Ethné’s first scene: latest draft
Today I would like your feedback. I am posting the revised intro scene for one of my main characters, Ethné; a troubled girl trying and failing to learn magic. Do you like it, does it work? First a quick explanation of why I revised it.
Old advice which writers need to bear in mind is show, don’t tell. Communicating information to a reader by a long narrative or a character’s train of internal thoughts is infinitely less interesting than bringing it to life, showing what those things mean, having the character’s talk about them, act them out. Last week I mentioned how impressive Patrick Rothfuss was in showing the details that bring a story to life. Well his work embodies the ‘show don’t tell’ principle as well, and it made me think again about Ethné’s first scene in chapter 1. We need to understand who she is, her life, concerns and hopes… and make them real before we move on with the story. A good story is both light and shade, well this scene is the light before the swift onset of darkness.
Part of the previous version had her sitting on a rock dwelling on her failures and thinking about her life and the village she lives in. But on reflection the later part of the scene is too static, everything happens within her thoughts, we don’t see anyone else, or understand her relationships with others. So I wanted to show these things, not tell a reader about them. I introduced Tilain, son of the village leader, and gave names to her friends for the first time. I did not include these things previously – not because of neglect, but because the village scenes were a very small part of the book and excess detail could slow the story. Yet reflecting on my words last week, I realised that some of these details were key.
So here we go, hope you like it (let me know what you think)…
“Now, concentrate,” Jerechai instructed his apprentice. “Feel the heartbeat of the hawk, fast and strong. Become one with it, feel your senses entering its mind. Then close your eyes, and you will see out through its eyes as it looks down upon us. There, can you see?” He studied his apprentice closely, watching her silently incant the spell.
She was a young woman of some twenty-one years, one of the prettiest in the village, though because of her vocation she was also regarded as strange. Her long dark hair was tied back in a simple braid, and her blue eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun as she looked into the sky at the hawk.
Ethné closed her eyes, trying to visualise what the hawk could see as it flew high above, circling the forest trees. She could feel its mind as it hunted for food. Yet she could not look through its eyes. Her brow furrowed as she tried harder, but it was no use. She released her hold on the magic and opened her eyes.
“I can’t do it uncle. Something is missing, I am sorry.”
She frowned, watching the bird in frustration as it flew away. She turned to her uncle, a clean-shaven man in his fifties, dressed simply in a black robe and cloak. He smiled, and she felt the weight of failure bear down upon her again.
Her training had never seemed so hard, but despite every effort she could not master even the most basic of enchantments. Or ensure that she could rely on the effects they produced. She had trained with Jerechai all her life, who was an able mind magician, and she knew the theory of magic in depth.
It is just in practice that things go wrong.
Even when she cast a spell correctly, it seemed a random occurrence. She had innate talent for magic since she could remember. But she recalled times when as a child she used her powers subconsciously to disastrous effect at moments of emotional stress.
When she began training under Jerechai she learnt to control those impulses. Jerechai told her that it was extremely rare for someone so young to display power without teaching. It was also dangerous, because she could harm others as well as herself. Once her training began she developed this control, but found herself unable to focus her powers to any effect.
She sighed and sat down. She gathered her grey robe about her and frowned at her focus, the device she used to draw her power together for magic. She ran her hands over it, two feet of intricately carved kaluri wood, painstakingly crafted and dedicated by her over several months. She reflected on the procedure for focusing power again, as she had a thousand times before, seeking some clue. Something she could do better. Nothing.
Jerechai sat down next to her, putting a comforting arm around her. “Now,” he said, “Have I ever told you how long it took me to master the most basic principles of mind magic, the theory?” He watched her, a friendly but chiding look in his eyes.
“Yes, uncle.” She began to repeat the words by heart, smiling despite herself. “You were twenty three before you could master your first spell, and your own teacher was a man of little patience. You told me many times. But something is not right. My mind rejects it at the last moment. What if mind magic is not the form I was destined to learn? What if it is another form? Maybe that is why I fail.”
