Creating Worlds: Making up Montalier

Okay, so technically, Montalier is not a world.

1It’s a country within a world. But creating worlds sounds so much better than making up countries, so I’m running with it. I created Montalier for my novella TWELVE DAYS OF FAERY, the first in my SHARDS OF A BROKEN SWORD trilogy. Besides being the home of one of my favourite characters, Montalier is one of my favourite settings. I don’t think it’s because Montalier is any more developed than my other worlds: rather, I think it’s because TWELVE DAYS OF FAERY was a first on so many levels for me.

  1. The first novella I ever wrote
  2. The first longer form fiction I wrote from a male POV (previously, I’ve only written short stories from male POV)
  3. The beginning of my first complete trilogy (as of now, when THE FIRST CHILL OF AUTUMN is due to be published May 31st)
  4. The first book for which I made up pie proverbs

When you build a world you have to think about so many things.

Is this the coolest map you've ever seen, or what?

Is this the coolest map you’ve ever seen, or what? (And in case you’re wondering, Wyndsor is north-east of Montalier, out of sight along the coast. Avernse also doesn’t appear on this map, but that’s because it was a VERY TINY piece of paper)

Political system. Monetary system. History. Religious system (if any). Etymology of names. Proverbs and historical references. Is it a country or an actual world? A monarchy or a democracy–or perhaps both? What sort of military does your country have? How does it interact with the militia of the surrounding countries? Is this a coastal country, or landlocked? Do you have dragons? (Always have dragons). If you’re travelling from country to country, where exactly are your countries in relation to each other? Do you have a map? (Always have a map. With compass. Trust me, you’ll need it.)

There are many other things to ask and formulate, but one of the things I most enjoy making up is pop culture. Well, not exactly pop culture, but you know what I mean. The catch-phrases people use. The in-jokes. The references to ancient (and not-so-ancient) history. The things you forget you say until someone from another country hears you and wonders what you mean.

With Montalier, it was pies.

Tiny pies. Huge Pies. Pies in between. Pie proverbs. Pie references. Pies everywhere! I love pie, so it was a hugely enjoyable (albeit hunger-inducing) part of my world-building. In fact, when I revisited Montalier for THE FIRST CHILL OF AUTUMN, at least one beta reader asked if there would be more pie proverbs. (Spoilers: no. Sadly, there were no words to spare, as TFCOA already weighs in at a smidge over 50k, which is slightly long for a novella).

As a reader, I have three worlds that I’ve found to be extraordinarily well-written.

The first of those is the world Steven Brust has created for Vlad Taltos, his assassin-on-the-run who manages to escape death and disaster by the skin of his teeth nearly every book, while his side-kick Loiosh is making sarcastic comments in his ear. The world-building there is something really special. It grows over the course of many, many books, but each book is so well-contained and explained that I have very happily read them ALL out of order without feeling more than pleased each time I find something cool that slots into my knowledge base for the next book.

Second: Kate Stradling’s Kingdom of Lenore in KINGDOM OF RUSES  and TOURNAMENT OF RUSES. And guys, I know I’ve raved about this book and this author before, but the world-building here is just so deftly done: there is not a single unnecessary word, and the world is richly imagined and filled out.

My third favourite is the world Patricia Wrede created for THE RAVEN RING. It is rich in sayings, understandings, customs, and magic; and it’s done in an understated and completely immersive way. THE RAVEN RING is another book I’ve already raved about, so just go and read it already. (Incidentally, Patricia Wrede’s blog is probably one of the best blogs a writer can read for world-building–and lots of other–advice, too.)

Writers, what is your favourite part of creating a world? Readers, what is the best world you’ve ever read? Let me know in the comments! Or, yanno, just tell me a really great pie proverb?

PLAYING HEARTS is available!

Whoop! PLAYING HEARTS is now available! PLAYING HEARTS THIS ONE picmonkeyOnly at Amazon (for now) until I get my act together next week and get it Smashwords-ready . . .

Descent into Madness: or, an Interview in Underland

In honour of PLAYING HEARTS‘ publication this week, I’ve arranged a rather special interview! With me today are Hatter, Hare, and Dormy; sans tea-table but fully supplied with tea and crumpets.

 

PLAYING HEARTS BOOK COVER-picmonkeyW.R. [addresses all three]: Good afternoon! It’s lovely to have you with me today!

Hatter: It can’t be afternoon. We haven’t had our morning tea yet. You’ll have to rewind.

W.R.: Er…Good morning?

