar that jammed cruelly against his most sensitive places, until he was forced to ride with his back rounded and his tailbone tucked under like a craven dog. He bounced and slid in an undignified manner, clutching her mane while straining to keep his broken ankle from thumping against her side. She frequently plastered her ears to her neck and rolled a wicked eye back at him, and no doubt would have long since rid herself of him if it hadn't been for the man who ran alongside her head.

He wondered what Lorelli would say if she knew her "warrior" existed in the flesh, and jogged along not five paces in front of him, his mare trotting at his shoulder like an obedient dog.

Darric chose not to dwell on what she'd say if she could see him, jouncing on the back of this giant of a horse like some Ardythian oaf riding to war on his trusty ass.

Not that it mattered any more what she thought.

Riordan glanced back at him, then clucked to the mare. She sprang into a slow, rocking gait that was somewhat less dangerous to Darric's privates. He swiveled for a final glance at the wall, a distant, pale snake looping over green swells, and hoped Commander Einri would remember his orders—and obey them.

The valley they followed wound through a series of little hills and awhile later they reached the bank of another river. It was narrower and faster than the river near the wall, and silver-green in color. Above it, the nearest giant of the Great Horns reared its granite head. The leafy trees swarmed in colorful profusion up the lower shoulders, giving way to green-black stands of pine and fir that covered the steep jowls of the mountain like beard shadow. In the distance, a waterfall slid free in a shining tongue of silver. It was a wild country, breath-catching, enticing—and to a military eye, potentially lethal for an attacking force.

While the mare lowered her head eagerly for a drink, Darric eased back with a silent sigh, unstrapped the flask from his belt, and took a brief swig. His ankle was beginning to throb again, though the pain felt muffled, as though it hollered and pounded from behind a stout door. He wondered how much longer Riordan's pain-killing sorcery might last. Or was it sorcery? Valden would have laughed and named it a trick—but if it was a trick, it was an impressive one.

And he still had no explanation for the man's resemblance to the mosaic.

Riordan knelt at the river to sip water from his hand. Darric held out his flask. "I have brandy. Would you like some?"

Riordan eyed the flask with puzzlement and a pinch of suspicion. He shook his head, and cast an appraising glance at Darric's posture on the mare. "I see the Keldians still can't ride."

"We use our horses for…other things. Pulling loads and such." It was true the Keldians understood little of riding, but they knew breeding, whether of humans or beasts. Mingling the blood of captured Cuhlnari mounts—those saved from the cookfires—with various horse-like species at first resulted in sterile offspring, but eventually they had success in crossing them with the sturdy hill ganners of Kaltia. That had produced a strain of work animal, strong and placid if a trifle long in the ear, and chunky enough to make good eating. No self-respecting Keldian would ever consider riding one, and Darric now had tangible evidence that the prejudice went beyond compromised dignity. He shifted in a vain attempt to ease the pressure on his balls.
Much more of this and I'll never be able to bed a woman again.

O Holy Night

Truly He taught us to love one another,

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.

And in his name all oppression shall cease.

(from O Holy Night, by Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure)

Bookwormed!

Julie Weathers made me do this.

I'm supposed to open the closest book to page 56, copy down the fifth sentence, then the following two to five sentences. After that, I'm supposed to make five other people do this, or at least ask them nicely.

The closest book physically to me is the one I'm currently reading, which is Son of the Shadows by Juliet Marillier, who is one of the best fantasy storytellers around. I always get sucked into her books, big time. She jacks the tension, and the stakes, way up high and keeps 'em there.

p. 56

(This comes in the middle of a dialogue segment.)

"He tried once to buy the disputed territory from me, and I turned him down. Well, he found another use for his silver pieces."

Eamonn took a mouthful of his wine, wiped his hand across his mouth. His expression was somber.

"We began to hear of lightning raids by an unseen enemy."

Then I thought, let's try this with my most recent purchase. And so the next is from Medicus, a mystery set in ancient Rome by Ruth Downie. I haven't read it yet.

p. 56 is at the very end of a chapter, and consists of only two sentences and a fragment left over from p. 55:

"...whole lot more bodies, three of them ours. My advice, Doctor, is not to get involved with the locals if you can help it."

"Yes, sir," said Ruso, glad the second spear did not know who was in Room Twelve.

Hmmm. That's enticing. Who is in Room Twelve?

I'm moving that one up in my TBR pile.

And finally, I'll copycat Julie and see what's on page 56 of my own manuscript.

Riordan laid the instrument aside before his clenched fingers could damage the fragile wood. It was a moment before he could speak. "I've been told that when I was an infant, my father would hold me in his arms and I would stare up at his eyes, never crying so long as he looked back at me." He swallowed heavily. "Tell me—is it an act of cowardice to look my father in the eye at dawn tomorrow and offer myself to his knife?"

An uncomfortable silence fell, until Darric cleared his throat. "That is not cowardice, true; it's more like an act of insanity."

Now--who gets to be tagged?

Cindy Pon

Lottery Girl

Jen

Jo Bourne

Lori

Tara Parker

OK, I did it! What's the prize?

There is a prize, isn't there?

A reward?

A cookie?

Something?

Color Your World

When I was a kid, one of my favorite things was opening a brand new box of 64 Crayola crayons.

