The Good

I've had a lot of bad things to say about how this year has gone. At this point I've all but written it off as a disappointment. I have two projects left, one of which is the major end of year project, and I'm putting everything I have into them in spite of how the year has gone. Still though, I'm unimpressed with a lot of things that have happened at that school.

This post isn't about those things.

The film school I'm going to has a great reputation for making industry-ready graduates, not film buffs. I'd say I'm almost in that boat now. I know my way around a film set and gained some valuable experience in the studio doing things like floor managing. With those two things together, I'd say I could walk on to a film set and do a job. If nothing else, that's what I went to that school to learn how to do.

I've also learned a lot about writing. It's been slow, and unintentional, and far less clearly taught than on other writing-related courses I've been on. But I've still learned. I went in having written some stage plays, which were mediocre, and a few thousand words of fiction (the jury's out on whether it's good or not). I wrote my first film script this year, learning all the ins and outs of how one is structured and what software I could use. That's valuable knowledge, even if it's probably freely available on the internet. Those scripts went into feedback cycles, which were varying degrees of helpful. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but between that first script and the most recent one, there's been a huuuuge improvement. At no point have I gone 'I need to do more of this/less of this', but in any case I've improved.

Let's go more in-depth. That first script was for a 48-hour film festival-style challenge. It essentially wasn't a script. We had so little time that we wrote no dialogue whatsoever. We basically outlined a series of gags, put them in order and blocked and shot them on the day. It came out pretty well for a first script, especially since the piece was the longest we'd done so far by a margin of about 5 minutes (the piece was 6 minutes long).

The next script was for a coffee commercial. It was ok, and the concept was great from a sales point-of-view. It fell apart in the performance. That isn't to say it was the actor's fault, he just did exactly what I asked of him. What went wrong is I didn't realise how the performance would come out on-screen. Thanks to that, I've gained a better sense of how to direct actors and how to get the most readable performance on-screen.

Then we did a short drama piece. That went much better. The performances were great, the shots were good, the pace was decent. All up, it was clear I'd improved. I still wasn't particularly great, but a step up is a step up. Still, there was a lot wrong with the piece. It could have been paced better, it was very dialogue-intensive (more on that in a moment) and there was little variety in the shots. The performances carried the piece (which had been my intention), but that's not something I can get away with on every shoot. Don't just make one part good, make all of them good.

So here's the big one for me, the one I'm on the cusp of cracking. All my scripts had been dialogue-heavy (including the one I didn't get to shoot). Dialogue-heavy isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I was avoiding relying on action and visuals to tell the story because I was unfamiliar with it. I write novels, that's what I'm used to. Films are a visual medium, and if I'm not utilising the visual aspect then what's the point of making a film? I should just write it as a novel.

Our next shoot is again a short drama piece, with the key difference being we're running it like a full-scale production. It's not just crews of 5 or so people, it's the whole school crewing the shoots. The script I've written isn't just a story, it's a film. It's taken me a while to learn the difference.

So what comes next? Well I won't make promises, but I have a pilot script for a webseries in the works. We'll see where that goes...

Back To It

So I've been ill, lazy, distracted and all kinds of other time-consuming things these last few weeks.

Better get back to it then...

Lifebringer is underway once more. Not much has been done, but I've identified what was slowing me down. The characters are currently travelling from one place to another, and by the time they arrive I need to have established some stuff stakes-wise, set up a few things character-wise and kept the progression of these characters moving steadily forward. Thing is, there's no particular time they have to have arrived by. It's not like I'm sitting down going 'in 5 chapters they'll be there, so I need to get this done in 5 chapters.' It's more like 'I need to get this stuff done, but I'm not sure exactly how, so I don't know how long it will take.'

I've heard it said that if you need things to progress, make something happen. Characters tend to not just change for the fuck of it, something external needs to bring about, accelerate or complete that change. So I need to figure out what sort of things need to happen for my characters to grow from where they are to where I want them to be.

I could have them just... arrive. But then they'd be so unprepared, and it'd be a terribly unfulfilling read.

I'll figure it out...

In other news, film school is an ongoing tragedy. After last terms' demoralising grind of studio shows and the hurtful barrage of 'feedback' that accompanied them, I decided I wanted to get a little more out of this term. There's 2 pieces I needed to shoot, and the first fell through. I'm still not even sure why, but at this point there's no use causing friction trying to get to the bottom of it. In the interim, I've missed out on every single other project happening during the term because of what I can only call blatant favouritism.

This is what $10,000 bought me.

I'm really questioning how quickly I'll go into the industry after this year, seeing as I've been fairly soured by my experience so far. Sure, I expect things to be a little different out in the industry (read: less disappointing), but I'll need a break.

So I've been weighing up other options. There's a lot of things I love doing, and a lot of things I'm good at doing, so I've started putting those things together and working out exactly how I can make a career for myself. Because at the end of the day I've put myself on an unconventional path in life, and I shouldn't expect to follow someone else's example in order to reach success. I have to make it for myself.

I'm officially at the point where I get my transport reimbursed when I shoutcast live eSports events. It's not profit, but it's zero-cost. That's a hell of a lot more than I was getting for it last year.

And I've realised writing can take me all sorts of places beyond the 'write-and-publish-a-novel' path. I still want to write and publish novels, but fiction writing skills can get me work doing things like writing for video games.

Now just to go and do it...

The Ongoing Previews

I won't post too much of Lifebringer, especially since it's still rough as hell due to a lack of editing. Still, I'm excited about it, and I want you to be excited about it too.

So here's chapter 4. The previous 3 can be found in the 'Lifebringer' tab here and there.

Just a warning, it's another short one.

Chapter 4

Planned Luck

     Wrin stood stunned, but only for a moment. It had worked, exactly as it should have. At the end of his luck and the beginning of his courage, his masterful plan had worked.

     He stood no longer. Hurrying out of the room, Wrin strode toward the table to check the abandoned ledger left by the first speaker. His guess was it would have some record of who was admitted and who wasn't. But his guess proved wrong as he found it full of administrative details. There were columns of names, names, names. Mothers' names, fathers' names. His name at the bottom. There was nothing else to imply a granting of admission to the Academy.

     Wrin left the table then, heading out the room's second door in the direction of the second chapel. The newly admitted Priests would gather there to say a brief prayer while their families watched from above. This was the plan's biggest danger. For the full 30 seconds of his feigned prayer he would be exposed. If any of the four Priests from the admissions room came to look for him, he'd be caught and the jig would be up. But he had planned for more damage than they could handle in 30 seconds.

     There was a ledger inside the entrance to the chapel. Wrin checked this and saw a list of names all in the same handwriting. Maybe it was intentional, to stop forgery. Or maybe it was just tradition that one man wrote in the ledger. Either way, it wasn't enough to stop Wrin. With no hesitation and showing no signs of cautious penmanship, Wrin wrote his own name in a perfect imitation of the ones above. Wrin smiled to himself. Beside each name was a number, counting upward to eleven. Wrin added the number '12' beside his name.

     Taking a seat shortly after that, Wrin bowed his head and began to count, distorting the shape of his mouth as he did in case anyone turned his way. It would be a stupid thing to be caught for, counting when he should have been praying. The seconds crawled by, and Wrin fought to keep his pace steady as the numbers grew bigger.

     '28, 29, 30'

     Then he rose and strode out the archway opposite to the one he had come through. Here, he assumed, most new students went off instructions they were given as to where dorms were and where they needed to report to. Many would in fact loop around and meet family out front to receive their packed belongings and exchange final hugs. Wrin had nothing to take with him, so he took the direct route. He'd had something the other students hadn't: the Cathedral's blueprints.

     'Where would Khol be now?' he wondered. The thought was matter-of-fact, lacking all remorse.