Hatter: Better. Better, butter. Butter! Who took the butter? I must get on with the crumpets or we’ll be late.

Hare: YOU WILL GET NOTHING FROM ME, MADAM, BUT NAME, EAR LENGTH, AND HAT SIZE.

Dormy: SNOOOOOOooooaaaaaaaaAAAARK!

W.R.: I’m sorry, what did you say?

Hatter: He didn’t say anything. He’s snoring.

W.R.: No, I mean the Hare. Name, ear length, and hat size…?

Hatter: He thinks you’re a minion of the queen.

W.R.: Why would I be a minion of the queen?

Hatter: Prestige, power, scones…

Hare: HARE, ELEVEN INCHES NINEPENCE, FOUR AND THREE QUARTERS.

W.R.: Um. Thanks.

Dormy: SNOOOOOOooooaaaaaaaaAAAARK!

W.R. [addresses Hatter]Your hat is a rather special one, I hear. Can you tell us about it?

Hatter: Yes.

W.R.:

Hatter:

W.R.: Um. Your hat? You were going to tell us about it?

Hatter: No I wasn’t.

W.R. [narrows eyes]: You just said you could tell us about it.

Hatter [sniffs]: Can and will are two different things. You should be more precise.

W.R. [considers a very precise method of informing the Hatter what a prat he is]: Perhaps the Hare would care to answer a question or two?

Hatter: Perhaps.

Dormy: SNOOOOOOooooaaaaaaaaAAAARK!

W.R.[addresses Hare]: I see you have a crutch.

Hare: I SEE YOU HAVE A BIG NOSE.

W.R.[tries to hide nose behind hand]: Well, yes, but—I mean, you’re missing a front paw, not a back leg. Why do you need a crutch? Isn’t it inconvenient?

Hare: WELL, WHY DO YOU NEED A NOSE AS BIG AS THAT? DOES IT HELP YOU SMELL BETTER?

W.R.: No. That’s why I take showers.

Hare [fixed stare]:…

W.R. [fixed glare]:…

Hare: HAVE A CUP OF TEA. IT’S NOT POISONED.

W.R. [takes teacup]: Thaaaanks. Back to your crutch. When did you get it?

Hare: NOT EVEN A SMIDGE OF BATTERY ACID.

W.R. [puts teacup down]: What do you know about battery acid? You come from a pre-electric paradigm.

Hare: WE HAD A LOOK AT YOUR CAR. IT WAS BROKEN.

W.R.: My car wasn’t broken!

Hare: WE FIXED IT FOR YOU. WE ACCEPT PAYMENT IN TEA AND CRUMPETS.

W.R.: But you don’t know anything about car electronics!

Hare: YES, AND IT WAS VERY DIFFICULT. THAT MEANS IT’S WORTH A LOT OF TEA AND CRUMPETS.

W.R.: What did you do to my car!?

Hatter: Well, it has wheels, after all. Worst comes to worst, you can always get behind it and push. Good exercise for you.

W.R. [groans]: Never mind. I’m sure it can’t be as bad as all that.

Dormy [blinks and sits up, yawning]

W.R. [looks relieved]: Oh, lovely! Dormy, you’re awake! I have so many questions I’d like to ask you!

Dormy: Meep!

W.R. [clears throat]So: you’re usually asleep in the teapot that Mabel uses to get into Underland. Can you tell me why you like to sleep in tea dregs? It seems like a rather uncomfortable place for a nap.

Dormy: Meep!

W.R.: Right. Um. But the teapot? Why is it such a favourite with you?

Dormy: Meep!

W.R. [addresses Hatter and Hare]Have I offended him? Or does he not care for questions?

Hatter: He’s a dormouse.

Hare: A DORMOUSE, MADAM.

W.R.: Yes, I know. What’s that got to do with it?

Hatter & Hare [stare at W.R.]:…

Hatter: Dormice don’t talk.

Hare: IS SHE MENTALLY DEFICIENT?

Hatter [sotto voce]: Back away slowly. Maybe she won’t notice.

W.R. [pinches bridge of nose and sighs]: You know what? I think we’re done.

Hare: RUN FOR IT, HATTER, SHE’S GETTING UP!

W.R. [indignant]: Oh, for Pete’s sake! Come back here, you two!

Dormy: Meep!

W.R.: You left Dormy behind, you mad little oiks! Now what am I supposed to do? I haven’t got a teapot big enough for him!

