First, the apology ~ to all of you who have been kind enough to stop by my blog and post a comment, my sincere apologies for not acknowledging your kind words. Every comment is appreciated and I am grateful to you all for them.
Second, the explanation ~ in October of 2004, my husband suffered his first heart attack. In November of 2005 he suffered his second heart attack, this one much more severe and life altering for our family. He was working as a self-employed remodeling contractor and had to cut down considerably the amount of time he could work as well as the type of work he was able to do. So, for most of 2006, I worked basically what amounted to three jobs to make ends meet around here.
In December of 2006, he suffered his third heart attack, this time barely surviving, and leaving him with considerable damage to his heart muscle. It was obvious that he would no longer be able to work but as I was still working as a paralegal and making good money, we thought that if we tightened our belts we could make it without too many changes.
However, less than a month after his last heart attack, I was laid-off from my job. As I had barely seen my family for the past year, I cashed out my retirement account and stayed home with my husband and daughter for the first half of 2007. Also, during this time my husband qualified for disability which took some of the burden off financially.
From August of 2007 until May of this year, I was working a part-time job which I was led to believe would lead to full-time with good benefits and a raise. However, I was finally told that none of this would take place until October 2008 so I made the decision to leave that job and look for another full-time position. Before I was able to find another job, my husband became very ill due to the heat and for the months of June and July I was afraid to be away from home longer than it takes to run to the grocery, drug store, etc.
Because of all the factors involved, we are now in a position of having to make some pretty big life changes. We have been working with our mortgage company and are not in immediate danger of losing our home but we have accepted that even if I were to land another full-time paralegal job, with the current economic situation we are still unable to afford to stay where we are. We have never lived lavishly and have made more financial cuts where we can (having the phone disconnected, cutting back on our cable services, etc)but it's definitely time for bigger changes.
This is not as bad as it could be: for several years we have discussed moving to the southern part of the state and renovating my grandparent's house which has been sitting empty. Our current goal to be moved by the end of the year which is actually exciting to me for a number of reasons but also very overwelming in that I will have to do about 80% of the sorting, packing, moving due to hubby's health. Just trying to deal with going from a slam-full 1500 square foot house to one that is barely 800 square feet and has no closets has my mind reeling. (I have over 1,500 books alone that have to be dealt with one way or another).
All this to say: I apologize for not having posted during the World Building Month as planned, not having replied to the lovely comments which have been left and please forgive me if my mind has not been on worldbuilding or writing of late.
I do believe that "this, too, shall pass" and that by the end of the year, we will all actually be in a much better place and under much better circumstances. My grandparent's house is situated on 80 acres and I am already dreaming of a flock of geese, a few goats, and bringing the garden site back under control in time for spring planting.
I do still read quite a number of blogs on a daily basis and will try to do better at updating this one as much as possible but pardon my absences when they appear.
Blessings to all of you and yours,
Wintermaide
27 August 2008
05 August 2008
Faercourt ~ The Beginning
One night, about fifteen years ago, I awoke from one of the most vivid dreams I have ever had. I immediately got out of bed and found pen and paper. Pasted below is what came out of that writing session. Although the story has changed greatly since those early days and my world has grown from one castle stronghold to a continent, this brief sketch was the genesis of my desire to write a novel and my fascination with worldbuilding.
I don't remember my mother very well. When I try to picture her, I have only fragmented images - a cascade of silken black hair, soft black eyes that seemed unimaginably deep and long black lashes. Very white teeth behind full red lips; high cheekbones in a perfect oval face. But, when I try to focus on her face in my mind, I can't seem to fit all the pieces together in such a way as to see the whole. I am told I have only to peer into a looking glass to see my mother but I know this is not true. I know my mother was beautiful and I know that I am not.
My hair is black and long, but a mass of unruly curls that defy all attempts to tame. My eyes are black, my teeth white, my lips full and my cheekbones high but my face is more square than oval. No, mine is not a beautiful face but I believe it to be a strong one.
I remember her often breaking into song in a beautiful husky voice and spinning beautiful, fanciful tales. I remember the smell of her, like cinnamon and sandalwood and lavender. Yet, I cannot recall one single specific conversation between my mother and myself.
I suppose this should not be surprising as she died when I was but three. I am told that she had been ill quite often and, after my birth, seemed to regain her strength only to fall into her final sickness a short while later. I dare not ask my father about her not wishing to cause him the pain of remembering and I dare not ask others lest they speak any way of her other than in admiration.
Although I look most like my mother, I have always been my father's child. As fair as my mother was dark, as coarse as she was gentle, I could not have asked for better than my father. As the only daughter of the castle, my father did not quite know what to do with me after my mother's death. Perhaps had I older sisters he would have been more prepared for the challenge - and challenge I was. As it happened, he could see little wrong in allowing me to tag along behind he and his men. I learned to ride, trained in falconry and became quite capable with the small dagger I was allowed to carry.
