A Review: The Rithmatist

This is a new thing I'll be doing, now that I'm updating the blog more regularly. Once a month (possibly more) I'm aiming to review a book I've either just read or an older favourite of mine. I'm kicking it off with The Rithmatist, by Brandon Sanderson.

Brandon Sanderson is the author of more things than you can shake a stick at, and I know a thing or two about stick shaking. He's a fantastic writer with such claims to fame as the Mistborn series, co-authoring the last 3 Wheel of Time books and an endless stream of ongoing series. He's like the .

Anyway, on with the review.

The Rithmatist follows a young boy named Joel, who is (as Brandon described) 'the muggle at Hogwarts'. I first heard it mentioned on an episode of Writing Excuses (Brandon's weekly podcast) in which he described it as being about a boy learning all the tricks of the trade to become a Rithmatist (magician) who had no actual magical ability.

It was well-written. I'll say that in simple terms, because I feel it's a given that Brandon's works are well-written. The first thing I noticed about it is that, compared to his other works, it reads more like a book for younger readers. It's not a children's book by any measure, but it's definitely best suited for someone on the lower side of 15. It was enjoyable to me in spite of this, possibly because I noticed the book was for a slightly younger audience and didn't lose my suspension of disbelief at the more 'young adult' parts of the book (such as when the protagonist becomes involved in a major federal case with little hesitation about his age being an issue).

One of the book's most impressive features was it's magic system. Brandon is excellent at writing magic systems, and has explained in great detail what makes a 'good' magic system in the literary sense. The joy of the magic used in The Rithmatist came from the fact that it is set in a school of magic. The students are learning these fundamentals of the system, which means you the reader are learning it in the same depth and detail as them. It added so much to the story that I understood very intimately, due to actual diagrams explaining and demonstrating the fundamentals of the magic system, how the system worked. It also made the main character, a non-Rithmatist who knew the workings of the Rithmatic arts, much more believable because in essence I had the same level of skill and knowledge as him.

The story itself deals with Joel's involvement in an investigation into a series of disappearances. It plays out like a pretty standard 'murder mystery' with its red herrings and twist-reveals, but then I'm not asking it to be the best mystery novel I've ever read. It's a fantasy novel at its core, and I'm more interested in the character himself and the way he navigates his world without having these magical powers he so craves. The fact that he's doing that in among a crime case is what makes it interesting to follow his journey. Don't get me wrong though, I enjoyed the plot of the story too, and the resolution was satisfying. It wasn't some major never-before-seen Shyamalan-esque twist but it was still good and unpredictable, and that's what matters.

I don't want to be giving the things I review a 'x/10' rating, because different books are for different people and you shouldn't have me tell you whether or not to buy a book.

If I were you, I'd buy this book.

The Worst Prompt Ever

Sorry John

So about a year ago I was on a writing course, and it was excellent. In the last few weeks of it we were given a writing exercise that went 'here's three things, write a piece that includes all of them'. Some of them were fun and challenging, but one of them had the following three prompts:

Donald Trump's gold encrusted 757
A lobster
A bad acid trip

What the fuck is that? You want me to write a story using those?

Whatever, I'm not afraid of a challenge, so here's the story I wrote. Let this be a lesson in bathos.
Oh and yeah, language warning and all that. Like seriously, if you've found me offensive so far then do not read on.

                Some lobsters are blue. Most are pink, but some are blue. Of course Donald Fucking Trump would buy a blue one. I'm sitting at a dinner table across from him and he's wanking on about Kobe lobster, as if that's a real thing. It sounds like the rich person version of the gluten-free fad. Slap 'Kobe' on something and the Donald Trump's of the world, yes all 7 of them, are all over that shit. I would bet $20 that the truth is that the lobster's name is 'Kobe', but $20 to Donald Trump is like a jumbo jet to a cockroach; totally fucking irrelevant.

                The menu is about as wanky as the man himself, shit like 'venison Carpaccio' and 'corn-fed chicken'. I don't care about the chicken's childhood, just how it tastes. I actually don't care about Donald's childhood either, but here he is going on about it. Fuck off, this isn't your autobiography Donny just some kid who won a competition. You know that shit on cereal boxes and cans of V where they say shit like 'buy one and you're entered in the draw to win'? Well fuck me I didn't know they could enter you automatically and track you down using your credit card number. Creepy shit...

