I seem to have terrible luck when it comes to poison ivy. You would think that by now I’d be able to spot it and stick clear, but it always gets on me when I’m in the midst of working and I never notice. This is now my third time getting it on me since moving to the ranch, and if nothing else, I’ve at least learned how to get ahead of it early. It turns out I’m highly allergic to the innocuous little plant. I mean sure, everyone breaks out when its foul, serrated leaves rub against the skin, but I REALLY break out. The itching goes through my flesh and down into the bone until it hurts. So much so that thinking becomes a challenge. I can process, albeit slowly, but writing or doing math are more or less impossible.

Scratching temporarily relieves it, but it has to be heavy scratching, and the relief vanishes as soon as I quit. My first time coping with it I accidentally lost some skin I scratched so hard. Needless to say it did not improve my situation and the blisters spread faster and farther. The second time was a little better, though still miserable. I started doing all the tricks I’d learned to help right away. It mitigated things for about a week, by which point the blisters still managed to spread to both legs, both arms, and were creeping up my neck and starting to put in an appearance on my face like especially angry zits. At my mother and fiancé’s insistence, I went to see a doctor and was given prescription steroids and a shot in my buttocks.

It’s interesting to note that the shot itself did not hurt nearly so much as the sensation of the steroid moving inside of me after, forcing itself through my veins. It was like I had been punched and then somebody was pinching the resulting bruise in an effort to spread it out. The steroids were so strong they made my head cloudy and made concentration difficult. Writing and driving should have been among the first things I quit doing, unfortunately I commute to school and had my final short story due for my Creative Writing workshop. Miraculously, I avoided having a wreck. My short story on the other hand was humiliatingly horrible. The term train wreck comes to mind.

I attempted to touch upon a delicate and controversial subject and the result was about as subtle as a sledgehammer and came across as both cruel and creepy. Mercifully, my revision of the work has turned it into a story I can honestly say I’m proud of, if for no other reason than it started out as such an atrocious piece of garbage. Still, the entire process was humiliating.

That time I managed to cover myself in poison ivy while weed eating without proper protection. This, my third time, I can only speculate as to how it got on me. By now I am properly paranoid and so when I set out to paint the fences a few days ago I went out covered from head to toe despite the heat. I could not have been anywhere near poison ivy for more than a few moments, more than that, it somehow got on my arm through my long sleeved shirt. My best guess is that I rubbed up against it and was sweating so much that the oils penetrated through the cloth.

My brother-in-law and I were supposed to head out the next morning to go fishing. This is something of a big deal. He’s a straight up Cajun playing football for the NFL and I am a nerd-tastic city slicker adapting to country life while working on my MFA in creative writing. Night and day have more in common than we do without our family and especially my sister. Both of us are making an effort to bridge the gap, and being the understanding guy that he is, he was all for me going to see the doctor first thing in the morning before we headed out.

The poor man was stuck waiting until one o’clock in the afternoon. The first clinic I went to opened at eight o’clock. I filled out all the paper work and waited for over an hour before they called me to the front desk and told me there had been an emergency and they would not be able to see me that day, could I come back on Monday (it was Saturday). I sincerely hope that whoever had the emergency came out of it okay, but waiting that long really wasn’t an option considering how fast this crap spreads on me. The other clinic was down south of Conroe, about forty five minutes to get to. My morning was long and tedious.

But at least I was early enough that I didn’t need a shot this time! So I’m popping steroid pills, spraying Ivarest on my arm (that stuff is the only topical I’ve had any success with—everything else either fails to stop the itching or spreads the oils around), and shopping for a special type of soap that the doctor said will break down the poison ivy oils should I ever get it on me again. My arm’s itched some, but between all of the precautions I’ve taken, the blisters have gone down and haven’t spread. I think I’ve got it contained! I’m even able to write and edit my novels and will be giving a presentation tonight on crafting characters.

