Bertha's Thanksgiving Tale: A Triple Junction Excerpt

This Triple Junction excerpt contains a Thanksgiving tale from Bertha von der Lahn, the Burg Lahn storyteller, par excellence. It is a reworking of one of the Breton tales collected and retold by Anatole Le Braz and contained in the collection Celtic Legends of the Beyond: A Celtic Book of the Dead; this version has an introduction by Derek Bryce. It's available used in print and there might also be an older version downloadable from Gutenberg. As you might guess, Ankou, the Breton harvester of the dead appears more than once in these tales.

Bertha's tale focuses on the 99 inns along The Paths of the Dead and one of its travelers.

***

Gus and I leaned forward in anticipation. Bertha's eyes gleamed dark iron and cloudy nights. Her face lost the skepticism and impatience one usually saw when looking at my aunt. Instead, Bertha radiated wisdom and subtlety. She seemed to hold all of the secrets of the past and the future in her palms, pressed together in front of her.
 
She began her tale.

The man who used to be Haerviu trudged behind the others. The way was long, he heard the man before him say. But Haerviu didn't remember starting out on this path. He also didn't know why he was here, following behind a line of trudging people. It was dark, the way lit by a wan moon, not the harvest moon he remembered seeing last.

He stumbled as he tried to recall what he had last done before embarking on this journey. He remembered telling his wife he had to bring in the rest of the grain. He smelled rain. His wife Gael had begged him not to go out. It was already dark, and the dray horse was prone to be skittish at night.

He remembered hitching his horse to the wagon and setting out along the rows. And then… he only remembered hearing his horse whinny in fright.

And then he was here. Haerviu tugged on the tattered shirt of a man in front of him. "Do you know where we are going? Has his lordship called us to the castle?"

The man shook off his hand. Haerviu started to reach out again, thinking the man hadn't understood him, when a voice next to him, timid and gray said, "The Paths of the Dead, my good man. That's what we're traveling. The Ankou has collected us this very night."

Another spoke on his other side, "Here, it is always night."

Haerviu wanted to stop his beating heart. But he didn't feel his heart beating in his chest. He felt empty. And sad. He thought about his horse and his wife and his children. To be fair, he may not have thought of them in that particular order.

Gael had borne him ten children. Two of them he had buried before they reached their first year. Of the others, six remained to him. If it was true what the man had said, if he had died out there on his lonely field, then he only hoped his children would care for Gael. And for his horse. If she had spooked, then it was only her nature and not her fault. It was Haerviu's fault for not listening to his wife.

These thoughts kept him occupied for a time. Then he began to wonder just how long the Paths of the Dead were. He was already dead, so he couldn't die of boredom. But he would have liked to have a rest, to be able to come to terms with his lack of life. It seemed so unfair.

Could Ankou be bargained with? He'd return to give Death his due as soon as he made sure his wife was taken care of. That she had enough to get her through the winter. No reason she should suffer because of his foolishness.

The lights caught his attention. Before long, they came by a building. It looked like a traveler's inn, a

place where a man could put his feet up for a while and slake his thirst. Haerviu didn't think the Ankou would mind if he took a few minutes to do that on his way to whatever lay at the end of the Paths of the Dead.

He turned to go through the double doors leading into the wooden shack that, despite its shabbiness, looked inviting. A tug on his arm accompanied the gray voice, pleading, "Don't go in there, my good
man."

Haerviu could see no one. Then he looked down. A small man, a true dwarf, strode beside him.

"Why shouldn't I go in there?" he asked. "You could come with me. We could share a pint and talk about things. I have so many questions. And then I want to find the way back. There must be a way."

"Aye, 'tis said there is one," said the dwarf. "But this is not the place to while away your time. Answers ye may have, but they will not bring ye any joy." The man spoke with a northern accent, brisk and colorful and no longer timid.

"Well, then, maybe we'll see each other farther down the road," Haerviu said.

"Look for me in the halfway house," the man said.

Haerviu nodded his farewells and went in.

The tavern was full, and there didn't seem to be any place for him to sit. A shout from the back drew his attention. He saw a chair that was free and sat at a table with a half a dozen people. Three of them played musical spoons on the wooden planked table. The thump of the metal on the wood was deafening. Two others nursed their mugs of cider.

Haerviu felt a sudden deep thirst and called for the barkeep. Soon he had his own mug of cider. Before he took a drink, he chanced a look at the man sitting next to him. His skin was pale and thinner than Gael's Sunday crepes. The man had eyes the color of a storm-laden sky, but they were as lifeless as the man looked.

The man laid a bony hand on Haerviu's arm. "It's a little early on the journey to be drinking," he said.

Haerviu shrugged him off. Hopelessness settled over him. It seeped from all the corners of the room, weighing them all down like anchor stones. Like gravestones. "What's it to you. We're all dead. Whether we come to the end of the path sooner or later doesn't matter anymore." Tired and sore, the feeling permeated his ghostly body like a day and a night pulling his horse Soizig through the mud.

He couldn't accept the way things had turned out, and it made him just want to drown his sorrows.

"Stay your hand and go further," the man said. He rose. "I'll come with you so you won't be alone. The way is dusty and long, I'll not lie to you about that. But with two of us it will go quicker. At least let's make it to the halfway house together. Then we can have a drink. If you don't do that, you'll never end your journey."

"And what about you? Why are you sitting here still, a'takin' your ease?"

It seemed to Haerviu that a light flickered in the back of those cavernous eyes. "I've been waiting for someone like you. Someone with the strength to seek the path of return."

Haerviu put down his mug, and the two of them left the place. They rejoined the Path, but now there were no other dead ones. Just the two of them. The man pointed ahead. "Ninety nine inns line the way. At the halfway house, there we may talk."

"Why not here? It will ease the time."

The man shook his head. "Not here. Not now. The Paths of the Dead are long and untrustworthy. Think hard on the ones you left behind, on the things you left behind. Then, when we've got there, I'll tell you a story."

So Haerviu did what the man told him, his hopelessness shed as soon as they left the first tavern. He realized it was the place itself that had worn him down. He drew pictures in his mind of his life and his family and let that be his candle, brighter than the pale moon that tracked them. Haerviu counted the inns and lodges they passed, each one different; each one looked better than the last. A deep urge threatened each time: unshoulder his load and go in. Just one drink…

"One sip of cider can't hurt a man, can it? Not when our cares are behind us?"

"Listen to you, now. You're speaking from the desperateness of the dead."

"Aye," Haerviu said.

***

Haerviu and his gray companion reached the halfway house. Haerviu had lost count a ways back and had no concept of how long it had taken them. He didn't know they were there until his traveling companion pointed to it.

"That's it," he said. "Now we can go in."

"How do you know it?" Haerviu asked.

"I've been here before," the man said, but said no more.

This place was twice as big as the first tavern, furnished with wide benches, and an upper level - maybe more than one. Haerviu couldn't see past the gloom of the first couple of rickety steps. He didn't feel the need to go upstairs.

Many people about the place. Haerviu thought they look faded, as if they might not be there at all - just shadows that clung to the walls. The two men sat with their backs to the wall and faced the front door.