                Backtrack with me for a second. I buy this coke months ago because I'm thirsty as an east-end whore. This can has their latest summer promotion emblazoned over the side, and Donald Trump has just done some ghastly TV ad with him in a Hawaiian shirt drinking coke with teenagers like he's finally found time for his midlife crisis. I don't put two and two together ok? And why the fuck does coke do a competition to win dinner with Donald Trump? I've seen the apprentice, dude's like the corporate version of Gordon Ramsay.

                I get a phonecall, and I'm a winner winner fucking corn-fed chicken dinner. Donald picks me up from an agreeable location, which means I had to bus to the richest part of town so that poor people don't tarnish his car with the gaze of their unwealthy eyes. He rolls up in, I shit you not, the author shits the reader not, one would not consider themselves shitted, a stretch Maserati with his initials made from rows of diamonds on the side. What the ever-loving fuck? What does his automobile actually fucking gain from that? Do diamonds increase the fuel efficiency of his car so that he can pay less for gas and have more to spend on diamonds? Fuck this cunt and his god damn car. Especially fuck the pictures inside. He looks like a rapper with his framed picture of a plane made of fucking gold and him beside it with his toupee that's probably made of the hair of fucking Kobe African orphans.

                I don't know what to order, mainly because I can't pronounce half this shit and the other half has 'Kobe' written next to it and I couldn't possibly subscribe myself to such wanky dining. He explains to me that the plane is a Boeing 757, and he has a huge, throbbing stake in the company with his 9-inch shares and he can arrive 7 times in a night at any given airport with this plane. The rage boils inside me and I start doing this thing where I stop breathing and imagine my fist buried in various objects around me.

                The waitress wonders over because Donald clicked his fingers and I get so angry tentacles begin to sprout forth from my upper lip. He orders that blue cunt-fucking lobster and looks at me, ready to judge my mispronunciation of my choice of main and I look at the waitress and I say 'I'll have the twice-cooked Donald Trump' and she looks at Donald Trump and he says he'll have the crème brulee for dessert and I lose it. I've lost it before, but in the past 'it' has referred to 'most of it'. Today I lose literally all of it, absolutely everything 'it' could ever be. I look at Donald and say in a voice so neutral it could calm Hitler 'I don't fucking care'. Leathery wings break through the skin on my back and spread out behind me, my head grows outward, morphing into that of a cephalopod, Donald implodes leaving behind a small raincloud and the smell of mackerel. I raise my head and let out my mighty Cthuloid screech, fist-bumping the waitress as I stand and moonwalk out of the restaurant. And that, kids, is how I met your mother.

It's Here!

It's been a good two weeks.

So first up, I'm now about 9,000 words into Beyond the Horizon, and I'm starting to come to terms with how much longer than Maiden Voyage it's going to be. Looking at what I've planned out plot-wise compared to how far through I am, I'm feeling this could easily hit some 120,000 words. Awesome, big numbers look good.

I also got down to business (to defeat the huns) and started writing a story in my new universe. The world is as-of-yet unnamed, but the story itself is called 'Lifebringer', and is based off the first of the three prompts I posted last week. Already it's at about 7,000 words, and I'm really enjoying it. It's a different beast to The New Age of Steam so far, but I won't go so far as to say it's better.

But then maybe you'd say otherwise, so here's the first chapter. I'd love to hear what you think, and if you leave a comment you can almost guarantee I'll respond.

Chapter 1

Among Thieves

     It was a sunny day in Aegis, not that the Priests cared. They were content to stay within the confines of their high walls and vaulted ceilings. It was well-lit in there, and one could feel the semblance of sunshine, but it just didn't quite feel the same as being outside.

     But the Priests weren't everyone, so everyone but the Priests was out enjoying the weather on their empire holiday. The streets surged with crowds as they wandered from park to park, searching for an empty spot of grass to lay down on and bask in the sun. Others made for the arena, queuing in their hundreds in the hopes that someone would leave and they could get in. Outside the palace a giant orkestra pounded drums and blasted trumpets, as though celebrating a great victory.

     Only a few stayed and watched. The sound could be heard almost all through the city, so most only passed by for a few minutes just to see the players. Which was convenient, as it took a good ten minutes to cross the palace square through the throngs of people.

     The shop owners that had chosen to stay open made money hand over fist. They would close after lunch and enjoy the afternoon, but for now the grocers laughed the morning away as their purses grew heavy. Even as their wares grew sparse people piled up to their counters to buy the freshest of foods.