***

Well, that’s it. I’m off to find out what they’ve done to my car. If you want to see more of Hatter and Hare, you can get PLAYING HEARTS by clicking the link… 

PLAYING HEARTS: Wonderland through different eyes

Once upon a time, there was a little short story about Wonderland. It was conceived as part of a challenge, and despite the best intentions, it didn’t remain little. It grew up. First as a rather longer short story. Then as a novellette. Finally, it became a fine, strapping novella of nearly 30,000 words.

It is still growing.

Currently, it looks like ending up as a fat little thing at 35,000 words or so. This is unfortunate, since I wanted to have it ready to send out to my mailing list in February’s newsletter.

The good news for you is that since I will be postponing the sending out until March’s newsletter, you still have a chance to sign up to my mailing list and get not only MASQUE for free, but PLAYING HEARTS for free when it comes out in March. Newsletter subscribers will get PLAYING HEARTS on March 1st, and it will shortly be on preorder for everyone else for a March 10th release.

In the meantime, here is an excerpt for your delectation!

PLAYING HEARTS

 

PLAYING HEARTS BOOK COVER-picmonkey  Once you know, it’s like leaping worlds every time you step over a puddle. In a way, it is leaping worlds. It’s not just puddles, either: Alice got in through a looking-glass, and I’ve heard of a boy who gets in through windows. I’ve always liked puddles, though. Splashy and bright and exciting– and at first that’s how Underland seems. It feels like anything is possible.

Mind you, Underland is only my name for it. Other people know it by other names: Mirror World; Wonderland; Looking Glass World. It’s all the same in the end. The same Underland. A whole, upside down world under the puddles.

            I don’t remember much about my first journey to Underland. I was three at the time, and until I was seven I was convinced it had all been a dream. I was by myself in the hedge, hiding from the other children because it was there and I could, and because it was fun to watch people passing the Home. They never saw me.

But this time, someone did. I was curled up on one of the branches, my bare feet scratched and brown, and the first I knew was an eye looking at me through a gap in the hedge.

“You’re invited,” said the eye. It blinked, then disappeared. In its place a hand appeared, a card between its forefinger and middle finger. I took it without understanding what it was or what the voice meant by what it said.

“It’s a very important date. Don’t be late.”

I put the card in my already bulging pockets and forgot about it during the afternoon. And later I was too busy with milk and biscuits and getting out of brushing my teeth in the rush before bed to remember the card crumpled in my pocket.

            That night, she sent the card sharks after me.

I didn’t know that’s what they were– well, I didn’t even know who she was. Not then. Midnight woke me, all silver and cool and snowy, and they were already by my bed, one on either side. Thin—no, flat—figures, inky black against the off-white walls, their flat, heavy feet shuffling against the carpet. They didn’t speak; they simply made a soft click-click of noise. I found out later that this was their sharp teeth snapping open and shut.

“You’re not allowed in here,” I said, my voice very quiet against the clicking of pointed teeth. The Home was clear about men and bedrooms. If there was a man in the bedroom, I was supposed to scream. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew it was Very Important.

I wasn’t exactly certain these were men, but I wanted them to know that I wasn’t afraid.

I was stubbornly Not Afraid when they clicked their teeth at me without speaking and threw a velvet sack over my head. I yelled and fought, but the velvet muffled my cries, and when at last the sack was thrown down on something soft and scented, they left me to fight my own way out of it.

I emerged, ruffled and panting, in a high-ceilinged boudoir. The cloying scent of jasmine was in the air and in the settee beneath me: it made me sneeze and rub my nose on the back of my hand. Behind the settee was a high, curtained bed in majestic black and red.

There was a boy on the settee next to me, watching me wriggle from the sack with a kind of narrow-eyed curiosity. He was dressed in red velvet and gold lace, a thin, pale boy with a sharp, aristocratic nose and a pale gold fringe of hair swept to one side.

He looked me up and down, lingering curiously on my bright green socks, and arched one light gold brow. He said: “You’re a funny looking little thing.”

I gave him a perplexed look and sat on a fat velvet footstool. “I’m hungry.”

“Have some tarts,” he said, offering me a tray.

“I’m not allowed,” I said. That was another of the Home’s rules. No sweet things between meals. “Why are you awake? You should be in bed.”

That’s no fun!” he said scornfully. “Why are you so small, little girl? I thought you’d be bigger.”

“I’m only three,” I said. I felt slightly resentful. I couldn’t help being so small.

The boy made an unconvinced noise, but sat down beside me. “I suppose there must be something to you, if she chose you. We’re to be engaged. Do you understand that?”