"Keep your eye on the door," the man said. "It's better that way."

"If you say so," Haerviu said. Mugs of mead appeared in front of them.

This time, the man raised his to Haerviu. "Drink, my friend, and let me tell you of the great forest, the forest of ancient priests. The one that marks the entrance to the Lands Beyond, to the Ankou's domain. And no man who passes within can return, lest he is one of Ankou's chosen."

The barley mead tasted heavy, good after the long trudge, and Haerviu felt that he could listen to this man's tale, maybe forever. It did his heart good -- the heart that no longer beat within his breast.
Haerviu nodded to the man to continue.

"Somewhere deep in the Lands Beyond, though, there is a way back. It has been traveled before, but not by any man among the living. It's said that there are demons and dragons and trials that no man whose heart is heavy with wrongdoing can surpass. It is said that the great Mirdan is imprisoned there."

Haerviu finished his mug and called out for another. It appeared in front of him before he had finished shouting for it. "Mirdan and Nyneve?" Haerviu snorted. "An old folk's tale for the superstitious ones. Them that still believe in korrigans and banshees. Mirdan ran off with one of the Fae, he did. That's what they tell. She imprisoned him on an island where a man may never return."

The gray man seemed to grow less substantial with each draught from his stone mug. His skin showed patches of bone and his face became more sunken and drawn. His voice took on a rattle. "There is an island. On that island is a cave. It is the cave that leads back to life. I know because I've seen it."

Haerviu put down his mug. "Then why didn't you go back? Why are you here? And how did you travel backwards on the Paths of the Dead?"

The gray man nodded at each of Haerviu's questions, as if he'd been expecting them. "My name is Bran. I was one of the Ankou's chosen. I followed him once to the Lands Beyond. But I am not dead. At least not in the waking world. Here, I might as well be dead. But until I am dead, Ankou will not put me in his great forest. That is my punishment. One of my punishments and the least one."

"Bran? From the tales?"

The man shook his head. "Not that Bran. I am human. At least I was. I don't know what I am now. Cursed, I'd say." He lifted his mug with a weary arm. It shook with the effort. A new mug appeared in front of him, filled to the brim. Bran took a sip and sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Only the dead may pass through the cave. Since I am not dead, I cannot pass." He opened a malevolent eye at Haerviu. "And I should by rights be trapped there forever. But I escaped to return here." He shook his head. "'Tis not a better place to wait out eternity. But at least it isn't as dry." He tipped his mug again.

"And what would you have of me? Will you take me to this place and show me how to get through?"

Bran shook his head. "I may not."

"But I may." The timid voice of the dwarf spoke up from the side of the table. "I can take him to the island. For I'm not a man."

Bran looked at the tiny man. He laughed, and the effort split the skin next to his mouth, showing a bit of the skull that lay just beneath. "So you may. But will you?"
The man nodded. "Try my luck. 'Tis my death."

"Right you have it," Bran said. And he began to tell them the way of things and how they were to get through Ankou's Forest and navigate the Lands Beyond. But what became of them, no one knows, for when you traverse the Lands Beyond, if you manage to come back to the waking world, you are sworn never to tell anyone, for good or for ill. And it's a pact made in blood with a curse that goes beyond death, as Bran will tell you. Because he's been there.

***

Bertha paused and seemed to come back from a long way off. She cleared her throat. Sebastian refilled her Armagnac. She nodded to him and drank down a portion of it. "Sorry, Basti. I didn't mean to pick such a long one. It just came out that way."

I poured myself more coffee and gestured with the cafetiére to Hagen. He nodded, and took a cup for himself. Heinrich had been so rapt with Bertha's story, he had to shake himself to bring himself back to the present.

When Sebastian came back to us, he poured Heinrich an Armagnac and one for himself. "Where did you get that tale, Berti?"

Bertha shook her head. "Just a minute." She put a hand on the piano, her eyes faraway again. Then she finished her Armagnac and walked to us, setting her glass on the table.

"Do you want to sit?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, Schätzchen. I need to stand awhile. Otherwise, the tale don't settle right. Down here." She smiled at me and put her hand on her stomach. And then bent her head for a few moments, her palms together.

We waited, each of us wrapped in our thoughts. Heinrich's song about Mirdan had obviously inspired Bertha to tell this tale. I wondered if she had made it up on the spot. But it sounded too real for her to have invented it.

"I've seen the other side of that cave," I said.

***

 

photo credits

PeterThoeny Leaving the circus behind, a new path opens up via photopin (license)

Wayne Stadler Photography Never is a Promise via photopin (license)

Big Grey Mare Happy Thanksgiving To All via photopin (license)

Triple Junction excerpt: The Dance of the Dead

Just in time for Halloween, Samhain, or Kala Goañv in the Breton language, an excerpt* from Chapter 6 in book 5, the final book of The Schattenreich, Triple Junction

The meandering trail through gentle hills led us into a bowl-shaped dale. A single-file of forlorn souls marched downwards from the hills opposite us. Hagen called a halt when we reached a jumble of moss-covered boulders to the right of the path.

“Just find a place to sit comfortably. We won’t have long to wait,” Hagen said.

 Heinrich slung his binioú kozh in preparation for playing, and Sebastian sat next to me, taking my hand in his.

“Who are they, Tadig?”

“Those who’ve departed but have not yet found peace.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Celebrating. And remembering. Like us. Look. A few of the Tud join us.” My father pointed behind us, to the path we had just taken.

A line of about a dozen Tud, one of several races of beings who inhabited Ande-dubnos, came our way. These were the tall ones with fair skin and long silvery hair. They stood near a group of boulders to the left of the path. A couple of them nodded to us, and they watched Heinrich expectantly.

Then I saw Ankou. He stood where the path opened out to the grassy dale, where the dead had just passed. He wore his black cloak and wielded his iron-tipped staff, his legs spread. His hair blew behind him, his skin an unearthly white. He waited until the last of the dead passed by. When they were all gathered in the middle of the downs, Ankou rapped his staff on the ground three times.

The dead began to sing. Ankou rapped his staff three more times. Some danced, but mostly they
moved amongst each other in a grim Irish wheel, touching one other as they passed, many of them turning, gazing as if searching for someone or something, the short cropped grasses not even marked by their passing. Hagen gazed in the same way. He tapped Heinrich on the shoulder.

Out in the middle of the dale, Hagen and Heinrich’s mother Isabel glided past the other souls. Her face had none of the life and hope so visible in the pictures Heinrich had shown me in Dinard, but she was beautiful, with a kissed-by-moonlight paleness contrasting her long dark hair and slender form.

Beautiful and dead. So near but so far away.

Heinrich played a few notes on his bagpipe, then stopped to sing to her in Brezhoneg, not a funeral dirge, but a song that sounded both happy and sad. Heinrich’s clear voice conveyed respect and longing.

Isabel glanced once our way and then continued her search. Was she looking for Hagen’s father Theodor? One of the dead men took her hand and led her in a slow dance. She didn’t resist. The others joined them, swaying and turning to Heinrich’s song.