     The quietest place was the docks. No cargo came in or left for the islands down south, but even then a hundred boats came downriver carrying tourists from further up the continent. They were the sorts of people that could take a week to celebrate a day, so most had arrived nights ago. Still, there was a near-constant stream of partygoers disembarking. Normally the empty boats would turn and head back upriver, but today even the ferrymen stepped onto dry land to join the celebrations in Aegis.

     The night would bring to life a thousand lantern-lit parties, the next morning being a workless holy day. Holidays then holy days, that's what the Argin people loved most. It was the perfect day for a celebration, the perfect day for admissions and the perfect day for Wrinlett Leeve to finally get what he wanted.

     The ten of them huddled around a cluster of crates that acted as a table. It was once dark down in Alleyend, but Wrin's boys had turned the place into a relative palace over the years and nowadays it was bathed in the light of a dozen ticker lanterns. It was Wrin who'd found Alleyend, of course. He was just a boy, scared and alone in the giant city, and all he'd wanted was a safe place to hide and sleep the night. When he crawled through the gap in the wall where a winding alley ended he'd hit the jackpot. In the years that followed, Wrin built the spacious hidey-hole into what could almost be called an apartment.

     The crates were covered with sheets of paper, which were in turn covered in diagrams and drawings. Wrin went over the plan one more time, readying himself for the third round of questions.

     "..and then we're out. The book comes to me, I take it across the river to our buyer in Jagiston and we walk away with heavy purses." he finished.

     They stood in silence. For a moment, Wrin thought they'd finally got it. Then one of the boys, the youngest, piped up.

     "Sounds awful convenient dunnit? How's we sure you're comin' back with the money?" said Fork. He was a weed of a boy, named for his three-fingered left hand.

     "By the Impeller, Fork, he's always paid us. When has he not bloody well paid us?" snapped Gerry, another boy about Wrin's age.

     "We'll be cursing no Gods here Gerry, even foreign ones." Wrin reminded. Gerry grumbled, but his point had been well made. No-one else spoke up.

     He could understand Gerry's frustration though. Fork had been the first to whinge each time he'd had the plan explained. At least the others had proper questions about the workings of the escapade, Fork was just a damned pain. Half the time he was more hindrance than help with his crippled hand. If he weren't the younger brother of Knife they'd have long since abandoned him on the streets. That was the sort of power Knife had here. Where Fork was skinny and weak, Knife was all meat and muscle. More than once someone had asked Knife where he got his name, and had been answered with the name itself thrust into their belly. He was a good one to have on your side, Wrin reckoned, but damn did Knife scare him sometimes. Still, he was useful, and so he and Fork stayed.

     "So we're clear? At long damn last we're all understood?" asked Wrin, meeting the eyes of everyone one by one. He was met with nods, some slower than others, but none hesitant. "Good. This'll be easier than the time we screwed the clothmonger, you'll see."

     That was met with more trepidation than he'd hoped. Normally the boys were thick as an oak trunk, but Wrin had misjudged them. The empty spot left by the clothmonger job where Trace normally stood was still obvious. None of the ten had quite filled that space around the table yet.

     "Look boys," Wrin began, trying to soften his face, "Trace knew the risks, and he'd always had the most dangerous job. There's no need for someone like Trace on this job, so none of yous'll be dying today. Besides, they're healers, not killers."

     That seemed to ease a few of them, but one or two of the older boys, the ones showing signs of beards and muscles, still looked at Wrin with caution.

     "If one of you sods dies I'll bloody kill you." Wrin said, a smirk twisting his mouth upwards. A few laughs slipped out, and the tension seemed to be dispelled. "We're good at what we do, this place is a testament to that. This could be the one boys. If it doesn't go off we lose nothing, if it does then we're out of this dump. We'll have a house, a real damn house here in Aegis. We'll have beds, and robes, and a pair of shoes for each day of the week. You want it all, boys? Then let's go and take it!"

     The room cheered, or at least cheered as loud as a clandestine gathering could. Everyone stepped away from the table, chatting among their teams of two or three. Some would talk about the job ahead, getting the tiny details hashed out. Some would talk about everything but the job, trying to keep the nerves down. The first team of two left, Knife and a lad in his mid-teens called Orvin. They were security for this job, as they so often were. Knife wasn't good with words, except for one; his name. The rest had to wait for a set number of minutes to avoid arousing suspicion; there was nothing normal about ten ragged boys leaving an alleyway together. It was Wrin's care and caution that had kept eyes off Alleyend for some 12 years, and in the last 2 when the crew had used it as a base of operations it was this same caution that had kept them safe.