All that luscious color, right there in one box. (1) I would rearrange them--each color family together, one shade blending into the next. I loved the names: Burnt Sienna, Raw Umber (2), Spring Green, Periwinkle, Thistle, Midnight Blue (3), Sepia, Indian Red (4), Orchid (5). It intrigued me that Red-Orange was different from Orange-Red. And the smell--fuzzy-crisp paper wrappings, the scent of wax and dyes...it was heady. An old box of crayons smelled stale and spent. The new one was redolent with the perfume of ideas and inspiration.

OK, so I don't still sit around sniffing boxes of crayons (though I do linger over catalog pics of artists' pastels and rainbow arrays of chalk) but color is still endlessly fascinating to me. It's no wonder that spring and fall are my favorite seasons--not only is the weather more agreeable, but the world becomes a more colorful place. Bare gray branches give way to soft pink blooms. Uniform summer green is replaced by shades of fire. A flower garden is visual catnip. The eye soaks it in and the spirit grows drunk on it.

I recently read a book called Color: A Natural History of the Palette by Victoria Finlay. It has opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at dyes and pigments. Who knew that:

--There's no such thing as black ink or black dye (but there is black pigment). Black inks and dyes are made of blues, reds, and yellows, all blended to absorb light and appear black. In the old days, anything dyed black tended to fade rapidly, until they discovered a dye made from logwood, which was found in the New World and was much in demand by the Puritans. As Protestantism spread, so did the need for a black dye that stayed black. Privateers happily supplied the logwood, the proceeds funding brothels and the rum trade all over the Carribbean. Both black clothing and irony abounded.

--One of the most prized pigments of the old world--carmine red, also known as cochineal--is made from the blood of a white parasite that lives on the prickly pear. For many years this was a fiercely protected secret.

--Saffron comes from a species of crocus that blooms one day only and must be harvested before noon to be truly potent. Because of that, saffron remains one of the world's most expensive spices.

--The Chinese once produced a green porcelain so secret that only royalty could own it.

--Ultramarine, made from lapis lazuli, is so difficult and complex to produce that it's a wonder anyone ever discovered how to do it. The finest grade of lapis is called by the Afganis "red feather," this being a poetic metaphor for fire. This grade of lapis is a rich violet-blue, like the deepest, hottest part of a flame.

I will look at old art with new eyes now, because I'll know the story behind the pigments, and in fact, which pigments were likely used to produce certain colors. And what they may have cost the artist to obtain them.

Color plays an important role in the writer's palette, too. It enhances description, providing contrast and visual focus. Light can interact with color in interesting and revealing ways. Color can evoke a mood or add sub-text. Or be a symbol or motif.

The next time you set out to describe a setting or a person or object, think about how you can use color to say something.

###

A low sun scattered rays through the treetops and painted the snow in a lattice of amber and black.

***

Saree eyed that silk, so exactly the color of a ripe red grape that she could almost taste it.

***

Lirya picked at a tangle in the yarn. Lamplight gilded her white-gold hair and warmed the winter-blue of her eyes.

***

It was a tranquil cave of a room, suitable for intimate conversation and divulging of secrets, softened by tapestries and deep-cushioned furniture, lit by candle-lamps with tinted glass shades of cobalt, amber, and jade. The lamps glowed unobtrusively in wall niches and they limned the scented smoke with sea-like hues as it climbed from incense burners to drift through the air in unhurried eddies and thin currents. The effect, aided by feather fans in each corner that undulated like giant, lazy fins, was that of an underwater grotto—dark and dreamy, with shafts of nebulous light and unexpected pools of shadow.

***
Her jade-green eyes were the only gleam of color amidst the grays and duns of early morning.

***

The woman withdrew a handful of tiny, round stones from a scarlet pouch. There were seven: two each of gray, black, and white; and the last was an oval ruby, unfaceted and polished to a liquid gleam, perfect as a drop of blood. "The eye of the rat," she said matter-of-factly. "The rat wanders in dark places and knows many things."

***

The figures stopped. The shorter of the two hung back, keeping to the shadows, but the tall one was close enough to the feeble circle of lantern light that Miren could see he was hooded and dressed in the colors of the forest, tattered and dirty and faded like the back end of autumn.

###

Notes:
(1) These days, the largest box is 120, but many of the color names I remember are gone forever.

(2) Raw Umber was one of several colors retired because the name was thought too dull for modern children. But I found the name full of mystery. What, I wondered, is umber? Or for that matter, sienna? (Umber is an earth pigment that changes color when heated. Likewise for sienna, which is particularly associated with Sienna, Italy.) Heaven forfend that a child these days would have to actually look something up, though it must be said I never looked up the strange names myself, because my imagination provided so much more interesting answers than the truth ever could.

(3) Before my time, Midnight Blue was Prussian Blue, but since anything German was out of favor following WWII, it was eventually renamed. A shame, because Prussian Blue has a crucial place in the history of pigments. Ever heard of the term "blueprint"?

(4) Out of misguided PC zealotry, Indian Red has now been renamed Chestnut (though if I'm remembering it correctly, it was far closer to Bay, if we're talking horse colors (g)). As it happens, the original name of Indian Red was never intended to represent the skin tone of a Native American but was derived from a pigment found in India.

(5) Orchid has been inexplicably renamed Best Friends, at least according to the article on Wikipedia.