     He'd still be by the Paladin's quarters, Wrin guessed. Or maybe already wrangled in the arms of a half-dozen Priests. He would have been standing in the hallway, against the wall that separated him from the Paladins, and over the floor that concealed something none of them were meant to know about. He would have placed the charge, counted the seconds, set it, primed it, and run. By the time it went off he would have slipped through a dozen passageways and pipelines, taking the routes the greasemen had opened up. In the end he would have come out behind the fleeing Paladins, right where Wrin should have been standing...

     The dormitory building loomed before Wrin, just off to the side of the outdoor walkway he was walking along. To his left was a well-groomed field of pruned flowers and trimmed grass. It was glorious. He could get used to living here.

     He reached the dorm building, a large grey mass of stone in the same style as the Cathedral. The only difference was the shape. Where the Cathedral was shaped like an even-armed cross with its top all spired and buttressed, the dorms were a long, three-storey rectangle. The adornment was minimal, but still present in a few places. On the front wall was a large window of stained glass. While those inside the Cathedral depicted the great Priests and Paladins of the world, this one was simply the red form of the Protector's cross suspended in a disc of milky white.

     The Academy grounds were enormous, he realised. Sure, he'd seen the blueprints and maps, memorising the layout of buildings sprawled behind the Cathedral. But as with most things it was something else entirely to see it with his own eyes. Those two-dimensional boxes with all their careful lines were real, tangible objects out here. It was awe-inspiring, seeing those diagrams realised. Out behind the dorms would be the lecture halls, and beside that was the Medicum. A long corridor linked that back to the library, and then onward to the Clericum that stood streetside beside the Cathedral. In between them all were massive greens, all adorned with flowers. Way out to the western edge, somewhere on Wrin's left, was the Apothecarium. Why they would need something as crude as herbal remedies in a place like this was beyond him, but nonetheless it constituted the largest apothecarial garden in the Five Nations.

     The dormitory was upon Wrin now, and he was pleased to find the great oaken doors were wide open. Once inside his eyes took a moment to adjust from being in the sunlight, but he already knew this floor anyway. He was in the mess hall, and backing on to that was the study hall and commons. He strode across the mess hall, passing by the kitchens on his left and a series of long tables that could sit 24 men each on his right. Passing through another open door, he emerged into the common room.

     He stopped for a moment, taking in the lavish comforts of the room. There were two long tables for study, not unlike those in the mess hall. They were behind a partition that seemed all too thin to damped the noise from the commons. The common space itself was adorned with couches and chairs of bright red velvet, framed by a fine, varnished white wood. The colours of the Protector. All around there was enough to seat maybe 30 people in each area, far less than what the mess hall could accommodate.

     At the far end of the common room was a staircase. Up these stairs would be the dormitory floor, and above that was a series of private rooms for studying when one needed isolation. Wrin had seen that floor on the blueprints, had seen 30 spaces all surrounded by paper-thin walls. What people needed to study in that room was a mystery to him. But then, that's why he'd come here, to learn things like what that room was for.

     Wrin climbed the stairs and exited them on the dorm floor. There were beds, again about 30. A heavy-looking trunk lay at the foot of each bed, and simple wooden desk sat beside them. On each desk was a lamp, but they looked nothing like the tickers Wrin was used to.

     "Afternoon." came a voice from beside him, startling Wrin. He suppressed a frightened jump. He was better than that sort of thing.

     "And yourself." said Wrin all cordial, turning to face the voice.

     It belonged to a boy who looked about the same age as him. His hair was a sandy blonde and his face was clean shaven.

     "Lorsem, but call me Lor." he said, extending a hand.

     "Wrin, short for Wrinlett." Wrin replied, taking the hand in a firm shake, "I wasn't expecting anyone else to be here."

     "Neither," said Lor, "but then I'm always willing to make a friend."

     'This fucks up everything...' thought Wrin. No-one was meant to see him just yet. All the other students were supposed to be off fetching belongings so they could move in.

     "You've moved in already?" Wrin asked.

     "Wasn't much to move, all told. Looks like you're about the same." said Lor with a dripping smile.

     This was it, the one tiny thing that could unravel all his plans. Here Wrin could no longer play the game, now he had to play the man. He was good at it normally, but this time the stakes were higher. This time he actually wanted something.

     "Listen, Lor," Wrin began. There was something crucial Lor had said, a broadcast of weakness. Friend. "I need to go clean myself up." Wrin motioned to his beard and scruffy hair. "Don't tell anyone you saw me like this, yeah? You'd do that for a friend?"

     Wrin's eyes were soft as they'd go, practically begging for sympathy. Inside, Wrin smiled as he watched Lor's face light up.

     "Sure thing! I know how it can be, looking all odds and ends!" he proclaimed with a grin.

     Wrin replied with a smile that creased the corners of his eyes. He'd long since learned that creasing the eyes made you look kind and honest.

     "Thanks." he said, keeping his smile as he turned and left the dorm.

     As he headed for the washroom his smile changed. Normally he wouldn't risk giving himself away, but here alone on the landing he indulged himself. His eyes uncreased, his cheeks rose and his smile pulled inwards on his jowls. Crosses Lor was easy.

     At the top of the landing, right by the stairs, was the door to a washroom. It was in here that Wrin procured the only belongings he'd taken with him: a straight-edge razor and a small pair of scissors. Standing over one of the sinks in the row of washbasins, he looked into the reflective glass and brought the razor to his cheek. For a moment he mimed the motion of shaving, making sure his hands would stay steady. Then he filled the basin with water, splashed it on his face a few times and began to cut away his great bushy beard.

     When he left the bathroom his face was clean and his hair was short and neatly trimmed.

     "Crosses! You look like a whole new man!" exclaimed Lor as Wrin came through the door.

     "Yes, and no-one can know what I used to look like." Wrin said again, voice stern but not chiding.

     Lor mimed a zipping motion across his lips, and Wrin turned from him and headed down the room. He made for a bed down the far end, on the inside of the stained glass window. Kicking off his beaten up shoes, he lay on the bed and started at the ceiling. In truth, he had nothing to do until the commotion over in the Cathedral was sorted, and he had no choice but to hope he didn't end up implicated in the whole affair. Maybe he should go back and talk with Lor for a while, he had nothing else to do now that he'd claimed a bed.

     Just as he was thinking it, Lor piped up.

     "So what brings you here?" said Lor, already on his feet and wandering over to Wrin.

     There was a good chance Lor could become a nuisance, but he was at least earnest and friendly, Wrin decided.

     "Same reason as anyone I guess." Wrin replied, turning to face Lor so as to not seem dismissive. Lor nodded his head, taking a seat on the bed opposite Wrin.

     "I had an uncle become a Priest, and he'd always been my grandfather's favourite because of it." said Lor. Wrin didn't make any expression of disgust, but Lor continued with, "It's mean to say, but it's true."

     Wrin raised his eyebrows, as if to say 'fair enough'. He didn't make a response though, so Lor continued. "My dad resented me for my gifts, I think. He kicked me out when I told him, and it's taken me two years to get here and enrol."

     As he spoke, his eyes looked away and his head bowed a little. It was slight, but Wrin knew how to read a man like a book. Lor was hurt, deeply.

     "That's terrible." said Wrin.

     And it was. That didn't mean Wrin felt bad for Lor, mind. If he knew the first thing about what Wrin had been through he'd probably cry. All the same, Lor's tale was unfortunate.

     "But really, what about you? Why act on the gift and learn to be a Priest? Protector knows we all had a choice when he chose us." asked Lor, all the sadness gone from his voice as though it had never been there.

     Wrin paused for a bit, meeting Lor's eyes at first, then looking away.

     "I don't know, I guess I've just always wanted to be one." said Wrin.

     And it was the first honest thing he'd said all day.