“Nonsense!” Jerechai spluttered, his bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Stop talking rubbish girl. You know as well as I that the Five Forms are not determined by birth. Yes, I admit that the dedication required to learn any one form makes it difficult to study another. But there is nothing preventing you from choosing mind magic. The only thing stopping you is what is going on in here.”
He tapped the side of his head. “Have patience, one day it will all make sense. Jendis also found it difficult, but look at him now.”
Ethné smiled at the thought of Jerechai’s former pupil, who sometimes came to visit from the League Arcana. “He is late this time, when do you think he will arrive?”
Jerechai’s face dropped, but realising Ethné was watching he shrugged off his concern and raised a smile. “He was due a week ago, but I am sure he will be here soon. Think of these days as more time to practice. You should be on your best behaviour to deserve that copy of the Codex Arcana he promised to bring. But no doubt when he gets here the pair of you will be up to all sorts of mischief.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied coyly. “Are we really going to travel with him this time? You promised before, but we didn’t go.”
“This time we are going,” said Jerechai, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Just think, while we are on the road you can speak Kiran and Old Arkavian with him, makes a change from me being the only one you can practice with.” He paused for a moment, “I feel bad that you have never seen the world outside the forest, but Torlenmere is a good place to grow up. There are many people up to no good out there.”
Ethné shrugged. “I know uncle, I just want to see the things that you and Jendis have seen. Thank you.”
He smiled sadly, then rubbed his face and looked around the clearing. “Well, we better head back to the village. That is enough practice for one day.”
The pair stood up, Jerechai extending a hand to help Ethné to her feet. They made their way out of the clearing, heading back under the thick canopy of leaves that formed the roof of the forest.
“I will go for a walk on my own,” Ethné said after a few moments. “I will be back later.”
“Very well,” he replied. “But no brooding on your training?”
“I promise.” Ethné turned off the path, waving at Jerechai as he made his way back to the village.
Before long, Ethné reached a secluded glade beside a stream, where she sat down upon her favourite rock. She wrapped herself in her warm cloak and watched the bubbling waters of the stream as they cascaded down into a rock pool. This was a place she knew well, her refuge when she wanted to be alone.
Many rare plants and herbs grew here. She knew them all, knew their properties and how they could be used to counteract poison and illness. Jerechai had taught her many things during her life, most of her earliest memories were of him. He had always been there for her, teacher, friend, and guardian since her parents both died when she was only a child. She had no memory of her parents, or the place where she was born. Her first memories were of her uncle and their journey here to the forest when she was still young. Jerechai had said she was six at the time.
Ever since, there had been only this. Her studies, a few friends in the village. When Jendis returned he was like a spring breeze waking the village from sleep, reminding them that there was an outside world, one she had never seen. He was like an elder brother, a kind and good hearted man, fun to be with. He always brought news and presents like paper, ink and books she could read. But she had been restless for a long time, bored of endless study, and the failure that ate at her confidence.
She sighed and stood up. Walking to the edge of the pool she picked up small stones and tried to skim them across the water. She turned at the sound of footsteps and saw a young man walking down the path into the glade, waving to her.
“Tilain!” she said, smiling as he approached.
His long blonde hair was braided and he wore a short beard which made him seem a little older than he was. It suits him well though, she reflected as her eyes skimmed over his broad shoulders and worn leather armour.
He tilted his head and frowned as though assessing a difficult problem, then he grinned. “When I saw you this morning, your face would have soured milk,” he said.
She smiled half-heartedly and turned away. “I just don’t know what to do any more,” she said. “Nothing works for me.”
“If I lived three lifetimes I would not understand what Jerechai is teaching you,” he said. “But I suppose some things take time to learn. Is that why you are going away and leaving your friends?”
“Don’t say it like that,” she said, looking up at him. “I don’t think so, I don’t know where we are going, but… I don’t expect it will be for long. I have pestered him about seeing the League and other places for ages, I suppose he grew bored of listening to me. To be honest, I am a little afraid to go now.”