My Kingdom for a Theme (Part III)

(I had meant to post this last summer but didn't. So while the seasonal reference is a bit dated, the excuses, particularly the last one, still hold true.)

I've put off writing about this theme for a long time. Partly because it's summer and summer is a busy time in my household. All the little fledglings return to the nest and so there's quality family time and vacations and such. Routines go fluttering out the window, following swiftly by schedules and (unfortunately) self-discipline. That one is the hardest to coax back inside.

Still, that's only one reason why I've procrastinated writing about this theme. The other is because this is a subject I'm not real keen on discussing in public. It feels like hanging transparent lingerie on the front porch for the neighbors to inspect. Well, these days maybe that wouldn't bother a lot of folks, but I guess I'm just old-fashioned.

But here is theme number three:

Beauty vs the Beast

OK, that's the cop-out, euphemistic label.

In reality, it's:

Sexual Intimacy vs Sexual Power

This theme has appeared so often and in sometimes unexpected (and uncomfortable) ways that I've finally had to accept that it is an actual theme and not an embarrassing subconscious fixation after all. (There was some relief in acknowledging that, I can tell you.)

The idea of sex both as a path to intimacy through love (requiring sublimation of self), and as a means of manipulation and control through seduction and rape (thereby establishing the dominance of self) is one that my story explores in several ways:

-- Moriana's brutal marriage, where her husband uses sex as a means of power and control;

--Saree's increasingly bizarre and disturbing discoveries as she gradually restores her lost memories and learns the truth about her relationship with a man she thought she loved;

--Yakoba's own disastrous yet empowering decision to engage in a forbidden liaison that both liberates and destroys him;

--the fraught triangle of Riordan, Alazne, and Taliyr, and particularly Alazne's own struggle to overcome culturally ingrained distrust of men and sexuality, and to find the courage to freely choose or reject a lover, with attendant consequences.

Reading that, you might get the impression that the book is all about sex in some form or other.

Thank goodness I've already posted the other two themes, so you know it's not really.

But any expression of sex and sexuality in stories tends to snag a reader's attention like nothing else will, kind of like the way one's eye will jump first to the color red in any photo or painting. My greatest fear (well, besides the one where my mother and children (why do we never worry about our fathers reading our work?) will some day read it and Wonder About Me) is that this theme will prove too overwhelming. I'd like it be subtle and subterranean, but red is not a self-effacing color.

***

In the profound stillness that preceded dawn, Alazne awoke. She had been dreaming of the man with the knife, only in the dream he held no knife and this left his hands free to do other things. As she became more fully awake, the ache of longing in her loins translated to a very full bladder.

Muttering oaths under her breath, she found her boots and thick, felted overtunic, and pulled them on. Outside, the air was breezy and cold, though not as cold as it had been in the heights. The moon was a bright feather, floating high over a pine-furred ridge. She walked beyond the camp to relieve herself and afterwards lingered a moment, staring over the black and shifting sea of grass that washed into the dark shores of the northern mountains.

Where was he now, this golden-eyed sorcerer who had fashioned a tether between her spirit and his? Even with the link gone, he haunted her thoughts and found a place in her dreams. Or was that only because the newly born desires of her flesh snatched at any stray image on which to hang a dream? The anjeli help her—even Ilari's kiss had aroused her, in spite of her anger, as though some beast now lived in her, awakened from a long sleep and ravenous for any morsel that might be thrown its way.

It was all very disturbing to have her body at odds with her will. As much as she wanted to give herself to Taliyr, she had no liking for the notion of living as his concubine or whatever name the Tsuroi had for such a woman. And perhaps he would be impatient with her inexperience and after the first time would not want her again. It was well known that the affections of a man for a woman shifted like sand under the feet, firm one moment and treacherous the next. Even her father, who was known to be a just man, treated his wives and concubines as though they were clothing to be worn and enjoyed for a time, and then discarded. She wondered, with a trace of wistfulness, if in all the world there existed a man who would cleave to a woman for the whole of his life, who would give himself to her as unreservedly as she was expected to give herself to him.

She laughed bitterly and called herself a fool. Not in her world.

Don't Stop

My long-time acquaintance and fellow writer, Diana Gabaldon, says there are three rules for writing:

1. Read
2. Write
3. Don't stop

Now the first two are self-explanatory (to me, at least): to understand how to write a novel, you have to read them. Lots of them. Reading fills the tank. Reading forges the neural pathways of plot development, teaching you on both conscious and sub-conscious levels how stories work.

Then you have to write. Not think about writing, not talk about writing, not write about writing, but Write. The. Story.

There will come moments of flagging energy, of sapped ambition, of profound discouragement. And this is where the third rule comes into play: don't stop. Because if you stop you will never finish (duh) and you will never get published.

But I discovered recently that there's more to the Don't Stop rule than I had initially realized. In addition to not quitting permanently, it also means not stopping along the way.

Not for anything. If you treat writing like bathing or eating--and you always find time for those, don't you?--you'll make writing an everyday habit, no matter what else is going on in your life.

And this has a twofold effect. First, it increases productivity. Second, it keeps momentum going and that in turn keeps the clay of the story moist and pliable. Walk away for any length of time and that clay just sits there and hardens, so that when you do return to the keyboard it takes an incredible amount of work and patience to find your way back into a story that has calcified in your absence.

