Fallow

Fiction writing can be more absorbing than any other sort of writing I do.  I can begin a passage at five or six o'clock in the evening, not break to eat, not break to go to the bathroom, and suddenly find that it is a quarter to one in the morning.  It is a little freaky that way, like with the sensory deprivation chamber featured in the title sequence of the 1981 film, Altered States.

I'm feeling pretty good about things lately, so I wanted to write to say that, first of all, I'm changing the title of my long-suffering five-year novel from the Fifth Man to "Fallow."  Steadily, it has drifted in theme from my original concept and I don't believe that the title works any more.  Instead, I'm adopting a simple solution: since the whole novel takes place in the fictional kingdom of Fallow, that works as a title.  To fallow a field is to put it to rest ~ until it is ready to be used.  In several instances through the book, this pattern fits fairly well.  I'm comfortable with the new title.

I've just passed the 100,000 word mark, working now through my third draft.  I'm feeling very good about it, working every day, with plenty of time to work and with sufficient money in the bank that I'm not fretting about the lack of a job.  I've had some good luck and some quiet benefactors not connected to the blog, so I have time to work and to find a proper, stress-free frame of mind to work in.  The last threads of the novel are coming together, though I do fear that there's some continuity errors in the multiple changes that have been wrought year by year.  My hardest task has been to try to envision the whole book as a single gestalt ... but like a sheet of paper that has been crumpled and flattened, and crumpled again and flattened, my mind cannot quite rise above the corruption that's blown apart the original conception.

So it goes, as Vonnegut would say.  The project continues apace.  I'm so ready to finish getting my hands around the book's throat and throttling it into passivity I cannot begin to express the emotion.  I will be glad when the thing is at an end.

Anew

Having scrapped the work I've just done for two hours, I'll spend my last minutes of today explaining why I haven't been around explaining much recently.

I doubt anyone has noticed, but I have been steadily writing The Fifth Man during the last ten days.  I've been diligently updating the panel on the sidebar that says I've been making progress ... but after all this time, and the numbers not having changed a bit, it's well below the radar.

I've also put energy towards the Senex rewrite and the Master Class, not to mention the online campaign; and I'm glad of it.  I only worry that some of my patrons will begin to wonder about continuing to support me, as I'm not putting any energy towards making new maps or towards refining and expanding the trade system.  I have ideas for those things, but I only have so much energy.

What can I say about the book?  It will get written.  I've gotten past the miserable expositionary 17th chapter and for the first time in a geologic age, it feels like blue skies.  There are still problems, such as tonight's, where I'm working to describe some feature or journey, such as the interior of an abandoned house which will be made suitable for living, but this is simple painting rather than skull work.  It's a matter of settling on the right means to convey the substance, in the right words, without those words washing uselessly over the reader.  The scene must serve to fit the events that will later fill that scene; it is not descriptive sentences just for the sake of making the reader believe it.  It has to service the reader. That is a balance ... and sometimes, if the balance does not fit the scene just so, it is best to rip the sentences out and begin anew.

I like to go back again and again to the process of building a wall, as the metaphor holds up for nearly everything.  Building the wall incorrectly is, however strange it might seem, part of the process of building the wall correctly.  When we start, and it seems fine, but each new brick needs more and more adjustment to make it straight, we see where we made our mistakes from the first.  Then we can go back and start again, and not make those mistakes.

That's what I did tonight.  The bricks are scattered now all over the inside of my brain, waiting to be made into a wall, but so I can come at the problem fresh tomorrow, they can just lay where they are.

I'm so pleased with this new work.  When I read back over the first two thirds of the book, I am stunned by the writing; in wrapping up the story, I did not want to feel pressured to "just finish it," unless I could continue to write with the same skill that I had when I commenced.  Believe it or not, it has taken a full year to find that skill; but that's how it goes. Throughout the year I've worked, I've written, I've applied myself to a variety of other tasks ... and I've thought, and thought, and thought about this book.

Oh, how I want to finish it now.  That, I think, is what I have looked for.  Wanting to finish it.


P.S.,

I haven't got art for it; haven't been able to crack that nut.  I never thought about how this much a problem it would be finding a way to cover a fantasy novel.  Quotes for provided art have been ... well, ridiculous.

I continue to have very little respect for practical artists.  In hard terms, I expect to sell a set number of copies based on my previous sales, and upon the original encouragement that was provided in spring of 2016.  I can, with reason, guess how much profit I can expect to make based on the meagre mark-up above a) the cost of the book and b) the cost of the publisher.  The art I buy has to show itself as something that will sell more copies of the book than I would anyway, or else it is just money that I am throwing away.

If an artist argues that their 9 in. x 6 in. work of art will sell 150 to 200 books based on the art alone, over and above my expectation, then I am breaking even if I pay them $800 for their efforts.  But let's be serious.  That's not going to happen with art work of the sort shown on the right.

I'll certainly grant, I can't draw it.  I wish like hell that I could.  But paying for it is lost income, pure and simple ~ and that's what I find artists just don't understand.  Creating a drawing that one person will like might justify inflated prices; but creating a drawing that many hundreds of people have to like, who will be individually paying a small amount for the work, comes under a whole other economic principle.  This isn't about ego.  This is business.

The Failed Plan

Back in December I had a plan.  I was working on the development-infrastructure system, which has been floating around the blog now for two years, in the hopes of building a demonstration that would more clearly reflect what the system could offer in terms of world design.

My plan was to create five versions of the county of Rogaland, the provincial unit of Denmark & Norway in which the online players are adventuring.  In my world, I had determined that the actual development of Rogaland was 9 ~ which is hard to explain, since most readers here don't have enough experience in history to compare the number, or even the link, to anything in their experience.  Worse, the link calls it "technology 9" rather than "development 9," which I adopted after it was determined that readers bristled at my use of the word technology in this manner.  And that was fair.  We don't have to go into it.

For clarity's sake, a development of 9 would be a fairly backward culture for the 17th century.  Most of the things that were present in the rest of the world would be rarely seen and treated with some disdain, just as many people in backward parts of the United States continue to treat books as a bad idea, unless it's the Bible.  Most concepts, such as things we'd identify with the Enlightenment, would be alien. The people of Stavanger in the 17th century were barely out of the 10th; though Christian in name, most of this was a sort of "folk Christianity."  The idea of established churches and priests, the habit of reading and writing, and the widespread use of metals was something of a new thing.  These things were common in other parts of the world, but not in a backward, far to the north fish port like Stavanger.

