Elakanden Calendar

♥ It's Valentine's Day 

I've posted the calendar that is used in Elakand and included our dates for reference. It has twelve, 30-day months plus four feast days, and the Day of Change when the new year begins. The moon cycle is 33 days. I often refer to this calendar when I'm writing.

It's a new year

Happy 2013 everyone!

I'm finally getting time to write after overseeing repairs to the house. Those beastly termites had done a fair bit of crunching on the walls--and paid for it with their lives.

It's a new year and time for resolutions and goals. No, I am not planning to go on a diet. Rather, my personal goals center around staying healthy and in good spirits. I'm going see The Hobbit tomorrow with a writer friend. I love Tolkien and Peter Jackson does a phenomenal job.

As for writing: On Saturday folks in my RWA Chapter set out goals for the coming year. I plan to explore self-publishing for The Dark Lady's Stone and keep working on The Dark Lady's Troubadour, a.k.a. Troubadour's Quest. I also look forward to interacting with my fellow writers--and hopefully readers--both on-line and in person.

Happy Solstice

The world didn't end. We're still here. In honor of the Solstice, I've been polishing an account of a Solstice celebration in Elakand. On the shortest day, all fire is extinguished--a real hardship in cold climates. The next day is The Day of Change, the start of a new year, and it's celebrated with feasting and dancing. As the sun sets, priests reignite Brocar's Sacred Fire, and the people burn dead twigs as a sign that the old year is over. Then everyone enters the Sanctuary for prayers.

Here is a brief excerpt. The narrator is my 17 year old heroine who fled an order of Brocar's Handmaidens where her "fits" were deemed possession by the Dark Lady. She fears torment and castigation if  she's found and sent back. Tabeth, a village herbalist, saved her life when she was found lying half in a flooded ditch with a deep wound on her temple.

What an adventure to trudge beside Tabeth along the snowy road to Wullston at first light. When I heard the rattle of tambors, the tooting recorder, and the vielle's descant, I almost danced. Across the bridge I paused at the mass of people in the village square. I hadn't faced crowds in years. Tabeth drew me in and introduced me to her friends and neighbors. As we exchanged the joy of the season, I felt less strange. Soon I was sipping mulled ale, sampling slivers of goose and ham, and stuffing myself on Holy Night fruited breads, tiny loaves with a bit of nutmeg, and honey seed cakes. I even let myself smile when the country lads crowded around and asked me to dance. I'd forgotten the joy of stamping and twirling, sliding on frozen ground, laughing with one lad after another. So long since I'd been carefree.

Too soon the sun dipped to the horizon. The air grew cold, and folk gathered in front of the Sanctuary. My heart beat fast when I saw the basket of broken twigs by the door. Brocar's Holy Fire would conquer the Dark Lady Death and tonight I had no part to play save as witness.

Old Frater Evan limped out of the Sanctuary, bearing a dead branch as long as his arm. His hands trembled as he held it aloft. "The old year is dead. The Dark Lady is dead." He drew a small brass box from his sash, opened it, and lit the branch from the last coal of the old year. "Brocar's Fire returns! The new year is born!"

The people began to sing the new year's hymn. One by one, they shuffled forward, took a twig from the basket, lighted it from the priest's branch, and carried it into the Sanctuary to place in a sacred bowl. I ought to do penance for my grievous sins--abandoning my sacred duty, taking a lover. I held my twig to the priest's fire and, like a Handmaiden, I placed the lighted end on my inner wrist.

At my gasp, Tabeth snatched away the glowing twig. "Girl! What're ye doin'? Ye've suffered enough. Ye've no cause to take on more."

My eyes widened and I reached for my twig. "But my sins…"

Tabeth shook her finger. "'An what o' the sins done to ye? Them that beat ye? The man who abandoned ye?"

"They beat me for terrible things and I enticed him." But if Tabeth were right…?

Her lips tightened. "I'll give ye back yer stick, girl, ifn ye promise not t'hurt yerself."

I nodded and she handed it to me. It had gone out, and shamefaced, I had to light it again. Frater Evan's eyes twinkled. "Brocar can forgive even an aspiring Handmaiden."

Of course he'd learned about that. I cast him a pleading glance, fighting tears, as Tabeth pushed me into the Sanctuary. Countryfolk, bulky in winter layers, pressed so close I could scarcely breathe, and the smells made me giddy--wax and tallow, smoke, burning wood, wet wool, and old sweat. The hymn ended and Frater Evan limped around the Sanctuary, lighting the fire bowls from his branch. At the altar he held the branch to the tall wax candle. "Behold . . . Brocar's sacred Light!" The clear flame lifted and light blossomed over the great Wheel behind the altar. Such beauty and grace! My heart soared. The Frater raised his hands and recited the familiar prayers, welcoming Brocar's victory over Darkness and Death, rejoicing in the light and warmth of His fire. Light restored to life; joy to my heart.

Then silence fell over the Sanctuary. Lady Morlan, the highest born woman, stepped to the altar to recite the ancient prayers--in Elakanden, not the sacred tongue. "'Let the king dispense My justice and the queen My healing grace.'"

My heart fluttered and my breath stopped. I felt light flare around my head. This is the Holy Night, I told myself. It has no claim on me here.

Yet in a dream I paced toward the altar. Hands touched me and fell away; people melted into fog.

Lady Morlan prayed on. '''From My sacred altar shall the princess announce My wisdom to all people without fear.'''

I touched the altar--wood not marble. Low whispers in my head. No! Light flared around me, filling the small Sanctuary. No--no--no! And the Voice was declaiming through my mouth … 

I won NaNoWriMo!

I won NaNoWriMo--along with thousands and thousands of other people. It's still a thrill. Three days from the end I was hugely behind, thanks to "life," and I thought, "what the heck," and I sat down and pushed, and by golly, I did it--50,503 words and with hours to spare.


City of Gold contains X-rated scenes and drek I didn't think I could write. It's illogical with over-the-top melodrama--and some dead-on plot lines and scenes that are pure gold. I love my opening hook:

"You! I thought you were dead!" 

Tora opened her eyes and looked up at moist, round, rosy cheeks, set off by blowsy blonde curls straggling from an unkempt bun. "I am dead, and don't you dare tell anyone otherwise, Lady Catina Dalmar."  

It will require very substantial rewrites before I dare show it even to my best friend.

White Cat Magazine is out

The Fall issue of White Cat Magazine containing "Heritage" is out. It's got a scary skeleton in a creepy house on the cover. We've gotten lots of positive, encouraging feedback on the story. Read for yourself:  http://www.whitecatpublications.com/?p=2611 You can download a .PDF for $2.99; a print issue will soon be out.  

The other stories in it are great, too. 

SF Poetry Contest Result

I just got notice that the poem I entered in the Science Fiction Poetry contest did not make the final cut. I am not at all surprised. If it had--now that would be a surprise!

Sold a story!

My alter-ego Christie Maurer just signed a contract for a short story, "Heritage," to appear in the October issue of White Cat Magazine.

"Heritage" is about two nasty people and a ghost in a crumbling Victorian. It came out of a writing exercise at a Monterey Bay Romance Writers meeting several years ago. The assignment was to write a brief scene of two people outside a house. There is something inside that one doesn't want the other to see. One tries to get in, the other tries to keep him/her out. Other members of the group came up with a dead body, a hidden treasure, drugs, or stolen loot. In "Heritage" it's none of the above.