     Wrin himself sat down on his mattress, tucked into a corner in the main room with the crates. There was only two other rooms in Alleyend, and one was really just a square with an open hole that led to the plumbing system so they could shit with privacy. Most of them slept here in the main room. The third room was storage, and it was where the crates were now being moved to by Alleyend's four other permanent occupants. Wrin watched the goings-on with a sense of achievement. This was it, this was what he had built. It wasn't much by the standards of most, but for kids like him it was more than most ever hoped for. It was one in a million that dragged themselves out of the streetside life, and now at 18 years Wrin was going to become that one.

     "You're impressed with yourself." came a voice from above him.

     It's owner, Khol, sat down beside Wrin on the mattress. Khol was almost the same age as Wrin, only a year younger, but they shared the same bushy black beard, long, hard jaw and forest-green eyes. At a glance some would call them brothers, and that uncanny likeness was something they'd used to their advantage over the years.

     "When am I not impressed with myself Khol?" Wrin replied with a wide grin.

     "Just because you're all well-spoken with a liking for theatrics doesn't make you the best of us." Said Khol, a tone of grandfatherly warning in his voice.

     "Sure it does." said Wrin, smile still wide as ever. Nothing could hurt his mood today. "If it weren't for this brain," he pointed to his head, "and these giant balls," he grabbed his gonads, "we wouldn't have half the cash we do now."

     "Aye, and don't I know it best..." said Khol. He paused for a moment, looking almost contemplative. Then he turned to Wrinlett and matched his confident smile.

     "Wrin." called someone from across the small room.

     "Aye Purzhy?" said Wrin, getting up and leaving his friend for the moment.

     "I can't find me daggers. Bloody Knife's got 'em again." said Purzhy.

     "That's a shame, maybe you could've used them to shave off that awful scruff." said Wrin, smiling at first, then levelling Purzhy with a hard expression. "I highly doubt Knife took your stuff. We don't operate that way here. Never have. Pull your fucking head in and look for them yourself. If you can't find them, I hope you throw a damn hard punch."

     Purzhy nodded slowly, eyes cast downward, then scurried off. Odds were he'd just left them in his own sleeping hole and was trying to scam Wrin out of a spare blade. Wrin wandered back over to where Khol still sat, rejoining him as the second team left. It was Fork, Gerry and another lad Gerry's age called Jurd. Jurd the turd they called him after he shat on the floor of Alleyend five years ago. The three of them were greasemen. Small, wiry, flexible. They made it in and out of passages most would get stuck in. They were invaluable.

     "What'd he want?" asked Khol as Wrin rejoined him.

     "I dunno, a sword or something."

     Khol studied Wrin's face for a moment. He knew Wrin better than anyone, they'd been scamming grocers since Wrin's first days in Aegis.

     "You're nervous." said Khol.

     "I'm always nervous, underneath it all." said Wrin in a hushed tone. He didn't want anyone to hear the slightest hint of weakness from him. Anyone but Khol, of course.

     "Not the last few times. After the clothmonger job you kept it together, you still had the confidence we all lost." said Khol. Wrin still didn't meet his eyes.

     "That was easy stuff. I kept the jobs simple. It was just basic lifts and four-man scams. This is the first big one we've done since the clothmonger." said Wrin. He was eager to end the discussion, but he knew his friend well. Khol wouldn't stand to be left in the dark when it came to Wrin's feelings.

     "This is something different. I'm guessing you don't have the words to say what you mean just yet, and that's fine. But don't for a second think you can convince me you're nervous about the heist." said Khol, standing to leave with Purzhy and Kim.

     Wrin smirked to himself as Khol left. His trio was on the set-up team. Khol was Wrin's lookalike, and that meant Wrin could have two of himself in one place. It was on this deception that most of their plans hinged. Khol had his part to play while Purzhy and Kim went off to do the dirty work, and Wrin would come in later. For now, Wrin was alone in Alleyend with Maggie, the drop-man. Though perhaps drop-woman was more correct. When the boys got out with the book, Maggie would be out on the streets moving it from one set of hands to another with lightning speed. It made them impossible to track, and even if one of them got caught by a city guard there'd be no stolen goods on him. She would leave last, long after everyone else was gone.