This has been my biggest writing challenge. Real life interferes, things get busy, I get tired, stressed, distracted--whatever, just name any excuse, we all have them--and I would stop writing. Later, I tell myself. This afternoon. Tomorrow. The next day. Next week.

It wasn't until I began writing first thing every morning, without fail, that I realized how important that Don't Stop rule was. It is, in fact, key. Stopping is deadly. So don't.

The reason I started writing first thing every morning is because of another long-time acquaintance of mine, Vicki Pettersson. In her seminar at the Surrey International Writers Conference last year (2007) she mentioned a book she'd found helpful, called Eat That Frog by Brian Tracy. The principle is simple--if you eat a frog first thing in the morning, it will be the worst thing that happens all day, and the rest of the day can only get better. So to put that in practical terms, do your most difficult task, the one you're most likely to procrastinate over, first.

Well, for me, that was writing. But for the longest time I thought "first" meant after breakfast, exercise, shower, checking the headlines, answering e-mail, reading blogs, running errands...and look at that, it's lunchtime! Somehow I never got around to writing first. Then one day I woke up and realized (another one of those "duh" moments) that first meant first, literally. So now I hop out of bed, grab the laptop, climb back into bed, and start writing.

It changed my life.

Another very true and useful bit of advice I got from Vicki was to make a list of all the reasons why it's difficult or impossible for you to write, and then to admit to yourself that none of those can actually stop you from writing.

The only thing that truly stops us from writing is a decision, made somewhere deep inside, that we are not going to write. We wrap it in excuses and procrastination to hide from ourselves the awful truth that it is not actually work, chores, the baby, the kids, the husband, school, travel, or writer's block that stop us from writing--we do that ourselves. We make the decision.

The good news is, we can unmake it.

My kingdom for a theme (Part II)

One thing I've noticed about my newly discovered themes is that they're all focused on individual characters' choices, failures, triumphs, relationships, and growth. But while reading Kate Elliott's blog the other day, in which she linked to a guest blog entry she'd written for John Scalzi, I discovered that some of her themes are, well, bigger than my themes. Her most recent series addresses:


"...how injustice manifests in a society and how people combat it; how corruption creates and intensifies and reinforces injustice. Who needs a dark lord when people are themselves capable of manifold cruelties? And what gives people the strength to resist corruption and to fight injustice even at the cost of their own lives?"



This inspired another panic attack over a perceived inadequacy (milder panic, this time; just a few sputtering fuses and hissing wires). Should I have bigger themes, more important themes? Collapsing empires? Doomsday devices? World war?


But truth to tell -- I'm not writing about societies in conflict and grand power struggles and corrupt governments. Not yet anyway. The characters in this volume may feel the first tremors of cultural change and societal upheaval--the ripplings under the crust, the roiling threat of a storm on the horizon--and they are in some cases even the instigators of such rumblings. But I'm telling the story from the inside out, from the POV of the pebbles that, mostly unknowlingly, trigger the avalanche. The avalanche itself is for later.

So (reassured) I present my second thematic couplet:

Parent vs Child

Ironically, I first began writing at least in part as an antidote to the demands and responsibilities of parenthood. I needed an imaginary universe to escape to. Books could only go so far in fulfilling that need; I found I wanted to create and inhabit a world where I was in control (ha), where all the conflicts did not revolve around mealtimes, bedtimes, and homework, where everyone did what I told them to (ha, ha). And so the world I designed would have (ha, ha, ha) very little to do with parenting and children.


But being a parent has been my life for the last 21 years, 2 months, and 23 days. It's one of the most important things I do in life. Given that, it was inevitable that parent/child dynamics should muscle their way into the story. This theme has flexed itself everywhere, including Saree's obsession with her royal son, Miren's devotion to her children, Darric's unusual relationship with his grandfather, the struggle between Riordan and his father, fraught with secrets--


With the fire gone, the only light filtered down from the smoke hole, a paler shade of darkness. His father's form was barely visible, grayish and amorphous. "Tarra would have wanted you to find the woman you called."

"And what do you want?" Riordan asked.

A pause. "A son who will be strong where I was not, who will follow the path of honor no matter the cost."

"You have one. But you're casting him away."

"Don't be a fool. I am setting him free."

"From the Shirin's cage? Or yours?"

Egon turned his face away. "Leave now." His voice was as brittle as a dead leaf, ready to crumble at the slightest pressure. "While I still have the will to let you fly away."

--and Yakoba and his father's mutual disownment of each other, not to mention his own uneasiness with the concept of fatherhood--

"What is your name?" he said to distract her. He had no liking for weeping children, and he could guess well enough what was happening to her mother: the slow but inevitable wasting away that befell all women the Kadyr used as vessels. Though if he was right about the child's age, her mother had lasted far longer than most.

She sniffed loudly and wiped a hand across her nose. "Jona."

"Why did you go looking for me?"

"You called me. Don't you remember?"

He started to say no, but then memories crowded in, whole and bright, as though shutters had been thrown open in a dark room. He had dreamed of her before, several times. Most recently, on the journey south—when he had managed to chase Elyse out of his dreams, this child had wandered in, an ethereal, flickering presence that he could never quite capture.