As an aside, my brother-in-law and I did manage to go fishing. Over the course of five hours, we caught, or I should say he caught, a single catfish. I blame the kayakers who kept paddling past us. One guy deliberately ran his kayak into one of the prime fishing spots and splashed around with his paddle. And as if to mock us, the fish that stuck around after that mastered the subtle art of stealing the bait from our hooks. The afternoon was just as long and frustrating as the morning in its own way, but holy cow if this place wasn’t gorgeous. There are a heck of a lot worse ways to spend an afternoon than sipping Dr. Pepper with your brother-in-law on the side of a lake while trying to catch some fish.

I’ll be countrified yet.

Starting Your Novel: Writer’s Block

The enemy of every writer out there, more than critics, editors, or well-meaning family members who just don’t get what you’re doing, is yourself. Writers block is what happens when you get in your own way. If you’ve been following my “Starting Your Novel” series, then you’ll recall my previous post about writing every day and sometimes needing to force it. Writers block is something you have to push through.

This is not a popular idea among, mostly because IT’S HARD. Or it can be. Sometimes it is as simple as overcoming a single hurtle and making yourself start your daily writing. Other times it can be a long and drawn out resistance that you simply have to work through all day. Regardless of how difficult it is, you cannot let it when. Remember, writers are like sharks. We must write to breathe and not sink.

A simple trick to overcoming this internal block is this...

1. Get into position to write. Wherever your workstation is, be at it. 
2. Take a deep, relaxing breath.
3. Tell the internal editor inside of you that it is okay, that nobody will read this until you are ready and that you will be coming back to revise it after your first draft is complete. It is okay to write poorly.  
4. Just write. Start. Go. Do not spend too much time on step 3, but come back to repeat it as often as you need. Just so long as you write, you are not letting blockage win.

Bonus Tip:

                Bullet point on a piece of paper what you want to write about. Not in any huge amount of detail, but a sort of line of progression. A trail of breadcrumbs if you will. This can be a tremendous help promoting creativity and helping keep you on track. 

Starting Your Novel: The Muse

Some writers refer to their inspiration and creativity as a third party, a being separate from themselves. The ancient Greeks called this the muse or the genius, holding to the idea that great works were not the creations of the artists, but rather that the artists were possessed by a spirit of creation. This is a romantic notion, but it is not altogether accurate. Your muse is not a separate entity or voice in the back of your head, rather, it is a creative muscle.

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, make the mistake of thinking that your muse is not a part of you or has a mind of its own. It is capricious on occasion and sometimes stubborn, but that is not because it is willful. You simply haven’t trained it. This is the reason why so many writers have odd quirks and rituals for their writing process which seem almost arcane to those who do not write themselves. Find out what motivates your creativity. Do you write better alone? Surrounded by people but with headphones on? With pen and paper or at a computer? At a certain time of day?

Once you've determined the factors that are most conducive to your writing, reward and punish your muse - and by that I mean yourself - accordingly. Take pleasure in each small victory with an appropriately small reward. For example, give yourself an extra treat at dinner or let yourself go see that movie in theaters everyone is buzzing about. Bigger rewards for bigger successes and the same for failure and punishments. Now when I say punishment I do not mean you should hurt yourself. But if you don’t meet your goals, don’t let yourself have dessert or make yourself take an extra lap when you go out to jog. Something that your unconscious will associate with a negative consequence.

Write often and find the patterns that encourage your creativity.

Starting Your Novel: Don't Wait

The first rule for those of you wanting to start writing your novel is this…DO NOT WAIT FOR INSPIRATION. Being inspired is a fine thing—and it feels FANTASTIC when you are!—but it despite all the mysticism surrounding inspiration, it is actually a very small part of the writing process. In fact inspiration in and of itself is utterly meaningless. What is far more important is your dedication to your writing, whether or not you are feeling inspired.