A Review: Leviathan

Alright, another review.

This is one I picked up a fair while ago. Whitcoulls had overstocked themselves with this book, and were literally stacking it on the stairwells with $5 price stickers. I bought it, I read it, I regretted it. I didn't finish the sequel.

Scott Westerfeld, the book's author, was already well-known for his 'Uglies' trilogy (and the 'Specials' standalone). I enjoyed his work immensly there, and figured I'd enjoy this series just as much, if not a little moreso due to its notoriously Steampunk-y world. He's a good, reputable author, there's no denying that.

Leviathan follows Alek, prince to an empire about to be thrown into war with his father's assassination, and Deryn, a young girl desperate to join the British Air Service even though only men are allowed. So of course, Deryn pretends to be a boy.

For a male author, Westerfeld seems to have little to no knowledge of how boys act. Sure, that might be the point, given that Deryn doesn't really know how boys act either, but if her act is bad then wouldn't she be found out right away? So yes, the book started with plausibility going down the toilet for me. And holy hell was she annoying. There's nothing worse than an annoying protagonist. I don't like her motivations, I don't like her actions and I don't like her internal dialogue.

Alek, on the other hand, ruins everything. His parents are killed and he is escorted away by very capable men with a very sophisticated contingency plan, which Alek consistently ruins. Sure, his 'ruining' the plan saves everyone on Deryn's air-whale-ship-bullshit in the end but in truth the whole thing just didn't fly for me. Yes, story endings are often on the 'convenient' side, and the protagonist doing things wrong will often be proven right in the long run, but at the end of the day I simply can't get behind Alek's actions. Even if the thing he does at the end is good, up until that point all he's really done is potentially jeopardised his safety. In fact, he does exactly that at the end too, only he gets away with it so we're meant to sit there and accept that it was the right thing to do.

Criticisms of character aside, the premise of the world is an interesting one. The Allies (pre-WWI), called 'Darwinists', use genetically engineered creatures as their 'military machines' while the other side of things (Clankers) use actual machines (namely giant walkers). Westerfeld does a good job of building lots of detail into the world, giving the reader a good sense of depth to things. It's immersive, and (somewhat) plausible, so on this front the book does fairly well. I still didn't like it, but that's on me this time.

I dunno, I just find the idea of salamanders crawling through a system of tubes built inside a flying whale kinda gross. Oh and the stuff about metal deckplates on the whale's innards is gross too.

Actually the entire execution of the 'Darwinist' creatures is really really off-putting if you put a moment's thought into it...

Normally books get away with that by being so gripping that you don't get a moment to think about it, or so good that you don't care about things like that. But Scott, the characters were terrible and vastly unlikeable, what did you expect me to focus on?

The ending is 100% what you'd expect, if you assume everyone thinks like a selfless but naiive 12-year-old. It's okay.

Oh and why the hell does Deryn act like she's fucking 10? She's a 15-year-old, pretending to be a 16-year-old.

Also, no book should include the phrase 'bum-rag full of clart'.


I said in my first ever review that I wouldn't give a numerical rating. I'm sticking to that principle You might like this book, but I didn't, and I got through 'Finnegan's Wake' dammit!

Another!

This may contain spoilers...

Or it may not...

Never trust someone over the internet...

I think Lifebringer should become a series. Granted, I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, but I really do think Lifebringer should be one of a series of books. I've been thinking about this for a while now actually, and I have a few ideas about how I'd extend this into a series.

Option A is to have further stories following Wrinlett. The upshot is it makes the series more cohesive, and it would have an indeterminate length as the series would essentially be 'how many stories of Wrin are there to tell?'

Option B is what I'm leaning more toward, which would have 6 books, each concerning a practicer of one of the world's 6 kinds of magic. The issue is this series could feel less cohesive, as essentially the only similarities between books would be the world itself. I might not even want to set pieces in the same time period as one another. Also, after a while I feel it would become a little formulaic. If the intention is to have 6 books, each following someone who does something significant, the reader is going to know that the character will do something significant. This, I feel, would make it difficult to have twists and turns, and may make otherwise good stories a little boring purely because the reader (loosely) knows how it's going to end. Granted, that's all a challenge I need to overcome. The issue is I'm not sure I can overcome it. At least not for 6 books.

I could trim Option B down to less than 6 books, but that seems a little pointless really. That would leave an incomplete set in my opinion. It's like if the Harry Potter series skipped out every other year. Or like writing a songs about Earth, Air and Fire while missing out water. The series would naturally fall as being 6 books under this structure.

So how do I tackle this problem? How do I make 6 whole stories that are interesting, exciting, engaging and let's be honest, readable when the premise gives massive hints at any given ending? You'd pick up a book, get introduced to a character, and sit there knowing that by the end they would have done something significant. I can't fake out and have them not do something significant or I debase the premise of the series. I can't stick to the formula because that makes something boring.

Ah well, I'll come up with something...

A Week Well Wasted

I feel again like I've done a whole lot of nothing.

Only I haven't.

Ok, sure, I haven't done heaps, but this week I've got a lot more done than I have in recent months. I've been sick as a dog all week, yet I still managed to get my shit together for a shoot on Thursday (which came out real nice) and managed to get the ball rolling on Lifebringer again (which now stands at 50,000 words). It's not been a lot, but it's been progress.

It's really hard to remember in the harder times how much work I have done in the past. I can sit there feeling what what I've written is crap, but I have to remind  myself that a) it's only a draft and b) I'm still learning to write books. It's so easy to forget those things and get myself down. It's easy to make no progress and beat myself up over it. It's easy to fall into a slump and not have the patience or energy to get out of it.

I've been in a slump, and I'm hoping that this last week means I'm on my way out of it.

Thing is, for the longest time I was getting frustrated that I wasn't doing any work on Lifebringer, or any other of my projects for that matter. In truth, it's okay to not get anything done if I'm not able to get myself working. I could force myself to write 500 words, hate the process, hate the words and frustrate myself with having to edit them later. Or I could just wait. I could wait until I can write 2,000 words, and have them be better than if I'd forced them.

Now yes, this says some things about work ethic. But I'm not saying 'it's ok to slack off and not try', I'm just saying it's ok to stop if trying hard is yielding nothing. I'm not working to a deadline here. I'm not under any contracts. I've got other stuff in my life and I'm allowed to let my writing sit idle for a time if I so please. What I'm not allowed to do, at least if I want to be taking myself seriously, is stop trying. It's important to keep myself 'in practice', if you will. And that means sitting the fuck down and trying to get some work done from time to time. Or writing a short one-off piece just to keep my skills sharp

So that's what I've done this week. I've been legitimately slacking off, and I'm done getting down on myself about it. So now I'm making myself try and write, even if I end up deleting all the words after an hour. It's paid off this week in the form of another chapter of Lifebringer, and my hope is that before long it'll yield greater and greater returns.

And if it doesn't, then at least I can be satisfied that I'm trying. The alternative sucks.

A Lack Thereof

I'm talking about motivation.

I feel inadequate. I'll be honest, dear reader, most of my viewership for this blog is people I know personally, so this is far from easy to say.

I've sunk 10 grand into a film course that I'm enjoying, but I'm constantly left feeling like I'm not good enough, and not in the sort of way that makes me motivated to improve. Every script I come up with is criticised, and more recently I've been made to feel guilty for being comfortable with the work I produce. Hot damn, teach, I'm learning here. These are the first film scripts I've ever worked on, let me feel good for making a start god dammit.

The presenting work sounded like fun, like a way to add legitimacy to a skill I've already nurtured through shoutcasting. And hey, much like going to film school to expand on my writing skillset I figured taking this extra class could help me expand my presenting skillset. It has done just that, to some extent, but it's been at the cost of the other skills I went to film school to gain. I've been shirked on other in-studio roles during the term's three studio shows (save for the most recent, where I was able to take someone else's Assistant Floor Manager role). The tutor is clearly very skilled and very knowledgeable, but he's a poor teacher. Frankly, it's been innate skill that's steered me through that class so far (yes, I know, tooting my own horn...)

