thechromabooks: A glass of water. (Default)
2018-12-08 03:56 pm

[sticky entry] Sticky: Periodically Updated Introduction

Introduction

Hey there! I’m a fantasy author and illustrator. Whether you’re here for advice posts, stories, illustrations, or all three, I’m happy to have you around! 


Female. Not straight. Over 18. She/her pronouns, please. My favourite stories are Red Sister by Mark Lawrence, Brave Story by Miyuki Miyabe, and The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo.


What I Post

If you like magical lesbian cat-elves, you've come to the right place! I tend to write Dark, High Fantasy with female protagonists, many of whom are LGBT+. All of my works, collectively referred to as The Chroma Books, are set in my original fantasy universe The Chromaverse. 


In terms of writing advice, my goal is to decode common sayings and examine many more topics ranging from storycraft to characters to worldbuilding with logic. Writing—and writing well—is already difficult. It doesn't have to be mystifying. I can't write for you, but I can explain my understanding of craft basics in a clear, meaningful way.

Posting Schedule

* Flash Fiction Fridays (Thirty Three Tales of War)

 

What I Do Not Post

Fanfiction or anything meant to be erotic. I pretty much stick to high and/or dark fantasy in both reading and writing.


Am I Available For Editing?

I have toyed with the idea of editing on the side before. Since I have no professional experience yet (but plenty of the casual variety), I've got a special tier on my Patreon for 5000 words at a rate of half a cent per word. 

Links
  • Wattpad (https://www.wattpad.com/user/TheChromaBooks)
  • Twitter (https://twitter.com/TheChromaBooks)
thechromabooks: A glass of water. (Default)
2018-12-15 07:48 pm

Art Stuff and Whatever Else Pops Into My Head

I am currently working on the illustrations for TTTW: I + II (the Priestess and the Farmer), with preliminary sketches for Tale III already in the works. I didn’t decide to add artwork into the mix until I already had my ideas laid out... I’ll hopefully catch up in the next week or two. The finished illustrations will be available on my Patreon. 

That brings me to my next subject, which is more of a note-to-self than anything; I think when I’m done with 33 I’m going to put it and the illustrations in a book and put that up on Amazon and see how it fares, if the response to 33 is generally good. 

Other than that...I’ve got nothing. Life is pretty bland and it being winter doesn’t help. 

 
thechromabooks: Three poppies on a black background. Text reads "Thirty Three Tales of War". (tales)
2018-12-14 05:48 pm

Thirty-Three Tales of War: II

ONE-HUNDRED and twelve years the homestead had stood, an isolated dwelling east of Mavska where the pines were sparse and the mountains steep. His great-grandmother settled this plot of land, back then just a patch of wild turnips, and established herself a respectable farm. Oh, the farmer could see it in his mind’s eye: a broad field lush with oats and cabbage, turnips, beets, a sheepfold and pen for the goats, a cow for milking and hens for eggs. Three buildings, there were. A storehouse, a second for sleeping, and a third for the animals when winter arrived.
 
But now, in real life, the farmer stood quietly in the middle of his yard thinking violent thoughts as an Ochetski war party beheaded his chickens, slaughtered his cow, and cast their bedrolls out wherever they pleased as if they were invited to be here. 
 
Heathens. Savages. Primitive know-nothings hired by the Yellow Queen to fight in her war. He scowled at their chief, a young woman with muscles bigger than his, as she pulled her shashka through the neck of an unusually fertile goat. His uncle had given it to him when he came of age.
 
Two warriors appeared from the house with two chairs each. The farmer looked back at their chief. She—who had no shortage of piercings in her bony face—wiped her blade clean of blood, paying him no mind. There would be no consequences for this. There never were. The Upperbirths got to keep their walled cities, and the lowbirths stayed safe inside their homes. But those beyond the walls? Nobody gave a damn about them.
 
The Yellow Queen didn’t scare him. The war didn’t scare him. By the gods, he hadn’t even known there was a war until recently. The Northern army didn’t scare him, either; they tended to leave poor farmers charged with maintaining the family farm to their own devices. But, for some infuriating reason, this girl, this wild beast with her sharp sword and her strong arms frightened him to the roots of his soul. It didn’t matter they were on the same side. It didn’t matter she had no reason to trouble him. He scowled.
 