Every professional athlete has mornings where they’d rather not get up and go work out, the same is true of writers and writing. I once wrote for a guest post that writers are like sharks. Sharks cannot breathe under their own power, they have to keep swimming so that fresh water can pass through their gills and oxygenate their blood. If they stop swimming then they begin to sink and suffocate. Writers suffer this same problem. A writer who is not writing is sinking and will find it harder to consistently write again when they pick up their pen or sit down at the keyboard to work on an extended project.

I’ve heard a number of people say “If you don’t feel it then don’t force it” in countless variations. This is dangerous advice for the writer who isn’t limiting themselves to shorter works and, more importantly, intends to COMPLETE a larger body of work. A novel is not a sprint, it’s a marathon, and novelists must strap themselves in for the long haul and write daily, whether or not they feel like it. If you don’t, then FORCE IT. It will hurt, but when you look back, more likely than not you won’t be able to tell the difference between it and your “inspired” writing. If you can then this is what revision is for anyways. Muscle through it and meet your goal.  

In short, if you want to start writing a novel, then start writing a novel!

Side Project: Feedback Appreciated

Last night I wrote the final sentence of my manuscript for the third book in my Hawkridge Chronicles, Outlaws of the Golden Plains. Hopefully I'll have it up for preorder in the next few days while I enter revisions and editing. To celebrate--apart from eating an inordinate amount of ice cream--I allowed myself to work on a side project. I've been toying with the idea of starting some shorter serial work in the realm of 10-15 thousand word installments. Several ideas have been flitting through my mind and I poured out the first two thousand words of inspiration this morning on my laptop, essentially the opening chapter. This is raw, unedited first draft in need of  a good polish, but I would love some feedback. I'm looking to have three specific questions answered, though feel free to provide me with other comments or constructive criticism.

1) Does the opening grab you?

2) Does the work keep your interest?

3) Does the conclusion leave you wanting more?

Thank you very much! Please enjoy!

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Welcome to Ravenridge...

                Hex grabbed Bright’s hand and ran from the fire, heat licking at her back as screams of the dying joined the smoke rising into the air. She tripped over the poorly cobbled street but kept running. If she stopped, both of them would be killed. Or worse. Her acid scarred fingers squeezed tight on Bright’s and on the velvet pouch clutched to her chest.

                The tension in the Rathbone House had been a palpable force for months, pulling tighter and tighter like a lone rope struggling to hold back a wagon lost to the edge of the Ravenridge Chasm. It had snapped, and the backlash had destroyed what little security they’d had as thieves, cutthroats, and sellswords fell upon each other. Hex didn’t know how the fire started, didn’t care either—it was their way out. Neither she nor Bright had been important enough to for either of the sides to recruit and thus were fair game to any and all who drew near with poison or blade. Hex had no intention of letting either of them be raped or murdered that evening.

                Wings beat overhead, enormous wings that sent a downdraft of wind and smoke crashing into the poorly cobbled street, and a shadow fell over them, only to disappear back in the direction of the fire. Furor Blackquake had arrived. They had to be gone.  If the Lords of Ravenridge had sent their pet monster to deal with the fire, the city guard and even the Mercury Blades would soon swarm the streets.

                She pulled Bright down a side alley and dropped down into the sewers, wincing at the stench. Viscous liquid seeped through the holes in her boots to squish between her toes. Bright gave a muffled protest was caught off as Hex tucked the bag into her belt and began running again. The sewers were always dangerous, but had become even more so lately since the kappa infestation. Still, it was better than up above.

                “Hex,” Bright gasped. “Hex, we can’t go down this way.”

                “Shut up, we can,” she snapped, and pivoted down a side passage, splashing fouled water over her pants as she went with the downward stream.  It was dark in the tunnels but Hex had never needed much light to see by.  She navigated the tunnels with an instinctive clarity few other thieves possessed, something she had carefully kept secret from all but Bright.

                “We’re heading toward the ridge,” Bright said recognizing the direction they were headed from the flow of sewage. “We can’t go there! The guards—”

                “Will be distracted by the fire! Be quiet and run!”