Tilain’s eyes lingered on Ethné. “I understand there isn’t much here for educated folk. Maybe one day I will lead the village after my father, you could be a doctor like your uncle,” he said hopefully. Then he shrugged. “Mind you, Jendis left here when he had a chance. I understand you may want different things in life. I… we would miss you, like. Not just me, Firgon, Ahlvir, Edela… all of us.” He shuffled from foot to foot then decided to pick up some stones to skim.
She held her breath for a moment, realising this was the closest Tilain had ever come to admitting he had feelings for her. Some of the village folk were suspicious of magic and kept their distance, but he saw past that. Gossiping Edela once whispered that she thought Tilain had a crush on Ethné. But it isn’t like that, we are friends. Aren’t we?
“You know, my uncle says strange things sometimes,” she said to change the subject. “He says what he does is important.”
“Helping people in the village? It is,” said Tilain.
“No, I mean when he talks to Jendis. They talk all night and I don’t understand a word of it. They look at scrolls and drink wine but he never actually does anything. Maybe when I go with them I will find out.”
“I suppose you will go any day now,” said Tilain hesitantly. “Even if you leave here for good one day, we will always be friends, won’t we?”
She smiled, all awkwardness forgotten. “We will. But I am coming back, you know.”
They laughed and looked at the pool for long moments, enjoying a comfortable silence. Then sounds came from beyond the glade. “Horses,” said Tilain, as though waking from a dream. “Coming fast.”
He led the way to the tree line and the pair picked their way between the gnarled roots of ancient kaluri. They crouched at the top of a slope which tumbled down toward the main track some fifty yards away.
Something moved below. Between branches and leaves which obscured her view they saw a band of warriors riding briskly along the trail, heading toward the village. None of the men were familiar to Ethné, and she cursed under her breath. Sometimes outlaws attacked the village, killing those they found outside the walls, stealing money, livestock or food. But these men looked different. They looked more like soldiers, with shields and armour.
At a silent signal from Tilain, they turned and ran for home.
Spoof fantasy: The Legend of Neil
Seeing as it’s Friday you have to have a bit of fun, right? This will have you laughing yourself out of the chair. The Legend of Neil is a spoof video series (actually 3 series by now) based on the ‘Legend of Zelda’ video game.
Neil is a real guy who becomes trapped in the game and sets off to save the world with a crappy wooden sword and a bald Father-Christmas-lookalike-mentor called ‘Old Man’ who trains Neil in hero skills to the music of Rocky.
Here’s a link to the first episode: http://www.atom.com/funny_videos/legend_of_neil_1/
loads more on the site http://www.effinfunny.com/legend-of-neil
Seeing, storytelling, and a really cool book
It occurred to me recently that one of the ingredients in a writer’s style is the way they see the story in their mind’s eye. Whatever point of view (first person, third person etc) they adopt focuses a reader’s attention on certain elements of the story, while turning it gaze away from other areas. In addition to writing I am a photographer, and it seems to me that there are parallels between these two arts. Photography is the art of writing with light, where a writer illuminates their world with words. Not all of what is seen through the camera lens is in focus, it is our job to draw attention on what is important. We may step back and use a wide-angle to show the bigger picture, or use a telephoto to portray a more intimate image of a person, object or place. We cannot do all of these at once. This combination of exploring and selective focus makes the story, and if you pay close attention you will find that our interaction with the world is much the same, what we see, how we see it, what we see only at a distance, choose not to see or miss on the periphery of our imperfect vision.
Applying this idea to writing style it becomes clear that writers see their worlds very differently to each other, and to you or I. At one end of the scale we have writers like Michael Moorcock. The Elric novels are so short! Our attention is drawn to what is most essential in any scene, with little description given over to mundane artifacts, places or other less important things. It is for the reader to fill in the blanks, and you know what? The imagination does exactly that, creating our own picture of his fantasy worlds. On the other side of the scale are writers who description and appreciation of detail are a master-class in observation. Nuances of characters, places and turn of events so subtle that I feel I must walk around with my eyes shut to not see the world in the same way.