Then there's the feedback. I'm perpetually unimpressed. I've been grilled by rude tutors over things that aren't my doing. I've been subject to personal attacks by teachers in front of peers during spiels devoid of all useful critique. I've been told to do nothing but work harder, without being given any further guidance or an avenue to gain guidance.

Put simply, I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in myself for the low quality of work I've produced. I'm disappointed in my lack of motivation. I'm disappointed in my education so far and my seeming inability to make the most of it. Thousands of people have been through that school, and they boast an 80% employment rate for graduates. What's so wrong with me that I'm struggling?

It gets a guy down, and it's hard to get back up.

Slacker

Yep, I'm a slacker. I didn't post anything this Wednesday. I might as well hang up the towel after that.

Anyway, here's (unedited) chapter 3 of Lifebringer, because in all honesty I have nothing new to say about anything this week.

Hell, it's not even a long chapter. I'm the worst content creator this side of Treyarch.

Slacker indeed.

Chapter 3

Admissions

     This corridor was much like the first, only shorter and festooned with twice as many banners. In a way, it was like a concentrated version of the other one. It wasn't what Wrin had expected, but then when he thought about it he wasn't sure quite what he had expected.

     The corridor ended in an archway like every other in the Cathedral, but the room beyond was nothing like the rest of the building. It was still wrought from stone, but it was simple, utilitarian. There were no banners, no frescoes, no stained glass. The only decoration was a single brazier burning in the centre of the room. At the far end of the room was a table with three men sat behind it. A fourth, the one who had fetched Wrin from the chapel, joined them now. The room was very different indeed, but it matched exactly the floor plans Wrin had studied.

     "Wrinlett Leeve. Who is your father?" said the leftmost Clergyman.

     "His name was Tijun." Wrin replied, voice clear but quiet. He didn't exactly want the Priests to pity him, but the less they thought of him the easier he would slip about unnoticed.

     "Mother?" he continued.

     "Gloria." said Wrin.

     "Were either Blessed? asked the man.

     "No."

     That seemed to be all his questions. He scribbled in a ledger that sat in front of him, then turned to the man beside him.

     If Wrin thought he was nervous before, he'd been dead wrong. All at once a wave of nausea washed over him. Here he was, after all these years, standing in the interview room for admissions. He'd made all his plans, and everything should be perfect, but there was always that shadow of doubt. For a split second, that shadow consumed him, made him dizzy and blurred his vision.

     But he didn't show it. Oh no, Wrinlett Leeve was too good at what he did to slip up like that. It would work, everything had always worked, because Wrin was hard working and smart. That put him ahead of most, and his easy charm put him ahead of the rest. He could handle admissions. He'd made the plan, it would work.

     "Wrinlett." said the second man along the table. His head was balding, and what hair was left had long since gone white, but there was a youthful wiliness about him.

     Wrinlett kept his attention on the man, as he had from the moment the first man stopped.

     "As you should know, this is not a place for those chasing fanciful notions of wielding secret magics. Here you might learn to heal the sick and wounded, should you work at it. This is more a school of medicine than a school of the arcane. That said, in learning here you will be taught the ways of the Hymns, which you will use in the service of the Priesthood to heal, and not for personal gain."

     Wrin started to sweat, but not on his face. He never seemed to sweat where others could see. A useful trait, as one could imagine. The plan should have been in action long ago, though. Where was his interruption?

     "Wrin, I will now have you recite the words, given to you by the Protector himself, and you will sing his First Hymn."

     This was it, the crux of the con. Here planning blended with luck and lies, and in a few seconds he would be running on fumes. But he had timed it, it should happen any minute now...

     Wrin opened his mouth. He spoke the first word, a word he had no business knowing. A word he had stolen from an unwilling tongue.

     Then it happened. A crash, a cry, an almighty boom. The four men at the table stood up in alarm. One spared him a momentary glance, but said nothing as they all ran from the room. Their bodies spoke of urgency and practiced calm, of a rise to the call of duty.

     And Wrin was alone.

     It had worked.

Hit The Books

I've realised something recently. Granted I realise new things all the time, like yesterday when I realised my manboobs are big enough to make convincing cleavage if I tape them together the right way.

The thing I want to talk about though is how much university sucks if you like reading.

Some of my readers probably already know about my ill-fated stint at university. In fact it was upon dropping out that I started this blog to help encourage my writing. While at university, my time was taken up by nothing but university. Or at least in theory it was... In truth my time was taken up by video games and food. But I digress...

For the average student who is interested in passing papers, the bulk of your time is taken up by university. I don't mean to say that every waking moment is study, study, study. But certainly when you're not at university, or travelling to and from school, or working on assignments, you're still thinking about university. Every moment is pervaded by thoughts of study. If you're at your evening job, you're thinking about how early you need to wake up for class tomorrow. If you're at a party, you're thinking about the assignment due next week. If you've just finished exams, you're thinking about applying for nest semester's papers. University is your life while you're there.

You know all this when you apply to a university. You start studying there knowing how much of your time and life it will take up. That's fine, that's part of it. And yes, you don't spend every single second thinking about university. There is down-time. The problem is, reading comes in pretty low on the list of 'down-time activities', so when your downtime is really limited, you tend to end up not reading.

For 4 years.

I of course can't speak for everyone, but I know for a fact I started reading a hell of a lot more when I dropped out of university. In fact, I was amazed that when I came home from work and sat down to play a game or whatever, I didn't feel guilty at all. I was so used to sitting there, knowing there was some other work that still needed doing. I was gobsmacked at how much time I now had. Most of my friends are finishing their degrees now and they're going through the same experience. By extension, a lot of them have started reading again.

I also know plenty of people who read while they were at uni, so don't take this as me saying 'students don't have time to read'. Some do, most don't. And those that do still tend to read less than they would have were they not studying. In truth I fall into this category. I was still reading during the year and a half I was at university, it's just that in that time I read maybe 3-4 books in total. By comparison, I've read about 10 books so far this year. Yes I'm a slow reader.


My question, therefore, is how does this phenomenon affect publishers? More people than ever are going to university, often for 4 or more years. That's a massive chunk of the population. It's the bridge between 'Young Adult' and 'Adult fiction'. It's a demographic writers will struggle to write for, simply because so few will ever read what's out there for them. Publishers will be loathe to publish books for this age group, simply because there's too few buyers. Retailers won't stock those sorts of books, because they'll just waste space.

And the group that loses out is the writers.

As always.

A Lot of Nothing

Yep, I've been doing a whole lot of nothing lately. Or at least nothing in terms of my ongoing projects. What I have been doing is a lot of scriptwork and, well, taking time off. Allow me to elaborate.

I'm exhausted. Lifebringer has slowed down, and I need time to ruminate on it before I can comfortably move forward. Such is the way with projects sometimes. Maiden Voyage has gone unedited since receiving my (first) rejection letter. Ambervale still needs a Part 3, and then there's a whole load of work to be done editing-wise. Beyond the Horizon is also lying in wait for other projects to wrap up, and has been for some time. I'm not really working on much of anything right now, save for schoolwork.

So why am I exhausted?

Well, in the simplest terms I did a lot of work (relatively speaking) in a very short amount of time. In the space of about 4 months I wrote 50,000 words of Lifebringer, edited all 65,000 words of Maiden Voyage, wrote 20,000 words of Beyond the Horizon and wrote 10,000 words of Ambervale. This all on top of starting a new qualification in a totally different field to what I've previously worked in. I need to recharge the batteries.

