This post was originally composed by Lindsay Buroker.

As authors, we spend a lot of time trying to promote our books. Our biggest obstacle is obscurity because there are a lot of books out there. No, really. A lot.

We like to think that good stories are all it takes to make it (in author terms “make it” usually means “become well known enough and sell enough books that I can quit my day job and write for a living”), but you can doubtlessly think of mediocre books that are selling bazillions of copies and authors you love who never make it out of the “mid-list” category.

Sometimes it’s just the author (or publishing house) with the biggest marketing budget who wins, but you, as a reader, have amazing power. Don’t believe for a second that you don’t have anything to do with whether an author makes it, because you do. A lot. No, really. A lot.

Why does this matter to you? Well, authors who get to quit their day jobs can write faster and put more books out for you!

The following are some little things you can do that can make a big difference. Some of them only take a few seconds. Your favorite authors will appreciate the effort. Trust me.

Helping out on Amazon

Amazon is the big kahuna of book sellers, especially when it comes to ebooks, so helping an author “get found” on there can give them a big boost. You can certainly do these things on other bookstore sites as well (nothing against copying and pasting a review, for example), but Amazon tends to have more cool features to help an author get found.

Here’s the list (any one of these things can help):

• If you do nothing else, consider writing a review on Amazon, even if the book already has quite a few and/or you’ve reviewed it elsewhere. There’s evidence that ratings and reviews factor into the Amazon algorithms that decide which books are promoted on the site (i.e. certain books are recommended to customers who bought books in similar genres). If reviewing isn’t your bag, don’t worry about writing paragraphs-long in-depth studies of the book; maybe you could just pen a few sentences with a couple of specifics about why you liked the book.

• “Tag” the book with genre-appropriate labels (i.e. thriller, steampunk, paranormal romance). You don’t have to leave a review to do this; you just need an account at Amazon. A combination of the right tags and a good sales ranking can make a book come up when customers search for that type of story on Amazon.

• Give the book a thumb’s up. This takes less than a second and probably doesn’t do much, but it may play into Amazon’s algorithms to a lesser extent than reviews/ratings.

• Make a “Listmania” List and add your favorite authors’ books to it. This creates another avenue for new readers to find books. It’s better to create lists around similar types of books (i.e. genres or sub-genres) than to do a smorgasbord, and consider titling it something description so folks will be more inclined to check it out, ie. “Fun heroic fantasy ebooks for $5 or less”

• If you have a Kindle, highlight some wise or fun quotations from the book and share them publicly (if enough people share their highlights, they’ll show up at the bottom of a book’s page).

Helping out with Social Media

If you’re involved with Twitter, Facebook, Digg, StumbleUpon, etc., you can give your favorite authors a shout-out when they release new books. If they blog, you can follow their site (through Google Reader or other RSS readers) and share the link when they post something that may be interesting to your friends. If they’re on Twitter, you can follow them and retweet their links now and then.

Authors don’t expect you to follow them 24/7 and repeat everything they say (that might actually alarm some folks…), but a little promotional help now and then is greatly appreciated.

If you like to be social about books, you can join sites such as Goodreads, Shelfari, or LibraryThing. You can help your favorite authors by posting reviews and talking about their books on those sites, or you can just use those places to find online reading buddies with common interests.

Helping out with Your Blog

Do you ever talk about books or what you’re reading on your blog? You might consider reviewing your favorite authors on your site (you could even make a few dollars if you signed up as an Amazon affiliate).

Also, if most of your favorites maintain websites, you could add an “author blogroll” list in your menu with links to those sites.

And Lastly…

These days, most authors have websites and contact forms so you can get in touch. If you enjoyed their work, consider sending them a short note to let them know. While it won’t help them sell more books, it’ll make their day.

Thanks for reading (this post and books in general!).

This post was originally composed by Lindsay Buroker and is shared with permission.

Alternate Title: The Season of Familial Obligation

Some of you may be wondering: Where are all the books David promised us in late 2011? I’ve read Wrath of the White Tigress and The Storm Dragon’s Heart and now I want more. More, damn it, more!

I am deeply sorry. Nothing would make me happier than having more books out for you to read.

I am working on the next book, but things are going slowly. And at this point I’m four months behind on my publishing schedule. It’s likely that I’ll be five months behind once December ends.

