A Writer's Blog
Posted in King of the May, and The Hounds of Annwn
I've just finished the first draft of King of the May, the third book of the Hounds of Annwn. Publication will be in June, not August, as feared.
Now I've gotta run and work on my short story for May. Rhian as a little girl discovers her beast sense…
Posted in Goals
Just one year ago today I began writing fiction. I can't explain what took me so long to get started, but it wasn't until I stumbled across an interesting story idea that I found compelling that the bug finally bit.
It bit hard, though. In the last year I have written and published two books and three short stories in my fantasy series The Hounds of Annwn, and the third book is nearing the end. I've managed this “in my spare time” while working a regular job (lots of getting up early, seven days a week).
What does this mean? Total word count for the year is about 400,000 words. On the one hand, I find that almost impossible to believe. On the other, I have a very vivid understanding of just how much more I have to learn in my new profession, and I feel that I've barely scratched the surface.
The best part is getting feedback from readers who are enjoying the stories. Or not. The more I hear from you, the better I can make the books. Please don't be shy about comments or even reviews — I look forward to them.
Over the next year I plan to finish book three (King of the May) and possibly another volume, as well as several more short stories in the same world so that I can bring out a short story collection in print and ebook. I'll also begin a completely different fantasy series, The Affinities of Magic, about a world with an unusual biology, where all living things have magic in some form, and students of wizardry have much to learn.
Wish me luck!
Posted in Fantasy, Short Story, The Hounds of Annwn, and Under the Bough
Another short story from the world of The Hounds of Annwn.
Angharad hasn’t lived with anyone for hundreds of years, but now she is ready to tie the knot with George Talbot Traherne, the human who has entered the fae otherworld to serve as huntsman for the wild hunt. As soon as she can make up her mind, anyway.
This short story takes place between the events in To Carry the Horn and The Ways of Winter.
“I haven’t lived with anyone for hundreds of years,” Angharad said. “I’m much too set in my ways, too used to living alone.”
Her old friend Tegwen looked at her pointedly in recognition of the feebleness of these excuses.
“You’ll adapt,” she said.
But do I really want to, Angharad wondered.
“What do you think of George? Truly?” Tegwen prodded.
She couldn’t help it. Her face warmed and she smiled affectionately. She glanced around the morning room to see if Tegwen’s husband Eurig was in sight, but he must be outside seeing to the running of his estate. They were her oldest friends. They had come to the new world in exile together, when Gwyn ap Nudd, Prince of Annwn, had transferred his domain.
She owed her honesty. “He’s kind, bold, even… ardent.” She looked at the floor. “He makes my knees melt.”
And makes me laugh, too. But was that enough?
She voiced her deepest fear. “He must think me a dried out old lady,” she whispered. “He’s so young.”
“And his age bothers you?”
“Not by itself, no, but we hardly know each other.”
Tegwen asked directly, “Do you have any doubts of him?”
As the readers of my Hounds of Annwn series have discovered, it's not fox they're after in the fae world, but other beasts of the chase.
The list of the royal beasts of hunting was always topped in the Medieval period by red deer, a close relative of what we in the new world call elk. (What the Europeans call elk, we call moose. Confusing, isn't it?)
I've seen a good bit of foxhunting in the last few years, but alas we do not (mostly) pursue deer with dogs in the US, and certainly not elk. So when I want to fles
h out my understanding of the sport, so that I can incorporate it into the world of my books, I have to turn to those parts of the world where something similar still goes on. Vive la France!
There are many fine photographers who follow traditional hunting in France, by which I mean hunting on horseback, in livery, with horns, following a pack of hounds. Examples include Stéphan Levoye and my current favorite, Eric Dubos. Modern wrinkles include car followers dodging boar and crumpled French horns.
For more beyond this small sampling of images, please check out their websites.
Posted in Fantasy, Night Hunt, Short Story, and The Hounds of Annwn
Another short story from the world of The Hounds of Annwn.
George Talbot Traherne thinks about the choice he made to leave the human world behind.
This story takes place between and To Carry the Horn and The Ways of Winter.