Ankou kept a close watch on his flock. When one of them strayed too far towards us, he would call them back with a commanding voice that touched me in the deep place where my fear of him still lived. But what could he possibly threaten the dead with?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that question, but as I turned to ask Hagen, Ankou stood before us. He had moved across the dale in less time than it took me to open my mouth to speak, as quick as the dead men who had led us here. I turned my face away, unwilling to meet Ankou’s eyes.

His claim on me had not yet come to pass; he would have to wait. I was here with the man of my heart’s desire tonight and was still very much alive and a part of his life. Ankou bowed and reached out a hand to me. Was he asking me to dance?

I shrank back. Hagen reached me and took my hand in a tight grip. He held out a hand to ward off Ankou’s advance. “Your claim on Katarin is not yet due. What do you seek from the living?” A ring of light glowed a ghostly white on Hagen’s little finger.

Ankou bowed. “A dance to celebrate Kala Goañv and the day of your promising.”

Was tonight's joy to be the cause of hostility? Hagen couldn’t tell me about the unfinished business between them because of a geis. But if all Ankou wanted was a dance, then I could do that. I took my hand from Hagen’s and extended it to Ankou.

A light touch on my shoulder made me turn my head.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance with you, milady?” Brionne, the Tud I met at the Sea of Dreams, the night Heinrich and I made love for the first time, stood next to me. For the evening’s festivities, he wore a burgundy red suit featuring a double-breasted long-tail coat that went well with his platinum hair. Hagen smiled and nodded his head in approval.

Brionne bowed to Ankou and turned back to me. Ankou’s face betrayed no emotion, but a brief smile of acknowledgement appeared.

I gave Brionne my hand. “I’d be honored.”

The other Tud danced with us, their long arms and legs swirling, rising and falling. Ankou swiveled his head to watch us. Their enthusiasm pushed me into a frenzy, just like on Kala Hañv, the Maifest, when I ran with the Tud to honor Eduard’s passing. Here it had none of the urgency of the Wild Hunt I had fled.

I didn’t need to escape Death. Not tonight. Not yet.

Hagen joined Heinrich in his song, his voice higher but in harmony. I’d never heard him sing before. The words poured out evening a rich timbre; although I didn’t understand their meaning, the carefully contained emotion behind them seemed clear. Sebastian added his voice to the chorus, and put his arms across their shoulders. Heinrich ended the song with a few plaintive notes from his Breton bagpipe.

I curtsied low to Brionne and thanked him for the dance before turning again to the dead. The souls in the middle of the downs continued their own songs, voices strengthening and then fading away. Sobs and cries issued forth. They intensified their movements as if working up to a grand finale. At a signal from Ankou, they abruptly turned and began the climb back to where they had come from.

Hagen took a few steps closer to Ankou. They faced off, their words swallowed in a wind that swirled around them, a wind Ankou caused with a flourish of his iron rod, so that none of us were privy to their conversation. Heinrich held me around the waist.

Finished with what they had to say to each other, Druid and Death regarded each other across the short distance between them before Ankou turned and followed his flock, his long hair flowing around him. He turned once more and bowed to me before continuing on his way. Hagen started after him, a momentary sadness lingering in his expression, until Sebastian clasped him by the shoulder.

We began the trek back home.

*** 

Wishing everyone a safe and peaceful Kala Goañv

*redacted to minimize spoilers.

Illustration credits:
Spooky Forest, j. s. suley via istock
Pompeii bronze, K.-G. Hinzen
Dancing in the Moonlight, Demoncic via istock
2015 Pumpkin carved by K.-G. Hinzen


  

The Schattenreich Mythology: Ankou

Hagen nudged my knee with his. “Do you know who Ankou really is?”

“Why don’t you just come on out and tell us?” I asked.

“Many think that Cernunnos is equated with Dis Pater, who Caesar claimed was the chief of all the Celtic gods. The Big Guy, so to speak. His original Celtic name is lost. Or, more likely, hidden. Others think it is Taranis, sometimes Lugh, but not often. Taranis and Lugh are solar, possibly the same being with different names. Dis Pater is definitely a dark, underworldy god.”

“You think Ankou personifies Dis Pater?” Heinrich joined me in admiring the river, slipping his sunglasses on. “Wow. I’d never really thought about him like that, but…there’s nothing to dispute it. I think of Cernunnos as Lord of the Underworld and Ankou as—”

“Subservient, I think, is the word you’re looking for. He assumes the role, at least in the times I’ve seen them together,” Hagen said, repositioning his cutlery and obviously suppressing some excitement.

“And if he is Boss Celt—” I began.

Hagen laughed and glanced around. “Not only that. Boss German, too.”

“Wōden? Ankou incarnates Wōden? What makes you think that?” Heinrich asked.

“He has all of Wōden’s attributes. The cape, the spear – it’s a staff with a curved iron blade in Ankou’s case. The hat, but he doesn’t wear it all the time. He rides a kaveg.”

“He leads the Wild Hunt,” Heinrich said. “At least he led it on Kala-Hañv.”

“He controls the wind – is that also Wōden?” I asked.

They nodded.

“He herds the dead,” Hagen said.

“With your help. But Ankou has two eyes,” Heinrich said. “Wōden lost an eye if I recall.”

“The eye is symbolic. Ankou is not all-seeing. He’s lost the ability. It has something to do with the closing of the veil. I can’t tell you why, but I’m sure of it.”

“What does all that have to do with Caitie?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Hagen said.

“Your geis,” I said.

Heinrich frowned. “Wōden got around.”

“He’s a fertility god. Same as Cernunnos.” Hagen shrugged. “There’s so many things that make sense all of a sudden. But I don’t know how to use it to help us yet.”

This excerpt from Book 4 of The Schattenreich, Shadow Zone, refers to a Celtic father god, named by Caesar as Dis Pater. This is a pretty good (if not complete) summary of my interpretation of the Germano-Celtic Lord of the Dead. Ankou aka Woden aka (according to Caesar) Dis Pater. Caesar even claimed that the Gauls believed they were descended from this 'unnamed' deity. According to some scholars (e.g., Derek Bryce in his introduction to his English translation of some of Anatole Le Braz's collected folk tales), the Breton people, although traditionally Catholic, were particularly resistant to suppression of some of their pagan traditions. These traditions also included acceptance of the existence of mythological (and superstitious) events.

 Anatole Le Braz collected these 'folk' tales in the late nineteenth century. The above named collection, Celtic Legends of the Beyond, also include some references to Ankou in the form of 'recollections' of his visits and one in particular that I also freely borrowed from (Hell) in Book 5 of The Schattenreich, Triple Junction in the form of an oral tale told by Bertha von der Lahn.

So who is Ankou?

Ankou is a Breton (Celtic) psychopomp, tales of his exploits handed down in the folk tales of Brittany. The (probably) much more ancient figure (or deity) he represents has been lost to history. Since he's specific to Brittany, there's scant mention of him - neither from Miranda Green (The Gods of the Celts) nor from Marie-Louise Sjoestedt (Celtic Gods and Heroes).A couple of paragraphs at least  were devoted to him in Celtic Culture, A Historical Encyclopedia, edited by John C. Koch.

