The End of the Beginning

Welcome to my final post on this site. It's been a fantastic three years. Thanks to all of my readers and supporters for helping my platform grow to the point that I need a new blog.

The fun will continue on my new site, which will launch on Monday. This site won't be going anywhere. I intend to leave it running as an archive with links to the new place.

Thanks again, and see you Monday!

Update: my new blog is up and running. All are welcome.

Moving House

I've reached a decision. It's been a great three years here at Blogger, but my web journaling needs are quickly outgrowing my gracious host's ability to meet them.

As a result of these and other factors, my blog will be relocating to a self-hosted WordPress site. Along with the new address, my web journal's name will also be changing. Soul Saga forms the core of my speculative fiction work, but making it or any one fictional universe the masthead of all my professional efforts is too self-limiting.

Look for the new site to launch on Monday. New posts will continue to appear thrice weekly, along with "best-of" style reprints of my most popular articles on Tuesdays and Thursdays (until I run out). I'm also planning to release more exclusive material through the new site, such as short stories and possibly serialized novellas.

The new URL and name will be posted here soon. I hope that all of my dear readers and loyal subscribers will join me for the housewarming party.

Souldancer Revision Log

It's taken twelve years of intermittent work to write a version of Souldancer conforming to the norms of contemporary novel format. I'd like to share a few insights on the process.

I composed the first draft of the novel ten years ago after a long, collaborative world building project. I figure it took me about two and a half years to finish that draft. Being my first attempt at a novel manuscript, the first version teemed with amateur mistakes. Bloated by redundant exposition on every page, reams of purple prose, and only the faintest hint of a story structure, the original MS weighed in at 300,000 words (1135 typed pages).

I still can't believe I found stalwart souls willing to beta read that monster, but I did; and I'm forever grateful for their efforts.

I attempted sporadic revisions from 2005 until 2010, when Nick inspired me to get serious about writing. Looking at what I'd written confronted me with another rookie mistake: I'd started backwards. Or rather in the middle. My extensive world building had yielded four books' worth of notes, and Souldancer actually comes second in the planned continuity.

I resolved to start over and began work on Nethereal, the first volume in the cycle. Two years and three revisions later, I'd refined the story into a satisfactory form. Building on this foundation I revisited the Souldancer project. The futility of a line edit soon became clear, and I decided to redraft the MS.

Starting from scratch gave me the chance to correct structural flaws and clean up the prose. My chief working principles were (in no particular order):

• Narrative flow and economy.
• Logical story structure informed by theme.
• Believable, organic character development and motivation.
• Maintaining conflict, tension, and tight pacing.

Again drafting one chapter at a time, I gradually became aware that the book's page count was shrinking. Soon I noticed that this phenomenon had become truly dramatic (I was writing action on page 50 that occurred on page 100 in the original draft). Not until I compiled each chapter into the new MS did I learn just how effective my streamlining had been.

• Original Souldancer MS (second revision): 300,000 words, 1135 pages.
• Current Souldancer MS: 88,000 words, 370 pages.

What amazes me is that, besides a few tangents and extraneous subplots, I cut very few scenes from the original version. The current MS covers the same principal action in almost exactly one-third of the space. Even better, I don't think the narrative feels rushed; just faster paced.

I'll let you know what the beta readers say.

Share My Joy

I just finished the latest full Souldancer draft.

This manuscript, which I consider the beta for version 2.2, is at present the most refined form of a story I've been working hard to tell for twelve years. It is my greatest achievement to date, not because it's objectively the best writing I've produced (I leave that judgment to my readers), but because enshrining this tale in written form has always been a labor of love.

My undying thanks to all the friends who've helped me realize and share this story. I eagerly await the beta readers' verdict. If you'd like to join them, I'm considering applicants via email and the comment box.

Multiple Updates

A series of developments occurred over the weekend.

The Nethereal partial manuscript submission I sent to Tor back in December resulted in a form rejection.

The agent I'd queried most recently replied today with identical results. I'll be sending out another query to a new agent tomorrow.

It's startling to look back at that December update and see that I was only on chapter ten of the latest Souldancer revision. I'm now on chapter 46 and expect to finish the latest draft of the book this week.

End transmission.

Kairos

The following was originally written as a prologue to Souldancer. I cut it upon deciding to start the book with the main action.

Almeth Elocine staggers across the narrow span.  Though Kairos knows neither “was” nor “will be”, the newcomer’s footsteps echo with regret and herald woes to come.

The bridge traverses every epoch of history, an alabaster beam suspended over a canyon of whirring cogs. Oblivious to the abyss yawning below, Almeth walks on—harried by defeat. Kairos is time as the gods know it, and the traveler’s memory of certain victory turned to rout seems only moments old.

The ubiquitous machinery turns in a continual dance of shifting fractal patterns, and Almeth hears again the guardians’ voices. They hail him as Faerda made flesh; the last god. He suffers these titles; comes to embrace them and finally to believe.