His eyes popped open in the dim light cast by the banked fire. For a moment the bed felt strange and then he remembered—Angharad’s house—and there she slept, turned away from him, breathing slowly. He was wide awake and on the alert.
What woke me? The snow was deep on the ground, muffling any outside noises. No cars were here to disturb him, no engines in the fae otherworld, and he was still getting used to the absence of the sounds of human civilization. He catalogued what he could hear—the tick of the embers in the fireplace, the occasional creak of the floorboards as they adjusted to temperature changes, Angharad’s soft breaths.
Then it came again. Muffled barks of excitement. He looked over at his dogs by the fire. Sargent, the yellow feist, was motionless except for his chest rising and falling, but the bluetick hound was quivering in his sleep, his paws twitching as he ran. He panted and yipped, his eyes closed. No wonder it woke me, he thought.
George had no trouble providing the real sound behind Hugo’s dream, the loud, deep bays as he followed a hot scent. That cry would ring off a hillside, but here it was, indoors, just a remnant to wake him in the night.
Nothing to worry about, he thought, as he relaxed back down into the warm bed by his wife’s side. He wasn’t sleepy, but if he stayed quiet, sleep would return.
Inevitably his mind turned to the tumult of his recent weeks. I made a choice, he thought, the most important of my life. I’ll never face a bigger one. I chose to turn my back on the human world and stay here, with these new-found kinsmen.
Posted in Book Signings
I will be doing two book signings in March in the northern Virginia area, and I'd like to invite everyone to come! Both of these are in honor of St. Patrick's Day.
On Saturday, March 16, from 2:00-4:00, I will be at the Coterie Shop in Sperryville at 12018A Lee Highway. Please call Jen Perrot at 540-987-8249 for details.
On Saturday, March 23, from 2:00-5:00, I will be at Crest Hill Antiques in The Plains at 4303 Fauquier Avenue. Please call Sally DeLuca at 540-253-5790 for details. I will also provide a foxhunting slideshow for your amusement. Flyer.
Posted in Cariad, Fantasy, Short Story, and The Hounds of Annwn
It's going to be a while before the next full-length book is available. It's going well, but the story will be large and a bit complicated.
In the meantime, I thought I'd start writing a few of the short stories from the world of The Hounds of Annwn that are kicking around in my head. I'll try to produce one more or less monthly. They'll only be available as ebooks initially, but I'll collect them into bundles as paperbacks every so often.
So, in time for Valentine's Day, please enjoy this brief story about a man who loses confidence that he's the man his wife needs.
This story takes place between The Ways of Winter and King of the May.
Benitoe busied himself with rechecking the girth on Halwyn, off to the side of the inn yard, and kept his eye on the side door of the main building. Two of the tall fae rode in and dismounted, chatting together. A groom came out of the stable to take their horses, a lutin in red like many of the staff at the inn, a foot shorter than the fae, or more, like Benitoe himself, though Benitoe wore his dark green hunt livery instead of the traditional red. The groom looked over and gave Benitoe a wave. “We’ve got his pony tacked up. Are you still planning to return tonight?”
“Shouldn’t be any problem with that, it’s just a few miles on horseback, through the ways, and the weather’s clear. Do you have enough space ready?”
“Luhedoc told us to expect eight, and we can just manage it.”
Benitoe took in all the construction that was still underway as the Golden Cockerel was being hurriedly restored to use. He’d seen the newest interior repairs last night after he rode in, but now, in daylight, the extent of the work was much more obvious. The stables had been in complete collapse when he’d last seen them, a few weeks ago. Maëlys had latched onto the first stone masons and carpenters to become available as the barriers dropped around Edgewood and set them to work, rightly anticipating that the reviving town would need a working inn as its dwellers came back to life, reviving from the curse that had buried them in a sort of half-life for so long.
I've lately become quite a fan of Tom Simon who's been writing (and republishing) a number of excellent analyses of some fantasy classics. He's just finished reposting an 11-part blog essay.
If you're interested in why some famous fantasy works are better than others, this is your go-to guy.