Characteristically, he wears a wide-brimmed hat, a cape, has long white hair, might or might not have a scythe, and drives a wagon (or even a train) that he uses to collect the dead. Koch cites references of a similar figure that date to 16th century Breton.

He's been interpreted by such  modern authors as Elizabeth Hand in her fantasy series Winterlong (as Book 1 of the series is also named) as a white dog and by Neil Gaiman in his Sandman series as a powerful immortal being in the form of a young Goth lady.

I've painted a broader and more syncretic interepretation of Ankou, binding him with the Germanic god Woden (=Wotan=Wodan=the Nordic father god Odin) in the tradition of finding parallels between Celtic and Nordic/Germanic religions such as those discussed by H. R. Ellis Davidson in her fabulous book, Myths and Symbols of Pagan Europe. The two figures, Ankou and Odin/Woden have much in common: passage of the dead, ruler of the afterlife, broad hat, white hair. Odin rode Slepnir, Ankou drove a wagon. Okay. But about Odin much much much more is written (see, for example, A Dictionary of Northern Mythology, Rudolf Simek).

About Ankou, practically nothing.

This gives me a lot of Spielraum for interpretation and free-association. I made full use of this - equating Ankou/Woden to an even more ancient figure who possibly was the progenitor, the Dis Pater that Caesar spoke of, to the continental Celts. God of death, fertility, poetry, a seer, In other words, a god with many faces, some more beautiful than others.

photo credit:

ankou de La Martyre via photopin (license)

Happy Valentine's Day!

And to celebrate, one of my distributors, All Romance Ebooks is offering a special  one-day sale on all titles (including mine):

It's a great chance to stock up on your Valentine's romances!

Links below go directly to my titles on ARe (available in both Mobi and ePub formats):

Primary Fault
Shaky Ground
Double Couple
Shadow Zone
Triple Junction

Oh, and don't forget the...

The Schattenreich Extras: Caitlin von der Lahn in an exclusive interview!

Caitlin von der Lahn, the attractive and elusive mistress of Burg Lahn, has granted an exclusive interview with Anna Sturm for the Cologne Morgenpost. Frau Sturm, prime time news correspondent and freelance journalist reveals she has a personal connection to Freifrau von der Lahn, who consented to talk about some of her recent experiences.

STURM: Hi Caitie. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me. You're positively glowing with health. And that charming pinafore dress makes you look like you're on the verge of turning twenty. Pregnancy does become you.

VON DER.LAHN: Hi Anna. Thanks for the compliments! I'm feeling great. Spring in Germany, especially at Burg Lahn, does that to me. All that life that goes away in winter, returns. It's a heady experience.

STURM: And let me congratulate you on your recent victory. It must have felt like quite a triumph.

VON DER LAHN: Victory? Well, life has become a little easier. Goodness knows carrying triplets is a weighty enough affair. I'm glad to be able to get on with just concentrating on that and not having to listen to taunts of being the Hexe of Burg Lahn on a daily basis.

STURM: Have they stopped?

VON DER LAHN: Will they ever? You know how superstitious people are in the Rhineland. I've had to learn it firsthand!

STURM: You've turned down every request for an interview up until now. Since the surprising revelation of your relationship to Kilhian ar C'hoed and his own revelations, I think most everyone is eager to know more about it.

VON DER LAHN: No one was more surprised than me - except maybe for Kilhian. But you'd have to ask him about that. It's unsettling to suddenly find out you've got relations that you had no clue about.

STURM: Yes...I imagine so. But is there anything you can tell us about what transpired behind-the-scenes? How did you get Herr ar C'hoed to agree to come out in the open about his dealings with Dagmar Abel? And how did it come about that her sister----

VON DER LAHN: (clears throat) Half-sister. As I said, you'd have to ask Kilhian about all that. Have you tried to reach him? I'm sure he'd love to come out in the open about so many things.

STURM: Haven't yet tried to reach him, no. To be honest I'm more interested in your take on things. I mean, this whole thing started back when they accused your...when they accused Augustus Schwarzbach of attempted rape and murder. And Frau Abel's involvement in that was never proven.

VON DER LAHN: No, it wasn't. But I learned from Gus many years ago that the best way to handle trouble, especially serious trouble, is not to dwell on it overmuch. Don't you agree? I have to admit that I do, on occasion, have  problems following through with this advice. But long hot showers and taking action helps. Well, you and I certainly know how to go about taking action. (smiles) Bless our hearts!

STURM: We've dealt well together, it's a fact. Action is a better way of dealing with a great many things. A good reporter can't wait for the stories to come to her.

VON DER LAHN: And a good scientist must accept the data at hand, even if it seems unpleasant or the problems insurmountable.

STURM: You've certainly had your share of trouble lately.

VON DER LAHN: I am learning to take the good with the bad. If I constructed a histogram of all the good things that have happened to me since I moved to Germany and compared it a histogram of the bad things, then I think----

STURM:  We don't have room for any graphs in this article, I'm afraid.

VON DER LAHN: Hey, no problem.

STURM: I have one last question. It's a little awkward, but if you don't want to answer it...

VON DER LAHN: Out with it, Anna.

STURM: There seems to be a rumor of someone, people are calling him the Lord of the Dead of all things, stalking you.

VON DER LAHN: (creases brow, frowns, then smiles brightly) As I said, these kinds of rumors will likely never cease. Why I never...maybe it's one of those leftover Karneval gags.

STURM: (laughing) No, from what I've heard, from the official rumor mills, he's going for something much older than Gothic. Late Iron Age, maybe, you know, some kind of Nordic thing.

VON DER LAHN: Sounds oddly romantic in a scary supernatural kind of way. But a stalker, no, I'd surely have noticed that. I'm certainly not afraid of Death, wouldn't do much good anyway... (looks away)

STURM: Another mystery. They seem to surround you.

VON DER LAHN: Do you think so? I reckon it's something I could cultivate. Imagine that, me being mysterious. I'd dearly love to have such an image. But honestly, I'm just an expatriate Texan, trying to learn how to manage daily life in a castle near the Rhine and prepare for the big changes that come with having children.

STURM: Hmm. Maybe someday we'll learn The Full Story.

Book 5, the conclusion to The Schattenreich series

The Full Story: AVAILABLE NOW! In trade paperback
and ebook:

Amazon (global link)
Nook (Barnes & Noble)
Kobo
Apple ibooks

Other links at www.sharonreamer.com









 BONUS! To celebrate the completion of the series, the ebook of Book 1 of the series, Primary Fault, is on sale for the entire month of December for $0.99.

Here's where it all began, Book 1 of the Schattenreich series

trade paperback
Amazon (global link)
Nook
Kobo
Apple ibooks

additional links at www.sharonreamer.com

Triple Junction, Book 5 of the Schattenreich: excerpt and cover reveal

Finally! Triple Junction, the last book in the Schattenreich series (but not the last of the Schattenreich!), soon to be released in ebook and trade paperback. 

Sorry for the delay, but we are accompanying our terminally ill cat, the handsome and intrepid Ramses (also known as Miezie and the model for Cicero in the Schattenreich books) on his last days with us. I hope there are still many days still remaining for our dear friend of 17 years (see picture at bottom), but it is hard to be sure.