Ahead, the towers of spinning gears part to reveal the terminus. It is the last place that Almeth wishes to be, yet he recognizes the heart of Kairos as the natural end of his pride. All other paths are shut to him. Now he sees the platform clearly. A tall stocky figure stands at the head of the bridge, waiting.

“Elocine! It’s not too late to turn back!”

If Almeth is surprised by the man’s presence, he gives no sign. Unhindered he answers, “the Guild rules the spheres now, Cleolin. Where would you have me turn back to?”

Cleolin’s brow is stern, but the hardness doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would ask you the same, Blackbow. Even a mortal such as I know that one may reach any place or time from Kairos.”

Almeth sees the syndex’s muscles tense at his approach—a message clear as bared steel. “Everything’s gone wrong.” Elocine’s voice hardly exceeds a whisper. “I’m the last. Only I can mend it.”

 The syndex of Midras frowns—the mere sight of which oft sets foes to flight. Cleolin Redbeard beholds his former captain’s ashen face; sees the cold sweat that’s turned his hair into a mat of black lambswool. The priest knows that he is witnessing a marvel without precedent: Almeth Elocine is afraid. “Turn aside, Almeth!” the syndex warns. “Whatever your intent, to rewrite fate’s decrees is folly, even for a god!”

Though faltering, Almeth’s pace doesn’t slow. “The resistance is lost,” he says without inflection. “Should I leave my people in thrall to an upstart fiend?”

“The remnant of Annon chose their lot. The guardians may yet survive in Strata untouched by the Brotherhood.”

The human priest and the godly Gen stand face to face below the broad stair. Cleolin’s visage is grim; Elocine smiles wanly without mirth.

“You speak without forethought,” Almeth laments, “as is your race’s wont. Wheresoever I lead my broken following, the Void shall overtake us as it has the Middle Stratum.”

“The Guild has conquered the spheres; not the Void.”

“One is merely the consequence of the other,” Almeth says, pressing forward. His advance is halted as a smooth motion of the priest’s hand sends an icy jolt through Elocine’s torso. He recovers from the shock in time to see Cleolin withdraw his red-tipped blade.

“Forgive me this sacrilege,” the syndex says as Almeth collapses against him. The priest’s stout arms are all that keeps Elocine from folding to the floor.

Urgency beyond all concern for himself drives the Gen back onto his feet. He looks upon the syndex’s startled face a final time; then exerts his will. Kairos itself propels Cleolin backward so rapidly that his imposing stature instantly diminishes to a tiny distant mote. His scream reaches Almeth seconds after he vanishes beyond the terminus.

Clutching his wound, Elocine staggers to the edge of Kairos. Cleolin was the last tie binding him to life in this cosmos. Its severance empties him of all feeling, and he sits down to wait.

SD v. 2.2b

The latest draft of Souldancer is nearing fruition. I'm averaging a chapter a day, so at that rate I expect to finish in two or three weeks.

Since I'll have just finished redrafting, the book will need inspection by objective eyes. If you would like to be a beta reader for this project, please volunteer in the comments section below or by sending me an email expressing your interest. I know there are already a couple of people I can count on, but in this case more is more.

Thanks to everyone who's supported me in this enterprise.

Faustian Bargaining

"Magic"--like "love", "decimation", and "freedom"--is a term that popular use has greatly corrupted. Nowhere is the misapprehension of magic more prevalent than in contemporary speculative fiction. Many authors, without fear of contradiction or ridicule,  slap the "magic" label onto any ability exceeding the norm. This practice is inaccurate and objectively misleading.

In their episode on magic systems, the Writing Excuses podcast filed everything from the Force to mutant powers under the aegis of "magic". Allowances must be made for the hosts' need of a convenient term to frame their discussion, not to mention their fifteen minute time limit. However, I found it interesting that they mentioned several species of fantastic power but not actual magic.

I'll stop begging the question and define actual magic, that is to say magic as it has been historically understood and practiced in western culture. Though western magical traditions differ, certain common threads run through all of them:

• Magic is preternatural, i.e. not among the natural powers proper to humans.
• Magic does not involve the direct manipulation of cosmic or spiritual energies ("spiritual energy" being an oxymoron).
• Following from the first two points, the magician's role is to invoke the aid of spiritual beings, to whom levitating objects, forecasting future events, etc. comes naturally (thus magic can't be called supernatural either).
• These beings' services are never contracted without cost.

In no authentic source I know did actual magicians claim the power to weave strands of earth and air or to shoot coherent light beams from their eyes. I realize that novelists deal with magic in the context of fiction, but words are a writer's tools, and words have meanings. The classification of every freak, prodigy, and curiosity as "magic" is a result of our modern linguistic laziness and aversion to metaphysics.

It could be argued that the usefulness of a general term describing the sundry paranormal goings-on in popular fantasy and science fiction trumps the importance of linguistic accuracy. In that respect, I don't begrudge such usage as long as the terms are defined beforehand. However, I find that a proper understanding of magic as it was known to our ancestors can add authenticity and depth to one's writing. John C. Wright makes a persuasive case for this approach.