The wealthiest of Ravenridge’s elite lived on the upper edge of the ridge, where they could see out over the great canyon and watch the river below run into the ocean. It was no place for the dregs of the city’s criminals. They would stick out there like an inkblot on white parchment with their tattered garments and stinking of the city’s refuse. But they didn’t need to be there long, just enough to make it to one of the canyon stairs. The Ravenridge canyon was treacherous and the Daggertooth River was more dangerous still, but there they could make their way to the ports and find passage on a boat out of town, where neither of them would be recognized. They could start over somewhere. Put all of this behind them.

She’d been an apprentice to her father, a tanner, before the loansharks had burned down his business. A smaller town would be glad to have her skills. And Bright knew how to improvise poultices and remedies from just about anything. They’d do well out from under the Rathbone’s heel. Staying simply wasn’t an option. No matter who came out on top of the crime family’s war, they would look kindly upon any who had not fought on their side. Those at the lowest levels would suffer the most, and Hex had no misunderstanding about her place in the hierarchy.

             “Hex, there’s something behind us,” Bright panted.

             “Kappa?” The sewage surged around her ankles, as if being pushed ahead by something.

             “I think—I think it’s Maw.”

“Shit.” She ran faster.

The giant serpent was the reason nobody had been sent into the sewers to deal with the kappas. Nobody cared about a few less street urchins and homeless, especially when the problem would eventually be devoured by Maw. Rumors about the snake’s origins were numerous, but all agreed that he was perpetually hungry.

She yanked Bright off their original path. There was no way they could outrun the serpent if they moved in a straight line. Plans of making it down to the docks were abandoned in favor of simply finding the nearest exit from the sewers.

Red sunlight and shouting filtered from a hole ahead. Hex made to climb for it but the shadow of a man in armor fell over it.

“Guards,” she hissed. The city watch had moved fast. Faster than she would have thought they’d been capable of. The sewers were a favored passageway for desperate thieves, but to be stationed there so soon after the fire didn’t make sense. Not unless they’d known it was going to happen.

“Shit,” she cursed again raced past the opening.

                “Hex, what are you doing?” Bright demanded. “Better a guard than Maw.”

                “Nobody’s catching us today.” But Bright began dragging on her, slowing down. Hex had been a runner for the Rathbones after they’d taken her and often took for granted the speed and endurance she’d built up over time.

“Just a bit further,” she urged. “We just have to get ahead of the next guard.”

                The flow of sewage rose higher as Maw drew closer. A hiss echoed up the tunnels.

                Bright whimpered.

                “Don’t look back,” Hex demanded. “Whatever you do, don’t look back!”

                “Who’s down there?” A voice from ahead. A guard positioned at another opening to the sewer.

                “Dammit,” she swore, and with a final burst of speed raced to the entrance. “Help!”

                The guard, a middle aged man with a salt and pepper mustache regarded them with only mild surprise and reached down to help them up. Hex shoved Bright ahead of her and leapt to pull herself up after. The guard leaned down to help her next.

The sewage beneath her exploded. Something wet and wide as a tree trunk grazed against her back, lifting up her shirt so that sewage dragged along her skin and she could feel the press of scales. The guard’s scream was cut off as Hex caught a glimpse of jaws large enough to swallow a dog whole latch onto his torso, crushing his chest through his broiled leather armor. And then he was pulled back down into the tunnels.

                Bright screamed. Hex screamed. Together they ran, no longer with a destination in mind or with concern to their surroundings. All they wanted was to be away.

                They passed between the walled in manors of the wealthy, spurred forward by commotion behind them. The marching of feet sounded ahead; behind, the gasps and cries of a gathering crowd and the calls of new watchmen for order.

                Hex pressed herself against one of the walls surrounding a manor. “Come here, I’ll boost you over.”

                “Hex—” 

                “Will you quit protesting and get over here.”

                Hex bent over and helped Bright onto her shoulders. With a grunt, she rose up and waited for the weight to vanish. An instant later Bright was laying atop the wall and offering Hex a hand up. With far more deftness than her companion, Hex scurried over the wall and the pair dropped down into a garden on the other side.

