Category Archives: Writing

Yamada Monogatari: Demon Hunter — Update

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We’re still on track for a February release, and so far everything’s looking great. I’ve been in the loop on the cover design progress, and we’re close to having a final. When that’s done I plan to post some of the preliminary images to show what changes/refinements a cover might go through before it’s ready for–pardon the expression–Prime time. But we’re not quite there.

For now, and knowing that there will be readers who haven’t a clue who Lord Yamada is, this is a working draft of a proposed introduction. It may and likely will change a bit before it goes live, but this is the gist:

“This book is about a man named Yamada no Goji and set during a time in ancient Japan now known as the Heian period. Although the term is derived from the capital city during the era—Heian-kyō (modern Kyōto)—the word heian simply means means “peace and tranquility.” In comparison to the later feudal era of Japan, when the rise of the samurai class meant every two-bit lording and their armies were at each others’ throats, the word is probably appropriate.

A time of learning, great poetry, and literature, the Heian period (794 – 1185) is rightly considered Japan’s Golden Age, at least for the upper classes, but they had their problems:

Demons. Ghosts. Monsters.

While the political situation was relatively stable, the spiritual universe of Heian Japan was in the grip of powerful supernatural forces, most of them malicious and all extremely dangerous. That’s where Yamada no Goji comes in. A minor aristocrat from a nearly extinct clan, he has no property and no family connections. What he does have is a sharp sword, an even sharper mind, and a willingness—if the price is right—to use both to take on any monster the Heian underworld can throw at him.

“Monogatari” just means “story” and this is Yamada’s story, or at least part of it. I originally envisioned him as a sort of Japanese Sam Spade. That original tone is clearest in the first section, “Fox Tails.” But, as characters often do, Yamada had his own ideas about that. Still, that’s where it all started, and that’s where this book starts. Where it ends…well, I hope you’ll enjoy finding that out for yourself.

—Richard Parks”

Something Like Progress

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Darling Du Jour, or Just to Show That I AM SO working on the sequel to Black Kath’s Daughter. The working title is Power’s Shadow. Subject to change, of course.

In this scene, Marta and her companion Sela are getting a report from Longfeather, a once and future pirate who, for Marta’s convenience, is currently a goshawk:

            It wasn’t long before Longfeather also returned from his scouting mission. He landed on a nearby pine branch and gave his report. “There’s not a lot of activity at the docks just now. There are two merchant ships making ready to set sail, but of course they aren’t going anywhere near the Five Isles. They’ll hug the coastline until they reach Borasur.”

           There was an aspect of the debt-bond that made it difficult, even painful, for the one who was in bond-service to work against the interests of the one who held the debt, in this case Marta. She could see how uncomfortable Longfeather was, and she easily guessed the reason.

                “Is that really all you saw?” Marta asked, and she put the power of the debt-bond behind her words.

                “No,” Longfeather finally admitted. “There was someone else.”

                The way he’d phrased his response wasn’t lost on Marta. Not ‘something else’ but rather ‘someone else.’ “No more dancing around the subject, Longfeather,” Marta said. “Tell me who you saw at the docks.”

                “I saw a vessel called Blue Moon. Her captain is a woman named Callowyn. She’s mostly a smuggler and does errands for Boranac, and so operates under his protection, but she’s a pirate, too, at opportunity. I do not trust her.”

                “And is there a pirate or smuggler that you do trust?” Marta asked.

                “Well…no,” Longfeather admitted. “Most of them are like me.”

                “So why did you feel it necessary to point out this particular lack of trust?”

                Longfeather apparently gave up. “This Callowyn…we have a history, of sorts.”

                   “What sort?” Sela asked. “Or shall we guess?”

                   Longfeather shrugged, and briefly displayed his wings. “She’d probably cut off my privates with a dull knife and spike them to her mast as a trophy before bothering to chop off my head  for the reward. That sort.”

                Marta smiled then. “A woman of taste and judgment. I think I like her already. But do not worry, Longfeather. She’s not going to see you. She’s going to see a goshawk.”