Something bound them to one another. For a moment he could not fathom what, and then he knew. He reached out and trailed his fingers along her cheek, touched his thumb to her soft, damp, beautiful mouth. Familiar, yes—because she was born of his seed.

In the ten years he had been a practicing master, he had sired untold numbers of children. Some may have died in infancy, but others would no doubt grow to adulthood, to be harvested, one way or another, by the Kadyr. It was not his business to find them or know them, only to make them. Nor, he knew with inexplicable certainty, had he ever dreamed of other offspring. Only this girl.

An unsettling emotion grew in his breast, one that pricked him queerly. He watched her nudge another stone into place, a deep blue one, like a piece of twilight sky flecked with golden stars. No mere stray rock, that, but a smooth oval of lapis worthy of gracing the throat of a princess. "Where did you get that stone?"

"Mama gave it to me. She didn't want anyone to find it. She gave me this one, too." She dug into a pocket and produced a small white pebble. "It's not pretty, but I like it best. I sleep with it." She darted a look at him that was part defiance and part wariness, as if she expected to be scolded for such nonsense.

"May I hold it for a moment?" he asked. "I'll give it back, I promise."

She hesitated, then held it out.

He took it and rolled it into his palm. It was about the size of his thumbnail and irregular, with a cloudy translucence. Zared might consider the girl a treasure—and she was, in deeper ways than some self-proclaimed jarai thieflord could possibly fathom—but this nodule, even unshaped and uncut, could buy a dozen small girls. He had once possessed a similar stone, though he had traded it for something of greater value to him: the blue sapphire that had proclaimed him a Master of the Kadyr. "This is a very special stone. You mustn't ever lose it." He dropped the rough diamond in her hand and she wrapped her fingers around it.

"I always know where it is," she answered, and something in the way she said it made him look at her sharply. Diamonds were rarely taken as lu'tsahs, being complex, difficult, even dangerous gems. For such a bond to be made by one who was years away from her awakening was nothing short of astounding.

The girl stared at her designs in the dirt, frowning a bit. After a moment she laid a tiny pink clam shell into the pattern. "Kal gave this shell to me. She says she got it from a place where the water is bigger than the sky and huge boats with wings fly on it. I want to fly on one of those boats. Have you seen them?"

"I've sailed on ships." And now he had returned from his latest voyage, with a report to make to the Elder, a red-headed woman to claim, and, it seemed, a daughter to rescue.

"Kal says when I'm bigger I must leave Hazaar, or I'll be made into a concubine. Selki says a concubine has to—" She grimaced. "He's always horrid and he likes to hurt things. I hate him. And I don't want to be a concubine. It's nasty."

"You will not be a concubine."

"Then what will I be?"

He saw the shine of her hopes and dreams in her face and could not utter the bald truth, that she was destined to give her maidenskin and her gift to a Kadyr master, to bear his child and afterwards die.

"You will be my daughter," he said lamely.

Her smile lit the air. "And will we fly together on the ships?"

The smoldering coal of anger grew until it flamed like the sun, though he could not have said why it burned so hot.

"I don't know," he answered, and left the dream.

.......

The boy was silent a long moment. Fire blew through Kauldi's encampment. Shadows moved there now, men running frantically, their shouts carrying faintly up the mountain.

"All right," he said at last. "Though how you will persuade my father to give you the child, I don't know."

"If he does not miss his own son who goes trading in the wilderness, he will not miss one small girl who plays with stones," Yakoba said.

"Who said he doesn't miss me?" He slanted an enigmatic glance up at Yakoba. "My father is a dangerous man."

"So," Yakoba observed, "is his son."

In the soft golden backwash from the fire below, Yakoba saw the boy's teeth bared in a brief but ferocious grin. "Always remember that." He settled the wraithcat fur more securely on his shoulders and struck out through the trees, dodging low branches, his limping footfalls barely perceptible on fallen needles. His voice floated back, softly as if he spoke to himself, "Though I wonder what sort of man would deliver his own daughter to her death."

The words stung, though they shouldn't have. "A man with a duty."

The boy answered on a puff of laughter as biting as a winter wind. "I would have said a man without a soul."

My kingdom for a theme (Part I)

There's been a meme floating around some of my friends' blogs (well, it was floating around a couple months ago. It's probably sunk to the silty bottom of the blogosphere by now) called "Ten Things About Me as a Writer." I was halfway considering posting the thing here, just to have something to post. But then I stumbled over question #6 and fell flat on my smug writer's face.

It's a question about theme, as in, which one keeps cropping up in your work?

In a moment of cold, sweaty horror, I thought: Themes? Am I supposed to know what they are? Before I finish? How can I find them? What if there's more than one?

And what if there aren't any at all?

Well, eventually all the firecrackers of panic quit popping off, and in the silence I found the answer.


I do (thank goodness) have themes in my novel. But they are not what I thought they were, or rather, what I had begun the novel vaguely thinking they might be.


Back then, I assumed sacrificing everything for love was going to be a theme, but it isn't. The idea of sacrifice is there, but love is not the motivating factor. I also thought the story was going to be about overcoming prejudice, but it's not about that either, although the issues of prejudice and bigotry do crop up here and there.