                 At least, Hex thought it was a garden. That’s what it was called when people put a bunch of plants together, but they usually had some sort of purpose. What these bushes with their awkward limbs and billowing leaves were for was anyone’s guess. A musky smell emanated from them that when combined with the stench of the sewer wafting from their skin and clothes was enough to churn Hex’ stomach.

 Whatever their purpose, they were good for hiding, and she pulled Bright down with her beneath the foliage and out of sight. Neither could see past the curtain of green, but sounds trickled over the wall like coins tossed into a well—clear but still indistinct. The sun set and the two of them waited, leaning against one another and breathing in tandem. Neither spoke except with their eyes, which said “keep quiet” and “I’m afraid.”

                When darkness had settled and the faint light of lamps trickled through the leaves and the sound of people beyond the wall had long since vanished, only then did Hex allow herself to stand and motioned for Bright to follow her. She pushed her way out of the garden and froze.

                Stretching before the garden was a yard backing up to a manor house of carved marble. A stone bench was positioned in the middle of the yard, positioned so as to look upon the plants against the wall. To either side of the bench lay a brindle mastiff the size of a colt with their heads up and forepaws crossed before them, as if waiting for Hex and Bright to emerge. If the noblewoman sitting on the bench with a glass of wine was any indication, they were.

                The woman was older and sat with rigid bearing. She was beautiful, as, Hex had noted, most noblewomen were, despite her advancing years. Her simple but elegantly coifed blonde hair was shot through with veins of silver starting at the temples and her dark eyes were ringed with crinkled crow’s feet. Her eyes and mouth put Hex in mind of the ornate dinner knives rich merchants liked to eat their dinner with to display their wealth. While her clothes were ornate the woman was not clothed in gowns or skirts, but practical men’s clothes in the form of a navy coat with gold buttons and trousers tucked into shiny black boots.

            Beside her the dogs shifted, as if readying to charge. The woman set her wine glass down on the bench and held up a hand, stilling the dogs. Slowly, she rose to her feet, picking up a straight cane as she did so. Her shapely form somehow made the men’s clothing feminine and Hex couldn’t help but wonder at what a beauty this woman must have been in her prime. She walked forward with a slight limp and aided by her cane. Hex only recognized it for the concealed sword that it was because it was the preferred weapon of the Rathbone heads. She towered over Hex and Bright like an icy spire, the very air around her seeming more crisp and chill by her presence as her dark eyes bore down on them, though she could not have been more than a few inches taller.

At some unspoken signal the mastiffs got to their feet and moved like tigers to flank her. They kept a respectable distance between their mistress and the vagabonds in her garden but made their presence felt, if only barely. The woman was overwhelming and her nearness made it difficult for Hex to focus on anything else.

Hex wanted to shrink beneath this woman’s gaze where others made her want to swell up and rise to challenge them. Her appearance was rarely a source of pride, but less often was it a source of shame. Covered in ash, blood, and the shit of untold number of citizens was enough to make her feel like a worm beneath this strange noblewoman. She hid her acid scarred hands behind her back, as much to conceal their ugliness from the woman’s eyes as to grab the small knife sheathed at the back of her belt. It wasn’t there. It must have come free when Maw grabbed the guardsmen.

                The woman’s expression never changed as she spoke. “It is about time you two decided to come out.”

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Thank you for reading.

Please leave your comments below. 

Weaponry Wednesday: The Kukri

Kukri’s are among the most badass blades of the knife world, combining the finesse of a knife with the power of an axe. The unique weight distribution and curving edge serve maximize the kukri’s damage output, offering more edge to cut and more weight behind the point of impact, simultaneously chopping and slicing. The result is that the kukri slides itself readily inside whatever, or whomever, it slashes and then slices the point of impact further open on its exit. Essentially this knife is a handheld guillotine.