To bring this home, I had planned to design a map and description of Stavanger as a development-9 region.  But I also had a plan to design Stavanger as a development-8 region, as a development-7 region, as a development-6 region and as a development-5 region.  I hoped that by remaking the same province over and over, I would show how each development level would create a markedly different cultural and structural setting, which could then be made to apply as a background for role-playing and adventure.

My ambitious plan was to make these five versions all ready, and then post them one after another on five successive days.

In December, I was putting the plan in place.  I had worked out the kinks for development 5, 6 and 7, and was working on 8 ... but I was finding the challenge fairly steep.  As each layer was built, it complicated the project, as each earlier layer had to be updated in turn.  Fishing at dev-5, for example, would work differently for dev-6, and differently again for dev-7.  With each new layer, the differences multiplied in number, as it became more and more difficult to keep the big picture clear in my head.

But, no worries, I thought.  The restaurant where I work was going to do a remodelling in late February.  I would have three weeks of time all to myself.  Until then, I would just gather information and when the break came, I'd use the time to bring it all together.  I was champing at the bit to put the information up; I was leaking bits and pieces and the new year came on.  I anticipated wildly the week when I would start putting up those posts.

And then ... just before the break, wikispaces, my wiki host, announced that it was ending its website.  And although I had until July, supposedly, to move the wiki, my unease about the certainty of that resource suddenly became my only concern.  As a result, I burned those three weeks, and six others besides, moving more than 1,100 pages, with more than 5,000 links that had to be changed.  Not only did I not work on the development project ... I put so much distance between putting down the project and picking it up again that I now feel staggered at the idea of producing five versions of Rogaland all in a single week.

I felt bitter, and angry ~ and yet I kept my silence about the plan in the hopes that I might still put it up as I had originally planned, perhaps in July or August.  But truth be told, I would rather spend that time working on the Fifth Man.

I haven't talked about the Fifth Man in a while.  The note on the sidebar remains, quietly stabbing me in the side every day, though I haven't updated it since June of last year.  Speaking of things that distance has made difficult to access; but I think about the book nearly every day.  In my mind, I have solved some troublesome aspects that would have weakened the latter third of the book.  I think, to be honest, that it will be a better book for the distance I have gained on it.

My plan is to pick up the book sometime this week.  It will be slow progress to start.  I need to familiarize myself again with several passages; I hope I can keep the continuity straight. I have had to admit that only eight of the podcasts have proven workable for this first season. I am sorry Vlad, and sorry Archon ... I think the conversations were good, but having to do the interviews over the Skype phone, and not through the computer, did not make a good sound quality.  A better technician might be able to save them.  I'm inadequate.  I just don't know enough about Audacity or sound.

So, once the podcasts are done, and there's a lull before I start the second season (which will be coming), I'm going to work on my book, and not on making some grand splash with the development system.

I will, I think, continue to make five versions of Rogaland.  But I'm going to release them without a schedule, when I feel ready to move on.  And if, doing it that way, it turns out that I reach a point where I can't finish, that's too bad.  The book really is more important.  I owe it to a lot of people besides myself ~ and to tell the truth, my soul will be better off when it is behind me.

The post, One Block at a Time, gives most of the information I need to work up a dev-5 version of Rogaland.  I'm not going to work on arranging those details in the right order tonight; I have to go crash soon so I can work in the morning.

However, I am going to post a map of Rogaland that I made five months ago.  It is a "6-mile hex map," built out of my more commonly posted maps of the world.  The link shows the older version of this map; I tried some new ideas in design, to make something that would have a deeper, visceral impact:

I think the reader might appreciate this somewhat.  The notion is that the unshaded map would be the county of Rogaland as it existed in the year 892, just twenty years after Stavanger, the only village, was founded.  Stavanger is a village, the only settlement in the region, with a population of 553.  In 892, there is only one economy: fish.  If the reader looks carefully, three small fish symbols can be seen on the map; these are the places where fish congregate, what I called "fishing grounds" in the One Block at a Time post.

The white names on the map ~ Erfjord, Skuden, Orre and so on ~ are not villages, they are clan names. It has bothered me for some time that there is no proper, elegant way to label hexes on a hex map; unlike a squared map, a grid with letters and numbers like "G4" isn't possible.  But the idea of naming hexes after the primary clans appeals to me.  Clans become towns and the name remains.

What I like about the above mapping system is that it gives me the precise edges of treeline and occupied land, however small the latter might be.  I'm not bound by the shape of the hexes. The trees can pour up into valleys between the mountains, which are variously upland heath (pale green) or rocky tundra (grey).  The distances ~ one hex = 6.667 miles ~ are isolating enough that it is easy enough to imagine various clans coming into conflict over raw hunting ground.

The total population is a mere 1,349.  Those clans are not very large.

Remember what one of the blocks I included in the One Block at a Time post: grazing land, that was wilderness and possessed inconsistent hunting.  And 1 in 6 grazing lands, I wrote, would contain a barbaric village.

Every hex on here without a clan name is a grazing land.  And many of those may be occupied by kobalds, froglings, fur-covered gnolls ... perhaps even a clan of trolls.  Who knows?

Turning Point

Over the past seven weeks, I have rewritten, adjusted, edited and reviewed 25,000 words of my book, The Fifth Man.  I am just now getting to the point where the second draft I was writing began to go off the rails.

There were a lot of small reasons that slowly coalesced to create larger and larger problems.  The central problem was blocking, which in turn created problems of pacing and character that were being subverted in order to compensate for that blocking problem.

For those who don't know, I'll talk about blocking.  From what I've seen from most sites on the net, "blocking" is usually described as a rough outline of what happens in each scene of a book or play, from beginning to end.  This is partially correct but it is astoundingly oversimplified ~ if you go looking on general websites to find advice that will help you block your book or other work, you're going to find yourself struggling pretty quickly.

I learned about blocking from performing in theatre, where the term describes the arrangement of actors during a scene from moment to moment of that scene; blocking is best when this is coordinated with the spoken lines, and when the acting reaches a level where it is impossible for the audience to notice that any blocking has taken place.

We watch bad blocking all the time, particularly in television shows.  Watch from scene to scene how the actors move when they speak a particular line: all of a sudden the actor stands up, walks forward four paces, turns around and then speaks their line.  It is both an example of bad blocking (minimal, natural moves are best, rather than stark dramatic actions) and bad acting, where the excessive move is made more blatant by the actor thinking, "Okay, the other actor has finished their line, now this is where I rise up and walk over there before speaking my line."