Another question implied by this line of reasoning is, "How should the various "magic" systems used in contemporary fiction be classified?" I'll attempt an answer.

• Extranormal abilities arising from genetic mutation (natural or induced), alien ancestry, enhanced anatomy, or wonder drugs fit most comfortably into the category of superpowers.
• Effects that seem paranormal to readers, but which result from the conscious manipulation of ambient energy fields, chi, manna, etc. are really just technologies, although they draw on power sources that are unknown or disputed in the primary world.
• Techniques that exploit physical laws absent in the real world are likewise technologies.
• Combinations of the above, e.g. a gene that predisposes one to psychic powers.

You're probably thinking of Clarke's Third Law right now. In my defense, Clarke meant "magic" in the broad sense of "anything scientifically inexplicable". Also, the Third Law affirms an intrinsic difference between technology and magic and even relies on that difference for its intelligibility.

My own science fiction-fantasy novel Nethereal provides examples of each category. Jaren and Nakvin possess certain superior physical traits thanks to nonhuman parentage. These are superpowers. The Guild's Workings and glamers, Gennish Mysteries, and even the Malefactions of xanthotics are technologies that harness fictitious forms of energy. Only in the ancient schools of divination and necromancy--with their fool's bargains and horrific costs--do we find real magic.

The whole exercise in fantastical nit-picking aside, Sanderson and Wright are unarguably correct that a practical supernormal power system should adhere to rules; especially the rule that all power comes at a price. Mutants are feared and hated by those they fight to protect. Channelers risk madness and death to use their gift. Sorcerers barter their eternal souls for power and influence. As long as the cost fits the effect, it's not cheating.

Souldancer Deleted Scene: Forging the White Sword

            The sun was falling below the Edge of the World when a vision appeared to Aber Lico. The blacksmith sat on his doorstep looking east toward town and watched as a strange figure walked out of a heat haze a few hundred yards away.

            More details surfaced as the stranger approached. He wore a black shirt under a ragged tan jacket with matching pants. A mane of shock white hair crowned his head.

            Lico stood and gripped one of the rough porch beams. “I’m closed for the night,” he called out.

            The stranger either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He steadily advanced to stand at the foot of the stairs. His skin was ashen; almost grey, and his eyes were an odd yellow-green.

“I need a forge,” he said in a rigid, unfamiliar accent.

            “I told you,” Lico said. “Shop’s closed.”

            The grey man stared into the house that also held Lico’s workshop. “This is where the blade was Worked,” he said. Then he walked past the blacksmith and into his home.

            “Wait!” Lico shouted over his family’s startled cries. “I make pins and hinges; not swords!” The smith followed his unwelcome visitor through his house to the forge, besieging him with curses.

With his wife and children huddled in the doorway, Lico seized a stout hammer and approached the man who’d invaded his home.

            “I don’t know where you’re from,” the blacksmith said, “but you’d best return there.”

            Ignoring his unwilling host, the stranger set about stoking the coals.

            “Stop him, Aber,” urged the blacksmith’s wife. “He’s like to burn the house down!”

            Gritting his teeth, Lico hefted the hammer and brought it down upon the stranger’s back. He felt the impact running up the shaft and heard a sickening crunch. The intruder fell to his knees but started crawling toward the forge.

            The smith swung again with far less reluctance. The blow knocked the stranger flat, but he dragged himself along the plank floor.

            Lico brought the hammer up again and let it fall with a savage cry. He swung again and again, only stopping when the broken and bloody form on his floor lay still.

            The considered informing the city guard. Instead he dragged the body to the Edge of the World and cast it over the smoking precipice.

 

            It was pitch black when Lico woke, panting and soaked with sweat, to the sound of ringing metal.

He started when his wife grabbed his arm.

“What is that?” she whispered.

            “It’s coming from the shop,” the blacksmith said. The rhythmic sound of metal striking metal continued for several moments before Lico found the courage to rise from bed. Lighting a lamp, he crept toward the workshop.

            The orange-red light of live coals bent and magnified ordinary objects into hellish shadows. A lone figure stood at the forge. His right hand rose and fell in a familiar motion that turned Lico’s stomach. The small silversmith’s hammer sounded clear, chiming notes.

            “What are you doing?” asked the smith, his voice trembling. “Who are you?”

            The delicate hammer rang once more and stopped. The figure turned, revealing a bloody ruin of a face, and gazed at Lico with one yellow-green eye.

            The blacksmith ran to his children and found that his screams had already woken them. Hastily loading his family into their wagon, he raced through the night toward Highwater.

 

            When Lico returned after dawn with the city guard, the stranger was gone. All that remained to mark his presence were a few lumps of slag. Boasting a mirrored sheen, the impossibly light metal cast purple reflections in its white surface.

