The Book of the Lost Royals is a massive tome of two million words in a realm of nearly as many peoples. Hidden from time in a secret vault that knew no decay, it promises to recount an unknown history from an age of wonders. And now, a meticulous translation has begun.
Starting from the front and reading toward the center, the Book tells of Amethestra Straverian, lost princess of the Kingdom of Evereign. A baby abandoned in the wilds, she was found by the unlikeliest caretaker, the one person in all of Empyrelia who might protect her from those dark forces that sought to destroy the world. Under this mysterious witch’s careful, if unusual tutelage, the girl known as Tildy will discover the world beyond the protective borders of the Garden of Dappledown.
Astute observers might find themselves compelled to flip the book over, finding there the start of the tale of Prince Adamantin Straverian, her brother. His story progresses also toward the middle, recounting how he was smuggled to safety under a dead child’s name, by an adoptive mother who would never love him as equally as the child he replaced. The boy known as Samor has grown up behind the walls of the remote ice fortress Yrrengard, being tutored and trained to recover the crown he is unaware he has lost.Continue reading →
Our washing machine stopped working this week. It wouldn’t proceed to the spin cycle, which meant water didn’t drain. I tried some rudimentary troubleshooting, which led me to believe it was the washer lid switch. I was pretty sure I could figure out how to replace it. Anything more serious, and I’d have to hire someone.
It actually took more time to scoop water from the tub than to replace the part. At least it should have. The ground wire ran to a screw on the underside of the top of the unit, which meant a tight space at an awkward angle. I tried a variety of wrenches and pliers but couldn’t get the grip I needed.
After 30 minutes of frustration, I ran to the hardware store for the right tool. A ratchet socket wrench for $24. I wasn’t thrilled, because that was more than the replacement part, but I wanted to get the project done. Fortunately, it was the perfect fit.
The screw loosened after a quarter turn.
–broken washer lid switch–
And I thought, “a 30-minute round trip and twenty-four bucks for a quarter turn?” And then I concluded, “worth it”. I didn’t have to hire someone, and we could use the washing machine right away. With five people in the house and three dogs, it gets regular use, and we already had some piles.
But Mike, this is a writing blog, not a DIY fix-it website. I guess I better connect this story to writing, eh?
If you’ve spent any time writing, you’ve probably had a similar circumstance. You’re looking to rewrite a sentence and one of the words isn’t quite right. You have a decent vocabulary, so you type and rewrite, type and rewrite. Maybe you even have some tips or tools that usually help. Frustration probably sets in. At some point you grab the thesaurus, searching for the word with the exact nuance you need.
Blue is too common; azure and cerulean are too fancy. Aquamarine throws off the flow of the sentence. And there it is! Cobalt!
Looking back, it took you 30 minutes to find that perfect word. And without further ado, that job is done. It seems so simple in hindsight, and maybe you chastise yourself because you think you wasted time.
So what’s the message for writers, Mike? Well, I have two. First, I believe we are a different breed, and 30 minutes to find the perfect word is a perfectly acceptable use of our time. We should relish the victory that other people are incapable of enjoying. Hopefully, this assuages any guilt you have the next time you go through a similar situation!
But speaking of 30 minutes, it also can result in something like this post, which brings me to my second point. The title for this post “Twenty four bucks for a quarter turn” literally came to me as I completed that turn and the post pretty much wrote itself after that. Thirty minutes can result in a single word or five hundred. Both are valuable. Writing is a funny thing, isn’t it?
Good luck with your writing!
Mike
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Autobiographical account of our son, Benjamin. Writing can help process things that we struggle to verbalize.
Ben remained in the hospital fourteen weeks after his birth.
To save his life, he was delivered ten weeks early, becoming an April baby instead of the June one we’d anticipated. I’ve never seen so many medical machines in my life, but neither had I fed a newborn with a syringe nor seen a nurse cry for another family. In that time, trauma flourished and threatened to overwhelm a love and joy we thought we’d have.
It seemed like an eternity – no, scratch that. An actual eternity passed as we watched him cling to life in that time, hardly able to hold the baby we were desperate to protect.
10 weeks premature and living in a protective isolette, Benji squeezes Sam’s finger, the 9-year-old big brother who grew up a lot after that.
And yet, he had more protection and care than most newborns. This child born at barely two pounds (I would later remark he was the size of a Chipotle burrito), grew in size and strength, and eventually after 270 days, his lungs also had the strength to breathe on their own.
I suppose I could also say that we began to breathe again, too.
And so, after fourteen weeks, Ben came home, and the standstill of our lives ended.
Today, we realize fourteen years have swept past us, carrying us on a journey we never thought we’d be able to make. We’ve given him strength and felt it returned, and for this I am grateful.
