Voices drifted over the garden wall from the colonnade on the other side, traveling well enough on the cool, crisp night air that I could catch snatches of the conversation, and then, as the speakers drew slowly closer, the full exchange.

“I’ve arranged for your transfer back to Rien.” I recognized Lucho Marro’s voice. “There’s no more need for you to be in Souvin.”

“The Emperor gave me my commission in Souvin personally.”

“And he’s rescinded it personally. We accomplished what we intended to accomplish there.”

Here, I guess, is where my history-majorness shines forth. I had no idea who Edward Hirsch was. Apparently he is a poet. And also president of the Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. All in all, he seems pretty legit.

After the various singings and readings and award-givings, he spoke. Most of it had to do with poetry, understandably, but a lot of it had to do with writing in general–and a lot of what he said about poetry could be extrapolated to apply to writing in general.

One thing in particular stuck with me: writing can’t only be self-conscious and introspective. A writer should always write with the awareness that his writing is a dialogue with everything that has already been written. Writing, poetry or otherwise, is “a conversation with the dead.”

He gave an illustration: his earliest attempts at poetry were good, solid attempts. But his poetry wasn’t great until he consciously engaged the work of other poets, picking through style and theme to discern just what had made those earlier writers so great (or not). It isn’t enough just to dismiss the existing body of work and go one’s own way. For writing to be transcendent and lasting, it needs to have that consciousness.

The point of writing, according to Hirsch, is to transcend “the muck and mire” to make something last through language. But writing isn’t self-reliant. If it is to last, it has to build on the existing foundation.

Which is why I think reading is such an important thing for writers. And reading widely–not only in your genre, but across the spectrum, because in the end a lot of it is the same story. Knowing what’s already been said, and how it’s been said, and why it’s been said, is an important part of making sure your writing has something to add to the conversation.

Guess I need to go read some Edward Hirsch now…

The dragon and I regard each other.

His eyes are cold, unblinking. He wins the contest every time. He’s small, about as long as my arm from fingertips to elbow. But the size doesn’t really matter. I’ve heard stories about how quickly the beasts can move. In some stories it doesn’t take more than their breath to kill you. I’ve already used up my only weapon, the pail I’d been carrying. Mother had sent me for water sometime last century. My aim was pretty bad. The pail just bounced harmlessly about four feet up the trail from where the dragon is lying. The water that was in it is already gone in the white-hot sun. So now I face him unarmed. His mouth is open wide to show pointed teeth, and he’s hissing. I daren’t turn away. I stand stock-still. A trickle of sweat has started down between my shoulder-blades.

“You been standin there long enough you could stick up your arms and folks’d think you was a Joshua tree.”

The voice comes from behind me. I whip my head around. A man has come down to the stream from the opposite bank of the arroyo, leading a milk-white horse by the reins. A boy, really–he isn’t much more than my age. But he’s got spurs on his boots, a gun holstered on his hip.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says. He tips his weather-beaten hat to me. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“There’s a dragon,” I croak.

“A dragon?”

I point. He brings his horse across the stream towards me, follows my finger with his eyes. The beast watches, still hissing, coiling up now, fixing to strike. The boy unholsters his gun, spins it in his hand with ease, lets off one quick shot. The dragon rears back and drops in a puff of dust and lies still, just like that.

“No match for Ascalon,” the boy says with pride. He holsters the gun again and pats the handle. He smiles at me, sticks out a hand. “Name’s George,” he says.

O well. For those of you unfamiliar with the meme, the rules are as follows:

• Go to page 7 or 77 of your manuscript
• Go to line 7
• Post the next 7 lines/sentences on your blog (as they are–no cheating!)
• Tag 7 other authors

First, then, I give you 7 sentences from page 7 of His Own Good Sword.

“I need to speak with him now.”

She stood back from him to look up into his face, realizing something belatedly.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He didn’t answer her. He left her standing there and went outside, wishing Rovero were not hovering behind him, too dry-mouthed nervous, all of a sudden, to say anything to him. The stable was a long, low, tile-roofed building of whitewashed limestone, with a walled yard of its own and living quarters at the far end, adjoining the guardsmen’s barracks, to house the stable-hands. The light was dim inside and it took a moment for Tyren’s eyes to adjust.

Now, on to the next lucky seven! Some of whom have probably already been tagged, since I’m late to the party. “O well!” I say again.

Meg McCrina
Sarah Wilson / @SarahandBooks
J.R. Wagner / @WordyWags
Lillie McFerrin / @lilliemcferrin
Sarah Elle Emm / @SarahElleEmm
Becca Campbell / @beccajcampbell
Kassie Bettis / @kassie_brianna

Thanks again to Hemmie for tagging me!