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

An agent I queried asked for the first five pages of the Nethereal manuscript last week. The pages were rejected in a frank and highly professional manner. The gesture is highly appreciated.

I went into Heinlein phase five bracing myself to face criticism. I conditioned myself as best I could to take negative comments with an open mind, revise the book if they made sense and ignore them if they didn't. Funny thing: There really hasn't been any criticism to speak of. The most common replies I've gotten have been: A) nothing and B) form letters. The two or three personalized responses all amount to, "Your premise and execution are fine, but it's not what we're looking for."

The dearth of feedback is something I didn't anticipate. I have plans in place to deal with, "Your work is bad, and here's why." Instead I'm left grappling with, "Your project is OK. For someone else. But I don't know who it is."

On further reflection, I believe I'm facing the following difficulties:

It's impossible to sell a manuscript unless the buyer reads the whole thing. Not only can't you judge a book by its cover; you really can't judge it till you've read the last paragraph. Readers may have that luxury, but not people whose jobs depend on acquiring new titles. And yet...

Agents and editors don't have enough time to read every manuscript submitted to them. It's a fact of the busy world we live in: more so for literary agents and acquisitions editors, who receive thousands of submissions a year. These conditions force them into the paradox of judging something piecemeal that can only be fairly evaluated within the context of the whole.

Faced with this Joseph Heller reference, most professional writers advise researching agents and editors' tastes before querying them. A common strategy is to look up agents' recent deals to find out what kind of books they represent. Mining the acknowledgements pages of novels in the same style and genre as yours is often recommended as a good way to find like-minded agents and editors.

I've been following that advice for years, but...

I haven't found anything close enough to my work to identify an agent/editor with similar sensibilities. From one perspective, the fact that I can't find other books like mine is good. Agents and editors often say that they're looking for fresh material. On the other hand, it's bad because people usually stick to what's worked before and don't go too far beyond their established tastes. I know I do that. There are sound logical reasons for playing to one's strengths.

Frankly, I don't want to work with an agent, editor, or publisher who isn't excited about my book. Agents are salespeople (so are writers), and the best salesmen are genuinely passionate about the product. A project has no better friend than an editor who's willing to champion it to the publisher, and a lukewarm publisher is apt to bury a book at the end of the list (or drop it altogether).

The way I see it, I have two options:

1. the Jim Butcher method: which ain't gonna happen, if only because I have too little charm and too great a fear of jail to crash invitation only industry lunches.

2. the black hole: wherein I keep throwing message-laden bottles into the ocean hoping that just the right alignment of circumstances prompts an agent to request a sample based on my query letter, that the partial reading elicits a request for the full manuscript, that the MS convinces the agent to approach an acquisitions editor on my behalf, and that the editor agrees to take on the project.

I might be a timid eccentric, but I'm a very patient timid eccentric.

Souldancer Apocrypha: Out of the Flames

Sorry for the lateness of this post. My internet was down most of yesterday. In reparation I offer a side story exclusive to this blog.

            “Is he coming?”

            Sheb’s question evoked a sharp hiss from Quor.

            “I’m sorry,” the younger boy said.

            Reducing his two-handed grip on the upper branch to one, Quor turned to frown at Sheb. “Be less sorry and more quiet,” his elder brother whispered. He ain’t never coming if you scare him off!”

            Hanging his head, the younger boy clutched tighter to the bulbous oilcloth bundle he held.

            “Don’t pout,” Quor said with a note of regret. “I’m just the lookout. You have the best job.”

            Sheb looked past his arboreal perch to the trail far below. The dirt path was remarkably clear for how seldom the villagers used it.

            The younger boy returned his attention to his brother. Quor had resumed his post, scanning the woods in the direction of Vale. His sandy hair caught the red-orange light of sunset that filtered through the canopy. A gust of wind shook the leaves. Though not quite cold, it already lacked summer’s heat.

            Sheb’s focus snapped back to the present moment when he saw Quor’s body tense. “Someone’s coming,” the elder boy said.

            Well trained in what was required of him, Sheb braced himself against the tree trunk and held the bundle over the path. His heart pounded in expectation of a white-robed figure meandering along the trail.

            Minutes passed, and no one appeared. The bag weighed no more than five pounds, but the effort of suspending it over empty space started to take its toll on the boy’s arms. The bundle’s contents shifted as his hands began to shake.

            “Hold steady!” Quor hissed.

            Something flew up and bit the back of Sheb’s leg. Abandoning stealth, the younger boy screamed and pitched forward. He clutched desperately for support as the bag plummeted, painting the trail in a spatter of rotten blackberries. His grasping hands found Quor’s shirt. The effort gained only a moment’s reprieve before both boys toppled from their boughs to land in bushes defiled by fermented pulp.

            “Look what you’ve done!” Quor raged as he struggled to free himself from sticky, pungent shrubbery and his brother’s gangly limbs.

            “I’m sorry,” Sheb wailed. “Something bit me!”

            “The sting of a cast stone is better than you deserve,” a husky voice declared.