I’ve been stressed by intermittent familial obligations over the last 16 months. For most of that time I was able to keep pace with my work and so I thought I could get out a number of books late this year in spite of it all. In June, the stress of obligations ratcheted up but then cooled off again. I was a month behind pace then, but figured I could catch up.

Then came September.

I won’t go into details because they would do neither me nor you any good and most of it is private in nature. Suffice to say, my parents have been in dire need of my assistance. And when my time isn’t directly occupied by helping them, I find myself unable to work. The stress of the situation sometimes leaves my mind vacant of creativity and I want nothing but rest or some mindless endeavor.

In short, I’m having to take care of things only I can take care of, things I do out of love and respect for my family. Things that are not pleasant and leave me little creative time.

But in January, my time will be my own again. The bits of work I can manage now will become torrents and new work shall appear.

It may not be blatantly obvious to you, dear reader, not at this point anyway, but The Storm Dragon’s Heart (SDH) and Wrath of the White Tigress (WWT) are set on the same world: Kaiwen, Kawan, Qawin, and other various spellings appropriate to the respective languages of the planet. I’ve written six novels, and only one of them doesn’t take place on Kaiwen.

Pawan Kor from Wrath of the White Tigress

SDH takes place on the island continent of Okoro, which I’d guess is about the size of Australia. It is on the other side of Kaiwen from Pawan Kor which is the southern portion of a massive continent, the name of which I cannot remember at the moment. (Yeah, I know. Cut me some slack. I came up with all the big picture stuff a decade ago and haven’t needed all of it yet.) Pawan Kor is bigger than Okoro. Perhaps as big across as Spain to India.

A few clues that show the books share a common world:

• Two moons: Zhura Dark Moon and Avida Bright Moon. You’ll note that their names are the same in both settings. An odd but intentional choice.

• Magic functions the same and a channeling stone is generally required. The channeling stones are called qavra in WWT and kavaru in SDH. Note their names are different, an odd but intentional choice. Qavra are best worked by people of Zindarhi descent, or their mysterious, remaining ancestors the Qaiar Zindarhi. For those beings, use of the stones is natural. I will say no more.

• The nature of deities is the same. Greater deities linked to celestial bodies and big concepts. Such deities are distant and perhaps have no direct impact on the world. Many lesser deities of varying powers, mostly minor spirits. (The world is primarily animistic.) There’s a lot going on in the background that will be revealed in time. I mapped out the source of magic and deities for the world, based on events that took places tens of thousands of years before the events of these novels. I will say no more.

• White steel which can cut through magical energies and beings. Dark iron which is the opposite of white steel. It’s able to soak up energies. I’m sure there are other small details that I’m just not thinking about at the moment. Hell, I’m likely forgetting something major. And I may be holding out on something.
  
  

I have included in this post the maps for SDH and WWT, but these are simplified views of larger, more detailed maps that I’m not sharing yet.

Northern Okoro from Storm Dragon

Chains of a Dark Goddess should have the larger view of Pawan Kor along with a focused map for the story itself. The bigger map of Okoro will appear with Legacy of the Lost Gods. Why am I holding out? Because I’m still refining some of the locations and want them to be as accurate.

If you’ve always thought Avatar: The Last Airbender needed a shot of Johnny Quest vibe, this here’s the book for you!

The Storm Dragon’s Heart

Turesobei dreamed of adventure, a way to prove he was no longer a child.

Wizards should be careful what they wish for.

Destined to become his clan’s next high wizard, studious Turesobei has constantly struggled to live up to other people’s demands and expectations, but now he’s had enough.

When his treasure-hunting father arrives with important news to discuss with the current high wizard, Turesobei spies on their secret meeting and accidentally foils an assassination attempt. As a reward his father invites him on an expedition to find an artifact known as the Storm Dragon’s Heart.

But when disaster strikes, their quest becomes a race for survival.

Aided by a sassy ninja cat-girl and a mysterious diary that transforms into a winged familiar, Turesobei must face deadly cultists, vengeful spirits, and a mad wizard from a rival clan who’s determined to use the artifact to destroy Turesobei’s homeland.

The Storm Dragon’s Heart will delight readers with a thrilling tale of exotic lands, mystical creatures, forbidden love, and fast-paced adventure. (Ages 10 and up)

Purchase the ebook at: Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

The print book is coming later this month!