                Longfeather sighed, which was a very strange sound indeed, coming from a goshawk. “She’ll figure it out. I know she will.”

It’s Not Complicated

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Recently I was reading an account of a roundtable discussion by some writers and critics on the nature of certain genres, among other things. It was a fairly interesting discussion in itself, but that’s not what got my attention. It was this offhand remark made by one participant, with no special argument or justification, as if it were a done deal: “Good books are complex.” If I’m being vague on the source, that’s because it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen this same attitude in enough other places to know it’s a common one, and likewise applied to a lot of fiction of less than novel length. Of which, I….well…

RANT MODE ON.

Excuse me, but that deal’s a looong way from done. I’m not going to be dogmatic and say what a good book has to be, but I know one thing it doesn’t have to be, and that’s “complex.” Is A Wizard of Earthsea complex? Firelord? Our Lady of Darkness? Ulysses? (Ok, I’ll grant that the last named is a confusing and often difficult book, but complicated? Not especially). Deep? Yes. Nuanced? Certainly. Ambitious? Most definitely. Complicated? No. Which is perfectly fine with me, because I do not accept the premise–complexity is an attribute of a particular work, not a virtue. If the best expression of a work requires complexity, then by all means it should have it, but let’s face facts here–if complexity was the prime virtue, or even a virtue, then a book of scripts from your average soap opera would have swept the Nobel Prize in Literature long before now.

I ran into the same sort of thing when I was listening to a band of Taiko drummers not that long ago. Rhythms in sync with the human heartbeat, drum music in the key of life. I later mentioned to a friend how much I’d enjoyed the concert, and got this response– “I can’t get into Taiko. Latin rhythms are much more complex and interesting.” Now, arguing in matters of taste (de gustibus, anyone?) is a waste of pretty much everything, but to priviledge one form over another primarily on their relative complexity, and again to my way of thinking, is missing the point in grand and glorious fashion. I also think it reveals a persistent strain of unconscious intellectual Calvinism–nothing can be worthwhile unless it takes a long time and is very hard to do. You know, as if your corn’s no good unless you first had to roll the boulders off your field, and then plant with a pointed stick (oh, in my day we used to dream of pointed sticks!).

Good books and stories like good music can be complex, but that’s either a consciously chosen technique or just an attribute of the way a particular writer works. Good fiction, imo, tends to have some common traits such as depth, and emotional and intellectual honesty, and are almost always about more than they appear to be about on the surface, all of which means they generally stand up to re-reading better than lesser work. But complex? A book isn’t good unless you need a flowchart to follow the plot? Your themes have to have themes? Complexity a virtue? Clarity the enemy?

Codswallop. With a side of liver and onions (because it’s good for you, dammit!).

RANT MODE OFF.

For now.

Scenes From a Marriage #7

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Sitting with Mrs. Ogre in a local fast food restaurant having sort of breakfast before starting a busy busy day. A group of cyclists had walked by (or I had walked by them while bringing out the food, the record is murky) and I overheard a snippet of conversation about how to identify birds “The females are easy to spot. They’re ugly.” (Note that this was a female cyclist talking). Well, I disagreed with that statement. Female birds are not ugly, they’re inconspicuous and with good reason. I tried to mention as much to Mrs. Ogre.

Me: “When that cyclist said that female birds were ugly…”
She: (interrupting) “What cyclists?”
Me: “There was a group. They walked by a minute before.”
She: “I didn’t see them.”
Me: “Well, they were there.”
She: “How did you know they were cyclists?”
Me: “They were wearing those funny bicycle pants.”
She: “Did they ride up on their bicycles?”
Me: “No, they were in the van that pulled in before us. Their bikes were strapped on the back.”
She: “I didn’t see that. Are you sure you’re not imagining them? Sometimes you have converations in your head (guilty) and forget what part’s real (not guilty).”
Me: “They were there. I promise.”
She: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Yes.”
She: “Ok. What about them?”
Me: “Never mind.”

No wonder our marriage has lasted. It really is all about communication.