Consequently, I am also behind on getting the Terrae Motus Books website ready for launch (it will eventually replace sharonreamer.com). To keep abreast of new releases and giveaways/promotions exclusive to subscribers, please sign up to receive my quarterly newsletter. I had planned on a 3rd quarter release of both the newsletter and the ebook (uh, that was last week, right?), but am now looking ahead to a fourth quarter, post-holiday, gentle launch of both paperback and ebook. It will be available before that time, wide, in a variety of outlets. Naturally, I will post updates on the blog.

So, on to the excerpt. I have picked this passage, not at the beginning but only a little ways into the book, as it's a nice standalone scene and provides a good framework for the novel and its themes. And of course, I didn't want to reveal spoil the wedding, which occurs near the beginning of the book. 
  

Book 5 of the Schattenreich

Chapter 6

We started from Lahn-dunum, the Schattenreich counterpart to Burg Lahn that now existed firmly within the borders of Ande-dubnos. I hadn’t been here since Heinrich, Hagen and I drank the funky-tasting water infused with the essence of the Dreams that allowed us to see into each other’s souls. I jumped at the eerie wailing emanating from the depths of Lahn-dunum’s crypts. I had last been down there when my uncle Niehls stabbed me in the neck.

Heinrich looked as puzzled as I felt.

Hagen didn’t. “Lahn-dunum has a new guardian. But he is still experiencing some, ah, adjustments to his new home.”

Sebastian crossed his arms. “Is he secure?”

“Quite,” Hagen said. “But I haven’t had a chance to check in on him recently. That will have to wait until a later time. Brides first?”

Hagen pushed open a set of double-doors leading out of Lahn-dunum. I’d never entered or exited through the front doors before. Or even remembered seeing them. Another first. Maybe they only existed on this night, Kala Goañv, Samhain, the festival associated with the end of the harvest and the coming of winter.

And now it would be celebrated as the eve of our wedding night. My second wedding night.

We reached the wooden bridge that separated Ande-dubnos from the Schattenreich. Its carved railings resembled my bedposts. In the dark, I could only hear the water rushing underneath. Because of more than one fateful encounter here, I looked both ways before hurrying to follow the others across. I supposed we were making a shortcut through the Schattenreich, but wasn’t sure. Hagen led us to the right, down a darkening path, lined on either side with brambles and sickly looking trees.

“Haven’t been this way before,” I mumbled.

“It’s not usually open to travel,” Hagen said.

The two full moons in the sky shone with a pale, pearly light. Heinrich reached upward and twisted his hand as if turning a faucet. We were blanketed in moonlight that cast an envelope around us, holding the darkness at bay. My moon shone through the trees, not quite full. It no longer had a dark growth blotting out its brilliance. I breathed out in relief, my legs feeling more solid.

We reached an archway of thick, tangled branches.

“Watch out for the thorns,” Hagen said. “They induce a stupor, followed by pain.”

We moved through the arch singly. I went last, holding my traveler’s cloak tight around me. Heinrich pulled out a binioú kozh, his Breton bagpipe; it looked ancient and more like a water bladder made from goatskin than a bagpipe. He played a few notes.

I shifted on my feet. “Are we waiting for someone?”

A series of plaintive cries reached us. Not wails; they sounded more like pleas, pleas to the living. Even though I didn’t understand the words, I understood their meaning: Give us life. Give us your life.

And there they waited, far from us, across a wide open plain bordered on the far end by forest. Even at a distance, they were easy to see; four of them, sunken-in men, their clothes in disarray and their hair plastered to their heads.

“Who are you?” I felt myself calling to them.

Hagen grimaced and grasped my shoulder, his arm around me. With his other hand, he covered my mouth. “Don’t—”

The sky lightened as if from a sudden brightening of the moons. The ground shook. I took a breath to shout a warning, but Hagen kept his hand firmly over my mouth. My eyes closed for a moment. When I opened them, the four men had closed at least half the distance between us. I hadn’t even seen them move. They cried again, the mournful sounds penetrating my skull, making me shiver.

I wanted to mimic their cries. My throat tightened.

Hagen nodded to Heinrich, who started a slow dirge on his bagpipe. The men turned and marched away in time to his music. We followed the dead men in one long procession. I fought the fright gripping my groin by putting one foot in front of the other.

The well-trodden path, its dark gravel ground into the equally dark and foul-smelling earth was bordered on either side by withered plants and bare-limbed trees that seemed hunched over with their own weight. We followed it into the woods. We were in Ankou’s domain. The sudden knowledge didn’t cripple me with fear – I was with Hagen and this was where he came to do his Ande-dubnos duty by guiding the dead to their final resting place – but it didn’t encourage relaxation on my part.

We made the trek in grim silence, relieved only by snuffling sounds from either side of the path. I looked once. Orange-red eyes glared back at me. Whatever creature belonged to those eyes had bulk, a darker shadow hulking against the darkness.

But although the creature jerked upwards when our eyes met, it didn’t move to intercept us. After that, I kept my eyes fixed on Hagen, striding confidently in front of me. Heinrich flanked me from behind, followed by Sebastian. He hummed quietly.

The path ended at a steep bluff. The dead men had deserted us, vanishing into a mist that rose behind us. Hagen turned and moved backwards along a faint trail that wound down, his hands braced on stones and protruding, famished-looking tree roots that lined the way. Once he reached the bottom, he motioned for us to follow him.

In the twilit evening we scrambled down. A patch of moonlight just behind a range of hills in the near distance called us on.

“Are we there yet?” I asked.

He smiled. “Just over the hills.”

The meandering trail through gentle hills led us into a bowl-shaped dale. A single-file procession marched downwards from the hills opposite us. Hagen called a halt when we reached a jumble of moss-covered boulders to the right of the path.

“Just find a place to sit comfortably. We won’t have long to wait,” Hagen said.

Heinrich slung his binioú kozh in preparation for playing, and Sebastian sat next to me, taking my hand in his.

“Who are they, Tadig?”

“Departed souls.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Celebrating. And remembering. Like us. Look. A few of the Tud join us.” My father pointed behind us, to the path we had just taken.

A line of about a dozen Tud, one of several races of beings who inhabited Ande-dubnos, came our way. These were the tall ones with fair skin and long silvery hair. They stood near a group of boulders to the left of the path. A couple of them nodded to us, and they watched Heinrich expectantly.

Then I saw Ankou. He stood where the path opened out to the grassy dale, where the dead had just passed. He wore his black cloak and wielded his iron-tipped staff, his legs spread. His hair blew behind him, his skin an unearthly white. He waited until the last of the dead passed by. When they were all gathered in the middle of the downs, Ankou rapped his staff on the ground three times.

The dead began to sing. Ankou rapped his staff three more times. Some danced, but mostly they moved amongst each other in a grim Irish wheel, touching one other as they passed, many of them turning, gazing as if searching for someone or something, the short cropped grasses not even marked by their passing. Hagen gazed in the same way. He tapped Heinrich on the shoulder.

Out in the middle of the dale, Hagen and Heinrich’s mother Isabel glided past the other souls. Her face had none of the life and hope so visible in the pictures Heinrich had shown me in Dinard, but she was beautiful, with a kissed-by-moonlight paleness contrasting her long dark hair and slender form.