A distant thought crossed his mind. Last he spoke to his mother, she mentioned a caravan of Ochetski traders who stopped at the homestead to trade before heading to Mavska. Apparently, there were many skilled metal-weavers amongst their ranks. A flirtatious caravanner had presented her his own amulet as a parting gift one night. The emeralds alone kept them fat over winter. Maybe…
 
He glanced around. Everyone seemed too busy rifling through his belongings to notice him. He shuffled into his home.
 
The chief had, of course, taken the bed. He peered underneath the frame. Nothing but cobwebs and dust. He felt the seams for metal or string. Empty. With a grunt, he upended the mattress.
 
“Aha.” There. The war chief’s very own amulet. A simple ring of iron divided like eight wheel spokes with a knotted hemp cord. She had woven a few beads into the middle. One looked valuable, what with the streaks of gold…
 
The door snapped open. The farmer jumped, stuffing the necklace in his vest. No sooner did he withdraw his fingertips than did the chief step inside. She dropped her cloak on the floor and began to uncoil her bun. The tail end nearly fell to her waist. He gulped. If Ochetski heathens were anything at all like those from the north, long hair meant status and power. When she noticed him she startled, then started toward him. Each thud of her heel on the dirt floor sent a jolt of fear through his chest.
 
She held within stabbing distance, scanning him head to toe. Before he could duck, she grabbed his chin in her hand and pulled their faces close. Pain reflected in her violet eyes.
 
“Do—do you need something?” the farmer stuttered.
 
She released him and shifted away. For a moment, he hoped she meant to leave.
 
“You look like my brother,” she answered.
 
“And? Who’s he?”
 
“Dead.”
 
“Oh.” He crossed his arms. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
 
“We‘ve failed many great warriors in this fight. I’ve failed them. Eight. Strong mothers, hardy sons. You northerners suffer no such loss.”
 
He chortled. “You’re in Zoldoni Chovrekozh. Property of the Red Queen. I’m no northerner.”
 
“So your loyalties lie west in the Yellow Queen’s war?”
 
“Anywhere but with that northern caste-whore in Sarona.”
 
“Tell me. You are a farmer. Is it so?”
 
“Yeah.”
 
“And we’re in Zoldoni Chovrekozh?”
 
“Didn’t I—”
 
“And are farmers in Zoldoni Chovrekozh usually thieves?”
 
His stomach lurched. “Thieves? What—” He paled. The necklace cord protruded from his pocket. Shaking, he extended it to her. “I—I was—you left out on the table, I just—I thought I’d have a peek, but—”
 
She raised her fist. He yelped, covering his head with his arms, as she rested her hand gently on his shoulder.
 
“My brother. He was a thief, too. That is why he died.”
 
The farmer trembled. Scenes of torture and death flashed before his eyes. Did Ochetski savages believe in mercy? Did they have any kindness in their hearts?
 
She sighed. “You know? Keep it. Consider it payment for food and beds. I’m sure your ghosts haunt you more than mine.” At the door, she hesitated. Just as he expected her to come charging back and throttle him, she shook her head and left.
 
thechromabooks: An image of five triangles set around a pentagon as if they were the petals of a flower. (lore)
2018-12-12 02:35 am

[Untitled]

I first saw her at sunset; her skin a thousand tiny mirrors reflecting sky and clouds, her hair y’all grass in the field. She stood arms behind her back, head raised in wistful contemplation toward the sky. 


I moved one foot forward.


The spectre flicked her head, saw me, and vanished.


Months later I met her again. This time, it was in the woods. Amongst tall trees she stood, posed just as before, her hair an 

autumn crown and her body bark and wood. I snuck toward her as one might when hunting a deer. Cataracts covered her doe eyes, dirt her nose and lips.


The spectre looked up, stepped back, and 

vanished.


Two weeks passed before she appeared. She was flame now, standing outside a burning village. I thought perhaps this time I would hear her voice, but she ran inside. 


She came back, two children in her arms, 

and laid them on the ground. 


Then, she saw me and vanished. 


The final time I saw her she had coral skin and seaweed hair. I lunged to grab her and never let go. 


She fought to pull me up. I begged to stay down. I'd spent far too long waiting for a perfect moment. Now I received my final reward on the sea floor: her kiss.