     At the centre of it all was Wrin. He would leave alone, work alone and come back alone. Only this time something was different. This time, Wrin didn't plan on coming back.

I Won't Tell You Again

I had an interesting conversation the other day. I was chatting with a beta reader about Part 2 of Ambervale, and they made some (positive) comments about a certain part. I replied saying I was glad it came out well, because it was the biggest 'rule break' I'd ever done. For just 1 short line, I throw away all conventions of 3rd person narrative and totally change the tone of the text, and it worked. Everyone who's read it so far loved it. Safe to say, I was chuffed as a bucket.

Then they said something I wasn't prepared for. They asked 'what other times have you broken the rules?'

I had to think for a long time about the answer to that. Then all at once it hit me, I break the 'show don't tell' rule. Why? Because it's fucking dumb.


Ok, I'll eat my words for a moment here. It's not a terrible rule, and like all rules it's there for a reason. It's there because it works. The problem is, it doesn't work 100% of the time. Maybe 99%, but if you're trying to 'show' in that remaining 1% when you should be 'telling', your writing ends up just as bad as if the whole thing was 'telling'. Show don't tell is a good rule, and reiterating it to writers who are just starting out, especially young ones, is crucial. It's a fundamental part of the craft.

But like every fundamental piece to every art form, there are times it can or even should be broken. The skill lies in knowing when to do just that. The reason 'show don't tell' frustrates me is because all the way up people in the industry will talk about 'show don't tell' as if it can't ever be broken. Then, of course, they don't notice the places where it is broken to great effect because the writing is good. 'Show don't tell' is something people bring up as advice when writing is bad, so they never think about it when reading good writing.


This would be a terrible opinion to have if I couldn't back it up, so here are some times where perhaps you should tell rather than show.

Let's say a character makes an internal decision. It's pretty obvious you'd say something like 'he decided it wasn't worth his time'. That's telling, right there. You're telling your reader what the character decided, you're not showing him arriving at that conclusion. Why? Because it's internal. You can't show internal stuff all the time, especially if you're not using internal monologue. If you are using internal monologue, you still shouldn't show in most 'decision' places. Let's look at the 'showing' version of that.

'Hm, that looks really difficult. Should I do it? I don't know. I'm not sure if I'm physically capable. No, I don't think I'll do it'.

What a load of crap that was, all to explain one tiny decisions. Imagine if you did that for every 'he decided/she decided' in your book. When do you use that internal monologue? When a part of the thought process is important. Otherwise, can it. If the fact that they made that decision is what's important, just roll with writing 'he decided'. We make decisions all the time without any kind of internal debate or hesitance. If your character is driving along a motorway, are you going to have them think for two lines about whether or not they should change lanes, then doing it? Or are you going to say 'he decided to change lanes'.

When else can you throw out 'show don't tell'? Expository scene setting. Sure, you do it through 'showing' (in that you describe the physical area and 'show' what it looks like) but at the same time there's no difference between that and 'telling' the reader what the place looks like. Sure you can write 'sun streamed through the window onto the red table below' or 'there was a red table, a window above it and outside it was a sunny day', but neither one is 'showing' or 'telling'. They're told the same way, it's just that one is badly written. Sooooo maaany people read the second one and say to the author 'you need to show, not tell', but the rule doesn't even apply! There is no 'showing' or 'telling' here, it's its own thing altogether, existing outside of your overhyped boxset of 'writing for dummies' rules!

Next week, I talk about how I showed Neil Gaiman my blog and he told me it sucked.

A Collection of Prompts

Last week I said I'd post with some ideas I have for stories set in the world I've been building over the last few weeks. First, though, I thought I'd put out an update on how Ambervale is going.

I've finished Part 1, or at least have it at the point where it can't be improved until the whole story is finished. Even then, the changes will be minimal. Part 2 is approaching a similar place, and Part 3 will be written as soon as I'm comfortable with Part 2's standard. Overall, I feel the story is fairly strong, the prose is solid and the structure is inventive enough to be memorable without being so outlandish as to be awkward or difficult to read. I won't go about posting Part 2 here, not yet.

As far as the new world goes, I have yet to do more on the worldbuilding side of things. The names of things like nations and lands come to me as I write, so that's the place for all that to happen. I've fleshed out each individual magic system, but writing about each will be time-consuming and would ruin some of the intrigue of the story or stories that come out of this world.