I was the child unafraid; no risk daunted me and more than once I had to be rescued after wrongly believing I had been dared in some way by one or other of the men. Despite all, I have managed to reach my current age of 25, having met with little serious injury, miracle it surely must be.
My father loved me very much in his own way but was not an affectionate man. Most of the cuddling, hugging and comforting came to me from our head cook, Effie. Dear, plump, motherly Effie took me under her wing and became as much my mother as anyone could have. Her daughter, Susane, and I were instantly bonded in the way of small girls and this friendship lasted and grew and deepened over the years. She was the sister of my heart if not of my blood.
However, my daring-do ways were not shared by Susane who always preferred indoors to out. I have often wondered if it might have been better had Susane been born mistress of the barony and me the daughter of a cook. Although Effie schooled me in the ways that befitted my station, I rushed through these sessions, longing to run through the wards or practice with my father's men.
Susane seemed never to covet my path in life over her own. She took as much delight in the gifts of gowns and gems given me by my father as had she been the receiver and never showed the first sign of jealousy. Although we had the odd disagreement, Susane was my partner in harmless pranks on more than one occasion and my strongest defender and ally.
It was my asking her to act once more as my accomplice on that March morning that cost Susane her life. Had I not asked her to cover my disappearance that day, she would still be alive. My father died fighting, a warrior until the end. But Susane was no fighter, unable to defend or protect herself. And I shall avenge her just as I shall avenge the death of my father. Blood calls for blood.
I don't remember my mother very well. When I try to picture her, I have only fragmented images - a cascade of silken black hair, soft black eyes that seemed unimaginably deep and long black lashes. Very white teeth behind full red lips; high cheekbones in a perfect oval face. But, when I try to focus on her face in my mind, I can't seem to fit all the pieces together in such a way as to see the whole. I am told I have only to peer into a looking glass to see my mother but I know this is not true. I know my mother was beautiful and I know that I am not.
My hair is black and long, but a mass of unruly curls that defy all attempts to tame. My eyes are black, my teeth white, my lips full and my cheekbones high but my face is more square than oval. No, mine is not a beautiful face but I believe it to be a strong one.
I remember her often breaking into song in a beautiful husky voice and spinning beautiful, fanciful tales. I remember the smell of her, like cinnamon and sandalwood and lavender. Yet, I cannot recall one single specific conversation between my mother and myself.
I suppose this should not be surprising as she died when I was but three. I am told that she had been ill quite often and, after my birth, seemed to regain her strength only to fall into her final sickness a short while later. I dare not ask my father about her not wishing to cause him the pain of remembering and I dare not ask others lest they speak any way of her other than in admiration.
Although I look most like my mother, I have always been my father's child. As fair as my mother was dark, as coarse as she was gentle, I could not have asked for better than my father. As the only daughter of the castle, my father did not quite know what to do with me after my mother's death. Perhaps had I older sisters he would have been more prepared for the challenge - and challenge I was. As it happened, he could see little wrong in allowing me to tag along behind he and his men. I learned to ride, trained in falconry and became quite capable with the small dagger I was allowed to carry.
I was the child unafraid; no risk daunted me and more than once I had to be rescued after wrongly believing I had been dared in some way by one or other of the men. Despite all, I have managed to reach my current age of 25, having met with little serious injury, miracle it surely must be.
My father loved me very much in his own way but was not an affectionate man. Most of the cuddling, hugging and comforting came to me from our head cook, Effie. Dear, plump, motherly Effie took me under her wing and became as much my mother as anyone could have. Her daughter, Susane, and I were instantly bonded in the way of small girls and this friendship lasted and grew and deepened over the years. She was the sister of my heart if not of my blood.
However, my daring-do ways were not shared by Susane who always preferred indoors to out. I have often wondered if it might have been better had Susane been born mistress of the barony and me the daughter of a cook. Although Effie schooled me in the ways that befitted my station, I rushed through these sessions, longing to run through the wards or practice with my father's men.
Susane seemed never to covet my path in life over her own. She took as much delight in the gifts of gowns and gems given me by my father as had she been the receiver and never showed the first sign of jealousy. Although we had the odd disagreement, Susane was my partner in harmless pranks on more than one occasion and my strongest defender and ally.
It was my asking her to act once more as my accomplice on that March morning that cost Susane her life. Had I not asked her to cover my disappearance that day, she would still be alive. My father died fighting, a warrior until the end. But Susane was no fighter, unable to defend or protect herself. And I shall avenge her just as I shall avenge the death of my father. Blood calls for blood.
01 August 2008
Write What You Know. Really?
As an author, you often hear the advice, "write what you know." This is good advice to a point: it always add authenticity to your writing when you have experience in the same things that your characters endure, achieve, or experience.
But, what if you're writing a fantasy novel or fantasy RPG campaign? Can you still "write what you know?" In fantasy literature, we commonly read about the characters making camp, traveling great distances either on foot or beast, battling monsters, and saving fair maidens.