            “Who’s there?” Quor asked, his voice trembling.

            “It’s highwaymen,” Sheb yelled. “They’ll slit our throats and dump us in the brush!”

            “You’re already in the brush,” the stranger said. “Stop squirming unless you want to stay there.”

            A heavy, callused hand grabbed Sheb’s arm and yanked him free of the sticky shrub. A moment later he stood beside Quor, covered in musky syrup and leaves. Sheb knew the man towering over them was no highwayman. The children of Vale were warned that troublemakers would be exiled to the deep dark woods with old Janto. Now here he stood in his ragged clothes; his stern eyes framed by a wild wreath of hair and beard.

            “Do you know the trouble you nearly caused?” Janto asked at length.

            “We was just out berry-picking,” Sheb lied.

            “You should learn to tell ripe fruit from rotten,” Janto said. “But I know what you were doing here.”

            Quor suddenly broke his silence. “Please don’t make us live in the woods!” he cried. “We’re sorry. Just let us go home!”

            Janto raised a shaggy eyebrow at the elder boy. “I have troubles enough without a pair of delinquents to look after,” he said, and Sheb’s heart leapt.

            “But neither can I let you return home,” the hermit added.

            The brothers exchanged desolate looks. To their surprise, Janto turned and started down the trail.

            “Come,” he barked. “I know a stream nearby. You can go back to your mother when we’ve improved your smell.”

 

            Almost an hour later, Sheb sat beside Quor on a mossy stone; the hermit’s musty cloak enveloping both of them. Their wet clothes hung from low branches nearby. Janto seated himself on the bed of needles beneath a dying pine. Sheb felt his brother shivering beneath the cloak, and he noticed that the coming night had lent a slight chill to the once balmy air.

            “Pardon me sir,” the younger boy said. “It’s nearly dark. Won’t you light a fire?”

            Janto brooded, stirring the brown needles before him with a twig. At last he said, “No fire tonight. Not with the Journey underway.”

            “He came, then?” Quor asked through chattering teeth. “We was up in that tree since noon and didn’t see nobody.”

            “But you were seen,” the hermit said. “A blind man could have. I met the sojourner and set him on a safer path.”

            “You turned him away?” Quor groaned. “Why’d you let us spend all day up that damned tree?”

            Janto’s silence made the stone seem raucous. After a moment he said, “Nothing must hinder the Journey. If I’ve taught you nothing else today, I pray that seed alone takes root.”

            Sheb leaned closer, causing Quor to jockey for his share of the cloak. “We wasn’t gonna hurt Jemai,” he said. “We just wanted a bit of fun with him.”

            The hermit’s deep brown eyes fixed themselves on the boy so suddenly that Sheb nearly toppled from his seat. Pain and loss were graven on that weathered face, along with a kind of fervor bordering on fear. Then, just as suddenly, he looked away.

            “Neither of you knew the time before the Journey,” Janto said. “That is a blessing. It was not a time of pleasant memory. Years before you swelled your mother’s belly, a handful of us gathered in the Vale. We came from all the corners of the world looking for rest and relief. What we found was hunger and hardship.

            The hermit paused. Taking up his stick again, he resumed scratching in the pine-scented dirt. “I had a younger brother not much more than your age,” he told Quor. “God never game him the natural fear of foolishness that helps most folks survive. He got tired of being hungry and set out east: the first to leave of us who’d come.

            Sheb felt Quor shifting beside him. Now both of them sat on the rock’s edge.

            “The old folks figured he’d come home when he got tired. There was talk of a search when the first day passed, but no one ever went. Finally folk just stopped talking of him—even our mother.”

            “Did he ever come back?” asked Sheb. The shame of his sudden intrusion warmed his face.

            “Aye,” Janto said. “It was me who found him. I shared the others’ fear of the outside, but it was my brother who’d gone missing. So I took to walking the woods; never going much farther than we’re sitting right now.

            “One day at sundown I rounded a bend and there he was: stumbling out of the bush near the fork in the stream. I waded right across to him and was about to embrace him till I saw what had become of his face.”

            The storyteller paused. Sheb held back the question on his lips, but just barely.

            “What happened to him?” Quor asked instead.

            Janto was a moment longer answering. “I almost thought it a trick of the failing light,” the hermit said, pressing the twig into the ground point first. “But I got close enough to make no mistake, and the sight banished all doubt that what folk said about the Great Fire was true. My brother was burnt: not by the sun or even by open flame. There wasn’t a mark on him besides the palm print branded into his face.”

            Quor’s eyes widened. “Demons,” he whispered.

            “Perhaps,” Janto said. “But demons in stories have claws or hooves. I never heard of one with hands dainty as a young maid’s.”

            Sheb’s breath caught in his throat. The night’s chill returned in force.

            “I don’t know how he made it back,” the hermit went on. “The burn had already festered. One of his eyes was a weeping boil, and the other was nearly sealed shut. He was starved and exposed, but somehow he’d found his way. I helped him back to the Vale where he died in the night.”