The first idea (and keep in mind that these are vague) is as follows:

A young man has always dreamed of being a Priest, but The Protector has never chosen him. Not to be dissuaded, the man goes to study the arts of being a Priest, bluffing his way into the order's school by pretending he has in fact been chosen by The Protector. The Protector, faced with the possibility of having the reputation of his Priests besmirched by this imposter, is forced to teach this man the ways of his magic.

Idea number two is similar, but would instead follow a man obsessed with finding a Chronist or even The Watcher themselves. The adventure takes him to all corners of the world, and what he finds will likely be far from what he expects.

Idea number three takes a different approach. Instead of following a mortal person, it would follow The Former herself as she teaches and nurtures her small number of students. I still need to think of what exactly would happen in this story, but I like the idea of writing from the perspective of a God rather than of a person.

Obviously, the first idea is the most fleshed-out, and would likely be the first to get turned into a novel. Still, it's good to have options, and whatever one I'm not working on actively will sit on the backburner and become more fleshed-out as time goes by.


Now to address the burning question: What does this mean for The New Age of Steam?

Well, The New Age of Steam has not been abandoned. In fact, far from it. The Ambervale story is set in The New Age of Steam universe, and Beyond The Horizon is still my main project as far as novels go. If I complete a story in this new universe, it'll be a long time from now. That said, I may start writing something in this new universe soon. There's no reason I can't have multiple projects on the go at once.

Next week, I recount the story of the time I wrestled a bear in Latvia.

A Brave New World

So I had an idea, but that doesn't mean anything. Writing isn't about ideas, it's about writing. Still, I like this idea, so I'm getting around the aforementioned issue by writing about my idea. See? Clever.

The idea began with the desire to write in a world with magic, ideally with two or even three magic systems (for a challenge, if nothing else). From there I established a mythos of the world, and began to shape it with that as a starting point. This is what I have so far:

The six gods created the world, the product of all their talents

The Former, God of the elements, gave the world pieces of substance
The Maker, God of construction, bound these things together
The Grower, God of nature, gave the world biological creations
The Impeller, God of energy, gave these creations life
The Protector, God of vitality, gave living things the ability to heal and mend
The Watcher, God of time, gave the world the only thing he could; the ability to die

And so the world was. As time went by, men began to favour one God over all others, and began to group themselves with those who were like-minded. The Gods rewarded their followers with a further gift: the gift of magic.

Each God gave their followers a form of magic. The Former gave her followers command over the elements, the Maker gave his followers the ability to bind objects together, the Grower gave his followers the ability to shape the plants and wildlife, the Impeller gave her followers the ability to transfer energy, the Protector gave his followers the ability to heal, and the Watcher gave its followers the ability to control the flow of time. For a while, things were good this way. But all the Gods knew the truth; That this would be short-lived. They had made men too powerful, and so they began to hurt the world. First it was small things, new lakes made to support settlements, giant walls to keep their lands safe. Then the most powerful began to disrupt the lives of thousands, creating constructs of war, turning cities to stone that crumbled at the wind. Then a powerful Chronist stopped time itself.

His intentions were good. He gathered the Gods and brought them out of their growing denial. The world could not continue this way, and the powers of men had to be curbed. But the Gods saw the danger of such a powerful Chronist, and soon they struck him down.

Still, his words worked, and the Gods agreed to limit the magic in the world. Each God must select the men who would wield their magic, and each must lock it in an art of casting that would take time to learn. The world was repaired as best as could be done, and the passage of time was restored. In among this, though, the Watcher fled the world. No-one has seen or heard of them since. No-one even remembers what they looked or sounded like. With them, the Chronists disappeared.


So that's the mythos, and it leaves me with a lot of freedoms and just as many limitations. The net effect is that I have a world with magic, practiced my Arcanists, divided into 6 distinct systems. These systems are roughly as follows:

The Former's magic is practiced by Mages, and a Mage will learn one element at a time with only the most powerful ever learning more than 3, let alone all of them. They are able to use these elements at their will.

The Maker's magic is practiced by Enchanters, and they can bind objects in various ways through the use of glyphs and sigils inscribed onto objects. They are able to construct things like unbreakable buildings.