Where we sit on this scale as readers is very much personal preference. My inclination as both reader and writer is to skip a bit of detail to keep the plot flowing quickly, yet there are compromises that are made whichever way we turn. This week I just finished reading the Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, and he has given me cause to look again at how I write. It’s a rare book which achieves that. This isn’t a review of his book (though perhaps I will write one at some point) but I will share with you my overall impression. It’s a unique fantasy novel, the pace of which is slower than I am accustomed to, but like any journey the slower you go the more you notice along the way. His writer’s gaze hovers so close to his main character Kvothe that a reader walks virtually in-step beside him in this first-person intimate portrayal. Supporting Characters are so real you can touch them, they have a zen-like imperfect beauty which I can’t say I have ever experienced in any other novel. Put simply, it’s brilliant.
What does all of this mean? Speaking personally, I guess it encourages a stronger self-awareness of what I draw a reader’s attention to, always asking myself why am I doing that? Does this best illustrate what I have to say, and portray the story the way I want it to be told? Have I omitted something important? Or shown this character’s back story sufficiently for readers to appreciate his part in the big picture? During the rewriting process, a writer needs to look at each scene and weigh it against their vision of the whole story. It has prompted me to remove redundant scenes, reshape others, or extend some, where like Kvothe we must walk closely side by side with a character to fully appreciate the power of the story to follow. The Name of the Wind has encouraged me to rethink my habitual focus on the epic events, the big story. I could be on my way to thinking that intimate is the new epic.
The Darth Vader of publishing
The question of whether to self-publish or to go down the traditional route of agent/publisher has never been more difficult for a new author looking to make their mark. I remember in my teens reading about self publishing (often referred to as ‘vanity publishing’ at the time, and the phrase is still around). Back then it was something no serious writer should consider, unless their work would have a small audience, e.g. a local history book. But I have been following this issue in the last couple of years as Warlords neared completion, and I see a shift in attitude going on.
This is primarily driven by vast changes in technology. The world is more connected. Now the issue for a writer is not how to get their book into print/ebook format or even reach some readers; it is an issue of how to reach the size of audience to make their book profitable, and help them turn their writing into a career. The sidebar adverts on the Authonomy website tempt authors dreaming of world fame to consider the services of Create Space. Have control over your work, they say. Produce professional books, get your cover professionally designed, choose your distribution options, get your book listed on Amazon.
I see self publishing adverts and services all around me online, tempting me…
(Adopt Darth Vader voice) “Why struggle? You know it is your destiny. You were never told the truth, I am your father.”
Sorry, went a bit too far there. The point is, because the self pub route has become more accessible than ever before with better access to potential customers, it has encouraged many writers to produce and market their books themselves and pocket a greater percentage of royalties. The word is that particularly with smaller publishing houses authors have to foot the bill for marketing their books and doing signing tours anyway, so why not do it all themselves? With the growth of e-books and the battle over e-book royalties this argument will continue to be heated for some time. An article on Alan Rinzler’s blog suggests that some publishers are open to considering previously self-published authors as they might not otherwise notice them, and can see the audience they have attracted off their own back.
Yet there are still many conservative voices who remind us of the benefits of traditional publishing. Quality control, both in terms of which works see the light of day, and how well they are edited. The kudos of being associated with a well-known publisher. Shelf space and a far-reaching distribution chain which can help an author stretch well beyond their own singular efforts.
In the midst of this maelstrom (as my friend Malcolm calls it), what is an author to do? Agent Nathan Bransford tackled this topic this week and sparked a huge debate on self publishing.
Me? I am pursuing the traditional route first. I hope that my work is suitable for a mass audience, in the same way that my heroes have reached a mass audience of readers. As far as I can see, a traditional publisher is the best way to achieve that, despite the painful query-rejection, query-rejection process that goes with it. But perhaps self-publishing is the shape of things to come and will become the new platform for many more authors to reach both readers and the publishing industry.
For now I am ignoring the Sith Lords with their tempting messages. But I am discretely checking out their cool red lightsabers. If all else fails, I might get me one of those and turn to the dark side 
Creating characters: the dark art
Character creation is something of a dark art for a writer. Character and behavior are individual, elusive. We look for raw materials for this almost alchemical process, rummaging deep within our minds for half-remembered moments of our past, interactions with others. Lasting impressions of people, both close to us and perfect strangers that we have quietly observed, like some collector noting behavior to capture that magical uniqueness that makes a human.