Galactus would never select me. I’m a terrible herald. Norrin Radd I am not, though I, too, seek Shalla-Bal. I have been sitting on important news, failing to alert you, dear reader and friend, that my novel of heroic sword and sorcery adventure, Wrath of the White Tigress, will soon debut as the first novel from Typing Cat Press! [1]

WotWT will be available from Amazon, B&N, iBooks, and other fine ebook retailers at the highly affordable price of $4.99. The specific release date is yet unknown (though sometime in the last days of June). I will let you know as soon as I can. (The Kindle and Nook versions will appear first.)

The print version will follow in late July, priced around $10–12. Above and to the right, you can see the beautiful cover art created for WotWT by Sandara. This same cover will soon appear on the Podiobooks version as well. (I’m looking into doing an Audible version of the book for those of you who’d like to purchase the entire audiobook without interruptions.)

WRATH OF THE WHITE TIGRESS

He thought he was a hero.
She showed him the truth.
Now he’ll do any­thing to stop the man who made him a monster.

For twenty years Jaska Bavadi has faith­fully served the Palymfar Order and its Grandmaster, the powerful wizard Salahn, but an encounter with Zyrella Anthari, last high priestess of the White Tigress, shatters the spell that chained Jaska’s mind.

Now faced with the horrors he unknowingly committed against people he swore to protect, Jaska must put Salahn’s reign of cruelty to an end. Together, he and Zyrella race to save the White Tigress and stop Salahn from opening the Gates of the Underworld. An army of palymfar warriors stands in their way, but the dangerous secrets that cloud their destinies threaten to doom them first.

In the tradition of ­­Michael Moor­cock, David Gem­mell, and Glen Cook, Wrath of the White Tigress delivers a thrilling tale sword & sorcery fans will love.

[1] Full Disclosure: I am a co-founder of Typing Cat Press.

The power went out here after a storm yesterday afternoon. A small storm. We live deep in the woods. Lots of places where a tree could strike the lines along the way. We were supposed to have power back on at 6 pm. Didn’t happen until 12:30 am. Grumble.

Naturally, the battery went out on my Macbook, delaying completion of the ebook I was working on. (I unplugged the Macbook during the storm.) And I hadn’t charged my iPod Touch in a few days, so I couldn’t read any books or write on it.

The solution?

Why pull out a typewriter, of course. Specifically, my gold-speckled Olympia SF from the 1950’s (?). Lap-sized with the sweet action you’d expect from an Olympia. And of the ten typewriters I own, it has my favorite font. (I’m a 12 characters per inch kinda guy.)

The rub, of course, is that I’m not working on composing anything new at the moment. I have two novels in first draft state that I’m working on revising. I’m generating two ebooks. I have new things planned, but I don’t want to start them until I take care of the aforementioned projects.

I could have read by my bright LED Coleman lantern. (A Hunger Games reread is next up.) But I wasn’t in a reading mood. I wanted to work damn it.

So I started a new story: THE BONES OF KAZARDAHL. Novel, short story, novelette, novella? I don’t know really. Though I’d wage money on novella. It’s adventure fantasy. Not too serious or grim, though that might change. I have barely an inkling of where it will go. Just the notion of a few characters. Should be fun.

How it starts:

With fire and sword and a thirst for something, anything but the relentless cold and howling winds of the North Mark, the reavers descended on the sleeping town of Kazardahl. Sleeping save for one man who had retired there. One man, but not just any man. Once he had been the greatest wizard in the Kingdom of Bregh. And awake this late at night he was because retired or not, it is not the habit of a wizards to sleep at night.

If you are going to offer authors copyediting or other publishing services, please don’t quote prices in terms of pages.

I have no idea what the page-length is for any of my novels. I’m certain I don’t care. I’m certain that if I knew it would tell me nothing of value. Yes, if I format the work for a standard submission, I will know how many pages there are, if I bother to look at the total. (Never have before.) Assuming everyone uses the same beautiful Courier font and margins, though…

But if I’m looking to produce an ebook myself, I’m never going to use standard submission formatting. Why would I?

And if you quote your by-page services along with specific formatting requirements, that would work. However, the message it sends to me is that you’re stuck in the past.

Pages are variable in the 21st century. Stick to word counts.