In a good performance, every second of movement needs to be timed and then fixed with rehearsal and more rehearsal.  The concept is more or less the same with a novel, though the rehearsal is replaced by examining the description carefully in order to produce the correct impression on the reader.  The actions of the characters must make sense: why do they go here at this time and why does it matter to them?  How did they know to ask this question that adds to the novel's exposition without it sounding staged and inappropriate?  If three different groups of people all arrive at the same point in space and time for a confrontation, how did they all get there, and why are they there at the same time?

A writer can spend a lot of time angsting over these details.  It is like putting an enormous puzzle together with thousands of words, none of which can jump out and look painfully obvious to the reader, since that's the best way to destroy the sublime, suspended disbelief that makes a story work.

In the Fifth Man, there are certain moments that have to come together to make the main character think a certain way about himself and about his place in the world.  Those moments have to come together fluidly and interestingly; the characters who help these moments come together must be believable and, for the most part, likable.  This includes the villains!  Everyone in the story is following their own path but, since I am writing in first person, only one path is for certain known, that of the main character.  This means that other narratives have to cross the main character's narrative in a specific, patiently crafted way if the reader is to know anything about what's going on, while keeping both the main character and the reader in the dark enough so as to not know what's going on.  If someone lies to the main character, and the main character doesn't know it, then the reader can't know it either; but at some point the main character has to discover the lie, whereupon the reader discovers the lie, which creates the identification the reader shares with the main character: both the reader and the character are in it together.

This is tremendously difficult and I have been wrestling with certain scenes since I began this novel. Just when I think they are working, I realize I have forgotten some detail which then threatens the fabric of the story (often called plot holes), which must then be fixed and explained away in a manner that doesn't ruin the verisimilitude of the rest of the novel.  And since I like to tell complicated stories, about complicated people doing complicated things, I have felt pushed to the edge by this novel.

Steadily, however, I get on top of it.

At this point, I find I need to put down the semi-daily editing and rewriting, since I've come to this point in the novel where the clarity started to break down.  There has been a massive redrafting of Chapter 17 and I can see that, with the changes I've needed to make, that Chapter 18 forward is going to need considerable examination to get the various blocking to come out correctly. I am deeply steeped in the characters so I am not worried about them; there is one pacing issue that starts with Chapter 18 that I am frankly going to eat because the book needs to work that way.  Consider the way Dickens did it with Great Expectations, at the point where Pip returns to the village to attend the funeral of Mrs. Joe.  The book's steady progress is subverted somewhat at that point, with the pacing changed and a different point of view for Pip offered; yet the passage of about four or five thousand words is an important one for many reasons I won't go into.

I have a similar passage like this in my book and I'm fine with it, though some readers may feel the book slowing; nonetheless, I can't make later scenes work without it, nor can I firmly establish the relationship in concrete between the two most important characters.  The reader will just have to wait for the next action scene.

Anyway, this brings me to the point of this post.  I don't wish to stop posting my progress; however, I'm going to adjust that progress to show the second draft, which I'm going to essentially write again from where I am.  It will effectively be a third draft, which will then be followed by a fourth draft, but since I have been working on the third draft to date I want to keep it straight what draft is being managed for the whole book.

Therefore, think of it as me throwing out the old second draft and writing a new second draft, since large portions of it will technically be a first draft, as there are scenes to be added that only occurred to me (as a way of solving my blocking problem) as little as a month ago.

I will be recording how much second draft is being written from day to day and keeping a note on how much of the third draft was finished before I stopped and began the second draft again.  I know that for some this will make it sound like the book will never be finished (and no one succumbs to that feeling more than me!), but in fact the book will be finished when it IS ~ and that is a little insight into the mind of an artist with a sense of proportion.  We don't write these things to get them done, we write them to get them right.

I thank you for your patience.  I know I have been fairly tetchy lately, but we live in a tetchy world.  I appreciate that you have the tenacity to come back and read me again and again; gawd knows, sometimes I can't make it easy.

Food for Thought

For those who might be interested in how it is going with my book, I will offer some perspective. Here is a list of familiar novels by the number of words that they possess:

As the reader can see, I am just now passing the Martian Chronicles and moving up on the Color Purple ~ an awful, awful book.

Now here is a shorter list describing how long some books took to write:

David Copperfield is obviously a lot longer than my book, but the Jungle Book is shorter.  My book isn't any where near as fairy/folk tale as the Hobbit, so I'm not competing with it; at any rate, I'm going to miss that mark too.  I began seriously writing the present book in the late summer of 2015. C'est la vie.

How Do You Write?

There hasn't been much writing here this week.  There just hasn't been time for it.  The book is taking form steadily, patiently; I would like to hear anything people might have to say about the sidebar updating my progress.  Good idea?  Bad?  Waste of my time?

It has accomplished one thing for me.  I feel absolutely awful if I have to put a zero there.  Sometimes, that's because I don't do any work at all.  Sometimes, because I'm writing some part of the book doesn't qualify as "progress."

I'll try to explain my thinking on this.  Typically, I write a very rough first draft of anything I take very seriously.  Then I will write a much better second draft, fitting in all the details and additional concepts that have arisen since the first draft, along with extending the descriptions, the general pattern of the characters and extending or adding scenes where warranted.  I'll also butcher scenes with the second draft; I may remove whole characters who don't fit into the scheme or which I decide are superfluous.  It is sometimes very hard to nail down all the details of the second draft.  This particular novel has been a nightmare in this regard, particularly as the last third of the book has snaked around like a firehose that has broken free and is now breaking windows.

The last third of this book exists much more in my mind than on paper.  I work at parts of it, I rewrite, I adjust the order of events, I change the specific setting itself, I calculate the transitions and how to get characters in and out of scenes without it looking obvious.  The movement of the characters should appear natural, not forced and definitely not dependent on one of them carrying around an idiot ball or some other awful writing trope.

So, still working on the second draft for that last third.  There are notes in abundance, pieces and bits of detail, passages where I've written out what happens and some things still relevant from the first draft.  I'm about 95% certain about the end of the second draft, now, but it still challenges me.

After the second draft, I'll work on the third draft.  This is where I work primarily on the language. For this book, I'm doing my best to keep word use so that the vocabulary is no later than mid-18th century.  For reckoning, every word in this post, so far as I know, would qualify ~ so I'm not writing in a pre-18th century style but I am keeping my idioms and references clear of post 18th century slang and usage.  For instance, lately I had to change my intention of using "mindset," as that is 1920s jargon.  I wanted to put another example here, but frankly I can't remember one.  Most of the time a word is fair game.