            This time Sheb needed no help keeping silent. There were no words.

            “The next spring was the first time there was more green than grey,” Janto said. “The Journey’s been made every year since, and it’s never left us wanting.”

            “I’m sorry for your brother,” said Quor.

The hermit grinned, perhaps with pride. “Horth was the first to seek the Fire beyond the mountains. He’s still the only one who’s come back. If it teaches you why we send one soul each year to ransom many, and why we light no fires at summer’s end; then his tale’s worth the telling.”

 

            Sheb didn’t remember falling asleep when he awoke next to Quor early the next morning. The hermit was gone; leaving his cloak and the boys’ dried and folded clothing.

            The walk back to Vale passed in silence. Emotions warred inside his heart: pity for old Janto, gratitude for the blessings gained by his long-dead brother, and shame for nearly desecrating his rite.

            One question kept nagging him, though.

            “Quor,” he finally asked, “why do they send simpletons like Jemai if the Journey’s so important?”

            “It’s an honor, Sheb,” the elder boy said at last. “The only one his kind can hope to get.”

Thrice-Told Tale

Since I've been focused on revising my work, I thought it would be helpful to compare multiple drafts of the same project to chart my progress. The results proved both edifying and embarrassing.

Here's an example: the same paragraph from Nethereal chapter 3 as it appears in the first, second, and third drafts.

First Draft:
The Enforcers conducted their search in shifts; none of them being able to tolerate prolonged exposure to the conditions inside—this despite the fact that the door had been off its hinges since early that afternoon. According to the householders, the temperature had not risen at all. Fortunately, they weren't made to investigate for long. Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification, two changes of clothing, and a type of Worked pistol called a zephyr, were quickly discovered and noted. Of the man himself, there was no sign. A guilt-driven flight out of town was submitted in explanation, although the room was windowless, and the lock had been jammed from the inside—melted, in fact, by some unknown corrosive agent.

Second Draft:
Despite the fact that the door had been off its hinges since the early afternoon, conditions within had still been barely tolerable. Fortunately, the search hadn’t taken long. The Enforcers had quickly turned up Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a zephyr model Worked pistol. Of the owner’s whereabouts, they’d found no sign. A guilt-driven flight out of town was submitted in explanation, though the room was windowless, and the lock had been jammed from the inside: melted, in fact, by some unknown corrosive agent.

Third Draft:
The vicious freeze had haunted the room for hours. Luckily, the search hadn’t taken long. The Enforcers had quickly turned up Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a Worked zephyr pistol. There was no sign of the owner’s whereabouts. A midnight flight from justice was suspected, but the room was windowless; and the lock hadn’t simply been jammed from the inside. It had been melted by some unknown corrosive agent.

Don't know about you, but the third version is the only one I can read without flinching.

Racial Profile: The Gen

A hierarchy of being exists in the Soul Saga universe that spans from the simplest sub-atomic particle to the all-encompassing Nexus itself. Originally, no place in this grand continuum was left empty. The rise to dominance of humanity--which occupies the exact center of the cosmic hierarchy--also saw the decline of many lesser and greater races. Of these, the Gen suffered worst of all.

Standing one rung above man on the evolutionary ladder, the Gen closely resemble their human cousins. Physical differences between the two races are subtle. Unlike humans, Gen do not fail with advancing years. They slowly grow nobler (and ideally wiser) with age. Physical and mental defects are almost unknown among them.

The greatest difference between humans and Gen is that, barring disease, misadventure, or murder, a Gen will never die. As one would expect, immortality affects the Gen's outlook on life. They are great lovers of learning but approach new subjects methodically, exhausting a given field over decades or even centuries before tackling the next.

Though the Middle Stratum had no Fall event (physical and moral evil have another source), the Gen could be viewed as an unfallen--or rather, less fallen--version of humanity. They are smarter than men on average, and they more easily subject their appetites and passions to the rule of will.

The two preceding observations help to explain what humans consider an oddity of Gen behavior: their habit of attaining and then abandoning great technological achievements. Indeed, the elder race mastered space flight before men practiced agriculture. Not long after, the Gen returned to the safety of their home spheres and left their wondrous ships to rot.

This pursuit of knowledge for its own sake instead of some practical end likely saved humanity. Had the Gen been less reserved, they might have revived their ancient high technology to drive mankind back to the stone age at the first sign of persecution by humans. Instead they exercised their customary patience, hoping that their juniors would gain spiritual maturity. The result was the Gen's near extermination.

Souldancer Deleted Scene: The Taming of Hazeroth

In hell's Third Circle a motley crowd gathers beside a river of blood. No two hideous congregants are alike. Yet all share a bloodthirsty fascination for the spectacle playing out in their midst.

The demon mob encircles a single figure. He resembles a being of the Middle Stratum far more than any of the infernal denizens surrounding him. But his skin is sallow, and his eyes are the same sanguine hue as the tainted river. His hands grip the fossilized wings of some eons-old reptilian giant, joined end to end by a shaft of bone. Sometimes they seem to move by their own power.