(Yes, I could tell you how many pages are in any of my new short story drafts because I do those on manual typewriters. However, those are only rough drafts, not even close to finished works. Plus, the pitch sizes and line spaces are very different on the ’29 Royal Portable, the ’56 Olympia SM-3, and the ’55 Hermes Rocket. So that doesn’t tell you much, either. And really, this bit here is beside the point. I just wanted to talk about typewriters.)

Some people need to chill out about it. By some people I’m mostly referring to writers and hardcore readers.

• The world will not end if you write a story in the present tense.
• The world will not end if you read a story in the present tense.
• No story will, in fact, ever end the world.

I’m bringing this up because I mentioned writing in the present tense in my previous post on Fast Writing. I find it easy and natural to write in the present tense. Doesn’t bother me to read it, either. But I have never used it in a story because of all the don’t-do-its I’ve heard over the years, starting in creative writing classes at university.

So I thought I’d google it and see how things have changed?

Well, it seems that it is both more acceptable and more vilified than ever before. Sigh. Life in the modern world. Or is it only modern America with our increasing love of polarization?

The amount of vitriol some spew over present tense writing would make you think there is a shortage of past tense books they could pick up for their enjoyment. It makes some people irrationally angry. Fine, you don’t like it. It pisses yellow in your mellow. Okay, sure. Not your thing. But it is not kicking your kittens. It won’t hurt you. You don’t have to read it, or attack others over it.

I also saw numerous claims about its use hurting sales. Well, I’m sure it wouldn’t help you get an agent or get your first book contract from a publisher. It’s also killing Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Game trilogy. No one is buying those books because…

Oh wait, people ARE buying those books in mass.

Maybe the average reader doesn’t give a shit about tense so long as the book is captivating and entertaining. This is probably the case. Your average reader doesn’t go online and bitch about writing.

Maybe she’d sell a few more copies, but I doubt it. First person present tense seems necessary for those books. And yes, one can find plenty of Hunger Games mentions spread amongst the vitriol. Often as an example of a book they liked despite the poor choice of tense. Took them so long to get used to it. Threw them off. Etc.

There are many arguments for and against present tense writing. I will not recount them unless asked. I do not find them persuasive in general.

What about you, dear reader?

Have a sane opinion on present tense writing?

I present to you, dear readers, a short story of dark fantasy wherein you will encounter an unholy grail, tortured souls, and most horrifying of all: South Alabama. Also, a whiskey still.

You can download the ePub Version or the Kindle Version, or continue reading the story here on the blog.

THE GRAIL OF GADDA BISBY
by David Alastair Hayden

Word spread from psychics around the country that the Holy Grail resided in the backwoods of Alabama near Murder Creek.

For some years, thousands drove down the area’s old dirt roads and hiked through its dense stretches of southern pines and sweet gums. According to conventional reasoning, if a person didn’t find the Grail, it just hadn’t judged them worthy. Eventually the hysteria faded seeing as how no one seemed worthy.

The Grail did reside in those woods, but only one man could find it.

Gadda Bisby had always lived there, far as anyone, including himself, remembered. Every time his chest started hurting, every time the nightmares descended onto him, he’d crawl out to the secret hiding place. And with moonlight sparkling on the water–he didn’t get the hankering anytime else–he would drink from the old wooden cup and feel better. Gadda couldn’t remember family, friends, nothing except the first drink he had taken from the Grail and how the pain in his chest had quit him and how the nightmares had left as well. He hadn’t even called it the Grail until people got stirred about it. It had just been Old Wooden Cup to him.

Gadda reckoned he was ninety to a hundred years old. He appeared sixty, cleaned up much younger, though he hadn’t done that for quite a while. He hadn’t been into town for at least twenty years, and he didn’t need doctors or food or anything else but a sip from that special cup once to a month.

Gadda didn’t tell no one about the Grail. He clung to it and couldn’t bear to think of anyone else having it. Folks would stroll by his ramshackle house and poke fun at him and his rusted, burned out ‘42 Ford. Gadda laughed at them in return because he knew where the Grail was.

He grew lonely, but getting around too many people always brought the hurting on worse. The nightmares would haunt him day and night. At the worst times, he would almost remember some event from long ago, something horrible he was sure he didn’t want to recall. But the Grail and being alone fixed that problem, and so he lived the way he lived for year after year.

But even in those sleepy southern woods, things couldn’t stay the same forever.