I clean up the extra words and struggle making things clearer.  I am getting better at this.  Part of me wants to go back and rework the language of How to Run and other things I've written because have the 18 months with this book I feel like I have better defined myself than ever before.  But that is probably also due to the blog.

After the third draft, then I do a read-through, preferably with time lapsed between writing and reading.  This read through tightens up the language still further and helps identify continuity errors, which are a terrible problem in any long work.  He took off the ring in chapter three but he is still wearing it in chapter four, that sort of thing.  That stuff is still likely to slip through.

Finally, there are words that get missed, even though the passage reads perfectly to me; I just don't see the missing word.  Or the typo.  Or the small spelling error.  It isn't that I haven't read the passage at least a dozen times, it's just that my mind and the text are hopelessly mutable.  At some point in the past, that word was probably there or it was spelled correctly. But after shifting and changing and adjusting and rewriting, it gets taken out even though my brain rates it as still present.  This is why someone else is always needed.

Anyway, it is only this final reading that I am counting as "progress."  So if I go work on some passage of the book that isn't part of this final edit, it isn't progress, not yet.  As such, I try to work on some rewriting each day, then a small bit of progress on top of it, to feel like the book is making headway.

Hope that clears up some things for the reader ~ and I hope that for some writers, they can compare their own habits to mine.  Being asked, "How do you write?" is a very common thing for a writer.

Keeping Track of My Writing

On the sidebar it reads,

Each day I'm going to describe how far I am getting, in terms of words. 110,000 words ought to finish the book. I will be counting only firmly self-edited content that is put to bed, as I am mostly reshaping words at this point and not plot or character development. I'll record the number of words from the day before and the total number of words so far, as well as the chapter I am moving through. I will update every day.

In addition, I'll be working ahead on later chapters while editing, as I find this helps keep the whole book fresh in my mind.

Basically, I'm going to record each day how much real writing I've done.  I won't be counting the rework of chapters that haven't reached the best of possible quality, only the actual distance the finalized (pre-outside editing) number of words that I have written.  But as I say, I usually write for a bit, then I edit when I start to tire, before quitting for the day.

This is my plan for torturing myself.  I am making progress on the book but not as much as I'd like; and as the method has nothing to gain by my being dishonest (if I claim words I haven't written, sooner or later I will have to pay the price anyway, so I might just as well write all that I claim, or confess daily that I'm not writing), I expect that this will be a motivating factor in my day.

Everyone who knew I was writing today was kind enough to not comment and let me have at it. From that I sense a strong support from my fellow man.  Thank you.  I will not let you down, however much this hurts.

Confirmation

Very well.  For those who may doubt the veracity of my continuing to work on my book, The Fifth Man, for which I created a Jumpstarter campaign in February of 2016, I can offer confirmation of the existence of the book and of my efforts in the way of Ozymandias of Crossing the 'Verse, who is a regular contributor to the comments on this blog.

I have sent Ozymandias a copy of the book thus far: 49,000 words of third draft, 30,000 words of second draft and another 20,000 words of the completed first draft.  Let me be clear: there is a book.  I'm not just farting daisies.  And there will be a finished, published novel when, I am sorry to say, I'm satisfied with the writing.

But I have been in a state of increasing angst for many months now as the length of time between the Jumpstarter and the finished book has widened, as I am deeply conscious of having taken money from good, wonderful people without being able to give them a damn thing to show for it. For that reason I sent Ozymandias, someone I have never met in person, but whom I trust implicitly, a copy of the book thus far so that someone, someone, can come online and say yes, the book exists.

I am tremendously gratified by this.  A part of my concern has been laid to rest.  I hope that the reader who has helped me, who has stood by me, who has stepped up to support me, who has gone the best measure towards helping me go on and move forward, will feel gratified as well.

Thank you to all.

Training Redux

A year ago, August 6, I posted a scene from an earlier draft of my book The Fifth Man, that I continue to work upon, describing a training scene.  The response was scattered and, naturally, I felt that it needed attention and work.  I've been working on it, over and over . . . and believe me, it is no easy scene.  Perhaps I am not there yet.

Still, I am feeling an urge to post something.  Beginning in February, many people rushed forward to give me more than $4,000 in donations, through my jumpstarter, through patreon, through the purchase of my books . . . and I want to reassure those people that the book is under construction.  I've given about four or five expected deadlines through 2016 and I don't want to give one now; I don't seem to be able to make any of them.  The book will be done when it is done; but yes, I am working on it.

In the meantime, I offer this rewrite.  As before, the character Herzog has agreed to teach his associate (no spoilers), Ruchel, the use of weapons.  The new scene is very different.  I think it is unquestionably better.  It comes after much research and consideration, not to mention rewriting.  Some nuance will be lost, as it is out of context, but I don't think that matters.

It is very hard to write any sort of training scene, as we are inundated with them.  We are all horribly jaded.  When this scene starts, Ruchel has asked to be trained in the use of weapons.  Herzog has not told her that he intends to do so.  [Please forgive any technical errors; I'm abandoning this passage today with much weariness; I'll fix the technical problems later].


Chapter 20


I stamped my feet when I came in the door of the house. Unsurprisingly, there was food cooking. Our gear was unpacked, the walls and floor neatly fixed, my sword in its scabbard hung on the wall. My father’s sword was not there. Strangely, I had expected to see it still in our baggage, but it was no longer in our hands. Ruchel had seen to it that the sword was his again.

I hung my bow next to the sword. Ruchel looked at me and smiled. She did not ask where I had gone. We sat down together and ate pleasantly but quietly, remarking only on a few things that she had observed about the house, that I had observed about the surrounding lands.

When my meal was done I set down my bowl. Ruchel was finished already, cheerfully basking in the soft fire with her chin raised, like a cat pleased with itself. “Turn towards me,” I said, turning myself towards her, cross-legged. She matched my position, so that we were knee-to-knee.

I held out my two hands towards her. “Give me your hand.” She placed hers between mine. “To begin learning weapons, there are two things you must first understand before they can be mastered.”

Holding her hand, I felt her heart leap in her throat, saw the evidence in her expression. “Yes,” she said, knowing nothing about what I was about to say.

“To hold the weapon, your hand must be strong. To persevere against your opponent, your body must be strong. We make the latter strong with our breathing. Close your eyes and breathe, feeling the air as it enters your body and leaves it.”