In the next few days I plan to explore just how much we can experience first hand in writing in this genre and how to learn as much as possible about the things we can't experience for ourselves.
Most fantasy literature / RPGs are set in a world based on the European middle ages. While it is not possible to travel back in time and experience first hand what it was like to live during those times, with a little imagination, it is still possible to gain some direct knowledge of various aspects of life during the medieval age.
It is very easy to write that your character has just wrapped himself or herself in their cloak and slept. Or, your character threw back his cape and reached for his sword. Easy to write, yes, but - easy to do? How do you know? Do you have a cloak? Ever slept in it outside? Ever tried to get to something in a hurry while wearing it? I have a cloak from my SCA days and I know first-hand it is not always as simple as it seems.
You can make a very simple cloak by taking a single bed sheet, cutting the long end to equal the distance from you neck to your ankles and pinning the top around your neck. Or if you want to get just a bit more authentic, purchase a length of wool fabric of the same length. If you are handy with needle and thread or a sewing machine, good articles and instructions for making cloaks and capes can be found here, here and here.
Once fitted out with your cloak, try spending a whole day wearing it. How easy is it to maneuver around? How long does it take to get the hang of moving it out of your way when trying to do everyday tasks? Now, walk outside with it on. How does it feel when the wind catches hold of it? It is hard to hold together when the temperature is chilly and you're trying to do something with both hands while keeping your cloak gathered about you? What about wearing it outside in the rain? Does your cloak become soaked immediately? How much heavier does it become when rain-soaked? If it is wool, what does it smell like when wet? How difficult is it to walk up and down stairs while wearing your cloak without tripping?
If you are really interested in experiencing a bit more first-hand, spend a night sleeping outside on the ground wrapped in your cloak. How hard is it to get comfortable? Is it warm enough outside to roll your cape up for a pillow or so cold that you huddle in a tight ball within it?
You can usually pick up a toy sword at the discount stores for about a dollar; try slipping it inside a belt around your waist and practice throwing back you cape so that you can reach for your sword. It does indeed take a bit of practice before this can happen with any amount of speed or agility. Or, what about a cheap dime-store bow and arrow? How easy is it to pull your bow from under your cloak and notch an arrow to it?
Although just one small example, I hope that this will help you consider ways in which you can begin to more intimately know about the world you are building and writing in and open you to more possibilities so you can better "know what you write."
But, what if you're writing a fantasy novel or fantasy RPG campaign? Can you still "write what you know?" In fantasy literature, we commonly read about the characters making camp, traveling great distances either on foot or beast, battling monsters, and saving fair maidens.
In the next few days I plan to explore just how much we can experience first hand in writing in this genre and how to learn as much as possible about the things we can't experience for ourselves.
Most fantasy literature / RPGs are set in a world based on the European middle ages. While it is not possible to travel back in time and experience first hand what it was like to live during those times, with a little imagination, it is still possible to gain some direct knowledge of various aspects of life during the medieval age.
It is very easy to write that your character has just wrapped himself or herself in their cloak and slept. Or, your character threw back his cape and reached for his sword. Easy to write, yes, but - easy to do? How do you know? Do you have a cloak? Ever slept in it outside? Ever tried to get to something in a hurry while wearing it? I have a cloak from my SCA days and I know first-hand it is not always as simple as it seems.
You can make a very simple cloak by taking a single bed sheet, cutting the long end to equal the distance from you neck to your ankles and pinning the top around your neck. Or if you want to get just a bit more authentic, purchase a length of wool fabric of the same length. If you are handy with needle and thread or a sewing machine, good articles and instructions for making cloaks and capes can be found here, here and here.
Once fitted out with your cloak, try spending a whole day wearing it. How easy is it to maneuver around? How long does it take to get the hang of moving it out of your way when trying to do everyday tasks? Now, walk outside with it on. How does it feel when the wind catches hold of it? It is hard to hold together when the temperature is chilly and you're trying to do something with both hands while keeping your cloak gathered about you? What about wearing it outside in the rain? Does your cloak become soaked immediately? How much heavier does it become when rain-soaked? If it is wool, what does it smell like when wet? How difficult is it to walk up and down stairs while wearing your cloak without tripping?
If you are really interested in experiencing a bit more first-hand, spend a night sleeping outside on the ground wrapped in your cloak. How hard is it to get comfortable? Is it warm enough outside to roll your cape up for a pillow or so cold that you huddle in a tight ball within it?
You can usually pick up a toy sword at the discount stores for about a dollar; try slipping it inside a belt around your waist and practice throwing back you cape so that you can reach for your sword. It does indeed take a bit of practice before this can happen with any amount of speed or agility. Or, what about a cheap dime-store bow and arrow? How easy is it to pull your bow from under your cloak and notch an arrow to it?
Although just one small example, I hope that this will help you consider ways in which you can begin to more intimately know about the world you are building and writing in and open you to more possibilities so you can better "know what you write."
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