So It's Raining

It’s raining again. Why does it seem the weather waits until I have a day off and then rains?  It’s not all bad though.  I happen to like rain.  There was a winter I spent in Vancouver and it rained at one point or another for 28 straight days.  It was an inconvenience but a welcome replacement for snow.  When it rains the grass always looks greener and the streets are always cleaner.  As a boy I would take my tricycle out in the rain and put the front wheel in the mud between the road and my house.  Then I would spin the tire until it made a deep impression.  The next day I would go back and see that it had hardened.  When it would rain next (within a couple of days in Michigan) I would make an identical mark next to it and count how many days it rained that month.  Keeping track of it in my head seemed impossible and writing was not yet part of my repertoire.  Back then my mother didn’t work outside the home.  She had seen too many people grow up afraid of the rain and not celebrating it.  There was a huge tree outside our front door that provided a great deal of shade.  We would pack up my little lunch box and a sack for her and have rain picnics.  The ground was almost entirely dry and the rain in Michigan usually just came straight down, sometimes in a drizzle.  That meant the ground under the tree was dry and we could sit and watch the puddles grow or the cars splash the water off the road.  It was glorious.  I would run around under the tree.  All my siblings were in school, so it was just Mom and me.  We didn’t need to go anywhere or spend money or anything fancy.  She helped me appreciate the rain as nothing more than a change in the weather.  Naturally, if there was lightning we would sit inside the screen door and fight the dog for a view through the glass.  Moving to Mississauga (a suburb of Toronto) and living in a fourth floor of a condominium sort of took some of the Christopher Robbin  out of the rain experience for me but I would prop myself up on my chest of drawers to watch the cars travel down Dundas Street.  It was there that I started “Quest for the Red Sapphire” on a rainy day.  My grandparents owned a cottage on the north shore of Lake Erie in extreme southern Ontario where we moved after Mississauga and the start of Dad’s health problems.  The house was only about 20 feet back from the break wall where waves would crash during a storm.  There was a three-season porch facing the lake.   My mother would brew a pot of tea and we would sit on swings and watch wind, lightning and 10 foot waves crash outside.  When the waves hit the wall the water would shoot up like in the air as high as the second floor of the house.  As we sipped our tea she would sometimes sing (her voice was opera quality and her major in college) or I would tell her a part of one of my books.  She was fascinated by the details and always wanted to know more.  Sometimes the rest of the family would join us and then the singing and my book telling would stop.  No one else seemed interested in her singing or my stories but we welcomed them all the same.  Everyone would tell funny stories and occasionally sad ones but we would all marvel at these tremendous storms that must have terrified sailors while we sat on our swings and drank our tea.  So you see, the pitter patter of rain drops outside my window today is nothing more than an old friend stopping by.

Sunday Excerpt, "Crucible"

More about Linvin’s background.
Mandrean scanned the crowd.  “Will someone bring the Prisoners to their feet?”   An Imperial Guard stepped over to Linvin’s party and gestured with his sword for them to stand.  Having no choice in the matter, the elves complied.  Rander was speechless at what he’d heard so far.  Bander was totally confused.  Anvar’s eyes began to form tears.  Linvin, however, was enraged.  Anger poured from his expressions like a cup already filled with more liquid being added.  The fury caused his body to shake.  Anvar held his hand to restrain his nephew.  “My friends and guests,” Mandrean began.  “I present to you Bander, Rander and Anvar Greenlith accompanied by Dirk’s son Linvin Grithinshield. “Linvin, step forward,” Mandrean ordered.  Releasing his uncle’s hand, Linvin boldly walked into the middle of the map on the floor and harshly threw the nearby pawns out of the way.  He stood with his hands on his hips and a furious expression on his face.   The emperor observed him for a moment.  “Hmmm.  Somehow I thought you would appear more impressive.  No matter.”   Mandrean began reading aloud from the scroll.  “An assassin was dispatched to Valia. When he arrived Linvin had already left.  He did, however, learn a great deal about our distinguished guest.  After studying with Sedemihcra for a number of years, Linvin joined the Valian Army.  He served with distinction and advanced through the ranks at an unprecedented rate.  The half-elf Sedemihcra called his Greatest Student Ever became Supreme Commander of the Combined Armies of Valia.   “For years we had sent armaments to the Swamp Goblins in the Southern Marshes in hopes of destabilizing Valia.  Despite all our efforts including training their warlords, the man you see before you checked us at every turn with meager resources.  At one point the goblins even managed to lay siege to the capital, but Grithinshield dealt them a crushing blow with a minimal force at his command.  In all he won over a dozen major battles and earned the honorary title ‘Defender of Valia’.  After winning three startling victories to completely crush the largest invasion attempt to date, Grithinshield abandoned his men and resigned his commission.” Mandrean looked at Linvin in disgust.  “You were at the peak of your power and you quit?  It says here King Hardurian even offered to adopt you as a son and make you his heir.  Even then you refused and asked to be discharged.  For a man who is reported to be a genius on the battlefield, you certainly have no grasp of politics.”   Linvin remained silent in his rage, not seeking to indulge the inferior man addressing his character.  The twins gazed at Linvin in awe.  They’d never fully realized the scope of his accomplishments. Mandrean continued.  “By the way.  It says here they just completed your statue when my man left Valia.  It depicts you on horseback with a sword in one hand and pointing with the other as though you were giving orders.  The statue is on a pedestal in the City Square.  The whole thing sounds a little ostentatious for my taste but I suppose some people need their ego stroked more than others.  Pity you will never see it.”