The echo of my father’s words whispered as I spoke to Ruchel. “Breathe as deep as you can and hold it,” I said. I watched and was pleased to see that she did not breathe with the shoulders. I saw as well that she used both her nose and her mouth to breathe in, though that was an easy matter to correct. “I want you to be aware of what part of your body is filling with air; I can see from the way your body expands that you are breathing into the lower part of your chest. Do you feel that?”

She nodded.

“As you hold your breath, you will already feel light-headed. This is because you have not taken in all the air that your body is able. Now breathe out.”

Ruchel did.

“I do feel light-headed,” she admitted.

“We can suspend that feeling through practice. Now I want you to take a series of deep breaths, about ten, very rapidly. Go ahead.”

I watched as she went through the exercise, unable to keep myself from automatically breathing in time with her. When she was done, I asked, “How do you feel?”

“I suppose . . . a little queasy.”

“Yes. And that is a problem in a fight. In a fight, you will be breathing very heavily and for a long time. If you breathe then as you do now, it will become difficult to maintain your balance. You will grow wobbly. Your vision and your thoughts will become muddled. Within a minute or two, you’ll be staggering around. Your opponent won’t need to engage with you – he will force you to engage with him and, when you’ve become weak and unsteady, he will destroy you. To avoid this, you must learn to breathe properly.”

“I understand,” she said, her eyes fixed upon me with fascination.

“My father taught me this,” I said.

“I know.”

I began to teach her how to breathe. I explained that she should take a deep breath into her chest, through her nose, with her mouth tightly closed. “Now,” I said; “As you let the breath out of your body, force your shoulders down and stretch your neck – upward, not forward. Watch, and do as I do.” Together, we repeated this a dozen times, as I patiently walked her through the process again and again.

“You must force the air down, into your body,” I said. “No, not the belly – completely through the body, to the groin.” To show her, I rose up on my knees and lifted up my shirt. “Put your hands around my middle, above my hips. Feel.” I drew in air, demonstrating to her as my father had once to me, the way the air filled my torso. “If it helps, imagine that you are forcing air into your body all the way to your feet, right through to the ground.” Telling her this, I squatted down again, opposite her.

“I think I understand,” she said.

“You will. It takes time. Training is difficult and exhausting; it is repetitive, endlessly repetitive, until it feels that your body will twist apart with the doing of it. This exercise, which we will begin again, must be done hundreds of times a day, until breathing with the stomach becomes natural. That may seem impossible now –”

“I have trained like that before,” Ruchel said excitedly. “Once, when I was only seven –”

“Quiet,” I said, cutting her off. I wanted very much to hear what had happened when she was seven, but I needed her to focus herself on what was happening more immediately. “Close your eyes. Breathe in, as I’ve explained. Together, with me.”

Within a few minutes, I comprehended her effort. I knew from experience that she was in excellent physical shape; I did not doubt that within a short time she would be able to sit and breathe patiently for an hour each day, over and over. I had not sat and meditated in such fashion in more than a month; the last time had been somewhere in the mountains above Herch, before Ruchel and I had met. At the time, I had not even thought of it as meditation, but merely time spent listening to the forest. I could not say how much time had passed – much of the afternoon, I was sure. It was not something I mentioned to Ruchel; she did not need my experience as she started upon the path of acquiring her own.

“Good,” I said, as I felt her breath weakening past the point where it would do her good. “We will work on that, perhaps later today. I want you to become conscious of something else now.”

I pressed her hand between mine.

Her eyes shone brightly. “Thank you for this, Herzog.”

“Do not thank me; you don’t know what you’re in for.”

“You were able to do all this, yes?” she taunted.

“Not easily.”

“I shall be able, too. You’ll see.”

I felt my chest swell with pride, but I said, “Quiet. Students do not talk. They listen.”

Ruchel blushed – a sight that caught me completely by surprise. With a small voice she said, “I will listen.”

“Then do it and be silent.” I pressed her hand between mine. “Flatten your hand but keep it relaxed. I am going to explain how to strengthen your hand, to make it stronger.” I felt her hand reflexively tighten and I opened my hands at once, telling her, “No. Look down.”

She did, embarrassed, the strain in her hand disappearing.

“I must teach you to correctly strengthen your hands. If we balance the tension within your bones and sinew correctly, we can make your hand a weapon. You must strain each muscle in the right way to make your hand like iron. Put both your hands around my hand.”

Without hesitation, she did as I told her. I purposefully relaxed my hand, telling her to press my skin between her fingers. Her hands were much smaller than mine but they were strong, a worker’s hands. Still, Ruchel’s eyes grew wide as I changed the tension in my hands to what I would before the beginning of a fight.

“It is like a rock!” she explained. “How are you able to do that?”

“It is a question of training. I can teach you.”

“How long did it take to learn?”

“Years. My father began teaching me when I was only nine. My hands were much smaller then; they’ve grown larger as I’ve gotten older and as the muscles have strengthened. Now, put your hand between mine again.” I held her gently. “Hold your palm flat, in line with your forearm. Like this.” I showed her. “That’s it. Press your fingers together but do not curl your fingers. Feel the tension. Now, relax again.”

She did.

“I show you this to explain this is not the tension we want. I do not want you to press your fingers together. I want you, instead, to pull on your thumb – that is, try to pull your thumb on itself, from within. Imagine it drawing back into the wrist. As you do, bend your knuckle – no, not as much as that. Yes, that’s it.”

Ruchel struggled to obtain the exact position of her hand that I wanted. I remembered how my own hands would ache when I began these exercises. I imagined that she, used to working constantly, would fare better than me. “Do not merely bend the thumb,” I said. Her hand began to quiver and I knew from feel that the tension she was feeling was correct. “That’s it. Exactly. Now, listen carefully. I want you to try to breathe as I’ve shown you; hold the tension in your hand. Yes, in through your nose. Good, good. Now, don’t relax your hand; that’s it; now this time, when you release the air –”

Exhaustively, she blew her breath out of her lungs and let loose the strain on her hand, pulling it out of my grip. She took several deep breaths. “Wheeew,” she breathed. “That’s much harder than I’d guess.”

“I was going to say, remember to stretch your neck when you breathe out. Are you ready to start again.”

She nodded, ready to take up the task again. I was proud of her. “This time, do not try too hard,” I told her. “This will not come in one day or even one month. The important thing is to understand the exercise. Without hurrying, find the right place with your thumb again.”

For many minutes thereafter, we went through the exercise of shaping the tension in her hand and matching this to her breathing . . . I directed her through the mastery of each finger in turn, urging her to retract each, to stiffen them correctly and to demonstrate how the muscles she needed to hold a weapon properly were – in her – almost wholly untempered and unused. We went through the process with each hand, until I finally told her to stop, to let her wrists rest loosely on top of each knee.