His Own Good Sword
Copyright © 2012 by Amanda McCrina
Excerpt appears courtesy of Winter Goose Publishing

I’m not really a huge fan of first-person narratives, since I personally think it’s hard to distinguish one first-person narrator’s voice from another. They all tend to sound the same to me. Plus, everything seems to be written in first person now. But rewriting in first person has certainly started the juices flowing again, so even if this ends up just being an abandoned exercise, at least it won’t be entirely futile.

Here are six more sentences from my WIP, the sequel to His Own Good Sword. Enjoy!

“Tore,” I said.

He paused in the bedchamber doorway to look back at me, waiting, saying nothing.

“Tore, they didn’t find his body,” I said.

He looked away from me, into the anteroom, so that I saw his face in profile, and I saw him close his eyes and swallow. Then he looked back at me and smiled a little, though his eyes were dead.

“Not yet,” he said.

Of myself, Keturah Reeve, and the personage I meet, a story scarce credible to one who has never been lost in the woods….

I’d never heard of this book or author before two days ago. But sometimes, when I’m bored, I find myself scrolling through pages and pages of Goodreads recommendations, and on Friday this one popped up as a recommendation for my historical fantasy shelf. Equally intrigued by title, cover, and synopsis (and spurred on by the fact that it was fairly cheap in Kindle format), I bought it on a whim.

I’m glad I did. It’s a lovely little book. (I do mean little; it’s barely over two hundred pages long.) It’s a grand homage to classic fairy tales, set in a vibrantly realized medieval England where magic still lurks deep in dark forests–and not necessarily a bright, cheery, sanitized magic. There are heart-warming elements in Keturah and Lord Death. But, as in many of the original Grimms’ fairy tales, the magic elements are quite a bit darker, even terrifying.

The plot itself is fairly simplistic and straightforward, like most fairy-tale plots. A girl, Keturah, is hopelessly lost in a dark wood after she follows an enchanted hart. As her strength begins to fail her, Death comes to her in the form of a black-clad young man riding a black stallion. À la Scheherazade, Keturah begins to tell Death a story–the story of a love strong enough to defeat Death himself–but leaves off before revealing the ending. Intrigued both by Keturah’s wit and beauty, and showing a peculiar longing to find out whether love can indeed defeat Death, Death offers the girl a bargain: if she can find her one true love in a day’s time, he will let her live. But if she is unable to find her love, she must go with Death to be his bride.

The plot then follows Keturah’s efforts to find her one true love among the eligible men of her isolated farming village. Simultaneously, heeding Death’s somber warning, she must convince the negligent manor lord–and his handsome son, John–to devote their efforts and limited resources to bringing the manor and the village back from disrepair before the Plague can strike.

It isn’t intended as a complex plot, though the ending was pleasantly suspenseful. The really unique aspect of Keturah and Lord Death is its thematic approach to typical fairy-tale fare. Thoughtful discussions of the nature of true love, marriage, good and evil, and the respective powers of life and death permeate the narrative. The question behind Keturah’s unfinished story–whether love can ultimately defeat Death–is, of course, the driving theme. It would be major spoilage to reveal how the author answers that question, but I was sufficiently–if not perfectly–satisfied with the ending.

On a technical level, this is a beautifully written book. As mentioned above, it’s somewhat simplistic in style, but that’s because it’s consciously paying tribute to the classic fairy-tale tradition. The prose is gorgeous–poetic without being purple. (Mild spoilers here…) My one technical complaint is that the events of the ending render the book’s brief prologue entirely unnecessary, not to mention illogical.

All in all, Keturah and Lord Death was quite a pleasant surprise. Four out of five stars on Goodreads.

There was nothing she could do. If she’d been born a boy, maybe, and could fight, as Siere could. But no, that was stupid. This wasn’t the kind of thing that could be decided with a sword, decided on a battlefield. Simpler, of course, if it could be decided like that. But justice required more.

Next, Wolf Blood, by N. M. Browne. This, ladies and gents, is the first digital book I’ve ever purchased. No, I still haven’t broken down and bought a Kindle, but I did download the Kindle reading app. I have to say I was rather underwhelmed by the reading experience, but that’s not particularly the fault of the book, and therefore not worth dwelling on. The digital vs. traditional debate has been carried on extensively elsewhere. There’s not really much point in my bringing it up again, except to say that traditionally bound books will probably always be my reading preference.

So, the book itself. I gave it two out of five stars on Goodreads, which translates to “It was OK.” Because…it was OK. At less than three hundred pages, it’s a quick, easy read. I finished it in a couple hours. Obviously, then, it held my attention. The lean nature of the plot is really the only reason I can think of for Wolf Blood being classified as young adult. (Then again, what really counts as “young adult”? That, too, is a debate for another day.)

The main storyline runs as follows: Trista, a Brigante seeress, escapes enslavement by a rival tribe only to cross paths with two soldiers of Legio IX. (I think it’s an unwritten rule that every historical story set in Roman Britain must deal with the 9th Legion at some point.) Through a blindingly quick succession of events, Trista and one of these soldiers, half-Roman/half-Brit Morcant, find themselves thrown together in a race for their lives. Trista quickly finds out that Morcant isn’t only torn between two human heritages; he’s also a shapeshifter, spending his days in human form and his nights as a wolf. And his wolfish side is growing stronger.