And that's fine.

For the first week or so of getting nothing done, I was seriously beating myself up over my lack of progress. I hated that I hadn't touched Lifebringer, or revisited Maiden Voyage, or even so much as written a 500 word piece. I hated that I wasn't making progress, even though I had no motivation to write.

Then I got off my own back, and I realised I'm allowed to take a break if I need one. No-one is paying me to do this. I'm under no contracts, have signed no deals and am not leaving any fans hanging. If other things get busy and the writing falls by the wayside that's fine. If I just need some quieter months where I'm not working at my limits every day that's fine. If I need to put more mental energy into learning the new form of writing my chosen qualification requires that's fine.

I'm doing fine. I'm allowed to take time off.

I realised a while ago that one of the things I love about writing and the idea of doing it for (most of) a living is that there will be times when I can just stop. I don't have to call a manager, I don't have to get a doctor's note. I can just go. I was driving to school, headed northward, and I realised that if I really wanted, I could just keep driving. I could drive until I reached my family's beach house, and I could just pause everything and stay there a few days. I want to always have that option, because sometimes I need something like that.

Maybe that makes me privileged. Thing is, with how hard I work when I'm going full-pelt, I think that's a privilege I've very well earned.

Or maybe it's not.

Who's to say?

So what have I been doing in my idle moments? Playing Roller Coaster Tycoon. It's a great game, and you can buy it on Steam for around $7. It was mostly made by one guy, and the code is robust as hell. My girlfriend runs it on Windows 8. Seriously, go pick that game up...

Fictional Fans

I should stop forcing puns into my titles...


So I don't like fanfiction. Don't read it, don't write it, don't like it. It's never done it for me. I don't have a problem with it, and if you're a fan of fanfiction all power to you, but to me it just feels chronically unsatisfying.

It's one of those things that follows Sturgeon's Law. 90% of Fanfiction is crap, but the other 10% is good enough to make wading through the crap worth it. Only thing is, that 10% is incredibly elusive. Why? Because there's literal years worth of fanfiction out there. Sure, there are ways to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were, but the truth is, I'd rather just read a professionally written book.

Yep, there it is. I prefer paid professionals to amateur aspiring authors.

Oh god even I hated that sentence...

In all seriousness though, it's the same reason I'd rather watch Raging Bull than my friend's short film about boxing. Maybe my friend is the next Martin Scorsese, and I think it's great he's nurturing his talent and increasing his skillset, I just don't want to spend my time watching his baby steps.

Maybe that makes me a bad person.

Thing is, fanfiction is good. It's a healthy thing for aspiring writers. It allows you to work on very specific things while you improve your writing. You can avoid things like needing to come up with new characters (so you can focus on plot) or coming up with original plots (so you can focus on prose). It's a way for writers to develop their skill while contributing to a fandom they're passionate about. That's cool. Go them.

Still doesn't do it for me.

I think part of that comes from the fact that a lot of fanfiction is really wish-fulfillment. Once that wish has been fulfilled, the writer stops bothering. Moreover, their intention isn't to improve, it's just to write that thing they wanted the book to do. In that case, you might as well save time and just imagine that thing happening instead. You can do that in seconds. Writing takes a lot more time than that...

There's also that part of fanfiction that's really self-congratulatory. I get why people write the wish-fulfillment stuff. It's because they want to see it and they know how much they wish someone else would write it, so they write it to cater to everyone else that wants to see it. Thing is, those people then get to see the thing they want and then they walk away from it. The only feedback is 'Yes, finally, someone wrote it. I've wanted to read this so bad for so long.' The writer walks away feeling good, even if what they wrote was a total mess.

That being said, everyone in that exchange enjoyed themselves. The writer got to feel good about their writing (deservedly or otherwise), the reader got to see the thing they wanted to see and the copyright owner got to add another one to the 'sue for retirement fund' file.

Maybe it's the inherent lack of improvement that bothers me. It's not so much the fanfiction, it's the people writing it. I think you have the right to do whatever you want, and you're more than welcome to call yourself what you want, but I reserve the right to think that title is undeserved. If I unclog my toilet, I won't be introducing myself as a plumber to everyone I meet. By extension, I don't think writing fanfiction qualifies you as an author.

Lots of authors have written fanfiction. The difference between them then, when they wrote fanfiction, and them now, when they're published, career-writers, is improvement. Authors moved away from fanfiction once they'd learned what they needed, and started writing their own things, where nothing came pre-built.

To top it all off, you don't have to use fanfiction to learn those skills. It's just one way of many. For every author who started with fanfiction, there's another that didn't.

Keep writing fanfiction. Keep doing what you love. Don't let me discourage you. Just be aware of what it is you're doing, and be honest with whether that makes you an author, or just someone who writes. Because the truth is, everyone writes, but only a few of us will shake a new hand and say 'Hi, I'm Roger and I'm a writer.'



Ok yes I'm still salty about Fifty Shades of Gray...

A Review: Not Forgetting The Whale

This month I'll be reviewing a book I picked up, surprisingly enough, from Whitcoulls. In a last-ditch attempt to 'sell discovery' a few months back they started up something called 'Joan's Picks'. Joan is, apparently, their head buyer. The book is John Ironmonger's 'Not Forgetting The Whale'.

Previously J W Ironmonger, and not to be confused with Australian footballer John Ironmonger, John Ironmonger is known for his book 'The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder'. Said book was shortlisted for the Costa 'First Novel' Prize and The Guardian's 'Not The Booker Prize'.

Not Forgetting The Whale follows Jonas 'Joe' Haak, a stock analyst from the big city of London. Early one morning, he casts himself into the waves at St Piran in Cornwall, only to be brought back to shore by a fin whale. The combination of naked Joe and the rare whale sighting leave the town deeply stirred. Soon after his recovery, we find Joe has fled impending societal collapse, a collapse predicted by a computer simulation he programmed. He fast makes it his mission to save this quaint seaside town from the end of the world.

John Ironmonger has made my 'recipe list' with this book, joining authors like Patrick Rothfuss and F. Scott Fitzgerald. The list contains names of authors from whom I would purchase a recipe, should they ever write one, just to enjoy the prose. 'Not Forgetting The Whale' is excellently written, painting equally vivid images of smalltown St Piran and the bustling trading floors of London's financial sector, often in the same page. We care for characters that get little more than a name. We can smell the salty air of the Atlantic Ocean as we open the pages, It's like the writing Olympics, and Ironmonger took home gold and the world record with it.

The book appeals to all readers above 'children' level. There are arguably some 'adult' themes, but nothing more lewd than the mention of unmentionables. The arc of the story deals with some heavy, semi-existential subject matter, but ultimately comes out on the side of positivity. It's not like 'Requiem For A Dream' where you'll be left feeling dead inside for the rest of the week. In fact, as Joe undergoes a series of trials and tribulations to save the town, we get to watch as the people pull through time and time again, coming to the aid of first him, and then each other. If anything, the story feels almost biblical, thematically speaking.

The ending is, in a way, predictable. Foreseeable. But the satisfying thing is it's exactly the end we foresee as a reader, because we are humans and not computer programs.

I recommend this book as one of Pixie's Picks.

What I'm Worth

I had an interesting thought lately. Been a while, I know.

I often read people proclaiming that I, as a writer, should not 'sell myself short'. They decree that I must only accept payment reflective of what I'm worth. That if I offer myself or accept work for free I'm discrediting myself and being taken advantage of.

I see the wisdom in this advice, and don't get me wrong I'm keen to make money off this stuff, but I can't help but ultimately disagree.

Thing is, it's a competitive market. And it's a seller's market. There are more writers than there are jobs. There's more books than there are book deals. Sure, indie publishers and content creator-driven enterprises are bridging that gap. But they'll never bridge it completely, because not everyone who can write has the time or energy to market their own book or run their own business. Even then, the returns are even less guaranteed with these forms. You might even be doing more work for no money.