Many say that a writer’s characters are part of them, each one a sliver of their psyche inadvertently revealed to the light. I don’t know if that’s entirely true, because I can’t sympathise with all of the characters I create… some are truly nasty people. But each of these homunculi is born of my imagination, so to some extent they are part of me. The more of me and of the real world which is injected into them, the more life they have. They must have their own internal truth.
At first characters have no life. Their eyes are dull, their shapes simple un-worked clay. Adding detail is one first key component amongst many. Facts, questions like who are you? What do you look like? Where were you born? Why are you here? At first broad questions will suffice, but ultimately those questions must delve to the bottom of this character’s heart until you know them like yourself, and they hold no secrets from you.
Another component is to understand this character’s outlook on the world. We all have a unique prism through which we see ‘reality’. What layers of perception does this character have that makes them see the world differently to you or I? What happened in their lives to shape this outlook? We all have a past, habits, flaws. Things we like and do not like about ourselves. Things we are proud of, and things we regret and would change if we could.
Once we understand these elements a character becomes more like a real person, with understandable, perhaps even predictable behavior. Put them into a given situation – what Mechanical Hamster refers to as a catalytic event – and they will take action…. Perhaps action their creator did not expect. We must ask them, ‘what would you do?’ They will begin to make choices of their own, and in time we reach that last vital component. A character must evolve.
My characters did not spring fully formed onto the page in a blaze of glory. They took their time, learned to take those first hesitant steps like a small child, before they became real enough to become truly ‘alive’. The Termaris of today is a different creature to that first Termaris ten years ago. His eyes have opened to the reality of the world, as mine have. He has matured, as I have, and his age changed some while back to thirty-seven, coincidentally my own age as I write this. I have walked the path with him for so long that he is a friend now. A grumpy and troubled friend, mind you, but a friend nonetheless.
So what have I learned? Characters aren’t ‘created’, as such. They start with those raw materials supplied by the alchemist, their creator. But without that spark of life and the opportunity to make their own decisions, they will forever remain that inert piece of clay. But ask them questions and give them time, space, challenges and opportunity, and they will take on a life of their own.
Good book recommendations?
There is never enough reading time is there? I don’t know about you, but I get a feeling of both overwhelming joy and deep despair when I enter Waterstones, seeing the vast wealth of books at my fingertips yet knowing that there is not time enough if I lived to 500 to read them all.
You may have heard this idea before but someone said to me the other day that if you calculate the average age a human lives to, multiply that by your average number of book reads a year, that’s how many books you will probably fit in before you pop your clogs. WTF? That’s reeaalllyy scary. With such a sober outlook why waste time reading books that aren’t special? Recommendations – although biased by personal preferences - can be really useful to cut the massed legions of novels out there to a more manageable number. Giving you a fighting chance to take them on one at a time, Matrix style mano-a-mano.
Are there any great books you would like to share? Doesn’t have to be fantasy, although that’s my personal favourite genre.
If you are looking for recommendations on good books, take a peek at Little Red Reviewer, a blog which I first read only the other day but added it to my feed reader as it’s pretty cool. In a unique and honest style, Little Red Reviewer draws us into her reading world of fantasy, sci-fi and all manner of other writing from the likes of Robin Hobb, George R.R. Martin, China Meiville and William Gibson. The one which hooked me was a review of The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie. This book is about two feet from me right now and already on my waiting list, and I now can’t wait to pick it up.
Legends and Lore: creating the past
There is something wonderful about fantasy novels in that they evoke a sense of ancient history, as though when turning the pages we rediscover a forgotten part of our world. In turn, these stories often refer back to even more ancient times, where the foundations of that world began and the seeds of the story were sown. Gods, myths, magic, ancient heroes whose legacy casts a shadow upon the ‘present’ day. Fantasy worlds must have that texture and richness to suspend our sense of disbelief and become real.