A subplot has to do with the historical British rebel Caractacus, who fought against the Romans only to be betrayed into their hands by his sister Cartamandua. Trista and Morcant eventually wind up with Caractacus’ forces, battling the Roman invaders. After a battle scene that’s meant to be climactic, Caractacus abruptly exits the stage, making me wonder whether the author intends a sequel to deal with the loose threads (namely, Caractacus’ infant son).

Wolf Blood certainly has an intriguing premise. I’m a sucker for Roman tales, so I was excited to find this novel, and expected it to be a refreshing take on the current werewolf craze in YA literature. Which it is; don’t get me wrong. But it falls a little flat in execution. Technically, it’s quite well-written. I know that first-person present-tense narratives have been gaining popularity–mostly thanks to The Hunger Games, I suppose. But this is the first time I’ve ever really encountered it, and I have to say it totally works here. It lends a kind of brutal immediacy to the story. The prose is clean and sharp (though I agree with another reviewer who commented that the first half of the book seems better written than the latter half). As I mentioned above, the action is fast-paced and attention-grabbing.

But, on the whole, Wolf Blood was a bit of a letdown. None of the characters feel particularly well-developed. We don’t get much about Trista’s past, or Morcant’s, though the hints we’re given are intriguing. Most of the minor characters, in particular the Romans, are so one-dimensional that they become indistinguishable. Wolf Blood is short, and in this case I feel it might be a little too short.

In particular, I wish the author had developed Morcant more. The narrative is split between Trista’s POV and Morcant’s, but overall more time is devoted to Trista–probably because recounting Morcant’s exploits as a wolf would get a little tedious (“And then I killed another rabbit!”). Morcant as a human character is left woefully underdeveloped, in my opinion. I think it’s brilliant how his half-blood human heritage serves as a kind of parallel for his werewolf nature, but the author doesn’t spend much time developing this idea. She doesn’t fully explore the implications of his divided human loyalties. Morcant betrays Rome with no remorse at all, almost without thought, even though we’re told he’s his father’s heir and a citizen. I wish more time had been spent on the idea of Morcant as half-blood-in-more-ways-than-one.

And while the book is a quick read overall, there were still stretches where I found myself skimming paragraphs. A lot of time is spent with characters just wandering in the woods, hopping from one place to the next without any real motivation or any connecting narrative thread–the old fantasy-novel Journey Syndrome, I guess. It highlights what I see as the major weakness of the book: there isn’t any real focus. At first the primary conflict seems to be between Trista and rival tribespeople; then, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, the Romans become the major antagonists, and Trista and Morcant are fighting with Caractacus. But this plotline is dropped abruptly, too, and Caractacus fades quietly to the background, without any real resolution. A forgivable fault if a sequel is forthcoming, but, as it stands, I finished Wolf Blood wondering what the point had been.

This has turned into a really long-winded review. I’ll sum it up this way: Wolf Blood is an admirably creative take on a werewolf tale, but it’s let down by skimpy character development and a rushed, incoherent plot.

No, my problem is that I’m terrified of talking about my writing. I have a publishing contract, and in a couple of months, for better or worse, my precious manuscript will be out there for all the wide world to see. Necessarily I need to be able to talk about it–to generate buzz and, hopefully, to build up an audience so that when my novel comes out in May it’ll become an instant international sensation, hit the New York Times bestseller list, and land a movie deal with Ridley Scott attached to direct. Right?

Well, maybe not all of that. But at least I need to be able to speak publicly about my novel without become extremely embarrassed and immediately looking for ways to change the subject. Which is what tends to happen, because I hate talking in person about my writing. I hate it when people say, blithely, “So…heard you wrote a novel. What’s it about?” Such an innocent, guileless question. But I hate it.

Some of it is probably just selfishness on my part. It’s been my manuscript for so long–my story, my characters–and now I have to let it go out into the world. I have to detach myself from it and talk about it objectively as a Novel–not as the ever-unfolding, almost organic thing that’s lived in the privacy of my own head for years. I’ve got to cut it down to a series of simple descriptors and formulae so I can answer that dreaded, dreadful question in a way that hopefully doesn’t misrepresent my creation too much. That’s hard to do, for one thing because my story isn’t really “high concept”–i.e., not describable in one succinct, juicy line–and for another because it has a life of its own in my head which refuses to be reduced to simple terms.

I don’t think that’s enough of an explanation, though. “Not wanting to misrepresent my work” doesn’t explain why I get almost physically ill when I have to talk about it. Does anyone else suffer from this kind of block? How do you overcome it? How do you get to the point of being comfortable talking about your writing?