I might want to do something for free to promote myself. Hell, this blog is me constantly putting out free content in the interest of developing my skills as a writer while slowly building an audience. That's normal. In fact, it's encouraged by many established authors to actively promote yourself by submitting writing to contests and making content publicly available for free. Pretty normal stuff.

Now yes, there's a difference between writing for my own self-interest and making no money and writing for an employer and making no money. The problem is, the line between 'employer' and 'publication to promote yourself through' is often very, very thin. Say I submit to a low-budget magazine that is someone's side project and barely makes enough money to cover its printing costs. Should I demand payment from them? Hell no. I go into that sort of arrangement expecting to not get paid.

Many will argue that by going into that arrangement I'm selling myself short and not valuing my skillset, and that may be true, but it's still my choice.

I think I'm worth a fair amount, but that doesn't mean every sentence needs to be making money. Sometimes, I just like to write for fun.

Whitcoulls: An Apology

Many of you will have already seen my post last week about Whitcoulls closing their largest store. I will admit, it was a little vitriolic. I was impassioned, and passion drives men to do rash things. I also had an experience that changed my life while entombed in the half-bare shelves of your flagship store, and so I feel it's time for an apology, Whitcoulls.

I'm sorry for saying you had nothing I wanted to buy. It turned out you had exactly two books I wanted to buy, which is more than I had ever hoped for. To say I am pleased would be an understatement. I am awed, and I am humbled. Your gracious stocking of two bestselling fantasy books was a blessing indeed to genre fans like myself. There are millions of us, and to have our voices heard by your bankrupt ears was nothing short of magnificent. Moreover, the fact that these were the only two books on that otherwise empty shelf made me feel, dare I say it, special. It was as though these books were meant for me and only me, like a light had shone down from the heavens to part the shelves of clearance-price romance and reveal those two tomes, nestled on a naked shelf.

I'm sorry for insinuating your prices are too high. I said you couldn't compete with the online market, but I was wrong. I snatched up those books and hurried to the counter, joyed that I did not have to wait two weeks after my purchase to read them. My steps resonated in the spacious cavity of your three-storey shop, echoing against the elegant, barren walls. At the counter, I paid exactly $30 for these two thick paperback blessings. 'What a bargain!' I proclaimed to the ghostly attendant stood behind the counter. The markdowns were proof that you wanted readers like me to buy from you. And Whitcoulls, I answered your call. Like a phone-sold cold call target buying into shares, I was thrilled by thoughts of money well spent. It was ecstasy, having spare cash upon leaving your hallowed doors.

But like an invester in a property bubble, I knew it couldn't last.

I have the full trilogy of Brandon Sanderson's 'Mistborn' books, and afterward I had money left for a doughnut. Such luxury you have allowed me! As the sweet, sugary crumbs rolled down my chin I savoured the moment, quashing thoughts that, inevitably, this indulgence would end. Your doors would close, and I would no more be able to afford such thick stacks of paper. In fact, I would likely never see them on your shelves again.

Whitcoulls, without you this afternoon of sheer robbery would have been impossible. I have plundered your sinking ship, and for that I am thankful.

Sorry Whitcoulls, you were right, closing your doors was a good idea.

Denied

I'm unwell right now, so sorry if this post seems a bit off. It's the pseudoephedrine doing it's thing.

You know, we can make methamphetamine, a Class A drug, with pseudoephedrine. Imagine the sort of drugs we could make with real ephedrine...

Anyway, I received my first rejection letter this week. Maiden Voyage was described as 'unpublishable' (in its current state) and full of telling, not showing.

I couldn't be more excited.

I got some amazing feedback from the publisher, and it was honest as hell. Easily the most honest feedback I've ever received. That's such a refreshing thing for me to get. It was constructive, detailed and about as polite as a rejection letter can be.

After reading I was left with an amazing sense of accomplishment, and filled with an emboldening fire to do better work. Thing is, they told me pretty much exactly what I need to do to be a better writer, and when I looked at it, it was all stuff I could do. I could do it easily. It was just a matter of doing it, of learning the habit. How lucky am I to get that sort of feedback?

On top of that, there's a sense of legitimacy to being rejected. It's not that just about every successful author gets rejected to begin with, even though that's true. It's not about being 'part of a club' or anything like that. It's the fact that I put myself out there. Moreover, I put my work out there. Up until now, I've called myself a writer, I've considered myself a writer and I've talked about myself as a writer. Having been rejected by a publisher, I'm left with a sense of having walked the walk. I'm putting my money where my mouth is, and I intend on carrying on that way. It's one thing to call myself a writer, it's another thing entirely to try and get published. I can take myself as seriously as I like, but there's a difference between that and proving to others that you're serious.

We've all me the guy who goes around proclaiming some form of artistry that they're 'just really into, like, it's practically my life'. And we all know them for the fraud they are. They wouldn't dare try make a living off what they do, because in truth they don't really do that thing. That sort of person wouldn't even get as far as being rejected, and if you asked them about it they'd say something like 'the publishers are all just vicious. It's a racket' or somesuch conspiratorial statement.

I'm not that person. Provably so.

That's a good feeling.

Boy Do I Love Milestones

Pretty simple midweek update. Lifebringer has hit 200 pages and 40,000 words. Still got a fair way to go though...

In other news, the main inner city bookseller, Whitcoulls, is closing their doors. After a series of rough years and a total failure to so much as try and get it right, they're shutting their largest store. The company isn't going under, but when all the other locations sell board games, greeting cards and 17 of the Top 50 bestsellers, it certainly feels like they're on their last legs.

Whitcoulls, I'll let you in on a little secret. If I want to buy a board game, I'll go to a fucking specialty board game store. Same with greeting cards. You know where I go to buy books? The bookseller. You know what you are? A bookseller. You know what you need to sell? SOME FUCKING BOOKS.

Take the Hunger Games off the 'Top 50' shelves already, it's been there for 3 years. Give some other books the chance to shine. Trim down the 'generic crime thriller' section, and can the whole 'bestseller' isle. You're losing out to the online market, and that's because they're selling all those things for $20 cheaper than you.

You know what your point of differentiation is? Immediacy. That's right, you bitch and whinge that we're the 'instant generation' and have forgot to cash in on exactly that tendency. When I pay the extra money to buy a book from you, I'm not paying for a book, I'm paying for the convenience of having it straight away. When I order from the Book Depository it'll take a month to arrive, if it arrives at all. When I order from Amazon, I pay $30 in handling fees. And that's before shipping costs. I want to buy some goddamn books, and I want to hold them in my hand, and read them on the bus home.

You know why I don't buy from you? Because you don't stock anything I want to read. All the Jeffrey Archer, and Patricia Cornwell, and Dan Brown, and Clive Cussler. That's the shit people are buying online. They know those names. They don't need to see them on a shelf to be reminded of their existence. People will go buy those books where they're cheapest, and that place isn't your bookstores.

I've spent 5 months looking for a copy of Ernest Cline's 'Ready Player One' and Andy Weir's 'The Martian'. You don't stock them. At all. Not one copy. I've finally relented and paid $60 to have them both shipped to me, and it'll take 2 weeks for them to get here.

Bookstores aren't about buying what you know, or buying the latest 'bestseller', they're about discovery. Discovery, and niche markets. When I walk into a bookstore, I want to find something I would have never heard of otherwise. When did you stop delivering that? And for fuck's sake, why?

Hire a team of buyers for each genre, even each sub-genre. Have them buy stuff a little more off the beaten track. Have them be your quality control for indie books. Have them find stuff that isn't Dan Brown, or 'the next Dan Brown!', or 'praised by Dan Brown!'. Have them find books the rest of us never would without them.