With Warlords of The Dreaming God the seeds of the story began with this past, rather than the present events of the book. It was also my distant past. When I was 12 I wrote a short story about holy knights caught up in a civil war, with dark powers manipulating the outcome. In time this snapshot became a building block of a much larger story, but it too was in the relatively recent past as far as Teth-Kiran’s timeline is concerned. So to achieve a true depth I had to go right back to the beginning.
The ingredients of this primordial soup were varied. As a writer you have to be lay foundations like what your world looks like, geography, magic, religion, technology, what makes the world unique. Cultural influences play an important role, you have to look at real world history, how civilisations rise and fall, how they lay foundations for the next people. What cultural baggage they carry, why they think the way they do.
This process helped me to decide, for example, that due to the short crossing between the north of Teth-Kiran and the northern continent (particularly Arkavia and Tiragar, see map), the region had in the distant past been invaded by tribes from across the sea, expanding the ancient empire of the North King. Gradually that empire fell, leaving petty fiefdoms in its wake. In Arkavia, tribes warred with each other, preyed upon by a dragon called Ferrakai, until an enterprising tribal leader called Ehrvik found a way to kill the dragon and assert himself as king of a newly united Arkavia. This heroic figure cast a long shadow over the new kingdom, and the tale of Ehrvik and the Dragon gradually became legend. But this isn’t by any means the most ancient story I have brewing, there are many more to come.
I never cease to be amazed by the skill that great fantasy writers show in weaving their founding legends, and in drawing them inexorably into the story. The Valheru and Chaos Wars in Raymond E Feist’s Riftwar Saga. The dark story of Turin Turambar in Tolkein’s The Silmarillion. And a new favourite for me, even though I still only part way through the book: the tale of Lanre and Lyra in The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. These tales spur me on as a writer, can I create mythologies as strong as these greats? A tall order indeed, but we shall see in the fulness of time… You must be the judge.
Social media for writers
Image by Intersection Consulting
Earlier this year when I finished writing Warlords of The Dreaming God I realised I needed to come out of my cave and start being more sociable again. Mixed with that, a new need and desire to tell people about my novel in the hope that they would like it – maybe even enough to buy it in the future. I read voraciously on marketing for authors, about the publishing industry, social networking and social media – which while I have had some experience of was still something of a mystery to me.
Just today I heard a fantastic podcast of Seth Godin giving his views on the future of publishing and how social media turns marketing on its head. Nathan Bransford’s recent post on whether social media helps authors also elicited some great comments, and this topic of social media is doing the rounds on a few other blogs too.
The key theme coming out of all this is that the old ways market yourself/your book/product/whatever and influence others no longer work. Word of mouth is king. The individual, what they think and what they tell each other are more important than mass media marketing from big companies. The effect can be like a flock of birds changing direction in the sky at some unseen signal. Most importantly for writers trying to establish themselves, social media can’t be used effectively by those wanting to broadcast their message and not listen or take part in the exchange of views online. One has to contribute something, be real rather than a compilation of marketing sound bytes.
Understanding this transformation was a bit hard, but really this new way is a good thing. Less direct for sure, and I don’t know about you but I have to seriously limit my social time online or I would never eat sleep or go to work again. But this new way is ultimately more fulfilling. I have met a lot of people online I would never have spoken to otherwise. I was never a salesy person, although I did some sales earlier in my career I hated it, and hate being sold to. So what better way for a writer to let others know about their work than take part in what is essentially one massive conversation?
That’s what I believe the web is now, a room full of people forming groups to talk about different topics, people drift from group to group to find out about different things. But you know those times at a party when someone comes along trying to monopolise the conversation and just talk about what they want? That’s the traditional broadcast marketing message, which in this analogy might seem a bit rude, unless it’s someone you know, respect and want to listen to.
How to be a person that people want to listen to? That’s the million dollar question. I have no idea. I write what I write, I have ideas and views which you might or might not find interesting. I see life through a unique prism of mental baggage, as we all do. If you find my work interesting (and would love that you do), that’s great. I would be grateful if you tell other people about it. But also tell me who YOU are… If you like my work, why? What bits don’t you like so much? Why do you read (or write) fantasy, what other books and genres interest you? I am listening.