The kukri has made several appearances in several science fiction and fantasy media, but it’s rarely given the same reverence or attention as the sword, possibly because of its association with assassins and service as a tool as much as a weapon. Noticeable users include Alice from the Resident Evil franchise and Game of Throne’s Bronn the sell sword; in fact this seems to be his go-to weapon as every time there’s trouble, his hand goes first to his knife.

Often compared to a machete, the unique shape of the kukri can make it difficult for inexperienced wielders to utilize properly. It was often used as an offhand weapon, the shape excellent for catching enemy blades while heavy enough to counter attack and deal damage with less expertise required than a typical dueling dagger. The weight also made it more durable and resistant to damage.  

Despite its incredible combat effectiveness, the kukri’s origins are actually rather humble and most commonly found as a farming tool, muck akin to a multipurpose sickle that could be used for harvest, slaughter, construction and other assorted utility purposes. In short, this is an ideal adventurer’s tool. Probably not a great primary weapon for a protagonist (unless they need it concealed and are the sort to prefer knifing), but I guarantee any farm boy with aspirations of heroism and a long journey ahead of him would fare much better with one of these.

Weaponry Wednesday: The Staff

Often over looked as a melee weapon and instead perceived as a walking stick, the staff is the iconic tool of the wizard. And let’s face it, rare is the wizard who is complete without his staff. Okay, Rowling did an excellent job of making the wand cool in Harry Potter, but I think we can all admit that a bunch of teenagers with big sticks that they can whack each other with. Actually that sounds like regular high school so never mind. My point is the staff is not exclusive to spell-casters and monks of the Far East and is often short changed as a pretty bad ass weapon.

The greatest benefit? It’s about as idiot proof as you can get. At its most basic, a staff is a long club. Also a cool walking stick, but essentially a club. No edge alignment to keep track of, no expensive material to care for, easy to replace and hard to hurt yourself with. Perfect for you newly minted heroic but accident prone farm boy off to slay the Dark Overlord of Whatever Land.

The defensive abilities of the staff cannot be overstated. To put this weapon in perspective, shepherds used to spend weeks at a time in the wilderness protecting flocks of sheep with nothing more than one of these to keep wolves at bay. The shepherd’s crook is essentially a staff with a hook shaped design at the end for grabbing stray sheep, not especially intimidating but incredibly effective in the right hands. The simplistic design of the staff (shepherd’s crook or otherwise) makes it easy to learn to use, meaning mastery is achieved at a faster level. Combine that with the weapon’s impressive reach and a practiced wielder can create a veritable “no fly zone” around them in terms of weapons. Arrows may still be a problem, but if you’re taking a staff to a bow fight then you’ve got bigger problems to worry about.

In terms of versatility, you will be hard pressed to find a more variable weapon. The staff lends itself to simple sword-like swings from one end, spear-like thrusts, and spiraling twirls from a central grip, each of which are simple to switch between. This means that the staff is adaptable, capably of being used indoors or out, against a singular opponent or multiple, and the wielder can readily adapt their strategy depending upon their opponent’s armament and attack patterns.

The staff’s greatest flaw is its lack of lethality. While its versatility and reach provide for a staggering variety of attacks and combinations, rarely does a staff kill. That’s not to say that a staff can’t kill; only that it’s not a likely candidate for this year’s Miss Lethality Pageant. This was one of the reasons for the staff’s popularity among Far East monks and why there were rarely any legal issues with traveling with one. Staves could bruise or even break bones, but most wielders were forced to wear their opponent’s down or disarm them.

In short, the staff is an excellent weapon for anyone who is looking to either not kill their opponent or to simply escape. It’s versatile, simple, and provides a defense that is difficult to overcome, but lacks ready lethality. What are some of your favorite staves from mythology and fantasy literature? Gandalf’s is a given, but I got to hand it to the Monkey King, Sun Wukong for his Riyu Jingu Bang a staff that could adjust its length and weighs an easily manageable 17,550lbs. Comment below!