Oh and when you only have 10 shelves for Fantasy and Sci-Fi, A Song of Ice and Fire shouldn't be taking up 4 shelves.


Don't sell chunks of printed paper. Sell discovery.


End Rant.


You pricks.

Don't Think That I Forgot

About Dre

Or the sequel to Maiden Voyage. Here's the first chapter of Beyond the Horizon, for those who are interested. I likely have some news coming out soon about Maiden Voyage, so keep your eyes peeled.

Weird saying...

Here's Chapter 1 of Book 2 in The New Age of Steam series. Enjoy it less than I did but more than my parents did.

Also happy mother's day, if you're into that sort of thing (mothers).

Chapter 1

Edge

                Spring barely made its way this far up the mountains. Were it not for the sparse spring blooms among the still snow-coated rocks one could mistake it for a slightly warmer winter. Only the gardens of the Yao Monastery were filled with the luscious, vibrant colours of the world below, and it was Jeong-Long's duty to tend to them this morning. The thin air did not sting the young monk's strong lungs as it once had and now, in his 7th year at the monastery, he had come to appreciate even the winters. It was with the slightest sadness that he saw this year's one off. As he scattered the first seeds of the season into the wind in the hope that they would find purchase and create life on the harsh slopes, he felt as though he were waving off and old friend and greeting another in the same sweeping motion.

                The Yao Monastery lay up in the Jiexian Mountains. It was the final building that marked the border where the Sinian States met whatever lay in old Europe. The monks here lived to honour that boundary between regions, and so they were all the smartest, strongest and wisest of their religion. Tradition was acknowledged here, but not followed. They were mavericks that understood their faith and its practices were not static things. The world changed and moved, sometimes slowly and sometimes all at once, and their faith had to change and move with it. Here, at the top of the world, one could see such things with absolute clarity.

                Jeong-Long would spend the morning, like he did all mornings, tending to his chores until the time came to pray and eat. There was not a strict daily schedule here like there had been in the monastery he had grown up in, but he liked the simplicity offered by structure and the way it interacted with freedom's complexity of choice. After tending the gardens he would sweep the corridors, finishing when he reached the doors to the Yao Library. He would then fetch the ladder and polish the giant gold dragons on the doors that twisted about each other in frozen motion toward a distant sun at the top. Every movement was well-rehearsed and he would take no longer to work than he had the day before and would tomorrow. He would finish as it came time for the monks to convene and pray before breakfast. Repetition, that was what controlled his morning and eased him into the day.

                He turned back to the plants now, his seeds cast off into the empty air, and reached down for the watering pale. As he came upright he noticed something in the corner of his vision, a cloud that had not been there before. He turned his head to it, realising that it was no cloud. It was a giant white tube hanging in the air, though just barely it seemed. The object moved with some speed, more than any cloud he knew of, and looked to be falling as it went. He continued to study it as it passed through the mountains a few hundred metres to the monastery's south. It fell on and on until it finally disappeared behind a low peak. Jeong-Long was certain it would soon reach the ground and deep down he knew it was never meant to do such a thing.

                He stood for several more moments while conflict rose inside him. One part of his mind imagined occupants and stirred in him the panic they must have been feeling. Another part argued that there was no-one inside and he had no cause to be worried. The two sides hurled questions and answers at one another, arguing like men of the law. It began to overwhelm him. Jeong-Long closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath through his nose and out his mouth, seeking calmness. His thoughts may be men of the law, but he was the judge, and they would present their arguments to him. He let them speak now, as voices with substance within his head.

                "It had to have been manufactured, and to manufacture something so vast so that it may fly with no-one on board seems absurd." stated the first voice. "It came from the west, so it flew over the mountains and couldn't have made it this far over them unpiloted."

                "How can we know what inventions the west has? Perhaps this is the first of many airborne vehicles and this one was simply an un-manned test." the second responded.

                "Why send an un-manned test somewhere so dangerous?" said one.

                "Perhaps it was blown off-course." said the other.

                "This is a long way away from anywhere, nothing comes here by accident." said one.

                "We cannot know how close by it was manufactured." said the other.

                Already Jeong-Long felt he had heard enough. The monks had taught him this way of dealing with wars within the mind, but it was exhausting to control ones internal voices in such a way. He would make his judgement now.

                There may have been people inside, and they may be in trouble. Assuming no-one else knew about this thing in the sky, Jeong-Long was the only man in a position to help. He might journey down the mountains and find nothing, but if he stayed here he was certain to find nothing. Standing there alone in the gardens, Jeong-Long made up his mind. He would seek this thing in the sky, knowing that somewhere, someone was in trouble.

#

                Jeong-Long wandered through the halls of the Yao monastery in long strides, his robes twisting and flaring in his wake. The halls were wide, wider than at any other monastery, but the ceilings were just as low as the rest. The builders had anticipated more monks would make the pilgrimage to Yao, so all the corridors could fit 3 men abreast. They'd had the decency to avoid grandiose designs, shying from the vaulted ceilings and cavernous buildings of the Last Light monks, but still the place was vast. The monks all lived in the central buildings, needing only the amenities of the beds and kitchen held in that section of the monastery. Often they would walk to the eastern temple to pray with the sun, but that was only on summer mornings. The north and south sections sprawled their way along ledges, ending nearly two kilometres apart from one another. Out to the west was the entrance, where the corridors and buildings snaked their way around peaks until they reached the monastery's entrance. The monks often joked that a dozen people could live in the monastery with them and they would never know. No-one else lived there though, the journey was too hard and the passages were too hidden.

                As he walked, Jeong-Long felt urgency. It was a feeling that had not existed within him since his teenage years. His chores were still completed thoroughly, but with a haste that deprived him of enjoyment. He'd hurried to the central temple to pray, waiting for the monks to assemble. Normally, they would all arrive at the same time, but today Jeong-Long was first. It felt strange to be there well before the others. At last the rest ambled toward the temple, and together they entered. He held his composure, not rushing to sit and speak like he longed. They all sat together in a circle, against the traditions of their faith, and closed their eyes.

                "Before we pray, I need to say something." said Jeong-Long.

                Tan, a middle-aged monk that had been the third to arrive at the monastery, was the one who replied first.

                "We knew." he said.

                "You haven't been this hurried in all your years here." said Yuri, smirking with his eyes still closed.

                The others all nodded.

                "I saw something this morning at the gardens." explained Jeong-Long, "It was like a cloud that moved of its own accord. There were tales about ships of the sky from before the End of All Days. I think this was a recreation of one. It came from Europe, and it looked to be falling from the sky."

                "Your curiosity has caught you. You have to find out what this thing was, don't you?" said Yuri.

                "There might have been people on board. What if they need help?" Jeong-Long replied.

                "Jeong-Long, you tell us this so you might justify it. The fact that we have all journeyed to this monastery should tell you that actions need never be justified to us. We look forward to your return." said Tan, one eye opening as he smiled at Jeong-Long.

                Jeong-Long sat with them and prayed, barely able to overcome the distraction of the day ahead. He found a peaceful state of mind, and was pleased that he was strong enough to achieve such a state in spite of his anticipation. As he got up to eat he couldn't help but feel it was the last true peace he would feel for some time. At the eating hall he tore through his food, thankful that today was not his day to clean up. He packed his few belongings, bringing what healing herbs they could spare and as much food as he could carry, and made for the Eastern Gate. If he found people, he would be prepared to help them.

A Little More Life

Or rather, a little more Lifebringer. This is still the first draft, but I figured after posting the first chapter a while back it would be a disservice to not post more. Here's the second chapter. Check the 'Lifebringer' tag to find the first one if you haven't read it.