As a child with severe autism, Ben struggles more than most children, and since he is nonverbal, frustrations regularly overshadow his joys.
The same could be said for us though I try not to think of it that way. As I hear him learn words, and then realize he’s later lost them, perhaps sometimes I grieve. Still, I take comfort and delight when I remember how he used to say “I you!” to tell us he loved us. And while he has not said those words for years, I do not doubt that his feelings are the same. In saying goodbye to his grandparents on video chat today, he blew them a kiss – mwah! – just like any of us.
Ben, age 14. Only a loving teacher can make a kiddo smile like that.
Life is full of little miracles, when your eyes and heart are open. Ben, the child we didn’t think we could have, started with one and continues to experience them with us and the people that fill his life in ways he cannot on his own. As each day falls behind us, those fourteen weeks grow a little shorter and the bright-whiteness of hospital memories fade a little more.
Happy birthday, Benji!
Love, Dad
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Altar from Franciscan Monastery of the Holy Land in America, Washington, D.C.
In December 2019, I finished the final draft of Tildy Silverleaf and the Starfall Omen. I exhaled, wrote a post, and put the book aside for the holiday season, intent on querying in 2020. I started researching agents over the winter and began querying in earnest in early spring.
Around that time, rumors had begun, followed by vague news reports, about a new disease that would eventually be known as Covid-19. In March 2020, I said goodbye to my office desk and began working remotely for nearly 3 years. In May, riots erupted in Minneapolis and elsewhere over the murder of George Floyd. As the year progressed, the political landscape in America became fraught, then angry, then vicious, and civil discourse became less common.
The world seemed to stop.
And so did I.
I tried to write, and in two years, I had about 100,000 words of my next book, which featured Samor, Tildy’s brother. There was some joy, but the weight of things beyond my control pressed upon me, and the work became more grind than pleasure. I struggled to recapture the magic.
I decreased my blogging output in that time, too. After all, what did I have to write about my process? I wanted to share positive things and my passion for writing, but they were hard to think of, much less give enough attention to bring to life. There seemed to be more important things in the world.
A combination of personal matters, work, family health issues, and the state of the world put me into a dark place, the shadow of which still lies upon me. Fortunately, therapy, exercise, and alcohol have helped pull me out, though my writing brain isn’t where it had been three years ago.
I finally returned to my first manuscript, the thing had brought considerable joy, and I started to tinker. From a distance of more than two years, I found myself more objective than I’d originally been. I pulled out pen, pencil, and highlighter and began reviewing the book to edit the length. I found some plot holes, irrelevant details, and of course, a fair number of typos. All of which are fine and to be expected. I tracked every scene in a notebook to help me quickly navigate the story, which, at 189,000 words is a difficult thing to manage.
I read and made notes. I read and edited. I found that I’d tinkered away several months, and I still hadn’t completed the updates I’d identified.
I’m staring at the thick spiralbound manuscript as I write this, with its page marker flags and its crumpled edges from endless handling, with its arrows and ideas and X’d out passages. To the wary eye, it might appear a dangerous and indecipherable artifact that none but myself would dare open lest some ancient spell be unleashed.
It sits there, waiting for my return.
And while I don’t dread opening it later today, I’m anticipating less joy than I would if I were just sitting down to write, fueled by pure inspiration. Though that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? There has to be roll-up-your-sleeves work in addition to writing for pleasure. The editing is where the story truly comes to life. It can be frustrating, it can be difficult, and if you’re not careful, it can also be where your book goes to die.
If I ever want to get back to the writing side of bringing a book to life, that fine bit of creative heaven, then I’ve got to drag myself out of the purgatory into which I’ve placed myself and my project. It’s long past time that I returned to the Forest of Eddlweld and the hidden Garden of Dappledown.
As they entered the forest, Tildy heard the chirps and songs of blackbirds, neemenees, and wrens. Some of the tub-whumps croaked their evening greetings as the sun began to sink toward the horizon. The failing light mattered little to them. A path led to Dappledown for those who had been there before, though the two of them could have found their way on the blackest night. Nevertheless, bioluminescent greencaps limned the path. Ahead, the picket-willows parted, and with her first sight of the Garden, Tildy’s spirits soared. She was truly home. The clouds overhead cleared and green glowed from every place her eyes could see.
Won’t you join me? Either in your world or mine. Good luck on our writing!
Mike
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When I was in elementary school, phonics played a prominent role in the curriculum. Even at that young age, I recognized and appreciated the structure and rules, and I remember being surprised when others struggled. It was a method that resonated with me (heh), and I usually achieved high marks in spelling.
However, there are times when phonics lets me down, especially in the use of similar-sounding words: “appraise/apprise”, “elicit/illicit”, “passed/past”, and “awhile/a while”. Suffixes can also be a pain, such as “-ible/-able”.