Saturday Excerpt "Quest"

And so it starts…
With all the commotion of daily commerce, the sounds of hoof steps from a galloping horse entering town went unnoticed.  The steed’s pace had become erratic.  It had thrown a shoe and was foaming at the mouth.  The animal was ready to collapse.  Pausing for a moment, once reaching the center of town, the rider produced a scroll.  He did not open it.  Rather, he merely read what was written on the outside and then tried to find his bearings in the unfamiliar place.  After turning his horse around several times, the rider determined the route he must take and headed down a street.  Soon, he stopped before a great redwood and checked the inscription on the door against the writing on the scroll.  The door read, Linvin Grithinshield - # 7 Spruce Lane.  Convinced he had found his destination, the rider dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby post. He briskly approached the door and rang the bell. Sounds of a chair sliding across a floor could be heard from inside.  The echo of footsteps was heard coming ever nearer to the door.  It swung open, to bring the resident and rider face to face. Linvin stood in the doorway, wearing a scarlet robe and a confused expression.  Outside, an exhausted young human boy was bent down with his hands on his knees in an effort to regain his breath.  He lifted only his eyes as the door opened. “It’s quite early to be running around like this,” Linvin said with a sympathetic smile.  “What brings you to my door in such a state?” The boy held out the scroll and said between deep breaths, “I come from the town of Fraylic; in the Human County.  An old elf there told me to deliver this to Mr. Linvin Grithinshield of Missandor by this morning at the latest.  Are you he, sir?” “He and I are the same,” Linvin laughed.  He took the scroll and noted the seal on the outside.  He was very familiar with the symbol impressed in the wax as it matched his own family ring.  Opening the note he found the following words:
Greetings and Salutations My Dear Nephew, If all has gone as planned you should be reading this on the morning of the ninth day of this month.  I shall be arriving in Missandor sometime in the evening of that day. I need to speak with you in person about some urgent matters, which will have a serious bearing on our futures. I send this message, in advance, in order for you to prepare.  First, tell those in town and at your store that you are going away on a long trading expedition for the company.  Tell them you may be gone for as much as a year.  Pack a mule with equipment and provisions for a long journey. I know this makes no sense right now my Boy, but do what I say and trust in me.  The time is at hand for the moon to come out from behind the clouds. I have never and would never lead you astray.
Your Loving Uncle, Anvar
 Linvin’s expression changed to a look of concern, heightened by anticipation. “Sir,” the boy interjected, “the old elf told me you would pay me ten gold pharrings for getting this message here by this morning.” Linvin looked at him inquisitively.  “When did you leave Fraylic?” “Yesterday morning, sir.” “That is a two day ride!” Linvin exclaimed as he observed the condition of the boy’s horse.  “You must not have stopped at all.” “Only for a moment here and there to rest my steed,” the boy explained as normal color returned to his face. Linvin reached behind the door and produced his money purse.  Opening the flap he began counting out money.  “Here are the ten pharrings you were promised, five more for your swift delivery, and another five to get yourself a room down the road at the inn, a good meal and a shoe for that horse of yours.” The boy was overcome by the generosity.  He thanked Linvin and then ran down the lane toward the inn, nearly leaving his mount behind. Linvin closed the door and returned to his breakfast table.  His eggs and ham lay unfinished on the plate before him.  Setting them aside, he read the letter over and over.  There was an ominous tone to the note, particularly the part referring to the ‘serious bearing on their futures’. While the letter made little sense to Linvin, he was sure of one thing.  He had the utmost trust and faith in his uncle.  If Anvar wanted those things to be done, he had a good reason.  That thinking alone was enough to make Linvin follow the instructions.

What's in a Name?