Chapter 2

Holy Spaces

            Wrin squeezed out of the hole in the wall at Alleyend, emerging into a dark and damp crawlspace of an alleyway. It was one of the advantages of Alleyend that it was so far from the street. Even Wrin wasn't sure exactly where it lay in the city, but it was deep into a block of wide shops with oddly-shaped floor plans. It was through no small amount of luck that Wrin found it when he'd first arrived in Aegis, and as the weeks went by he began to wonder why no-one else had snapped up such prime real estate. The answer became clear when he started bringing the other kids he'd pickpocket with back to his secret place. Few had ever even gone that far down the alley, and those that did assumed the place was already taken. In that sense, Wrin was lucky he'd been so naive back when he spent his first nights on the streets.

            That naivety left him pretty fast though. It was his second month in Aegis, and he took another boy he'd been pickpocketing with back to Alleyend. So far Wrin had befriended exceptions, but this boy, as Wrin learned over the years, was the rule. He'd pulled a knife on Wrin the moment he knew the way to Alleyend, and had it not been for the intervention of Knife himself Wrin would've bled to death in a back alley at the age of six. Knife had been a good sort, Wrin thought, but the truth was he just had an immense talent for violence. Knife saw an opportunity there at Alleyend. He could stay there and kill anyone who sought to take it for themselves. He and Wrin had shaken hands on the deal, and neither said a word to the other for the next five years.

            The crawlspace ended, and Wrin emerged into the more forgiving part of the alley. He used to be able to walk upright here, but the years of growth spurts meant he now had to hunch, even if only slightly. As he walked he caught himself thinking about Khol's words. In truth, he absolutely was nervous, but not for the reason Khol thought. Khol could read his emotions like a book, but he was thick as a brick when it came to understanding their source. It was only sheer respect for the lad that had made Wrin explain his thoughts so many times over the years. That was the reality of things here on the streets of Aegis, there was no trust, just respect and good deals. People weren't ever against you, they were just for themselves.

            Wrin stepped out into the street now, enjoying the fresh river air. The wind was coming down from the north and blowing out to sea, which wasn't a common occurrence in Aegis. Wrin enjoyed the refreshing change from the smell of brine and damp wood. He turned inward to the city centre, taking the route he had planned for himself. Some of the others would have taken less direct routes, again to avoid suspicion. The net effect was they should all be reaching the location at the same time. Of the seven that were going inside, four were taking the front door. The other three were the greasemen, who would climb in through pipes and forgotten passageways. Once the heist was underway, each of them had somewhere to be. According to Wrin, each movement was planned to avoid the men on watch inside the labyrinthine Cathedral.

            It was this Cathedral that Wrin now stood before. It was one of the city's three attractions, the others being the arena and the palace. It was normally busy in the square out front, but today, admissions day, was even busier. Wrin squeezed his way through crowds, forcing his way to the front door. A few years ago he would have been surprised at how forcefully he could brush people aside, but these days he had become used to his innate strength.

            There was a queue at the door, but looking ahead Wrin could see a sign with two arrows pointing in opposite directions. One read Observers, the other read Admissions. Once a year, that sign was put out and half the city would queue on the right hand side to watch the young hopefuls say their pre-admissions prayers. The families would then stay to watch for their beloved children, ready to cheer if they saw them saying their vows of induction or console if they saw them back in the prayer room. Wrin was one of the few dozen who would turn left at the sign, and that meant he didn't have to queue.

            The Cathedral was made up of two main sections. One was the small prayer room, which the public could enter and use at any time. The other was the Clericum, where the sick would go to be treated. There were two other doors at the Cathedral's entrance, doors which today were open. These led to the Academy and to a small viewing ring around the two chapels where would-be Priests could be viewed on admissions day.

            Wrin strode past the line of people, some of whom turned to look at him as he marched past them headed for admissions. Most kept their eyes ahead as the line shuffled forward inch by inch. Reaching the sign, Wrin turned left through the usually-closed door and down a long, tall corridor. He slowed his pace here, letting himself revel in the easy summer breeze that followed him down the hall. The walls were bare stone, but along them was a series of white tapestries adorned with the red crest of the Protector. Wrin slowed to look at the first few, expecting some form of scripture to be woven into the fabric. But alas, they were all bare. It was a shame, he thought, but it didn't dull the sense of boyish excitement growing in his stomach.

            At the end of the hall was a large open arch on his right. He stepped through it into the first chapel, where the Priests-to-be knelt to pray before admissions. Wrin walked to the door on the far wall, trying not to feel embarrassed at the loud sound of his shoes against the floor. Once there, he scribbled his name in the ledger. Wrinlett Leeve. Taking a quick glance at the half dozen names before his, he couldn't help but feel intimidated by how neat all their handwriting was. Wrin's looked like that of a child. Then again, he'd only been a child when he was taught to write.

            Walking back to the pews, Wrin caught a glance of the crowds above. The second story, some ten feet above the ground, was full of Aegis' citizens pressing their faces to the glass to watch Wrin and his silent companions pray. Wrin did his best to ignore them and took a seat, bowing his head in the semblance of prayer. Again his doubts in his plan surfaced.

            'You don't even know the words of prayer! You'll never get in. Remember what your dad told you about the Priests? They know magic before they come here, not after. You've got nothing, you're just the urchin Wrin.'

            He pushed the thoughts aside, even if they were right. He'd made the plan, there was no good reason for it not to work. And if it didn't, he lost nothing. He had his excuses prepared, none of the boys would suspect a thing.

            "Parsons, Krayner" came a voice from the far door.

            Wrin looked up, then ducked his head back down when he noticed no-one else had raised their head. There was the sound of footsteps growing distant, then there was silence again. During his brief glance, Wrin had seen a tall, thin middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard. He'd been dressed in bright white robes adorned with red markings and the rose crest of the Protector.

            A pang of nerves hit him then, the quiet shock interrupting his mouthed bluff of a prayer. He was already nervous about his plan, so what was this? He was nervous, he realised, about being caught. But no, there was no reason he would be caught. He hadn't deviated from the plan he'd given the boys, and by the time he did it would be too late for them to find out. In any case, each of them should have bigger things to worry about right now, and none of them should be here.

            "Trim, Hareld." came the voice again. This time Wrin didn't look up. The sound of Hareld's footsteps echoed away down the hall and once again the room was silent.

            There'd been six on the list before Wrin, so there were still four more to go. The admissions were held in a different room than the ones the public could see or enter. Wrin had only the tiniest of ideas of what happened in that room. Still, that didn't matter. He'd been planning this for years, had gone to great lengths to find the blueprints they'd used. He knew all the details, and it was going to work. It had to work.

            Two more people entered the room, walking over to the ledger beside the far wall and signing their names on it. There would be more of them throughout the next hour, the last hour in which admissions were open. No sooner had the boys left the ledger and taken their seats did the Priest re-enter the chapel.

            "Beleren, Jarvis." said the man. It made Wrin jump a little this time, but he managed not to show it. He could have sworn the voice had been softer the first two times...

            It had been maybe five minutes between each name being called out, so Wrin's timing couldn't have been more perfect. Right now, the greasemen would have let Khol's crew in and together they would have cleared out all the necessary halls and rooms. Khol himself would have split off to find the Paladin's quarters so that he was in position when Wrin made his move.

            The man came in and called out another name, then another, then another. Wrin's stomach tumbled and lurched in excitement as he waited those last few minutes, and for some reason he couldn't help but feel like he desperately needed to pee. It was nerves though, all nerves. He knew that much. Khol would be well in position by now, expecting Wrin to start a fire in the chapel. But Wrin did no such thing. Instead, the man walked into the room and called out the next name on the list.

            "Leeve, Wrinlett."

            Wrin stood up, keeping his eyes off the crowds above, and strode over to the door, following the priest through it and into the hallway beyond.