Temple of the Life-Giver excerpt

An excerpt from my story "Temple of the Life-Giver":

Frank shouted, “I said settle down!” He studied their faces in the torchlight. “Now, the one thing we’re not going to do is panic. You got me? Any man loses it, and I’ll kill him myself.” He pulled out his knife and swiped the air a few times, for good measure.

They stared back at him, but remained silent.

He continued, “Now, we can’t get back out the way we came in. So, we find another way. Meanwhile, we keep looking for the treasure. No sense in wasting time or what may be our limited supply of air. Although, I just have to believe that there is some ventilation built into this place.” He moved down the darkened hall, and then reached up with the torch in his hand. When he pulled it away, a growing light remained. Frank explained, “This place is too dark to conduct a proper ritual. So there are lamps installed all along the halls. Spread out and let’s shed a little light on the subject.”

Reluctantly they moved about, lighting lamps until the surrounding area began to glow with reflected radiance. There was enough light to see by, but the temple still had a gloomy appearance.

Jesse whispered to his brother, “How long do you think the oil will last?”

Frank replied, “Long enough, I hope.”

My story "Temple of the Life-Giver" has been accepted for the Grave Robbers anthology edited by James Ward Kirk.

"Temple of the Life-Giver"  is about a quest for ancient treasure, and the inevitable perils of greed.

Setting the pace

A story is not a race, although it can seem like you are desperately struggling to get to the end. Nor is it a leisurely stroll, stopping to sniff every flower along the way. You must keep the reader engaged, and that requires good pacing.

Pacing is like the tempo in music: sometimes you move faster and other times slower. The story itself will determine this, and you must write accordingly. A fast pace will wear you out, so I usually reserve it for a shorter work, which is by its nature more of a sprint than a run. Move too slow, and it becomes frustrating, like walking through water that is up to your chest. Every step is a labor.

In longer works, the pace will vary: sometimes it will move slower and then pick up suddenly. This is akin to long distance running. If you move too fast, you will exhaust yourself and not be able to finish. If you move too slow, you will lose the race. In writing, you determine the ebb and flow of the story, moving swiftly without being in a rush.

But just as in a race, once the finish line is near, the story speeds up to the climax. It takes a lot of energy to get there, and you pour it all out to give the reader a satisfying finish. Afterwards, the story goes on just long enough for your breathing to return to normal. You soak it in, like a bottle of cool water, knowing the thrill of accomplishment, having given your all.

The Thing in the Shadows excerpt

An excerpt from my story "The Thing in the Shadows":

Something struck him in the arm and his weapon tumbled to the floor, rolling out of his grasp.

The soft tones demanded, “Show me where she is.”

Trayson strained to see where his cudgel lay. He could leap for it, but the goblin would be on him before he could react. For a goblin, it was. The portrait in his mind’s eye was not utterly false. The voice had been so like hers. And no other creature could so deftly evade detection. Things became clear to him. The last few nights he had merely been observed. The goblin was watching him, to find out where she was. Somehow, it knew. Perhaps, it had tracked her; for these creatures had a widespread reputation for such. It was believed they could follow any trail, no matter how slight; and regardless of any attempt to conceal it. But he had not obscured the path. She would have suspected, then. And he had not expected her to be missed. After all, she was a goblin. He smirked, and then replied, “I could show you. But you would not like what you see.”

Cover art for my story "The Thing in the Shadows."

In the vein of Edgar Allan Poe, it is a tale of monstrous vengeance with a touch of the fantastic made real.

Cover art by Jeffrey Kosh.

Ideas: the vagaries of my muse

Ideas come and go, and sometimes they do not come back. We commonly refer to this as 'writer's block.' Often, the well has not run completely dry, but we are still thirsty for inspiration.

I find this phenomenon occurs to a certain extent when I finish a work of any appreciable length. I have poured myself out: I am exhausted. I must wait to renew my strength. Even if I want to write something, I lack the energy.

This is not a time to be lazy, but rather to rest. Instead, I indulge in the works of others: literature is fertile ground for the imagination. When I finish reading a story, and my enjoyment is high, I do not take in hand to write. Just like a good meal, a fine tale takes time to digest.

I will immerse myself in all manner of media: books, movies, television, poetry, etc. I rarely get ideas from these things directly. Rather, they give birth to my own creative notions. If I like a story, I have no desire to tell it again: I enjoy what they did.

During this time, my own ideas are growing and will soon bear fruit. This is not to say that I will come up with something new. In the thousands of years that people have been writing, it would be hubris to think that I could imagine something that has not already been entertained in the mind of another. The raw materials are the same, but it is how you prepare them, mix them, cook and serve them that provides the true culinary experience.

My ideas have been nurtured and will mature on their own. Often, I will take a stroll through my mental garden to seek out anything that is ripe for harvest. When the time is right, I will not need to tear the fruit from the vine: it will come off easily and fall into my hand. And then I smile, for I have some cooking to do...

Vengeance and Valor excerpt

An excerpt from my ebook "Vengeance and Valor":

Vorim swore under his breath, staring towards the mouth of the cave. Out there, the enemy waited, the fading light of day illuminating slanted green eyes peering back at him. Up until recently, Vorim had never been the prey for such as these: dark elves. They were olive-skinned, but without the regal poise and stature of the larger ones. These were diminutive and scrawny in comparison. But their reduced size lent them nimbleness and their disposition provided a cold determination. Though male, they were almost pretty, like the little nymphs whose form and grace had so enthralled the hearts of men. And there was murder in their eyes.