On a day when the autumn wind blew cool and tattered sweet gum leaves tumbled across the ground and piled through his broken windows, a pretty thing walked up onto Gadda’s porch: a girl, no more than nineteen he figured, with beautiful eyes that wavered between blue and green and with hair to match the setting sun behind her.

She looked so much like a girl he’d seen once in his nightmares, and she had a ghost of evil things about her. Bruises ringed reddened eyes. Scratches marred her hands and face. Leaves and straw and twigs dangled in wild, unkempt hair. Dark, red-clay mud stained her hands and the sleeves of her shirt.

Without warning nor building up like it usually would, the pain struck Gadda. He clutched his chest and doubled over. The girl rushed forward and grabbed his arm. His skin prickled. Her hand felt terribly cold.

“You all right?” she said.

He knelt and gasped for air. “By midnight I’ll be … if the moon’s out.”

She gave him a strange look, probably thinking him crazy like everyone else did. Of course, he liked it that way cause they’d leave him alone after a short chat, if that much. It even worked on those damned preachers that came a calling, as if a man who couldn’t die needed heaven.

“I didn’t mean no harm,” she said. “Can I get you something?”

He shook his head. “Why’re you out here?”

“I was lost all night and day. Now the sun’s going down, and I got no place to go.”

He shouldn’t even let her stay another minute. Something about her hurt him fiercely. But her tears and the hopelessness of her voice stirred him for some reason.

“You can stay here I reckon. I don’t have no food, no lights, but you can sleep under the roof. I do have a little moonshine and some water.”

She sat and leaned against the wall between an old soda machine and twisted sheets of tin blown off the roof by a storm some years back.

“Thanks. I might take the moonshine later.”

After a few deep breaths, his chest didn’t hurt as much, and his mind cleared a little from the ill she brought to him. He stood.

“You don’t have to get it now.”

“But I need it, girl.”

“Suzanne Graw, used to be a Maper.”

“Gadda Bisby. Never known any Mapers or Graws.”

He brought out the old jug of shine that he took a sip from every so often when the notion struck him. “It’s strong, maybe ten years old.”

“If it kills me, I’ll be no worse. Probably better.”

“No one should want to die.”  He’d always felt that with conviction. The very thought offended him. It was one of his favorite things to talk about when he did talk to people passing through.

“I don’t have nothing to live for. No home anymore. No money. Nothing, not even a drop of pride.”

Gadda stared and thought how odd it must be to worry about such things, to worry about anything except keeping the nightmares and pain away.

She glanced around at the house and him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”

“I’ve got all I need. Myself, this old house. I enjoy summer days and winter days, and everything between. I just enjoy living … You know, no one should try to die. Never. Don’t make sense. Life’s really all you got.”

“You don’t get bored out here?”

“No.”  He took a swig, and the cold moonshine burned down his throat. “Well, maybe. Hell, I don’t know nothing but this place, walking about and collecting odd bits of junk and arrowheads. I talk to folks that come looking for the Grail. If I knew anything else, maybe all this would bore me, but that’s the thing, I don’t know nothing else.”

Suzanne rubbed the heels of her palms against her cheeks, eyes, and forehead. She drew up into a ball, wrapped her arms about her legs, and rested her head on her knees. “I came searching for the Grail, thought it would make my problems go away. I didn’t find it, of course.”

“They come through all the time saying, ‘Gadda, you must know something ‘bout that old cup, least where it might be hidden.’  And you know what I tell them? I tell them to go home and live their lives and stop looking for something they don’t need.”

“But if home’s not worth going to–”

“Then it ain’t home and you should go some place else.”

They sat in silence. The sun went further down, and the shadows of the forest fell on the old house.

“I don’t have any lights,” Gadda said, “but I could build a fire if you need.”

“I’m fine, not cold at all.”  She drank some moonshine. “Not warm neither.”

“What’s so bad that’s got you running out here?”

Suzanne stared back at him for some time, then she moved close, closer than any woman should move to him, for it made him feel strange and always brought the pain on more, as it did now. But he took deep breaths, and that kept it from flooring him or worse.

A little light clung to the sky, not much, but enough to see by up close. She unbuttoned her shirt. Her hands shook, moving awkwardly as if something wasn’t right about them. They hung too loose somehow, and the skin beneath the stains of red clay had turned pale. He didn’t think she’d eaten much lately. She should at least clean up a bit and wash the mud off.