“This is how it begins,” I said.

“I’m tired,” she said with wonder. This was the first time I had ever heard Ruchel express fatigue.

“In a moment, we will spend time breathing again – and then we’ll be done for the day. We can begin again tomorrow, and each day afterwards.”

Without warning, she threw herself at me and embraced me tightly to her. “Thank you!” she cried. Her body was warm and fresh and filled me with longing. I held her for several long moments, feeling her forehead in the crook of my neck, her chest pressed against mine . . . but somehow . . . with courage . . . with regret . . . I disentangled myself from her arms, putting her back on the floor. There were tears in her eyes.

“I – I . . .” I answered clumsily. “You’re welcome.” I looked away, fighting back my own tears. “Let’s – let’s begin again.”

She nodded rapidly, lips tightly together before opening them to say, “Yes, teacher.”

“Good. Give me your right hand.”

At this point, the real-time narrative is replaced by a description of the next week, in which she trains before he progresses her to the use of a weapon.  I'm working on these scenes, still.

If you read this post and you'd like to help me with writing my book, please donate $5 or some such consideration through my blog or become a Patreon supporter, giving me some small stipend a month that you won't notice affecting your bank account.

Preview Returns

I released the preview for The Fifth Man two weeks ago (remember, that's the book that the Jumpstarter was all about).  I am pleased to say I am receiving some very positive reviews.  Here are a couple without spoilers, withholding their names:

This is very encouraging

Preview Now

Well, I am good to go with the preview: and since it is April 26th in most of the world, I'm just going to go ahead and start sending out the preview now.

I thought it might be fun to make a list of the places on Earth to where I'll be sending my work off:

Alberta, Canada
Auvergne-Rhone-Alpes, France
Brussels, Belgium
California, USA
Dundee, Scotland
Greater London, England
Hertfordshire, England
Kansas, USA
Madrid, Spain
Maryland, USA
New South Wales, Australia
New York State, USA
Ohio, USA
Ontario, Canada
Oregon, USA
South Australia, Australia
Styria, Austria
Texas, USA
Tottori, Japan
Uusimaa, Finland
Washington State, USA

I'll just make the point that there were multiple receivers in about half the areas above: Oregon, London and California seem to be the hot spots.

I will be sending the content manually, so please allow some time for the material to show up in your email box - I should be through them all in less than half an hour, I'm sure.  It is seven minutes before the hour as I write this, so please judge from that.

If anyone doesn't get a copy, then please scream at me.  Somehow, you've gotten lost in my accounts is all.  If you don't see a copy, it is probably because I have the wrong email for you or in transferring my data from one system to another, I've skipped a line.  Please do not fail to contact me: I really WANT to send you the material.

Very well.  I better get started.

Preview Tomorrow

The preview comes tomorrow.

I am spending today completing a last review of the material, transferring the corrections from the editor and doing my best to hammer down the last bits of continuity.  Content will be going out when the material is ready, in pdf format.

I encourage readers who have not yet contributed $25 to the Jumpstart Proposal to give some consideration to the idea.  I know that many who have not will be happy to buy the book once it has been published in its entirety - and that they can easily wait.  I truly appreciate that.  But if you can bring yourself to help an artist in need, regardless of the permanency of the material . . . just consider me as you would a musician playing on a street corner.  The pleasure is found in the moment; the gentle reader can only take the memory of contributing a little to his box, not the music itself.  Nor is it a moment of charity; it is appreciation, pure and simple, for a fellow who has chosen to dedicate his life to art and the making of beautiful things, valued in far too little coin in this world.

Don't think of my hat being in my hand.  Think of my hat being at my feet, as I play for you.

And if $25 is too much  (and I'm sure it probably is) - then give the musician here a buck or so a month, for the sake of my dancing for you.

Podcast Tomorrow; Preview on Tuesday

Three days to the book preview.  I've completed my end of the language editing at last - it is in the hands of my editor who, unfortunately, has been given less time than she really needs to look it over properly.  That is all my fault; I've been struggling for the energy to do a good job since the kitchen work started and I've dragged it out a little long.  There will be a preview sent out on the 26th, however, and it will be as long and as rich as I promised.  If an odd word is left out in the last four chapters, if there is a small technical error, it will be because the editor just didn't get to the end of the work I've given her.  Those issues will be fixed when the book is published.

I figure I have one more day of work on it - making the corrections the editor gives back and doing a last search through my document notes (which I write on the document in the form of text balloons through microsoft words) for continuity.  The plot is complex, there are many details in the book and continuity has been a bitch throughout - it is always hard to keep an entire novel and all the intricate details of that novel in one's head at the same time . . . this is even more difficult with a mystery- thriller, such as I am writing, as the devil is in the details.  I've never written a tale like this with this much depth - but I am extremely pleased with it and I think that when every last clue is fixed and herring caught, the book is going to be well worth reading more than once (just so the reader can enjoy all the subtle hints once they know where the story goes).

In other news, I have a podcast that I will be putting up tomorrow - the fourth in a series.  This one was recorded among my players at the Indigo Bookstore, on March 18.  Unfortunately, the sound quality in the first third is less than ideal.  It was something of a free-for-all among seven people and so it won't be like the first three I've put up.  We recorded it on a phone like a microphone, using a selfie-stick; in parts it works very well; in others, where the ambient noise gets too high (my sound editor for this did her best to buffer it out) it is just annoying.  I hope the gentle reader will forgive; like anyone doing their first, early podcasts, it is a learning curve.  We all feel the content is worth the listen, even if it takes a patient listener.

I wish I could put up something else other than details about my life.  I have done zero work on actual D&D since a week ago yesterday; which seems like an age and a half to me.  My blog posts make this evident, as I'm not talking about D&D.  This is what happens when we chase deadlines; my May and June - for now I realize there's no way I can have the book completely finished before the end of June - will be much like my present.  I am sad about that.  But the book is worth the effort and that's why I do it.

The Preview Looms

We are 10 Days away from my releasing the Preview to my book, The Fifth Man.

This complies with the $25 reward offered by the Jumpstarter Proposal I first launched on the 7th of February.  Following the work I've done on it today, I feel that I can confidentially define what that proposal is include.

Laid out as a standard size paperback, 135 pages (or thereabouts).  In words, 40,000.  This will make it slightly larger than the Dungeon's Front Door in terms of content.