No, when I started mining for themes, I discovered three major veins running through the strata of the story, sometimes bold and distinct, sometimes elusive, surfacing only in fitful gleams, but still traceable from start to finish -- or at least, as near to the finish as the story goes at this point. I also discovered that each theme is expressed as two contrasting concepts. I've always gravitated toward conflict in writing (well, pretty much stuffing as much in as the story will hold); I guess it shouldn't surprise me that even the themes embody conflict.

I thought I would discuss them in three separate posts. Here's the first and, I think, the main one.

Duty vs Desire.

The question of when duty (to law, family, culture, vows, or oneself) trumps desire (for love, sex, power, fame, or recognition), or vice versa, is one that plays out in numerous ways among the various plot threads. This theme is first introduced in an explicit way on the first page of the story:

On the day Riordan turned twenty-five, he awoke with the distinct feeling he had little time to lose. He had always considered himself an obedient son, but before the birds could launch their first sleepy twitters, he mounted his white mare and ghosted out of the Hawk clan's covey of dwellings. He journeyed downward, through forest and vale and a chill, misty darkness until he reached the great burial mound at the northern border. There he planned to defy both his father and the prophets his father so shamefully served.

He galloped the mare up to the mound's rounded crest, which normally offered sweeping views of the river and the Wall. Today a heavy mist webbed the land in a cocoon of secrecy, hiding the burgeoning dawn and guarding him from all eyes.

Which suited him admirably. He wanted no witnesses. The song of calling, besides being outlawed, was also a highly private affair.

After turning Shae loose to graze, he crouched in the tall grass and ripped out enough stalks to clear a small circle. In the patch of raw, black earth he laid a bed of stones and heaped on it thin curls of birch bark, followed by an array of sticks he had gleaned along the way: oak, for strength and longevity; willow, for resilience; dry pine, for the hot fire of passion. He arranged the wood precisely, without haste, though he'd be missed before long. The clans would arrive in strength today to witness the joining of the Hawk's son with the Raven's daughter. It was his duty to stand at his father's side and greet them, his duty to offer his bride the marriage knife, to shed her blood in the marriage bed.

But a man also owed allegiance to laws far more ancient and binding than a father's command, or—he firmly quashed visions of Moriana's troubling beauty—his own wayward desires. This was his final chance to call a wife in the oldest way, the sacred way—and forbidden since the Shirin had decreed it so. It was not the place of mystics and prophets to make such laws, but lately they gathered more authority to themselves than they ought, until they ruled even the King-Chief.

Riordan throws everything over for the sake of duty, but it's duty wrapped around another desire: the hunger to take charge of his own life, to break out of the cage his father, his culture, and history have put him in. The rebellion starts small but has huge consequences, one of which is that what was begun out of allegiance to an old tradition becomes itself an overwhelming desire, and in the end he will (I believe) once more have to make a choice between the two.

This same theme plays out elsewhere in the story in well, but particularly in the struggles of Yakoba, one of the main antagonists, who breaks a sacred oath to slake a desire, and in so doing unravels the fabric of everything he had convinced himself was right and true.

He led her to the throne of her power and displayed it for her. Fire was predominant, but she had something else that he had not detected in his previous, brief explorations. He glimpsed a shimmer of something crystalline, and with a small shock recognized it as one of the same gifts he carried within himself.

Stone.

It was a uniquely Tsuroi power and how it had come to be mixed into her Cuhlnari bloodline was an intriguing question.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I see it! A white flame, but hard inside, like a diamond—it's beautiful!"

It was indeed and her innocent joy in it made him suddenly and inexplicably regret the necessity of taking it from her—and the inevitable price she would pay.

Remorse was an emotion so alien and so unnerving that he withdrew his hand, sharply, as though something had scalded it. He ruthlessly examined the offending sentiment and realized it had arisen from the fact that he genuinely liked her. She was something more than mere woman-flesh primed to be a vessel for his seed and a vehicle for his pleasure. She was intelligent, honest, amusing, courageous—and highly gifted. She would make a fit mate for any prince of the tribes.

Even an outcast prince.

The thought was such an outrageous and diverting notion that he was lost for a moment in imagining its possibilities. They were very limited—he knew well enough that Valden of Illea would not sit by and permit his cousin, the current heir to a large and wealthy province, to be spirited away. Pursuit would be inevitable and he could not hope to out sail a war fleet.

Of more immediate importance, however, were the constraints laid on him by his duty. He could not marry—he had sworn an oath to make the rite his life's task and he was ever dutiful to his word. Unless…

He acted while reason still lagged, off-balance and bemused. "Turraya—look at me." He pulled his lu'tsah out of his shirt and slipped the cord over his head.

Her eyes flew open as she came back from her internal contemplations. He held out the cord with its blue stone dangling. "Here. Take this."

She made no move to touch it. "You're giving that to me?"

"For today only. It is—" He hesitated. His father had always said that truth-telling was a fine and subtle art—and about that one thing, at least, his father was right. "It is symbolic of a bond of trust between two people. A sharing between friends. If you were a woman of the tribes, you would have one of your own and could grant me that in exchange."

He looped it around her neck, though he already felt foolish offering it to her. Impulsiveness and sentimentality were as foreign to his nature as remorse. But it was done and he never did anything less than thoroughly. There were many other gifted women in the world, and with them he would gladly do what was required—but there was only one Elyse, and perhaps this transgression, this omission was not so great as to matter.