Beautiful and dead. So near but so far away.

Heinrich played a few notes on his bagpipe, then stopped to sing to her in Brezhoneg, not a funeral dirge, but a song that sounded both happy and sad. Heinrich’s clear voice conveyed respect and longing.

Isabel glanced once our way and then continued her search. Was she looking for Hagen’s father Theodor? One of the dead men took her hand and led her in a slow dance. She didn’t resist. The others joined them, swaying and turning to Heinrich’s song.

Ankou kept a close watch on his flock. When one of them strayed too far towards us, he would call them back with a commanding voice that touched me in the deep place where my fear of him still lived. But what could he possibly threaten the dead with?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that question, but as I turned to ask Hagen, Ankou stood before us. He had moved across the dale in less time than it took me to open my mouth to speak, as quick as the dead men who had led us here. I turned my face away, unwilling to meet Ankou’s eyes.

His claim on me had not yet come to pass; he would have to wait. I married the man of my heart’s desire tonight and was still very much alive and a part of his life. Ankou bowed and reached out a hand to me. Was he asking me to dance?

I shrank back. Hagen reached me and took my hand in a tight grip. He held out a hand to ward off Ankou’s advance. “Your claim on Katarin is not yet due. What do you seek from the living?” A ring of light glowed a ghostly white on Hagen’s little finger.

Ankou bowed. “A dance to celebrate Kala Goañv and the day of your promising.”

Was our wedding night to be the cause of hostility? Hagen couldn’t tell me about the unfinished business between them because of a geis. But if all Ankou wanted was a dance, then I could do that. I took my hand from Hagen’s and extended it to Ankou.

A light touch on my shoulder made me turn my head.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance with you, milady?” Brionne, the Tud I once met at the Sea of Dreams, the night Heinrich and I made love for the first time, stood next to me. For the evening’s festivities, he wore a burgundy red suit featuring a double-breasted long-tail coat that went well with his platinum hair. Hagen smiled and nodded his head in approval.

Brionne bowed to Ankou and turned back to me. Ankou’s face betrayed no emotion, but a brief smile of acknowledgement appeared.

I gave Brionne my hand. “I’d be honored.”

The other Tud danced with us, their long arms and legs swirling, rising and falling. Ankou swiveled his head to watch us. Their enthusiasm pushed me into a frenzy, just like on Kala Hañv, the Maifest, when I ran with the Tud to honor Eduard’s passing. Here it had none of the urgency of the Wild Hunt I had fled.

I didn’t need to escape Death. Not tonight. Not yet.

Hagen joined Heinrich in his song, his voice higher but in harmony. I’d never heard him sing before. The words poured out evening a rich timbre; although I didn’t understand their meaning, the carefully contained emotion behind them seemed clear. Sebastian added his voice to the chorus, and put his arms across their shoulders. Heinrich ended the song with a few plaintive notes from his Breton bagpipe.

I curtsied low to Brionne and thanked him for the dance before turning again to the dead. The souls in the middle of the downs continued their own songs, voices strengthening and then fading away. Sobs and cries issued forth. They intensified their movements as if working up to a grand finale. At a signal from Ankou, they abruptly turned and began the climb back to where they had come from.

Hagen took a few steps closer to Ankou. They faced off, their words swallowed in a wind that swirled around them, a wind Ankou caused with a flourish of his iron rod, so that none of us were privy to their conversation. Heinrich held me around the waist.

Finished with what they had to say to each other, Druid and Death regarded each other across the short distance between them before Ankou turned and followed his flock, his long hair flowing around him. He turned once more and bowed to me before continuing on his way. My husband started after him, a momentary sadness lingering in his expression, until Sebastian clasped him by the shoulder.

We began the trek back home.

our beloved Miezie

Immortal Guardian stories in German - Die Serie des Ewigen Wächters - Live!

First of all, the edits are progressing on Triple Junction, Book 5 of The Schattenreich. I expect an early fall release. Excerpt and cover release in early September.

Secondly, for the German readers out there (you know who Du bist), especially those who have been asking me when German translations will soon be available for my Schattenreich novels (leider noch nicht), here are excerpts from the German versions of my first two short stories from the Immortal Guardian series, Die Schwingen des Wächters and Das Auge der Sphinx, translated from the English to the German (aber nicht rückwärts rum) by Lieselotte Kill (planned release: early August LIVE!) . Universal links below.

Aus Die Schwingen des Wächters, Copyright 2015, Sharon Kae Reamer

Amazon worldwide German version 
Amazon worldwide English version


 Das grelle Licht blendete ihn für einen Augenblick. Enkidu stellte sich vor es sei der Funke des Lebens nach dem Tode oder die Berührung der Götter. Ein Raum, den er niemals zuvor gesehen hatte, erschien vor ihm und er spürte den Schlag seines Herzens. Es war, als ob jemand kochendes Öl durch seinen Körper fließen ließe.

Er atmete tief ein. Eine Frau stand vor ihm. Sie war etwa einen Kopf kleiner als er, hatte einen olivfarbenen Teint und braunschwarze Augen; ihr glattes Haar fiel wie ein gelber Wasserfall über ihre Schultern bis auf die Brust. Sie beobachtete ihn, ernsthaft und konzentriert. Er fand ihr starkes, herzförmiges Gesicht verführehrend, schon deshalb, weil es nach seinem Tod das Erste war, das er sah.

Enkidu hatte keine Ahnung, in welchem Teil des Himmels oder der Hölle er angekommen war oder welche Gottheit vor ihm stand. Sie schob ihr Haar mit beiden Händen zurück, so dass es hinter ihre runden, aber aufrechten Schultern fiel. Die Goldfäden, die ihr weißes ärmelloses Gewand am Mieder und am Saum durchzogen, passten zu der üppigen Menge Gold an ihren Armen und um den Hals und betonten ihre Schönheit.

„Sei willkommen“, sagte sie.

„Sei bedankt“, Enkidu neigte den Kopf und breitete seine Hände aus als Geste der Unterwerfung. „Wie kann ich dir dienen?“ Ihr Willkommensgruß und seine Entgegnung waren in einer Sprache gesprochen, die er niemals zuvor im Leben benutzt hatte.

Sie machte einen Schritt auf ich zu, einen kleinen nur, aber er musste darüber lächeln. Sie sah so sterblich aus.

„Du musst wissen, warum ich dich zurück gerufen habe.“

Enkidu hob den Kopf. „Zurück?“ Er bewegte sich langsam im Kreis, sein starrer Blick auf den steinernen Dämon gerichtet. Der hatte den Körper eines Löwen und die Schwingen und den Kopf eines Falken.