I wanted very much to provide a substantial portion of the book without undermining the book's larger story arc - while at the same time providing something of a meaningful resolution to the arc that dominates that first third of the story.  I haven't spoken about that arc (as far as my brain can remember) - so it should be a pleasant surprise to the reader, without any spoilers whatsoever coming from this blog.

The reason for a big preview is two-fold: one, I felt people deserved a lot for their contribution to the jumpstarter.  My gentle readers made it possible for me to continue living in my present space long enough to finally find work and my gawd, that is unaccountably huge.  This means I am writing this at the same desk in the same room that I have happily occupied for more than seven years now.  I'm home, I'm in control, I'm alive and the world continues to spin with something resembling hope.  For that, I wanted to give a lot, as much as I could.

My second purpose is to demonstrate, as strongly as I can, that the book is not a false hope, like so many things associated with kickstarter campaigns.  I have a lot of work left to do on the remaining half of the book - I am estimating between 45,000 and 55,000 words left to craft according to previous drafts, adjustments and character development; plus editing those words and bringing the book to a solid conclusion.  Every inch of this thing is established in principle and context; I know what happens with and to every single character; this thing will get finished, barring the possibility of my actually dying before getting it finished (in which case the existing draft will at least be made available).  So there's no fear that the readers won't know what was supposed to happen.  I trust that this preview will lay any notions like that to rest.

If you're interested and you're not among the gang that has already make a donation, please jump forward and help me out: it's $25 for the preview, but you get a module and other content as well, if that matters.  I have a lot to write and I'd love it if I could work more on the book than on a flat top, a deep fryer or a dishwasher.

P.S.,

Thinking seriously of writing a post called "The 7 Things Everyone Forgets When Trashing The Fountainhead" . . . but that's probably a bad idea.  Hah.

The April State of the Union Address

I want to drop a quick line just to say that I'm glad to have completed at least the basic tutorial of my trade system.  It has been 18 months since I asked people to send me $1 as proof that they cared about such a thing - and believe it or not, that money has weighed heavily on me as I've failed to live up to my part of the bargain.  I feel better, since I think I've given at least $1 worth of effort.

Contributions to the jumpstarter have completely dried up.  This was to be expected.  We raised $2,768 in the space of two months; with help from my friends and daughter, sales of the book (which were unusually high in late February), we managed to hang on by our fingernails, staying in our home and having something to eat every day.  Of course, we haven't been out to a restaurant since before Christmas, nor a movie, a concert or anything else - because that is how it is.  Right now, I can't afford coffee at the nearby Starbucks.  But the computer is running, the internet is paid for, the collection agencies are held at bay and there's new hope.

Yesterday afternoon I was given a phone call and offered a part-time job.  It is 28 hours a week at $13 an hour, and it's kitchen work.  As such, I will be soon up to my hips in sauces, hot oil and dishwater; but it is a guaranteed wage.  I sure as hell hope I don't injure myself or it turns out to be the sort of place that refuses to pay me - both experiences I've had in the last six months as I discover the restaurant industry has apparently gone and fucked itself in the head.

Just want people to know that I'm doing my part.  I will continue to ask for contributions: Ternketh Keep is worth the $10, the AirShip is worth $5 and I will have a preview ready for the $25 donation in 24 days.  The cold-hearted, pedantic editor is chafing to get the content from me each week because I'm told it is just that damn good - so if you want to see what I'm doing, help me out.

As ever, the rest of the jumpstarter rewards are as follows:

Do me a favour: pass around the image to people with a link
to this blog.

The end of May deadline for the book is . . . well, in jeopardy.  That was identified assuming I had time in April and May to dedicate myself to the book (with our minimal living expenses paid), but now I'm going to be working as well at a heavy-labour job (at least for someone who is 51), so I'm going to be either working or drained.  The book will be finished - people who know me know I don't leave things undone (re: trade system tutorial); but the exact schedule for final product may have to be pushed off a month.  I can't make it too long, however, since I need a hard copy in my hands when I go to Edmonton to the Expo there in September.

Incidentally, that was bought and paid for by my daughter.  She insisted.

I'm still hoping to have the energy to pull it together by the 31st of May; I'm two-thirds of the way through the 2nd rewrite and as I say the editor is getting final copy from me now.  However, it may be more realistic to assume the 30th of June.  I will just have to keep working and see how it goes.  One bad section in a book can really screw up forward momentum - but just now, I don't foresee a single technical issue in the book I haven't already fixed.  It is only a question of, "Can I write a given scene well enough?"  That's a question that haunts every writer.

To sum up, if the reader can help me out, please do.  I'm going to be paying for bills this month but not much more; I had some friends drop by just today to help fill up our larder, entirely without being asked (golden people that they are).  If there is a way I have made it through this life, it is upon the support I have had from the best friends in the world.  Just now, anyone who helps us out in this troubled time counts among that number.

The First Two Pages

After much thought, and because I posted the first pages of my latest book, The Fifth Man, on this blog many months ago, I've decided that I wanted to share the updated version.  Since, the book has undergone several title changes and adjustments to both the characters and the theme, but I've settled these things now and I want to show and tell.  This is what the Jumpstarter is all about.

It should always be remember that writing is rewriting, and that we edit until it hurts; then we edit some more.  This is at last the version that I will give to my editor, because I am ready to abandon it.


Chapter One

It was only reflex. I didn’t know that I’d killed my first man until it was done – and even then, it took time before it came clear to me. I stared at the glistening blood draining down the gutter of my sword. I heard his body collapse onto the dry leaves of the forest. I saw him. He laid face-down, his wet, curly hair trailing over his back. A leather tunic, old and unmended, wrapped his body. He had no money for better clothes. His only weapon was a club, lying on the ground next to his stilled hand. He had nothing now – was nothing now. Coldly, I had used my sword to end his life, with as little effort as lifting my arm or turning my wrist. My father’s training had paid off well. A man who had been willing to hurt me was dead.

I was fourteen.

My father’s hand upon my shoulder interrupted my thoughts, pulling my eyes from the body. I did not look back. My father’s proud, happy face beamed down at me. I heard his words of praise. I grasped him tight as he hugged me. I loved my father. I did not care who died or not, so long as my father loved me.

We fought those brigands two days out of a great city called Augustus, in a little kingdom called Fallow. It is far from where I am as I write this now, in another place.  It was many years ago. The people I hear as I write these words, in the market below the window of my room, have no knowledge of my homeland. They go about, unaffected by all that I have ever done. In my mind, I am more in Fallow than here, where I was only a boy, a boy without any awareness except his country and his family. Yet I carried my weight. I drove my own wagon, managing two horses by myself. My father’s wagon, with four horses, had the lead. I followed. Between the wagons, on foot, were two of the king’s guards, strong men with shields and spears.