But matter it does, so greatly that it will change the course of his life and the lives of many others. And in the end, he will find he must sacrifice desire for duty, but he has more than one duty pulling at him. Which will he fulfill and at what cost?

The theme is also expressed in Moriana's sacrifice, choosing a horrifying duty in order to enact a desire for vengeance.

And Darric is a man torn between duty to his country and his prince, and the lure of a forbidden, and treasonous, liaison.

His thoughts prowled into perilous territory, and his heart beat swiftly as he recalled Rafe's words: Do what I raised you to do. Take what is yours.

And what exactly, Darric silently asked, is mine?

He watched his breath cloud the air, and surveyed the kingdoms on his mental playing board for the hundredth time: the Cuhlnari territory was a small wedge driven between Keldian-held Illea and the Great Horns—the Graystones, as Riordan had called the range. South of the mountains lay Hazaar, a land of glass and silk, spices and war hounds, and volatile politics. Westward over the sea, the Keldian empire sprawled like a well-fed lioness, temporarily sated but only a matter of time before she cast hungry eyes on Hazaar's riches.

And now Hazaar was busy with its own internal squabbles, its ports closed, all trade ceased. Whoever ruled the Cuhlnari would have access to the only land route, assuming there was one, to Hazaar. Whether that route would be used for trade or invasion remained to be seen, but the man who controlled it could name his own price and make his own rules. Valden knew this and considered it an easy matter to brush the Cuhlnari aside like dust before a broom and set up housekeeping on their land.

Darric knew it as well and contemplated the consequences born of a marriage between a Keldian yarl and the daughter of a Cuhlnari chieftain.

There were several, all of them treasonous. He was thankful that his musings were shielded from Valden.

"Planning an invasion?" Valden inquired softly.

Darric nearly bit his tongue as he jerked around. "What?"

The moonlight bleached the skin on Valden's face and cast deep shadows over his eyes, but Darric could feel them on him just the same.

The cultured voice continued, casual but with a honed edge: "You had this look on your face, just then, that reminded me of that mosaic in the Court of Nobles, of the seventh warrior sailing to conquer the Northern Heaven."

Darric forced a grin. "No invasion, but a campaign, to be sure. I was thinking about conquering a plate of roast venison and a chalice of fine wine, before retiring to a soft bed with the spoils of war."

Valden regarded him a moment, then said lightly, "No rewards at Teon, I'm afraid, at least of the beddable sort. But I'm sure you'll find something to your liking once we reach Krissea." He propped himself up on one elbow and his eyes gleamed briefly in the moonlight. "You must be feeling better than I thought, if you're thinking about women again."

He waved a hand at a nearby soldier, who hastened over with Valden's flask, newly refilled. The prince, with the gracious, self-deprecating air of a head cook offering selections for the evening's dining, said, "And speaking of which, you may choose either Raina of Norfall or the widow Ingria for your wife." He sipped from the flask and passed it to Darric. "Either one is suitable, though with Raina, you'll have to wait nearly a year until she comes of age. She's no beauty, but has the greater inheritance. What do you say?"

Darric took his time answering. Here it was at last, Valden's punishment of his renegade hound: distract him with a mate and chain him safely out of the way, far to the north where he could do no harm. Both women were heiresses to estates that bordered Darric's own—one on the west and the other to the south. To marry either one of them would expand his holdings—and his wealth—considerably. But then, to do what he already had been contemplating would expand them beyond anyone's expectations, particularly Valden's.

He drank liberally from the flask. The brandy, which was excellent, burned sweetly in his stomach and settled his ragged heartbeat. "I'll think on it."

"Don't think too long." Valden settled back in the cushions. "Choose one and get her pregnant. I need you married, with an heir on the way."

And too busy to make trouble for you.

Darric turned away to stare out onto a moon-washed landscape of pines and snowy hillsides, and thought of Moriana.

***

Read this book

A writer of my acquaintance has just published a book.

Cause for celebration in itself, but this book is something special in its genre (Romance) and it's a great thrill to see the reading world awaken to this fact. It has so far received several glowing reviews, but one of the best is offered by the smart ladies who live here:

Knock that oiled chest-baring ab-master off the cover, and substitute something more professional and perhaps boring, and I promise you, linguistics students could study this narrative as a representative work on how to
accurately portray the differences in languages and dialects without actually
USING those dialects. English poses as French, as German (which is its cousin
anyway), and as variations of itself, and the depth of talent in just that part
of this novel alone is astonishing. Seriously, I haven’t even gotten to the plot
part yet and I’m ready to build a shrine to Bourne just for her prose.

This is not Jo's first novel, but it is the first one published in many years. And it marks the beginning of what's going to be an amazing career. I see many awards and much success in her future. Jo, simply put, is a marvelous writer. She's a master of dialogue, of subtlety and wit, of voice and characterization and language. Of course, I knew that about her already, having been acquainted with her for a number of years on Compuserve Books & Writers, and having once belonged to the same critique group and been on the receiving end of some sage advice. I have a file filled with Jo quotes, squirreled away because they're pithy and elegant and because she just has this way of phrasing things that pokes a gentle finger right into the solar plexus of the issue.

What I didn't know (never having read a complete book by her) was whether she could tell a good story, but after having snarfed down The Spymaster's Lady in record time, I'm here to say it's a darn good book, and you should read it, even if you don't normally read Romance.