The Grower's magic is practiced by Shamans, and they can alter the biology of new lifeforms. They are able to do things like grow fruit trees that are harvested year-round.

The Impeller's magic is practiced by Sorcerers, and they are able to transfer energy from one thing to another, or create and destroy energy through the use of complicated diagrams imbued with magic. They would be able to take the heat from a fire and boil a body of water.

The Protector's magic is practiced by Priests, and they are able to heal lifeforms through the use of Hymns. They would be able to heal a cut, cure a cancer and prolong a life, but the Hymns get more complicated as the healed becomes older.

The Watcher's magic is practiced by Chronists. No-one knows what they are able to do, and no-one knows how.

Next week I'll likely be bringing up some of the fledgling ideas I have for stories within this world, and hopefully by then I'll have a name for the place too.

Ambition

It's been another week, and that makes it high time for another update.

School is going well, thank you for asking. It comes with its challenges, but for the most part has been rewarding and, without wanting to sound too up myself, quite a breeze. I expect that to change.

I have more important things to talk about, though. Or at least things that pertain more directly to my writing. I've come across the Writers of the Future competition, and have decided I want to enter. There's 4 'quarters' of it every year, with first, second and third receiving prizes in each of these quarters. There is also a grand winner every year, who receives $5,000. I can't say I feel good about my chances, but maybe I'll surprise myself. If nothing else, I'll get a chance to see how well I stand up to other as-of-yet unpublished authors.

The story I plan on submitting is a bit of an ambitious one. Divided into three parts, it tells a single story by telling the stories around it. Each part focuses on a different character or set of characters, which poses the greatest challenge to me as a writer. In each part, I need to get the reader invested in different people with very few words. I've always struggled writing short stories, which I feel comes from the fact that I struggle to read them, so creating these condensed expositions will be difficult, to say the least.

I won't leave you hanging altogether, so here's the opening of the first part of this currently unnamed entry. Keep in mind that this is simply the first draft, and will be changed and tighened many times before being entered.

PART 1

The Nature of Cities



There are two kinds of cities. Some start out small, a few huts around a coal seam, or a lone mill by a river powerful enough to turn a wheel. From there they grow, like any organism that finds a vital resource. The streets sprawl out like veins, spiderwebbing away from that mill or mine as more come to share in the wealth. Eventually they become thrumming and thriving centres of power. Empires spring up with those cities at their hearts, and they push the world forward through history.

The other kind spring up overnight. If the first kind of city is a railway station then the second kind is a crucial bridge along the line. They appear where they are needed, as struts to support a long road of wealth. The streets are straight and wide, and they span outward from a port or a market. The winding alleys and tumbling suburbs are kept to the outskirts, where the poor come in hoping to find themselves a slice of fortune. Moving inward these people pass through the strata of the city, first through the food markets where the farmers sell to the grocers, then through the lavish suburbs of the bankers and bureaucrats. At last they arrive at the bustling streets of their city's vital organ, where the merchants build their houses so the time spent between home and work is at a minimum.

Ambervale was the second kind, and it was the fifth city Jaxon had lived in. Despite his young age, Jaxon knew the ways of things. He knew how to sneak aboard a ship or caravan to move about the world, he knew the ways to get work in any city, and he knew who and what to avoid. At 14 years of age, Jaxon had long since decided that this knowledge was something he was born with. Every time he left a city, he left behind a dozen friends and two dozen enemies that didn't know these things as well as him.

The sun rose on his third day in Ambervale, and today was the day to make some money lest the soles of his shoes fall out from underneath him. This was only the second time he had been in a city like Ambervale, but he had learned well from his time in Hudson and knew there was only one place he needed to go today: the docks.

Ambervale was a special kind of city, and it was by no coincidence that Jaxon had travelled here. The second kind of city was always new, and Ambervale was the newest. The new flying ships had brought about a new kind of trade. These cities didn't appear down rivers or along coasts anymore, they appeared at the source of the rare and luxurious. If the wealthy were paying hundreds for silk, a city would appear by a silk weaver. If they craved a certain food, a city would be made by the only farm producing it. When they decided they wanted fleets of airships, someone built Ambervale.