I was thinking about different blog topics today and decided to start lunch while doing so.  When I’m just feeding myself I usually go with something simple and comforting.  Nothing says that like a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  I looked at the box and thought for a moment.  While it is hardly gourmet cuisine I, nevertheless, always by Kraft.  I ate the off brands (especially in college) and they were just not the same.  Then I started to think about it.  There are some products where the name on them means nothing to me.  Other times I am convinced a certain brand is better.   My wife will even point out that certain products are nearly identical but my mind is made up.  Take some examples of products I am indifferent to the brand I am buying:  eggs, aspirin (or Tylenol type product), gasoline, motor oil, bread, milk, vitamins, mustard, ketchup, meat from the counter, fruit, canned vegetables, paper towels, computer paper, dental floss, pumpkin pie, cheese, wallets (not purses ladies, men’s wallets), trash pick-up (yes I have to pay to have my trash picked up), light bulbs, orange juice, pasta, sandwich bags, brake pads, ranch dressing and so on.  Now consider the items that I will stick with one brand on and at worst wait for it to go on sale: obviously Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Oreos (there is no substitute), Nike shoes, certain lunch meats, Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, Michelin Tires (to be fair I would also consider Goodyear if they made the right one for my car), Prego pasta sauce, Tostito’s Salsa, Doritos, Stouffer’s lasagna, Yoplait yogurt, Country Crock margarine, Diet Pepsi (I was raised on it and I am hopelessly hooked), Lays potato chips, Tostitos tortilla chips (Pepsico must love me), Calvin Klein Obsession for Men, Gillette shaving cream, Russell Stover chocolates, HP printers (you can always find ink), Sonicare toothbrushes (no cavities since I started using it 5 years ago) Quilted Northern toilet paper and La-Z-Boy rocker recliners (always had one, always will).  Are these products better than their competitors’ offerings?  Were the previous items of which I had no brand loyalty really negligible in their difference from other choices?  Sometimes I really do not think there is a difference.  They may be made in the same plant under the same guidelines and simply packaged differently.  If you believe that then there is no reason to pay extra for a name.  Mind you, it still baffles me that a manufacturer would make two identical products and sell one for less.  Still, it does happen.  Medications are a perfect example of it.  Other times people are convinced that say the Vicks brand sleep medicine works better than the store brand.  For that person I am sure it does.  It could be they are right and there is a subtle difference.  It could also be the placebo effect.  In the end, it’s about getting a good night’s sleep.  If a person believes a product will do that for them and it does, who am I to argue?  Other times there is a clear difference in the name brand.  Perhaps they use better ingredients or have higher quality standards.  Maybe they simply have a recipe that no one else can duplicate exactly (Oreos) and the best a competitor can do is imitate it.  With name brands there is usually a trust factor.  The product has either worked well for you or someone who recommended it and you seek that same level of performance.  Let me ask you this; how many times did you stray from the brand you were loyal to for any given reason and found yourself dissatisfied with the results?  Maybe you tried the cheap ice cream and didn’t like it.  Perhaps you bought the inexpensive tires and they didn’t last.  Maybe you bought the store brand pop on sale and it tasted like battery acid.  Whether real or imaginary, we each have our own list of items we hold brandless and others we buy because of brand and we stand by those beliefs.  It is a shopping religion of things you believe in and things you don’t.

Writing IS Work

It’s raining outside and when I lean back in my office chair something about the tilt of it or the room makes it swivel around to face the double windows.  I watch the cars drive by my house and splash the small puddles of water as they go.  A conga-like drum beat emanates from the eves trough and rushes out the end of the drain just on the other side of the wall.  It is a glorious day to work…on writing.  Many people have this belief that writing is not work.  While I do enjoy it and that certainly makes it far more entertaining than any other work to me, it is still taxing.  Writing makes me tired and feel spent when completed for the day.  That sounds like work.  Back in high school I remember having a heated debate with my physics teacher when he asked the question, “If you hold a dumbbell above your head, are you doing any work?”  Naturally I took the position that the person was in fact working and he was set to prove me wrong.  In the scientific community according to Answers.com, work is defined as, “work-applying a force to an object and the object moving in the direction the force is applied.”  Since the object was not moving, from a scientific perspective no work was being done.  I think a lot of people look at writing in the same way.  A writer does not leave the house or commute to a job.  There is no office or factory and the workday is not set in stone.  Paydays are irregular at best.  When someone asks you what you did today or whenever and your answer is, “I wrote” they look at you as though you took the day off or did nothing when you, in fact, accomplished quite a bit.  The dumbbell may not have moved but you are still awfully spent.  Webster’s has a broader view of work.  They define work as, “Activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something:   a   :  sustained physical or mental effort to overcome obstacles and achieve an objective or result   b   :  the labor, task, or duty that is one's accustomed means of livelihood   c   :  a specific task, duty, function, or assignment often being a part or phase of some larger activity.”  In this example writing is given its due.  It is not a phenomenon isolated to writers.  Other artists feel the same disrespect.  It is different, though, with writers.  Most of the time people can’t look at what you’ve produced in a single day and measure your labor.  Instead, all they have to go on is your word that you worked very hard on a long project of which they can see no tangible results.  It makes you see how our livelihood is so disrespected from an effort point of view.  We live in a society where people act like you must EARN the right to be tired.  To do so you must be able to show proof of your work.  That is not always so easy for a writer.  I think that’s part of the reason so few people make it as writers.  You have to be strong enough to be able to say to yourself, “Hey, I worked my tail off on this today even though I only accomplished x amount.  I know I worked hard and that is enough for me.”  Now I think I’ll watch the rain again.