I myself am not a particular fan of the genre; I have maybe a dozen novels on my shelf that I consider Romance "keepers" and most of them are written by Laura Kinsale. Until now.

The Spymaster's Lady won't be lonely long. The next Joanna Bourne novel is due out in July. I personally can't wait.

Oh, and if you'd like to win a signed copy of The Spymaster's Lady, contest here.

Robin-in-a-Hoodie and Mad Marian

So I recently finished watching the Series One DVDs of this new BBC Robin Hood series titled, well, Robin Hood, starring Jonas Armstrong as the eponymous main character. And he really does wear a hoodie. It's a tad grubby and Middle Ages retro-ish, but unmistakeably a hoodie. With the insouciant charm of Errol Flynn, a rakish J. Timberlake beard, and more serious hints of the tortured returning soldier, he's a thoroughly modern Robin for a thoroughly modern interpretation of an old, old tale.

This particular retelling is full of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies, and is occasionally afflicted with Political Relevance. All the social conventions and class hierarchies of the Middle Ages are either misunderstood or gleefully cast aside, and the archery invents whole new rules of physics. This is a portrait of medieval life that its true denizens would find truly astonishing.

But this is entertainment, not history, and must be accessible to its audience, who (the producers obviously assumed) wouldn't sit still for anything as drab as reality. Action, Romance, Humor, and Funky Fashions are the order of the day.

Robin is a nobleman, but one with grand ideas of egalatarianism. With a blithe disregard for medieval law, the Sheriff (i.e., the writers) deprives him of his estate and make him an outlaw, and thus he devotes his time to the true business of Robin Hood: rescuing the downtrodden and irritating the Sheriff. (Robin returns from the Crusades slightly stressed, in a post-traumatic sort of way; now he's nominally a pacifist, at least with regards to actual killing, so irritate is about all he can do to the Sheriff, who takes predictable advantage of this weakness.)

So Robin wears a hoodie and Marian wears...well, odd things. Layered things. And she's mad. In the angry sense. Mad at the Sheriff, mad at her father (the previous Sheriff, now retired), mad at Gisborne (sometimes), and very mad at Robin. It's not clear why. He's a tease, true, but not a bad sort overall, yet she either treats him as if he were scum or else a small annoying boy doing dumb heroic things, mucking about in the woods and putting himself in danger.

The truth is, she also secretly mucks about in the woods and puts her own self in danger, so she's a hoydenish hypocrite in addition to being petulant. She puts more trust in the dastardly but rather dumb (though admittedly looking very fine in black leather) Gisborne than she does in the scampish but honorable Robin. I imagine her feistiness is meant to appeal to modern liberated females, but her gutsiness is often outweighed by her grumpiness. Fortunately, toward the end of the season the writers were moving toward humanizing her. I hope it takes, because I found her very tiresome.

Yet despite all its shortcomings, for the most part I found the show to be delightful.

The dialogue is clever. The stories are fun. And sometimes funny. The characters are entertaining. The Sheriff, for instance, is a committed narcissist, a thwarted thespian with all of Nottingham as his stage. He's psychotic in a jolly, macabre sort of way, and an utter crawling coward. And there's wistful Sub-Text between him and Robin. (Wistful on his part, at any rate. Robin is immune.)

Robin's merry band includes Will Scarlet (a rather earnest young carpenter), Alan (a roguish sort), Little John (a big guy with some depth to him, though when he has a chance to leave the forest and find a new life with his wife and son, he doesn't. Does he really like being an outlaw that much? Oh wait, no, it's because his contract with the show requires him to keep playing Little John. Yes, that's it.)

And then there's Djaq (pronounced Jack), the Saracen woman disguised as a man (yeah, I know). Once I stopped rolling my eyes, however, I discovered that she's an intriguing character in her own right, an interesting addition to the band, and far more likeable than Marian.

But the very best character, the one who truly makes the watching worthwhile, the beating heart of the story, is Much.

Much is/was Robin's serf. I say is/was because Robin freed him upon their return from the Holy Land. Much's attachment to Robin is rather like Sam's to Frodo, based on friendship, loyalty, and sheer habit, but at the same time, Much wants to be his own man, with status in the world. (Or at least an endless supply of hot meals.) He balances with a foot in both camps -- respectability and outlawry -- and finds it an uncomfortable stance.

He is the comic relief one moment and the surprising (and surprised) hero the next; he is easily the deepest, most divided, and therefore the most complex character in the show. He feels injustice keenly, but his stern sense of right and wrong, and even sterner notions of class distinction and order, often conflict with Robin's more laissez-faire and damntheconsequences approach to life in Sherwood. Once, when Robin clearly intends to put the hot iron to Gisborne in order to get vital information, Much is horrified and objects. "This does not concern you," Robin tells him grimly, but Much disagrees, "You are my master. Everything concerns me. I have followed you into battle, I have followed you into the forest, but" (he declares dramatically and relevantly) "I will not follow you into torture!"

Much tolerates (under protest) much that is of dubious morality (or least upsets his notions of the proper order of things), but he does have his limits.

Series Two just finished airing on the BBC in the UK, so I'm eagerly awaiting the moment when it will be available for American viewers. If you haven't seen it, rent the DVDs. Much will make it worth your while.