I only blinked at him. I had no idea what the words meant, but I did know that the boy’s lofty tones were annoying.

“Are you afraid of needles?”

“I’ve had my measles shot,” I said, but I felt my lip tremble. I very much disliked needles.

“It’s all right,” he said, with a sigh. “I’ll hold your hand. You’re not to cry.”

“I don’t cry,” I told him, but I let him take my hand anyway.

He said coolly: “I’m Jack. They didn’t tell me your name.”

“I’m Mabel. What– who were those men?”

“They’re not men,” said Jack. He was just a little paler, and his voice had dropped to a whisper. “They’re card sharks. Stay away from them. They bite.”

I opened my mouth to say that men didn’t bite, but just then there was a commotion from behind a set of colourfully lacquered double doors, and Jack’s fingers pinched mine.

“Don’t speak to her,” he said in a whisper. “Just nod. And don’t look her in the eyes. She doesn’t like that. Hold out your hand when she asks for it, and don’t cry.”

“I don’t cry,” I said again.

            Jack slipped from the settee and helped me down gravely, then stood beside me with his hand around mine, his back very straight and stiff. We were just in time: the doors flung open with a sharp crack against the golden boudoir walls, surprising a small squeak out of me. Jack didn’t say anything, but he pinched me again.

Through the open doors a vast, velvet mountain of a woman swept, her crown high and sharp. Since the only person I knew with a crown was the Queen of England, it seemed obvious that this must be she. I would have asked her if she was, but I could feel Jack’s fingers curled around mine, warm and tight, and remembered that I wasn’t supposed to speak. I fixed my eyes on her belt buckle instead, and gripped Jack’s velvet sleeve with my free hand.

“Hah!” said a voice as sharp as the crown. “Here it is at last! Give me your hand, child!”

I did as I was told, my gaze still on her belt buckle, and something sharp pierced my finger. I instinctively tried to pull my hand away but her fingers pinched harder than Jack’s, cruel and strong. I saw a huge drop of blood well up on the tip of my finger, as richly velvet as the queen’s frock.

Beside me, Jack offered one narrow, white hand without being told. I looked up once through my lashes, and saw the exulting, cruel smile on the queen’s face as she pricked his finger too. Jack took it without a sound and reached for my bloodied hand with his own, but that smile made me feel odd and squishy in a way that the meeting of our bloodied hands didn’t.

“Done!” said the queen, in her harsh voice. “Bound by blood, in life as in death. Take your fiancée in to the garden, Jack: her thin little face irritates me. Send her back when you’ve finished playing with her.”

She spun in a heavy swirl of velvet and left the boudoir. Beyond her I caught a fleeting look at a desk and office settings, and got a better view of the card sharks in the light before the doors swung closed on the room again. I wasn’t sorry to lose sight of the sharks.

            The tickle of something wet dripping down my injured hand reminded me of my wrongs. I held it up to my face: now that the worst of the pain was over it was interesting to watch the trickles of blood as they made crimson channels down my hand.

“Come along,” said Jack, pulling me out of contemplation by my uninjured hand. I was towed toward another set of double-doors that were outlined in impossible golden sunshine.

Both of the doors hand an elegant red-lacquered doorknob, but Jack didn’t touch them. Instead, he pushed them open with his injured hand, very deliberately leaving a bloody handprint on the paintwork above the doorknob.

“She won’t like it,” he said, when he saw me looking at it; “But it’s not against the rules, so she can’t do anything about it.”

I found myself walking out into a garden that was bathed in bright sunshine, my green socks picking up late autumn leaves as I trailed after Jack in the grass.

“Why is the sun out? It’s night.”

“Mother made him come out. He didn’t want to, but she’s queen after all.”

“Where’s the moon, then?”

“She’s up there too, but she’s sulking. She doesn’t like it when the sun comes out during the night. She’s a feminist and she doesn’t believe in being eclipsed by a male. Sit down here.”

Here was the brick side of a fountain. I did as I was told and Jack sat down beside me, scooping water in his gory hand.

“Sorry about the blood,” he said. He washed my hand quickly and competently: I got the impression, young as I was, that he’d done it many times before. “She likes the old rituals. It’ll heal quickly.”

“Why did she prick me with a needle?”

“Do you only ever ask questions?”

I gazed at him silently until he gave a small sniff of laughter.

“It’s meant to bind us together. It’s all very old-fashioned and pointless, and it amounts to the fact that we’re to be married.”

“I’m too young to marry,” I said. “And I don’t have any nice clothes.”