The best question: What if?
When writing creatively this question has been my most powerful weapon. As a writer you have to possess this boundless curiosity for what could happen next. It probably started in my early teens reading Fighting Fantasy novels, do you remember them? Where you had to choose what to do in the story before flicking to page xx to find out what whether you made a deadly mistake or had cleverly outwitted the villain of the piece. Then you make another choice, and so on until you either complete the adventure or end up dead in some alleyway. In the book I mean, not in real life. ‘Deathtrap Dungeon’ was my favourite if I recall correctly, and guess what – I just found the Fighting Fantasy website while writing this post, they are still going after all these years. Who needs a Playstation? I ramble. Getting back to my point, this ‘what if’ approach is fundamental, a question any creative writer has to ask themselves repeatedly when putting the flesh on the bones of their novel. Ideas sometimes come to us through the Ideas Channel, but the image isn’t always clear, the idea needs some amending, or it simply doesn’t give us the full picture. I like to use a combination of left/right brain thinking to plough through this uncertainty. I ask ‘what if’ and I mind map the results. You know, those charts with loads of radial lines and multiple colours?
This may sound a bit basic but this approach can take you to some very interesting places. Mind maps can be used to provide direction to an idea, expanding certain points in a logical fashion like:
- Exploring a new concept: Let’s assume for a moment that music is actually a magical power. What does that mean, what would happen?
- Either/Or choices: What could happen if your main character does X – which really seems stupid at the time, but is in keeping with their personality; or do they instead do Y, where does this take our story? Better, worse, indifferent?
- Getting the story from A to B: How do we get the characters to move their backsides to the mountains where the Arch villain is waiting for them with the Nasty Weapon of Ultimate Doom? What are our options, and how do these work out if we follow them to their conclusion?
This approach is also a bit like the i-ching, flipping a coin, working out probability, a bit like a chess grandmaster has to analyse all the options before making a move. One could say that writers, being creative types aren’t like that, we need that creative muse to be upon us. To be fair, when ‘what if’ is overused it can reduce a novel to a pile of formulaic drivel. But it can also lend a keen edge to novel writing or give us a reality check that our character really wouldn’t do that, or the consequent plot pile up is best avoided. It can also throw in some left-field ideas we weren’t expecting. So speaking personally, I am glad ‘what if’ is in my writer’s toolbox.
Of Ehrvik and the Dragon
I would like to share with you a short tale from the Arkavian Book of Kings. It is the ancient founding story of the realm, a marker of its emergence into the light after a long and terrible darkness. The moral of this tale and the virtues it enshrines are taught to Arkavian children, both noble and commoner alike, but the painful truth of its legacy will only become clear to Ethne, Termaris and my other characters later in the chronicle.
~~~~~~~~~~
Of Ehrvik and the Dragon
There came a time when the clans of Arkavia declared a truce, amongst their years of bitter war. This came when the dragon Ferrakai had begun to unleash his devastation upon the lands once more, after several years of sleep. He ranged across the valleys, devouring whole flocks of sheep and cattle, burning villages to the ground and slaying men, women and children that strayed from safety.
Ehrvik as clan leader of the fertile heartland of the realm took the lead with the other clans, suggesting that a greater enemy should bring them to unite. War had weakened the clans and the northlanders raided the coasts with impunity. It was a time to come together. He stood before a circle of their leaders and declared that he would find a way to rid the land of the dragon, and in return they should recognise his lordship as king of a united realm. Desperate to end the dragon’s reign, they agreed, though they feared that his plan would come to the same end as all the others. Many warriors had sought out the dragon and all had died.
Ehrvik sent word far and wide, beyond the edges of the kingdom, that he would give his most precious riches to any that could rid the land of the dragon. They came, men and women, all offering to slay the dragon for his princely sum. Yet Ehrvik knew that not one of them would have a chance against the beast’s titanic power. Until Mérchelainn came.