She opened the shirt. Far as he could remember, he hadn’t seen a woman naked before. He might have enjoyed the experience, but what he saw wasn’t right. His stomach turned. He felt not the least bit aroused, just angry and sad.

Jagged scars and some cuts that weren’t that old crossed her chest and breasts. One nipple hung lower, as if it had been half torn and healed back. Other scars zigzagged across her stomach, and round, white, burn marks dotted her skin here and there.

“This is what my old man does to me when he’s drunk or when he thinks I’ve cheated on him. As if he lets me out of the house, as if he even takes his eyes off me, except when he’s at work. And I don’t have no car or nothing. My family’s all in Louisiana. I got nothing but him. And for no good reason, he’ll tie me up and lay into me with a whip or whatever else strikes his fancy. I scream, I cry, and he just beats the shit out of me every time.”

Gadda turned his head, and she buttoned up the shirt. “You’ve got to stay away from him.”

“I’m trying, but he’ll find me again. Chased me to Georgia once and back to my parents another time. He can always find me, and he makes it worse when he catches me. Raped and beat my little sister to punish me for going back to my folks. She stutters now. We’re afraid he’ll kill us.”

“Your folks won’t do nothing?”

“My dad didn’t treat us much better, said I had to live with what I’d taken since I was just a whore anyway. He’s dead now, and Momma, she don’t do nothing but drink and stare out the yard and watch cars drive by.”

Gadda didn’t know nothing about things like this, didn’t know what to say, how to comfort her. She looked so pale and miserable.

“I’d kill him if I were you.”

“I thought about that, Lord knows, but somehow I love him, or a part of him. And I’m afraid, too scared to shoot him or go to the sheriff. Sounds stupid, don’t it?”

No, Gadda knew fear, the kind of fear that kept him from leaving this house, from getting too far away from his wooden cup, from facing those nightmares and the pain.

And this girl struck fear in him, too. Every word she said brought the nightmares closer.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Me neither.”  She took a straight razor from her pocket and tossed it on the porch. “I came out here to find the Grail or kill myself.”

“No one should kill themselves!”

She jerked back with wide eyes. He shook his head and muttered an apology for yelling. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You got too much life ahead of you to do something like that.”

“All those years remembering what I’ve gone through …”

Gadda shook his head again. He knew life could haunt a person even if he couldn’t remember exactly what haunted him. But maybe if a person forgot and then moved on to new things …

He stood and looked for the moon, found it clear and nearly full just above the trees. A new pain ached in him now, one in his heart for a girl that deserved much better, who deserved a full life. An image burned in the back of his mind, though he couldn’t make it out well enough. It was of a girl so much like her, in so much pain, even more pain than Suzanne.

“I couldn’t kill myself last night,” she said. “I tried but couldn’t do it. But I’ll do it before he takes me back.”

Though he’d never once considered such a thing before, the pain in her eyes and the glint of moonlight on her hair moved him. Could he share the Grail with her? That would take away her pain, the scars, the memories. She could live out her years like she should.

“No,” said a voice deep in his mind, the voice of the Grail, cold and alien, not human at all, a voice he knew but had heard only once before. “Only you, Gadda, or only her.”

He picked up the razor and put it in her hand. “You have to do what you have to, of course. If you’re going to go slinging that thing around, though, I think you should cut his throat. You’re a nice enough girl, and you deserve better. You deserve to live.”

“You’re kind, Gadda.”

She said something else, but he didn’t hear her words. Instead he heard another voice, one a lot like hers. “You’re hateful and cold, Gadda, just like your father. One day you’ll wake up and you won’t have a thing, not a drop of love nor a feeling worth having. You certainly won’t have me.”

He tried to remember her. He tried to remember his father, too. But he couldn’t recall either one.

“If there was some other way,” Suzanne was saying.

Gadda looked at her tired eyes. He looked at his house and what little he owned.

“I don’t have much here do I?”

A little confused, she shook her head.

“My life’s simple cause I’m afraid of things, you see. I don’t have memories of anything before what you see here. Not family, not growing up. Don’t know if I ever had a job. Knew my name when I got here. Nothing else.”

“I don’t understand … you forgot?”

“I think I wanted to. People say you should face fears, but they don’t have fears like mine.”