Jack rinsed his own hand carelessly and flicked bloody drops of water on the grass. I didn’t understand the look in his eyes, but his voice sounded rather harsh when he said: “We won’t be married until I’m twenty-five. That’s sixteen years to buy nice clothes. Or to do an awful lot of running.”

            I don’t remember much else from that day, but I must have fallen asleep at some stage, there in the sunlit night. When I woke the next day I found myself lying on top of all the bedcovers, my finger still sore. The tiny scar vanished in a day or two, and as young as I was, it wasn’t long before I came to believe that I had dreamed it all. But every now and then I was certain that I caught sight of a flash of red in my dressing table mirror, and once the pair of black-flecked eyes I saw gazing back at me from a window at school were not my own.

***

See Wonderland through different eyes! Subscribe to my newsletter and you’ll get PLAYING HEARTS free with next month’s newsletter!

GUYS. IT’S CHRISTMAS NEXT WEEK. CHRISTMAS. GUYS.

IT’S CHRISTMAS NEXT WEEK. Seriously, when did that happen?

So WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! FIRE IN THE BLOOD is out December 25th, and is on preorder special of 99c!

Preorder your little heart out!

(Also, help! The exclamation marks are taking over the post!!)

 

2nd Shards_FireInTheBlood

A princess in a dragon-guarded tower. The prince who is to rescue her. The prince’s ensorcelled dragon. And one enchanted keep that might just be enough to kill them all…

It’s widely known that Princess Kayami Koto is held captive in the Enchanted Keep by a dragon of great ferocity and skill. So when the bold, daring and crafty Prince Akish attempts to rescue her, it seems only sensible to bring his own dragon, Rafiq.
But the Keep’s dragon is only the first Circle in the Keep’s Seven Circles of Challenge, and both Rafiq and the prince will have to keep their wits about them if they’re to survive and rescue the princess.

There to help them is the princess’ serving maid, Kako. But why does Kako seem so familiar to Rafiq? Will she really help them, or does she have her own agenda? Rafiq isn’t sure, but he knows one thing: Kako may be the only person who can free him from his bondage to the prince, and that’s worth any amount of risk.

What A Glorious Feeling!

There’s a really horrible part of writing. It’s that part, about halfway through–or even 3/4 of the way through, or right at the end–when you’re convinced that everything you write is utter drivel and it feels like there’s no saving it. The plot is hopelessly holey, the dialogue is trite and stiff, and the surrounding prose is as uninspired at a piece of toast.

We all get it. Well. get it, and I’d hate to think I’m alone in my funk, misery–as they say–loving company. For me, this time, it hit like a sledgehammer right at the end of FIRE IN THE BLOOD. I didn’t even want to edit it. TWELVE DAYS OF FAERY was so quick and easy to write, and it felt like FITB was one drag after another–problems with characters, problems with plot-holes, etc. Most of ’em I fixed as I went, but it left me feeling raw and uncertain about the whole novella. Especially since I preset a publication date on FITB before it was finished (December 25th, in case you’re wondering).

That was then.

Now?

This is me now:

giphy

What makes the difference, you ask?

Well, mostly I think it’s mental. As in, I’m mental, inclined to worry, and unnecessarily complicate things by obsessing over them. Also, a little while ago I finished first edits of FITB (with two quicker rounds to go). Not only did I fix the remaining, tiny (much tinier than I remembered) plot-holes, but I found that the whole thing was about twenty times better than I remembered it being. The dialogue was everything I wanted it to be, the story progressed so much more smoothly than I remembered, and it was all in all a much better novella than I thought it was. So I polished it some more and then went and watched The Marriage Of Figaro on Youtube.

All that wasted worry! I could have spent that on something else!

Preorder Is Up: AKA, Git Yer Novella Heeeeere!

Hey guys 🙂 This is just a quick, mid-week note to let you all know that TWELVE DAYS OF FAERY is up for preorder on Amazon. So go preorder now!*

*Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you.

1

In Twelve Days Of Faery, King Markon of Montalier is at the end of his tether. His son, Prince Parrin, is afflicted with a rather nasty curse that slaughters, maims, or brutally attacks any woman with whom he so much as flirts. After the rumour that sweeps around the kingdom, promising that any woman breaking the ‘curse’ will be eligible to marry the prince, there is no shortage of willing volunteers. Unfortunately, there is also no shortage of bodies piling up.

Markon needs to do something, but what? Can a visiting enchantress from Avernse help, or is she simply another accident waiting to happen? And will Markon be able to give her up to his son if she does break the curse?

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