At some imperceptible signal one of the monstrous onlookers enters the ring. The stone wings blur, and he is cut down. Undeterred, another demon lunges at the sallow man and meets the same end.

Like a dam bursting, the circle closes around the lone figure at its center, devolving into a mindless fray. The first charge ends poorly. None of the fiends get closer to their foe than the point of his blade. The demons close ranks and fall back, forming a wider circle than before.

The swordsman brushes black curled hair from his forehead. His bloody eyes betray his lust for more.

"Hazeroth," a deep clear voice resounds across the blood-soaked plain.

The demons cow as if struck. The circle parts, admitting a towering figure in lavish gold robes. An expressionless white mask with a ruby in its brow hides his face.

The swordsman turns at the sound of his name. "You disturb my sport."

"If I must. The word I bear to you takes precedence."

Hazeroth points a long-nailed finger at the masked messenger. "You will have to wait your turn."

"I am ill disposed to suffer delays."

The masked figure lifts his arms. Sickly yellow light bursts from beneath his golden robes, sweeping the demon mob away like a pile of burned leaves.

Hazeroth scowls. "Your aid was neither asked nor wanted. If you would treat with me, it will be on my terms."

In a motion that would bewilder the human eye, the swordsman covers the distance to his intended victim and shreds the golden robe with one swing of his double sword. Suddenly he no longer stands on the bloody river's bank, but on a broken sheet of coal-black rock. A golden glow limns the horizon, and a single white point glows faintly in the dark sky.

"Hazeroth!" the same booming voice cries again. This time, it seems to emanate from everywhere at once. "I am the Will of Shaiel. Here, in my seat of power, you shall heed me."

The swordsman tries to move, but the cold turns his muscles to dried wood.

"High honor is set before you," Shaiel's Will declares. "My lord would have you bear his blade. What say you?"

"I am a prince of hell," Hazeroth says through clenched teeth. "Others swear their blades to me!"

"And many more yet shall. Serve in Shaiel's kingdom, and he will restore your own. Yea, it shall have tenfold increase."

The demon prince tries to struggle; fights even to move. The cold is relentless: seeping into his bones; creeping toward his heart.

"I will serve," he groans at last.

Souldancer Excerpt 2

Time for another Souldancer sample. We join Nakvin of Avalon as she contends with a house guest who's rather outstayed his welcome.

            Sulaiman’s eyes went rigid as iron. “One whom Hazeroth of Gheninom fears can only be a terror not seen since the old gods’ day. You heard what game the hunter seeks.”

            It was an effort for Nakvin to speak. “The Souldancer’s host.”
            “Not Thera,” said the priest, “but the wretched souls despoiled to restore hers.”
            “What does he want with them?”
            Sulaiman came closer than he ever had to shrugging. “To fulfill some perverse Working,” he guessed. “Or perhaps to keep company with kindred spirits.”
            Nakvin fought to keep her face from betraying how close that was to the mark.
            “Whatever his reason,” the priest went on, “Shaiel’s gain is our grave loss. You must send me to Mithgar.”
            “I must do nothing,” said the queen. “I came to discuss state business; not to aid private vendettas.”
            “Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Sulaiman asked. “Shaiel imperils the cosmos of which your fiefdom is only part.”
            Nakvin slammed her fist upon the desk. “Enough!” she said. “Don’t test me, Sulaiman. While you rotted in prison, I was busy learning.”
            The priest’s smile was acid. “Kill me then,” he said, “as I know you wish to.”
            Sulaiman’s abruptness gave the queen no chance to hide her shock.
            “My god has left me,” he continued, “but I need not his gifts to read hearts. You have your sire’s throne. Let’s see you match her malice.”
             “Go,” Nakvin sighed. “Find out what’s happening on Mithgar. Stop it if you can.”
            Sulaiman brushed past her but stopped in the doorway. “Pray any power you like to send me victory.”
            “She never answers,” said the queen.

Souldancer Rewrite Update

For those who are just joining us, I recently finished the final manuscript for my sci fi-fantasy novel Nethereal. That book's completion followed a rather crooked path since I'd already written its sequel, entitled Souldancer, almost ten years before.

Now that the first (in narrative terms) book is done I'm taking another shot at the second. It needs a lot of work to say the least. Weighing in at a staggering 300,000 words, Souldancer begged for pruning. There are also many plot, character, and world-building elements in need of continuity patches.

I quickly decided that a cover-to-cover line edit was not in order. Instead I've started rewriting the story from scratch. I only refer back to the prior text for general plot structure and place/character/object names. Along the way I've been able to combine several scenes and delete some subplots and characters altogether.

Right now I'm on chapter twenty-one of the new draft. To give you a sense of perspective, the action occurring in the new chapter twenty-one takes place at about the same time as the events of last version's chapter twenty-five. The chapters are now shorter, so I'm currently at a point near page 200 where the last draft had taken 400 pages to present the same information.