“Affect/effect” is another, and I’m not alone in my confusion. They are among the most misused words in English.
While editing my manuscript today, I discovered a pesky “affect” had survived several rounds of revisions. I’m at the point with my writing where I don’t chastise myself for the miss, but I’d still prefer to learn from the mistake. So I decided I would find a way to minimize it happening again.
I created a mnemonic device. If I can substitute “outcome”, then I should use the noun “effect”. If I can replace with “create”, then the verb “affect”. Simple as that.
Sidebar: If you’re a person who uses “effect” as a verb or “affect” as a noun – both rarer use cases – this won’t work as well. I never do, so I think this will have the desired outcome effect.
The key for me will be remembering I’ve got this new tool in a crowded writer’s toolbox. Like my actual toolbox, the frequently-used ones always stay in sight, at the top. But I’ve been doing similar replacement tricks for years (illicit things bring ills; you appraise the prize), so I think this one will stick.
Will this prove foolproof? We’ll see. English is so fantastically, wonderfully, deliciously complicated that every rule can be broken. That’s when another rule of mine comes into play: when in doubt, rewrite.
I hope this post has the desired effect on your writing!
Mike
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I’m always reviewing my writing for exclusionary words. In this post, I’ll be taking a discriminating look at a few paragraphs from my book with the intent of removing discriminatory language. Don’t worry – this wasn’t some prejudicial diatribe I needed to cut. I’d found a trite, gender-centric passage, and I decided to shake it up to turn a trope on its head. Painless right? And kinda fun, kid.
Language is both simple and powerful in its ability to bring people together, but it’s also very easy to exclude broad swathes of people with specific words. For instance, using “men” to describe soldiers or “wife” or “husband” instead of “spouse”. If you’re always represented in the language like I am (i.e. a white guy), you’re less attuned to it and less exhausted by it. And even if you want to write differently, these things still unconsciously find their way into your writing because much of what you’ve read is rife with similar language.
The fixes aren’t difficult, but you have to look for them and be willing to change your way of thinking a smidge to include people.
BTW, if you want to complain about political correctness or wokeism, this probably isn’t the website – or book – for you. I’m sorry to see you go. We’ve got a heckuva a wild fantasy ahead of us and there’s room for humans of all kinds.
I’ll start by presenting the passage in its fixed state, hoping that you’ll appreciate how it reads like a perfectly normal piece of writing, not some screed trying to brainwash you.
She shook her head, clearing her thoughts like a dog shakes out waterlogged ears. “Listen, youths are idiots when it comes to impressing someone they like. They get all sorts of notions in their heads. Probably the storybooks they read,” she said with an eye on Tildy. She continued, determined to say her piece. “Some want to be knights, fighting to prove themselves worthy of marriage and titles and lands. It makes them do reckless things.”
Tildy stared, mind reeling. What in the world was she talking about? And like a smack to the head, she understood and laughed. “You think he’s going to fight for my honor or something?”
The witch looked unhappy. “I have seen many young people rushing to battle for honor or some chivalrous reward. Only some returned, and none were the same, regardless of the prize.”
I planned to delve into writing this weekend, mixing those responsibilities with other chores around the house. I needed to regain momentum on Project Two, which had stalled during the pandemic; ironically, I was also fighting the lingering effects of my own bout with Covid. I knew I would have plenty of optimism when I finally sat at the keyboard, even if I had no idea where to begin.
That’s when Serendipity paid a visit.
Goodnight, Saigon by Billy Joel came up on my playlist, and his lyrics drew me in like I was watching a movie. I don’t know if you’ve experienced this, but your mind’s eye takes over, even as your body goes through the motions of dressing and pouring coffee. I’m not even sure of the sequence of events: my mind connected the song to Memorial Day and a scene where Samor rejoins his companions after they’ve lost someone. There was nothing; then there was something.
I grabbed the computer, put the song on repeat, and 30 minutes later, I had this.
Samor greeted his companions as they gathered to him. Their welcome was genuine, their words warm. But he read something else on their faces that he hadn’t seen before. Or rather, he realized he hadn’t had the skills to interpret the tragedies that lay there. The worry that creased Hochness’s brow; the crow’s feet that used to merrily step away from the corners of Oafsson’s eyes. Even the betrayer Chork, addled as his mind remained, seemed more sedate against the bonds that held him to the litter. A weight drug at them all, anchoring them to the battle where they’d lost their friend and compatriot. The look of survivors, a mix of gratitude and guilt, made worse by each condemning beat of their living hearts.
His past naiveté angered him, but mostly it saddened him. No words seemed important enough, nor considerate or meaningful enough to break the silence of the moment. And so, he took his cue from his friends, yes, that is what they were now, and he embraced them silently and exchanged knowing looks that would have been inscrutable to the person he used to be. In the strength he gave, he felt more returned. They knew he knew. They accepted him and were grateful that he offered to share the burden.