***

Aus Das Auge der Sphinx, Copyright 2015, Sharon Kae Reamer

Amazon worldwide German version
Amazon worldwide English version

Er meißelte vorsichtig eine kleine Unebenheit von ihrer Wange und strich dann mit der Fingerspitze darüber, um die Stelle zu prüfen. Fahles Tageslicht tauchte die Dombauhütte in sepiafarbene Töne und erzeugte fleckige Schatten. Die vielfachen heiseren Rufe einer vorbeiziehenden Gruppe von Fußballfans hallten auf dem großen Platz wider. Vögel, die auf einem Sims über ihm saßen, stimmten ihre Abendgesänge an. Lavendel und Nelken in Töpfen verströmten ihren Duft. Ein Windhauch strich durch sein Haar, eine kurz gelebte, aber perfekte Ewigkeit. Jetzt ist eine Ewigkeit, in der ich leben will.
Der letzte Rest des Tages, diese wenigen kostbaren Augenblicke, ließen ihn fast vergessen, was er wusste: Zeit existierte nicht.

Er strich mit den Fingern über den Stein, tastete nach Unebenheiten und dabei richtete er die schleifenförmige Bewegung auf eine raue Stelle unter ihrem Kinn. Leandro wusste, dass er jede Sekunde der Ewigkeit brauchen würde, um seine eigenen Unebenheiten zu glätten.

Er  richtete seine Aufmerksamkeit auf den scharfen Meißel, den er am liebsten für das Formen von Gesichtern benutzte. Steinerne Augen starrten ihn aus einem Gesicht an, das seit hunderten von Jahren tot war. Er wurde aber nicht müde, es zu formen. Leandro trug die Büste zu einem der langen Tische. Er setzte sie vorsichtig ab und trat zurück um zu sehen, was noch nicht stimmte, dabei wischte er den Staub von seinen Händen. Mangel an Schuld. Die Augen schauten ihn nicht mehr anklagend an.

„So spät noch bei der Arbeit, Leandro?“

 Miriam lehnte an der Wand am Eingang zur Werkstatt.

„Ah, Frau Richter.“ Ein kleiner Ruck mit einem eckigen Schaber vollendete den Bogen einer Augenbraue. „Wie sind Sie hereingekommen?“

Markus hat mich hereingelassen, als er ging.“ Sie ging auf Leandro zu und schaute sich die Einzelheiten genau an, die er gerade geformt hatte. In seinem Körper kribbelte es, als sie näher kam. Miriam zog die Rundungen der Büste mit dem Zeigefinger nach. „Sie ist wunderschön. So wie alle deine Schöpfungen.“

„Sie hieß Nanaia, und ja, sie war wunderschön.“ Er drehte sich um und legte seine Hände auf Miriams Schultern. Er küsste sie einmal auf jede Wange. „Hallo, Miriam. Es ist gut dich wieder zu sehen.“

Sie lächelte, als ihre Blicke sich trafen. Miriam trat einen Schritt zurück, und ihr Lächeln verschwand. Sie sah sich in der Werkstatt um. „Alle sind schon gegangen, nur du bist noch hier? Ist es nicht ein bisschen unheimlich, alleine hier zu dieser Nachtzeit, über dir türmt sich der riesige Dom?“

Er zuckte mit den Schultern. „Das finde ich nicht. Faule Sommerabende unter dem Dom helfen, meinen Verlangen nach dem ewigen Paradies zu stillen.

Sie hob sein Schnitzwerkzeug auf und betrachtete jedes Teil sorgfältig von allen Seiten. Wie sieht es mit Abendessen aus? Geht natürlich auf mich.“

Er hakte seine Daumen in den Bund seiner Jeans. „Stell dir das vor. Hauptkommisarin Miriam Richter will mich zum Essen ausführen. Sollte mir das zu denken geben?“

Miriams Lächeln war kein warmes Lächeln. Sie strich sich über ihr kurzes schwarzes, mit Silberstreifen durchzogenes Haar. „Bei mir solltest du immer auf der Hut sein. Ich bin nichts als Ärger.“

***

Ten Things I Learned About Writing a Series

Subtitle: The Schattenreich series is finished! For Now. (insert huge winking smiley face, dancing, with fireworks going off in the background)

Current conventional wisdom says that readers love series. I know as a reader, I not only love series, I luuuuurve them. I also like standalones, but I'm a hard core series reader at heart and not just trilogies. Four, five, more books. Give me more. And I'm not one of those readers who demands that each book in a series be a 'standalone' either. One or the other cliffhanger is certainly okay if I am confident that the author will be able to deliver the next book (and conclude the series) while I'm still alive to enjoy it (and still fit-of-mind enough to be able to remember what came before).

So you might think that I figured all those things into my plan when I began writing The Schattenreich series of five books. But, as I suspect is the case with how many fantasy series start out, this was not the case. I started off with a sequel in mind that grew to a trilogy and then a short ways into writing the fourth book, I realized I would need five books to finish it. Bad planning, some would say. I agree, but would amend that to 'no planning'.

'Hi, my name is Sharon and I am a pantser.' This means I write by 'the seat of my pants'. It's not entirely accurate. I do a modest amount of planning for each book. Most of the planning goes by the wayside by the time I reach the middle of the book, but that's okay. I've got a goalpost or a signpost or a looming stake-through-the-heart kind of post (write until the end or die) to push me on.

Primary Fault started out as a physical prompt, a small wooden cat that I own (a gift from my sister-in-law). I picked it up and put it next to my laptop the day I decided to sit down and finally write a novel.

I had ideas brewing from actual events (the archeological excavations in Cologne and whether there really had been an earthquake that could have scared Charlemagne enough to abandon the Praetorium as his seat of government) and some imagined backstory (that culminated in the short story The Raven's Curse, first published in The Phantom Queen Awakes anthology and soon to be rereleased).

Even though a couple of the early ideas were flawed (Charlemagne had many palaces, not just Cologne. And whether he really abandoned the city is pure speculation - there's nothing written to substantiate it). And the earthquake around 780/790 C.E that supposedly 'destroyed' the Praetorium, well.......this paper sheds a different light on the whole destructive earthquake hypothesis.

But I adapted as the series grew, coming up with novel ways of dealing with the earthquake hypothesis and with Charlemagne and a whole slew of other problems that raised their ugly heads while writing. I have now officially written The End to the first draft of the fifth and last book in the series, Triple Junction. Barring any unforeseen problems, expected publication will be sometime in early summer, 2015.

To make a long story (or series) shorter, here are the top things I learned about writing a series.


1. You need to love spending time with your characters.

Because you will be spending time with them. Lots of time. Time you're giving up from being with your loved ones (but not your cat - he/she will be right there with you), BFFs, mothers-in-law, etc. Your social skills will suffer tremendously, and people will wonder why you've started stuttering when you're in a room containing more than three people. Get used to it. You don't have to love your characters, but you do need to enjoy being around them, day and night. They will haunt your dreams and make you get up in the middle of dinner to rush to the computer to add something that just occurred to you that Character A needs to say to Character B at just that moment. Your family may end up hating your characters. It is the price you must pay.

I like hanging out
with Caitlin

I love spending time
with Hagen

 2. Do a scene outline before starting each book in the series. Update it when the book diverges.

It will make your life easier. Period. You can subsequently use it to add information to help you keep track of character motivations and history, important objects and events, plot points, series arcs, etc. It will save you from having to search the finished (and already published) books for things. I define a scene outline as a one- to two-sentence description of each major scene in the book. I am thankful to Tish Cohen for first suggesting this method to me.