That's the gist of it. I'll be around to field whatever questions any of you have about the new draft.

First Playtest

Thanks to everyone who helped test the first version of my Soul Saga RPG. I am diligently implementing most of the suggestions I received, including streamlining combat while retaining the damage system's sense of realism.

In addition to revisions, I'll also be adding myriad game elements, including alternate "magic" systems, Worked items, new races, and more character traits. There will also be plenty of flavor text to flesh out the setting.

Thanks again for the excellent feedback.

Game Design

I've taken the time to do some design work on the tentative Soul Saga RPG that I've been toying with. Having tried my hand at home-brewed rules and even overhauls of entire game engines, creating an entirely new system is still posing quite a challenge.

My first major decision has been settling on the basic dice engine, which will be percentile-based. Expressing game mechanics as percentages is clean and straightforward and makes adapting real-world statistics easier.

Speaking of real statistics, did you know that shooting accuracy figures for police and military forces are extremely hard to find? The best I could come up with was an often-repeated but unsubstantiated forty percent hit figure for police shootouts within ten to twenty feet. Slightly better sourced were statistics claiming ten percent average accuracy for trained soldiers at three hundred meters with the M16A2 rifle and ninety percent accuracy for snipers with M24s at six hundred meters.

The search for realistic firearms data led me to reexamine another aspect of most RPGs that I've always found woefully inadequate: damage rules. The worst offenders are systems that use "hit points" to track characters' health status. The manifold distortions involved in reducing a person's physical well-being to a number are disconcerting enough, but the idea of someone with one hundred HP being whittled down to fifty or ten or even one and still going about his business normally is against all logic.

Of course, what these game terms are supposed to represent are injuries like ballistic trauma, blast injuries, and blunt trauma. While each of these conditions can vary widely in severity, the bleeding likely entailed by all of them means that traumatic injury isn't a one-off proposition. Training and adrenaline might keep you on your feet after sustaining ten points of "piercing damage" (aka ballistic penetrating trauma), but the external and internal hemorrhaging will pose increasingly serious problems over the next few minutes and hours.

Most RPGs only address the effects of cumulative injuries. The oversight I want to correct is their omission of the progressive aspects of trauma.

Some will object that portraying damage more realistically will cramp the players' style by making everyone conflict-averse. I counter that the lethality of combat is offset by the implementation of more realistic marksmanship and melee rules. The fact is that even trained professionals miss most of the time, and battles tend to be resolved when the enemy retreats, surrenders, or is incapacitated rather than massacred.

Besides, sound logistics and advance planning wins more battles than sheer force. So the upshot is that more realistic combat will discourage hack and slash antics and encourage players to fight smarter.

Souldancer 3.0

Having gotten the manuscript for Nethereal in satisfactory form, I've started work on a new revision of the old version of Souldancer. Reading the second (chronological) book now, I can't believe I ever deemed it ready for print.

I don't know whether it was grad school, the number of books I've read between "finishing" SD v2 and now, or both; but my awareness of flaws in the execution of version two is now glaring. My main issue was having too many descriptive clauses modifying any one object. The book as it stands reads as if I couldn't decide between descriptors and chose to include them all. The result was very cluttered, as you can imagine.

Presently, I'm going back through Souldancer, intent on giving it a total overhaul. The text will be fully streamlined and revised while being brought up to spec with Nethereal. That means shoring up continuity between the two books, harmonizing established nomenclature, and almost certainly cutting a few scenes that no longer fit the narrative.

To those who might object to an abridged version, consider that rendering both manuscripts in double-spaced, twelve point text, Nethereal tops out at a respectable 780 pages, while Souldancer currently bursts its binding at 1340. Simply reining in my exposition should help make the page count more manageable.

In case you're wondering why I'm going to the trouble of revisiting a five year-old manuscript that took me two years to write in the first place, not including original revisions, the answer is that there's nothing else I'd rather do. The reason I started with the second book in the cycle is because I feel very strongly that Souldancer is the heart of the saga; the philosophical and emotional axis around which the whole thing turns.

Don't get me wrong. Nethereal isn't a throwaway piece at all. I wouldn't market a story I didn't believe in. I purposefully wrote the tale to be fully self-contained if needed. However, the fact remains that the first novel's primary job is to rack up the pins so the larger game can commence.

Having gotten the introductory story on paper (rather, on file via word processor) has greatly aided my improvement of Souldancer, providing the firm foundation lacking during my first go-round. Using Nethereal as a reference point, I have no doubt that SD v3 will proceed more naturally; the two texts forming a complementary and fully coherent narrative.

I'm not turning the second book into a clone of the first, either. The scope of Souldancer is still far broader, numerous new characters are introduced, and the stakes are raised compared to the conflict that drove the cast of Nethereal. How can a threat of already universal scale be surpassed?

Rest assured, I've got it covered.