Samor recognized this understanding wouldn’t have come from a lifetime of study. Simple words upon the page were shallow, going no deeper than the ink that sank into the paper – practically lies for their misinterpretation of the awful reality. The knowledge was horrible, and he wished he’d never acquired it. A small voice between his ears reminded him it was a necessary experience for the future leader of Empyrelia, a land destined for war, but he could derive no comfort from that. He hoped he never would.
A note to our son Sam, as he’s training to be a climbing instructor at Scout camp. I share it here because it was too long to text. Pfft, writers.
Sam,
I know you had your eyes set on the aquatics director role and how you were disappointed when circumstances beyond your control prevented it from happening this year. However, when I heard you were moving to the rock wall, I thought, ”Now THERE is a role that perfectly suits Sam.”
And so, if you’ve forgotten how much you loved climbing as a kid, I wanted to share three climbing-related moments from your life.
The first happened when you were three, which would have been the Summer of 2003. You were playing in the backyard, and me, still a relatively new parent, assumed you were safely contained by our six-foot stockade fence.
You weren’t. When I opened the front door in response to a tiny knock, you stood there, smiling and oblivious to any of the thousand perils my worried parent’s mind instantly conjured, not least of which were the dangers of traffic or falling onto the concrete pad. To your mind, an obstacle three times your height was a trifle. And a fun one.
I have a day off from the office and I’m trying to savage my final draft like a drunken barbarian. The Project One manuscript ended at nearly 190K words, and that’s an awful lot for many reasons. It’s a big investment for a reader, not to mention a publisher. It also sets a precedent for future books, and that’s a writing pace I’m uncertain I can maintain. It feels heavy, both literally and metaphorically.
Amidst the edits, cuts, and barbarically setting the countryside ablaze, I came upon this sentence:
Tildy also noted that it was still as quiet as she remembered.
It tripped me because my brain registered “still” as a synonym for “quiet”. Well, if that’s confusing, does the sentence work without that unnecessary word?
Tildy also noted that it was as quiet as she remembered.
It does!
I wonder if I’ll be able to make similar cuts, the way I did here and here? A quick Ctrl-F showed 192 instances. Some will likely remain, but others will have to go. And then there’s this:
Well, that’s embarrassing, but a fine example of how difficult it is for a writer to be objective when editing their own work. If you’re curious, I deleted the first three, rewrote the fourth out, and kept the fifth. Only 187 left to go.
For more tips (and embarrassing admissions), we recommend these posts. Good luck with your writing!
–Mike
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I’m sure some of that came from the societal stigma about showing vulnerability and my extreme reluctance to share personal aspects of my life. I think the greater issue, however, was the fear that such an admission would transform thought into reality if it reached the written page.
I wrote a draft of this post in mid-September after a rough couple weeks, when stressors and disappointments had piled upon another. I’d found myself angering easily or venting frustration in situations where it wasn’t warranted. My novel always appeared to be the catalyst: not having time, not being inspired, delivering garbage when I did sit down.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had similar feelings, but these were more acute and my defenses were down.
My writing time was precious and I was wasting it, and this realization was eating me alive.
There’s a betraying voice in your head that suggests the simplest solution: Quit doing the thing that’s causing pain. Just walk away.
Because writing is the primary way I express emotion, my head started drafting a post along those lines. The admission hurt, and that feeling intensified as I fleshed it out, because it reflected the abandonment of something I’ve wanted my whole life.
I sat at the computer that morning with little optimism and a negligibly more determination. I didn’t want to write this post…and I told myself over and again that I was pretty sure I wasn’t quitting.
Then I happened to read the following passage I’d copied from a book, and my perspective changed.
I used to do freelance resumé work, which meant I regularly visited professional job websites like LinkedIn and Indeed as a way to generate leads. It’s also a good way to learn how not to point out a person’s typos (it’s nothing personal – those darn things exist everywhere!).
When it comes to the hiring process, we’re all looking to put our best foot forward, make a good first impression, or follow some other idiom that makes sense here. Unfortunately, candidates and hiring managers are sometimes too eager to give their document one last review. Here are a few fun typos I’ve found and my made-up definitions.
CASUALTIES
Obsexsed – a person who really, really wants some lovin’
Scarnio – one of the weakest Bond villains
Opportunites – the best evenings for stargazing
Upfortunately – a positive turn of events
Transfernation – describes an emigrating person
Carer – one who attends your needs
Decuted – made ugly
Handeling – completing a messianic task before getting Bach to other business
Cross-crunctional – twisty sit-ups
Leeder – when Lee is in charge
Cowworker – the person in the cubicle next to you who has a straw bed and milking pail
The Lost Royals 