3. Keep thinking about where the series is heading.

Even though I'm a pantser, I knew the series had to end. I worried a lot about this, especially as the series grew past what I had originally intended. But I had a shimmer of how things should end up. Sorta. Kinda. And that helped. A lot.

4. Be a stickler for consistency.

This concerns mainly characters, but also includes keeping track of past events (see 2. above) and what impact they had on the characters. Characters are what will make people continue to read your xth book. Unless the series is unending, the main characters will (and should) change and evolve, but they should remain predictable in the sense of what and who they represent. In a successful series, readers want to know what will happen, but more importantly, they want to know what will happen to your protagonists. They want to know about your bad guys as well (which is why I'm going to be publishing a novella with Dagmar Abel in it at some point, and muchas gracias to Martha Hubbard for the suggestion.) Fortunately, the more books in a series you write, the easier this will become as you come to know your characters as well or even better than your own family (see 1. above).

5. Be prepared to adapt.

I know. I said be consistent. But the series might make a sudden turn into unexpected territory. If it feels right, do it. This happened to me at the end of the third book, Double Couple, and I had to adjust my thinking accordingly. I originally wanted each book to be a neat, complete, fantasy-suspense plot with some sort of crime behind it that involved a seismic event. But the characters occupying my version of the Otherworld (Ande-dubnos) decided they wanted more air time. And I had to agree with them. I still have a definitive seismic event in each of the books. But the fourth (Shadow Zone) and fifth books serve the series as a whole rather than any preconceived notion of what they should be.

6. Have things worth fighting for.

Death is not your only option

Early on, one of my beta readers warned me that not enough was at stake in my story. I took this warning to heart. It is difficult, but not impossible, to bring across a sense of urgency in a series where the main protagonist has to survive until the last book (if not the end). So it is vital to make their struggles important enough to overcome this built-in flaw. I have a 2000-year old curse of death that threatens Caitlin, my main character. This is a pretty good hook. But if it occurs in Book 2 or Book 3 or even in Book 4 then I am missing a protagonist. Oops. In the meantime, my job is to keep the reader interested until Caitlin gets slammed by the curse. Or manages to overcome it (what - you think I'm going to tell? Ha!) So I made sure she is subjected to numerous other threats - both to herself and to those she loves - along the way. Only the reader can decide if I am successful or not.

7. To Theme or Not to Theme.

I found it helps to have one and to keep it in mind while writing but not to hit the reader over the head with it. I didn't discover my theme until around the middle of the second book, Shaky Ground. It doesn't have to be anything earth shaking (see what I did there?), and I kept my theme simple (and don't know if anyone will be able to guess it until the end).

8. Timeliness is important.

I believe it is important if you commit yourself to writing a series to satisfy the reader's need to have the sequels on a timely basis. If you are a writer, you may feel differently. As a reader, I want the next book now, if not sooner. But I'm willing to wait a reasonable amount of time. What is reasonable is debatable. But the longer it takes, the more you will court reader dissatisfaction. Life may get in the way, there's no question. But I'm writing for readers now, not for posterity. And I appreciate every one who is willing to wait for the next book.

9. Not everyone will love every book in the series. 

It's not the end of the world. Live with it. But don't let it slow you down. And remember to thank your readers for sticking with your series (thank you!) despite this.


10.  Think about the children   what you will do after the series is finished. Plan ahead.

 The day will come. You want to have your characters back. They no longer haunt your dreams, and you  become morose. Your loss seems insurmountable. If you have jotted some story/novel ideas down during the time you were unable to do anything other than write the freaking series, now is the time to pull them out. Unfinished short stories, musicals, your planned opus on the history of nose hairs - anything - this is the time to start working on them.




Was that ten already? I'm sure I've left out a bunch of important things. If you (as a reader or a writer) think of anything to add, please do so!




photo credit:
dedevanderroove via photopin cc

Thalita Carvalho ϟ via photopin cc

Nanowrimo - be gentle with me, it's my first time

National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo for short has one basic requirement.

Write 50,000 words in 30 days

Start: November 1 End: November 30

I've followed this event from the sidelines for years. But this year I took the plunge and signed up because I wanted to lose the dilly-dally demon inside me for a short time and let him know who was in charge.

50K words requires - do the math - 1667 words per day. For those of you who think of books and writing in terms of pages, well, it's not that easy to convert. But I'll try. My chapters in the Schattenreich series tend to be between 2000-2800 words, depending on the scenes, amount of dialogue, etc. That works out to between 7-10 double-spaced pages of a Word document per chapter. So 1667 words - that's a little less. Let's say between 5-6 pages. Doesn't sound like much. Not really. But there's nothing gentle about it.

Because you have to do this every day. Even if you don't feel like it, aren't inspired, haven't got a clue what you're going to write next or how that scene you started yesterday is supposed to end up.

Here's my stats for the month on a cumulative scale.

It's a bar chart!

The straight line slanting upwards across the chart shows where the bars need to reach for me to be keeping up with the daily word counts. You'll notice a dip in my productivity around the beginning of week 2. Ahem. Yeah. I had some things to do during that second weekend. Let's call it life with something social attached. Then I found it hard to get myself hauled back up to the line. It would have been easy to give up at that point. But I rallied by the end of week 2 and had nary a setback (despite a 3-day head cold) until the end, where I made a nice couple of spurts that put me over today, Thanksgiving, November 28th, even with a hectic schedule of teaching and cleaning and whatnot. Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Since I'm an expat, I have the advantage of not having to cook a monstrous (but delicious) Thanksgiving dinner or have alcohol or movies or even football to distract me. Unfortunately.

One of the things that happens once I start writing like this is that I not only quell the urge to procrastinate, I become obsessed. I eat, sleep and dream the novel. I drive with the radio off so I can think! and walk as in a daze through the grocery store on daily shopping trips. I give up having coherent conversation with the family.

I also am forced to stifle my inner editor. Daily word counts of this nature preclude mulling over word choice, fiddling with dialogue or - anything. It's just write write write. And then on to the next day. One thing that helps immensely is to have a plan. I did have one. The writing took a huge detour (right around where that slump showed up at the end of week 1), but it came back around to where it was supposed to be at the 50K mark, so it all worked out. And I've got the badge to show for it. 

I did violate one of the nanowrimo principles, which is the 50K should be your book from start to finish. Well, if you've ever read any of my books, you'll know that 50,000 doesn't even come close. So shoot me. I already had 50K going in. Now I have over 100K. And I need probably another 30K to 40K to be finished. But I'm a huge chunk closer than I was to finishing Triple Junction, the fifth and final book of the Schattenreich series. And totally psyched. So that dilly-dally monster, well, bless his heart. He's just going to have to go bother someone else for a while.

And now we can have our traditional Thanksgiving dinner (see below) on Saturday and I can look again at the faces I've been ignoring for the past 28 days and that I hope will no longer be frowning at me (including the cat), begin to sort the full laundry baskets (there were at least 10 of them last time I counted), get caught up on the other things...there are other things. I'm sure of it.

Raclette: our expat version of Thanksgiving

photo credit: jonlarge via photopin cc