“Something terrible must have happened to you, made you forget.”

Gadda nodded. “There was a girl much like you. When I remember that, I get the pain in my chest. I can’t hardly remember her normally, but with you here I can. I think she was someone I loved. She must have looked an awful lot like you. Oh, but I wish I could remember her.”

Suzanne stood and took his hand, saying nothing for a minute while tears streaked down his cheeks. “You want to remember? Even though it hurts that bad?”

“Can I go on like this forever? I have nothing except an empty peace. I don’t even know why it should hurt.”

“I’d give anything to forget.”

Gadda stepped away and saw the moon was well above the trees now. In one moment, he made the decision, and he made it because he could see the ghost clearly now. The most beautiful girl he could imagine, and he loved her. Something had happened to her. He didn’t know what.

But he could stop drinking from the Grail and know.

Suzanne could take it and forget, until her soul mended. His had mended for long enough. He felt sorry for her, couldn’t bare that she should suffer like the ghost in his mind.

Pieces of memories rushed onto him now, one after the other. A few glimpses of people and places he didn’t know anymore, good feelings without anything connected to them, feelings he’d not felt since. Most of all, Gadda Bisby wanted desperately to know this girl in his dreams.

“You wanted the Grail, Suzanne. I will take you to it.”

She stared at him, and he held out his hand.

“You know!”

“I always have. My name and the Grail. That’s all I’ve known. It hides my memories and keeps me alive.”

She shook her head, and her mouth drooped open with surprise.

“But the Grail doesn’t share. One or the other of us, but not both.”

She frowned. “Will you die without it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just age normal now. But for the memories in my head, I can’t bear to let you remember all the bad that’s happened to you. There was someone I loved once, and somehow she suffered like you did.”

He took her out into the woods to his old moonshine still. He rolled back a tub, dug through the leaves, and found the iron handle. He lifted out the ancient stone slab marked with writing he couldn’t read, that he didn’t think anyone could cause it looked so different from other writings he’d seen.

He led her down the ladder into the cave. The walls glowed a greenish-gold from God knows what, and at the back the Grail stood on a dark stone altar. Just a plain, wooden cup, worn and battered by time, with scratches and pockmarks and a scorched bottom half. But it was beautiful.

He felt a pang of jealousy, a desire to keep it to himself. But no, he did this for Suzanne and for the girl in his mind that he was ready to know again.

On the wall above, someone had painted a crimson cross with widened ends. Vines swirled around the cross, and strange faces with large, slanted eyes circled around. The faces formed a star, and dotted lines traced paths between them. At the back of the altar stood a small, empty basin with a spigot from the wall hanging over it.

“It’s not what I imagined,” she said.

“When the moon’s right, you can drink. You’ll wake up fresh and new for sure. We’ll just have to see what happens to me.”

“Did someone bring you here, too?”

“If they did, I don’t recall.”

“I’d like to remember your kindness. No one’s ever given me so much before.”

“Doesn’t matter, so long as you don’t remember your past.”

“Clint’s still going to kill me.”

“If he hurts you, the wounds will heal. You can’t die as long as you drink from it, least I don’t think you can. Maybe if you were hurt bad or got really old. I don’t know.”

Suddenly, light struck through from the ceiling, coming from a tiny hole in the ground. Silver moonlight fell on the center of the cross. Water flowed from the spigot and filled the basin. The cup turned new, as if it had just been made. It would keep looking like that until she drank from it or the night ended.

“Now,” he said.

She stepped to him and kissed his brow. “I can never thank you enough. For facing your nightmares for me.”

“I want you to have a good life. Forget and move on. You could hide down here for years and he’d quit looking eventually. Now hurry.”

The pain in his chest increased. He watched her dip the cup into the water. Her sleeve rose a bit, and for a moment he saw on her wrist a black, seething scar just under the thin stains of red mud. But not exactly mud, at least he didn’t think so anymore.

The pain struck him hard. He grasped his chest and felt wet cloth and warm flesh. A dark stain seeped across his shirt. Blood flowed down his stomach. Memories rushed back to him. Gadda saw his gentle father cry as his mother died, and then the man became a cold, unloving, and abusive son of a bitch. He knew again the argument where he had stabbed and killed his father. He remembered running from Tennessee and coming to Alabama.