He was a magician, a master of Lore, and had travelled from the Greylands far away. When Ehrvik saw him he was intrigued, for he had heard tales of magicians that could raise fire and winds to sweep down the strongest kaluri trees. Yet when he heard what Mérchelainn would do, he laughed, seeing in him a man as devious as himself. Merchélainn offered to create a spell of such enchantment that it would bind even the dragon to sleep. Yet such were the dragon’s defences it could not be laid upon him, the dragon must be tricked into taking the magic within him. Merchélainn said that he could lay his sorcery upon the sweet grass in a specific place, so that should the sheep or the cattle eat of it the enchantment would be inside them, not harming them, for they were not its target. Yet if the dragon consumed them whole, he would feel its power upon him.
Erhvik shook his head, knowing that there was little chance to force the beast to choose one of his herd over another. He had another plan. He knew the dragon’s greed and saw that the only way to trick him was to set him a lure, something so enticing that he could not resist. He chose his own steeds to be that lure, the finest in his stable, each of them a prince among horses, bred of the finest stock. They were the dearest thing to him in the world, yet he knew that for his plan to succeed he must sacrifice them.
Merchélainn nodded, seeing Ehrvik’s wisdom and bowed before him. He added that after the dragon had fallen to the spell, they would have their chance to slay him. The magic would not keep him sound asleep, but would weaken him greatly. Ehrvik then chose from among those others that had come before him, to find the strength of arms to undertake this task alongside Ehrvik himself. A holy knight had come from the Arzantine Empire, a disciple of Aslath by the name of Eliazar. He had been drawn by tales of the dragon’s evil, and swore to fight against it. Seeing the blessing of the gods upon this venture, Ehrvik chose him to be his right hand man in the final battle.
Merchélainn came to the stables every day, casting his subtle spells upon the horse feed, and day by day they grew more beautiful to behold, stout and tall with manes which shone in the light. At last, the day came, and word arrived that Ferrakai was abroad again, coming north from his hold in the mountains. When at last he arrived at Ehrvik’s village, the folk scattered, running in terror from the beast which tore their houses down and gobbled up the cattle in the fields. Ehrvik, his eyes wet with tears to lose his beloved horses, cast open the gate and they ran out into the plain, galloping in terror away from the dragon.
Yet Ferrekai saw them and pursued them, drawn irresistibly by their beauty, morsels to surpass anything he had seen before. He descended upon them one by one, taking them up into his maw and devouring them, till the plain was empty. He ascended again, yet felt tired, and struggling to remain in the air he turned south once more heading back to his lair.
Watching this, Merchélainn told Ehrvik that the spell was working, and that he should pursue the dragon back into the mountains. Merchélainn himself could not go there, he had no powers of battle. And so Ehrvik and Eliazar rode south with the a band of warriors, winding their way up into the mountains till they came to the dragon’s lair, which no man had ever approached and lived.
They came upon the great beast and struck him with their swords, seeking to pierce his scales which were harder than steel. Ferrakai awoke, roaring in anger and pain as their blades pricked him, yet none were strong enough to wound him. He laid about him, dashing men aside and rending their bodies with his sharp talons, though as he came against Ehrvik the warrior’s sword pierced his shoulder, drawing forth a gush of black blood which scalded Ehrvik. The dragon roared in pain and smashed him down, yet he had not see the knight who came up beside and thrust his holy sword past his armoured hide and deep into his vitals. The dragon screamed in pain, thrashing about as Eliazar was thrown to the other side of the cave. Pillars of rock were smashed and Ferrakai’s talons made great gouges in the stone as he writhed in his death throes. Then finally, he was still.
Ehrvik came down from the mountain with his men and the knight Eliazar. Ehrvik’s face and body were scarred from the battle, but when the other lords looked upon him they saw a godly fire in his eyes at which they bowed down and declared him king. They carried him forth upon their shields to the place where the dragon had taken his horses and they set him down there. Upon that spot Ehrvik built a new capital, to forever remember the dragon and the victory they had made. He called it Ormrburg, which in the old tongue means place of the dragon. And to the noble knight Eliazar he granted help in building a new fortress for his holy order, from which they could keep a watchful eye on the foul creatures of the mountains. They built it upon the site of the dragon’s lair, and named it Vasarta, which in Ancient Kiran means to make free.