The trees hung low over the boulevard as Jaxon made his way to the docks. Anywhere else red leaves would be found underfoot, but in Ambervale they stayed on the trees all year round, stirred loose only by the wind. These leaves let through small shards of sunlight, dappling the white stone streets as morning grew stronger. After the frozen deckplates of Champlain Falls, the warm sun was a welcome change for Jaxon. He ran a hand through his long black hair, sweeping it over his scalp so it hung around the back of his neck. It was the only way he could pass off as anything more than an urchin, and in his time on the streets of many a city he had learned how to play a dozen parts. Today, he was the son of a farmer out to make his own way in the world.

As his steps carried him further down the main street, more people began to join him. At first, it was a few early risers. Real farmers who were coming to town to buy things like new trucks or another acre of land. After them came the crews-for-hire, spilling out of the taverns and inns that lay down side streets. The buzz of business reached his ears, beckoning him toward the end of the road. Docks for airships lacked the smells of those by the water, but they sounded almost exactly the same. All they lacked was the slap of lanyards against masts and the groaning of ropes being strained. Instead was the hum of idling engines, punctuated by the clunk of clamps locking as ships touched down. There was no rhythm or rhyme to it, but to Jaxon's ears it was music. It was the glorious song of a city's heart beating.

He carried on walking until the noise of it surrounded him like a mother embracing a child. In a strange way, this place was safety for him. Nowhere else did he feel more confident that he would end the day with money in his pocket and a warm meal in his belly. Jaxon pricked up his ears, scanning for the crucial words that signalled work. As he listened, he idled his way down the rows of airships. When he saw one approaching, he'd hurry toward the docking bay it was about to land in. Each time he hoped there would be some cargo they'd want unloading, but each time he was too late or just plain unlucky. Still, the day was long and Jaxon was, if nothing else, persistent.

He carried on this way for a good many hours, eventually finding the odd job unloading a box or sending a message to a merchant somewhere. It wasn't enough to make his purse heavy, but by noon he'd earned enough pennies for the night's meal and bed. Not wanting to spend any of it, he pressed on through the encroaching lunchtime hunger. The docks quietened ever so slightly for the hour, but his hard work paid off and he added another two pennies to his stash. When the men came back from lunch he found a few more jobs, earning him another 4 pennies. At 3, a ship came in with passengers. Ferrying someone's luggage uptown to a lavish inn earned Jaxon a further 3 pennies, bringing his total up to 17.

With his luck fully turned, Jaxon afforded himself the luxury of an afternoon off. Instead of scurrying about, hoping to be in the right place when someone yelled 'you boy, come grab this crate', he changed his tactics. Now, he hung back against the stalls on the far side of the docks. It was risky, but if it paid at all it would pay big. You see, from here Jaxon could spot out the traders who came to speak with the shop owners in low, hushed voices. These traders had something important on them, and wanted as few people as possible to know about it. If you could get in the know, you gave them no choice but to include you in their business dealings. The cut might be small, but 8 pennies for one job was still a lot to someone like Jaxon.

With his eyes scanning the long row of stalls, he tuned his ears in to a different kind of conversation. If a trader wandered up to a stall, Jaxon would slink over and slip into the shadows between stalls to eavesdrop. In a few hours the traders would be turning in for the night, waiting till morning to carry on their business. Jaxon's time was short. But he was smart, he knew who might be having a clandestine conversation. Maybe they carried a dagger just under their shirt, or maybe their trousers were just a little too big. Something always gave away who was in for some shady dealing.

Again Jaxon's persistence paid off when he saw a man with a blue band of fabric tied around his cuff. You see, every city has its underbelly, and every underbelly has its factions all vying for control of whatever illegal goods are in demand. These factions didn't like treading on each other's toes, so they marked themselves. Jaxon was too new to Ambervale to know who wore what, but that tiny scrap of blue in that peculiar location marked this trader clearer than if he wore a sign on his front. Whatever this man was here for, it wasn't the selling of fur.

Jaxon slipped through the shadows, ducking through the thinning crowd as he made his way to what he hoped was the trader's destination. At one point, a large greengrocer stumbled into Jaxon's way knocking him over and causing him to lose sight of his mark. After a few panicked moments and an exchange of passing apologies, Jaxon caught the flash of blue in the crowd again. He hurried toward it, seeing the man head for a jeweller's stall a few metres away.

All of a sudden, the man stopped, looking as though he was searching for a friend that wasn't where he was supposed to be. Jaxon stopped, hesitated. Was the man here to meet someone? Perhaps it was wise to back away. Pre-arranged meetings meant crime of a deeper sort, and Jaxon had no wish to get tangled in anything dangerous...