Sunday Excerpt, "Crucible"

We finally learn the truth of Dirk Grithinshield’s fate.

Linvin’s eyes grew large and his mind began to race.  The picture was becoming all too clear.  “Now this Grithinshield fellow was a man of some importance in Sartan and through his connections had long since possessed the staff and key I sought.  Though the staff held some importance, Necromancer assured me it was the key I needed to open the chest.  Grithinshield had them since before the War of the Unclaimed Territory and had been searching for the chest for more than ten years.  “It was a difficult situation.  My agents searched his work with no luck but his house was like a fortress.  A break-in there would create undesirable exposure.  The last thing I wanted was another war with Sartan.  If a theft from or the murder of one of their most prominent citizens were to be traced back to me, I could forget about Romadon.  So long as he was in Sartan, we could not touch him.  “Then we devised a way to coax him into coming to us.  Word was sent that the chest was in Ravensburg and its owner would be willing to part with it for a fee.  Knowing he would be traveling through the Territory, we put every bounty hunter and bandit on alert with a price on Dirk Grithinshield’s head.  He took the bait and was captured by some bandits in the Eastern Forest.  Much to my dismay, however, Dirk had not brought the staff and key along on his journey.  Since the bandits killed him during his capture, it was impossible to interrogate Grithinshield. “Being highly frustrated, I sent a team of assassins to Sartan to research the matter further and attain at least the key.  They could use whatever devices they wished so long as they could not be traced back to the Empire and me.  Gathering all the information they could, they reported Grithinshield’s widow, Jelena shut herself up in their estate and was exceptionally difficult to reach.  Her brother, Anvar Greenlith, lived on the edge of town and was her lone visitor.  Figuring Dirk to be a cautious man they determined Greenlith would be an unlikely custodian of the artifacts. “Then a piece of intriguing news came to our Team Leader’s attention.  Grithinshield had a son named Linvin.  He was sent away right after Dirk obtained the staff.  At first we thought it was banishment of an embarrassing offspring but we soon discovered otherwise.  He was sent to study in Valia with Sedemihcra, the Master Teacher of Warfare.  It was proposed the boy had been made the guardian of the items and we may have better luck exploring that direction.”

Saturday Excerpt, "Quest"

Welcome to Missandor.

The morning sun poked curiously over the horizon.  It painted the sky in a dazzling display of vibrant colors.  The brilliant star seemed to pause for a moment, while taking its first look at the world, to which it was bringing light.  The majestic, glimmering light brought a caress to the silky spring clouds.  They would continue to carelessly banter about the sky, riding winds where they led. As the dark of night retreated, a dense fog still stubbornly held the land in a cloak of disguise.  Such a spiteful deed by its dark counterpart, seemed to displease the sun.  It resolved to rise steadily into the air and shine brightly down upon the usurper with all its might.  Being no match for such luminance, the night reluctantly withdrew its misty blanket and released the land to the dawn. As the haze dissipated, it gracefully revealed treetops where one might expect the ground to be.  With more and more of the air clearing, the trees spread out in all directions.  It was a great forest of redwoods, which seemed quite normal at first glance.  Upon closer inspection though, it could be seen that the trees were twice as wide as houses and were spaced out evenly, most certainly in a deliberate pattern.  It was not just a forest, but also a town. The trees were actually the town of Missandor. The spacing of the giants formed a grid, which created streets through the town. There were no houses there in a conventional sense.  The inhabitants lived within and upon the trees. Missandor was a community of elves. The swarthy skinned folk with brown hair and eyes were slightly more modest in height than their human counterparts. As a whole, it could be said that elves were a friendly and kind people but also intensely proud and distrusting of other races.  In Missandor, however, the population was known to be accepting of different cultures and races, making for an atypical elven town. The quiet streets soon erupted with the sounds of the market opening for business.  Stands, carts and stores of all types were opening.  In a matter of minutes, the town had gone from a simple forest to a merchant conglomerate. Sounds of children playing all around, blended with the haggling taking place at the vendors.  It created a symphony of sound, which was pierced on occasion, by the ringing of a bell on the local water wagon.  It was pulled by two horses and driven by a kindly old elf that had been delivering this precious commodity to homes since he was a child.  He would most likely continue his task until his eventual demise.  He was a constant in the ever-changing township.