The road was no better than two ruts along a grassy cut between the trees. Up and down, up and down went the journey. We would drop down short, steep grades, the wheels skittering as we held back our horses. The climbs were a struggle, the horses’ hooves digging out divots from the soft earth. In the bottoms, our wagons churned through water-filled holes, sometimes up to the hubs. All that day, there were hints of rain though none fell. The sky was overcast and heavy. Around us, the wood yielded an appearance more grey than green. If there had once been shrubs and undergrowth in the distant past, it was gone now. Little sunlight reached that forest floor. A few spare onions and beet plants, with rare humps of brown hay, made little impression above the dead leaves of last season, stretching out like a carpet.

As I think of it, I cannot say why the guards were there, nor even remember their names. I had some dim notion that my father’s reputation carried weight with the king’s court and with various nobles, but I had not quite reached the age where I cared. It did not matter at fourteen who my father knew or why they would come with us. They were his friends or his associates and that was enough for me. It is strange how accepting a boy can be about the world and the people in it.

When we came to the place where the brigands attacked, the man set to take me appeared from behind a tree, so near that he might have struck me before I could move. Some instinct preserved me so that I acted quickly – but as I jumped, my heel caught the wagon’s toe board and I lost my balance. I fell away from him, putting the wagon between us. If the road had been open, he might have climbed aboard and driven off. Instead, he came around to find me.

I had tumbled and gotten wrapped in my cloak. I clawed the folds from my face with one hand, grasping and drawing my sword with the other. I saw the attacker only for a moment, his chest coming at me. Then he was dead.

There were five brigands who attacked us. The rest of the fight ended quickly. One of the guards killed his with a throw of his spear. The other guard’s attacker came much closer and the guard’s spear broke – and yet he still managed to finish off the brigand with the broken end. My father killed his first opponent with the axe on his belt, then chased the other into the trees before he got away. This accounted for four of the brigands, all dead, while we four were all well and unhurt. My father would tell me after that they were foolish, desperate men, who had likely presumed we were merely a teamster, a boy and two footmen. We had proved them wrong.

The only brigand I had seen alive was the one I’d killed. The fifth one that fled was out of sight before my father found me. When I saw the three other bodies, all torn apart, I felt ill. I was glad there was no other to fight. I did not want to kill again.

My father was not satisfied. Though we had frightened off the fifth man, he might be anywhere nearby, waiting for us. My father told us to calm the horses and get underway, saying that we should fear an assassin’s arrow come stealing at us from a nearby, hidden place. That frightened me. My heart pounded as I retrieved the reins to the horses from between their legs, where I’d dropped them, and climbed onto my seat.

We started off, with both guards driving and riding in my father’s wagon. My father stayed behind, waving us on, promising that he would soon find us. He shifted his axe to his other hand, drew his sword and headed into the trees.

We went ten minutes along the road, then stopped and waited for him. My eyes anxiously searched for any movement. The guards were not concerned. They began an argument about a sausage one had brought along and how they might share it; both claimed to be hungry and until my father returned they could not build a fire. It might be hours, it might be after dark, before we could camp. I did not care about the sausage. I wished my father would return quickly, whether we built a camp or not. At last, the soldiers came to an agreement and ate their fare. I was offered some but I could not eat. Our wait seemed very long.

Then my father appeared on the road. Both his weapons were on his belt, showing he had nothing to fear. I stood up and waved with both arms, shouting. He smiled and waved back. Soon he was close enough to tell us that he hadn’t found the man. The guards greeted this news with little comment and soon we were on our way again. When the end of the day threatened, my father called a halt and we began to sort ourselves out for a meal and sleep, like it was any other day. All three adults gave the sense that nothing had happened.

It was only after the fifth or sixth rework that I realized - what with the new title and all - how much this looks like a "my father was killed and I am bent on revenge" opening.  I am glad to say that is not the measure of the plot at all.  Until the last paragraph above, however, I can easily see people thinking that's what's coming.

If you like the writing, I can assure the reader that the quality and level goes on for 50,000 words, so far.  I still have a lot of book to rewrite: but I feel it is strong and confident and possesses a very real feel about adventuring from scene to scene.  I am more than pleased with it.

Please consider a small donation; please consider supporting me on Patreon.  And if not, don't forget to buy the book when I publish.

I am setting a date for the preview ($25 donation): Tuesday, April 26, 40 days away.  I plan for that preview to be the first 35,000 words (thereabouts); more than enough to chew.

Surprising Myself

I have been having fun with language and story telling all evening that does not feel very much like myself.  It is a strange voyage I'm on, learning that I have found ways to write that are new.

Forgive me.  I have been receiving donations and I am feeling mellow and fine.  I need to share.  This is from the Fifth Man, my present book - never mind where in the story.

Through the day, Ruchel slaved more for Zygmunt than she did for me: baking, sorting and spinning yarn, weaving and boiling tallow, among other tasks. She worked from before I would wake in the morning until the moment I was ready to sleep at night; and I suspect that after she had me asleep that she would rise and work even then.

While something of a taskmaster, demanding that if I insisted to reside in the cottage that I spend my time wisely with books or pen, or at least in thoughtful pose, she did not hound me as to what I did with my time if I stepped beyond the lintel. She only concerned herself with me if I were underfoot. If I rose to seek a bowl of tea, I would be soundly abused until I had retreated to my chair where I must wait to be served. If I dared pick at a meal she was making, she would not hesitate to rap my knuckles with her spoon. If I showed any dissatisfaction with something I’d read or something I’d endeavoured to write down, in minutes afterwards there would be something to nibble on or drink down intended to heal my spirits. In many ways, I was as much a slave to her as she to me – except that I did in nowise task myself to work as hard as she did herself.

She did ask me after a week, humbly and with an expression of desire that she struggled to conceal, if I would mind very much to let her whistle or sing as she worked. Fawnia Mortmont had never allowed this but Ruchel had had a master in Dawdling that enjoyed it when Ruchel was a young girl. By this time I would have denied her nothing; it was rare she would ask for anything. I begged her to do as she pleased and thereafter I found she had a very pleasant voice and knew many light-hearted working songs. After a day I had learned some verses of these – but if I tried to take up with her she would stop singing in a fit of laughter at the sound of my voice. This disarmed me terribly. After one or two attempts, I resolved not to try again – but I would find myself muttering one of her songs as I hunted in the wood, rather enjoying it.