And he remembered sweet, beautiful Judith and the times they had spent together–dances, picnics, their bodies curled together in the old barn. But he had grown jealous, and she had seen other men, he knew that she had. And she’d never loved him. He’d forced her to stay with him. When she tried to leave, he beat her.

For a while, Gadda had gotten control of himself and left. But that just wasn’t enough. The memory of it, the wounding of his pride … He returned two years later and found her married to a man who looked too much like Gadda’s father. He slit the man’s throat, raped Judith, and began to cut her. She died late in the next morning, moaning and pitiful, stained all red with bone showing on her arms and ribs. Lord, how had she lived so long?

She died with her head cradled in his lap. He had destroyed the most perfect thing, in a life as weary as it was, where he’d worked and toiled and received no love, and she was the one bright thing.

Gadda took up his shotgun. He stumbled into the woods, pointed the gun at his chest, and fired.

That was the pain, the hurt and burning, and the blood which dripped from his chest now was that same blood. But somehow he hadn’t died then. He had wandered through the woods, dazed and confused, until he found an old woman dressed in a fancy gown and talking with a foreign accent. She had led him to the Grail and then left.

Suzanne drank now. Gadda hoped she’d find peace, that somehow this made things better. He didn’t deserve the life he’d gotten. He hadn’t done anything with it, never anything but this one good deed. And he didn’t care if that was enough for heaven, if there was such a place. He didn’t care but that he had done at least one good thing, and that was one thing more than if he’d died from that shotgun blast.

Suzanne finished drinking. She probably forgot that he stood behind her. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to see a man like him.

No one did.

As the shaft of moonlight left the cave, Gadda Bisby began to fade away.

But then the voice of the Grail returned to him. “There is one more thing you might do.”

“I’m finished here. Let me have my peace.”

“If you like. But a certain man will come looking for this young lady.”

He was halfway to the oblivion he wanted so desperately. Nothing could make him stay. “She’ll be fine, Cup.”

“Maybe. But the man is so like you. And if he cannot get her, he will find another.”

He tried to touch the wall of the cave but his hand passed through it. “My life’s spent. There ain’t nothing I can do.”

“Become my servant, Gadda Bisby, and I will give you life enough to stop him.”

Gadda thought of his sliced up Judith and looked at Suzanne, now with an idiot’s grin on her face. Gadda’s dead eyes sparked a malevolent crimson. There was, after all, one more thing he could do.

I haven’t posted much lately because I’ve been writing furiously. And now, the first draft of Chains of a Dark Goddess is complete at 96,000 words!

This tale of Daggers & Deviltry takes place in Pawan Kor*, which is the same setting I used for Wrath of the White Tigress. The events in Chains occur approximately three years later, and one character from Tigress crosses over into this new tale. It is not, however, a sequel.

Perhaps a statistical discussion of how I wrote this novel would be interesting. The first chapters (about 15,000 words) and the plot were created in July 2009, then I let it steep for a year (not entirely by design) before returning to it in August 2010. I don’t have data from late in the summer or just after Dragon*Con. I do, however, have data from the last 40 days: 34 days of work, 6 days off. In that time, I wrote 68,000 words for an average of 2,000 words per work day. The fewest words written in a single day: 200. The most words written in a single day: 7,000.

I’m pleased with this, though I’d like to see that average climb to 2,500–3,000 words per day. Honestly, I’d prefer to do 5,000–10,000 words a day. And I feel I’m perfectly capable of doing that in a first draft. I suspect the more I write, the closer I will get to that goal. If I could write a novel in about a week and then spend two months cleaning it up, I’d be a happy, happy writer.

I expect the second draft to add about 10,000 words to the overall length, though I will be cutting as well as adding. My method is to write a sloppy first draft that focuses on getting the story told, even if the writing itself stinks. During this process I often crudely sketch out descriptions of places and characters. The second draft is where I make the prose sing (I hope) and fill out descriptions and background details that I left out. Or, correct details that I changed later in the story, sometimes adding in new ideas and concepts. And, I may add new scenes or shift internal character explorations into external forms. For example, instead of a character thinking about whether he can survive a battle, I might rewrite it to have him discussing his worries with a friend.

I have no idea how long it will take me to complete the second draft, but the plan is to do it in less than one month. And I’m already 26,000 words into it!

* Actually, all the novels I’ve written so far take place in different parts of the same world, which I usually call Kaiwen.