Then, it all vanished.

thechromabooks: A heart and compass. The heart has a pen inside it and the compass needles are pens as well. (advice)
2018-12-12 12:02 am

How To Set Yourself Up For Success

Write Every Day
 
"Write every day." It gets repeated time and again by writers, agents, publishers, editors--and it's good advice indeed. Practice makes perfect is an equally parroted parable for a reason. Life, however, is unpredictable. Your boss needs you to work overtime to meet a deadline. Your spouse wants a date night. Your kid has a school function you don't want to miss. Heck, maybe you just don't feel like doing anything but relaxing after a long day. So how do you fit in something that takes so long in just 24 hours? You're already spending eight of them sleeping, a further eight working, then there's school if you're attending, leisure activities, and alone time that take up a huge chunk of your day.
 
"Write every day" doesn't mean "Write all day" or "Write most of the day." It doesn't even mean "Write 1000 words", even if you can write that much in one sitting. When you're watching TV, keep a notepad next to you and see if you get any ideas from the program you're viewing. Out at a park with the kids? Bring a notebook. Try describing your surroundings. Imagine what would happen if a dragon attacked, or a UFO appeared. Get your imagination working.
 
Once you take those first baby steps, you'll find the words begin to pour. Even if you write a total of one sentence, that's still one more than zero sentences. Count it as a win. No one expects you to write 2000 words a day when you first start or produce a masterpiece fully formed as Athena from Zeus' head. All you need is a little discipline, some determination, and a lot of blank paper (whether digital or physical).
 
Start A Habit
 
According to "How Are Habits Formed: Modelling Habit Formation in the Real World", a well-known study about forming habits, "performing an action for the first time requires planning." (Lally et al., 01). When you commit to writing every day, it's helpful to plan a time to do this and nothing else. Treat this time as you would if you were on shift, on a date, or at your child's dance recital.
 
When you choose a time of day to write, think about what "white space" you have when nothing else is happening. Is there a lunch or coffee break you could use for writing? Do you wake up well before other members of your family and have the house to yourself? Are you a night owl? All of those might be an ideal slot in which to carve out some time to write.
 
Consider also which time slots are not ideal for writing. For example, do you use public transportation on your commute? That could be distracting, not to mention many people dislike the feeling of someone reading over their shoulder. These are "black spaces" in your day—times when you already have things going on that require your full attention.
 
Consider also where you choose to write and with what. You may find that you prefer the table and a laptop, or your bed with a pencil and legal pad. No option is the best option except the one that encourages you to write.
 
Make a list of these times, places, and instruments and choose two or three promising combinations to try out for a week or two. After the trial period, ask yourself which worked out the best. Why did they work well? Is there anything you could tweak to make it even better? Perhaps you prefer blue ink to black or that the brightness of your screen is set to 50%.
 
Once you've settled the when, where and how, it's time to consider who, what and why. What do you want to write? Why do you want to write it? Is it for personal gratification, to show off to family and friends, or for publishing? Who are you writing for? As you've likely heard, you should write for yourself and to others, if sharing is your aim. Trying to please others with your craft is a road that leads straight to disappointment and discouragement, both of which are anathema to beginning a habit.
 
Combine all these things and make a plan: In a notebook, write "I am going to write at this time in this place with these things. I will write about this story for this reason."
 
All that's left now is to commit.
 
Set Realistic Goals and Deadlines
 
George Doran created the S.M.A.R.T. method of setting goals in 1981. The S.M.A.R.T. method for our purposes stands for Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, and Timely. This method was originally developed for project and employee performance management, but it can be applied to personal development just as easily.
 
To apply this method to your own writing, think about what it is you want to achieve. Don't pick something aeriform such as "write a book" or "get published". Choose something Specific: "Write 10,000 words". "Remove filler words". "Rework the main character's dialogue in Scene Three". Once you know what you're writing and why, your goal can be anything you want
 
This should be easy if you know what you're writing and why, and your goal can be anything from simply finishing the first draft to holding your published novel in your hands. Although you don't have to be published to consider yourself a writer—your writing doesn't matter less if it's only a hobby or coping method for you. As long as you're content with your content, the path you choose is up to you.
 
Once you know what you want to achieve, ask yourself how you know you've achieved it. With writing, this can be as easy as writing a certain number of words or pages per day over an extended period or as difficult as completing an entire draft.
 
Take a Break
 
Many writers I know have struggled with finding the balance between passion and obsession. Remember to be mindful of your mental health and other aspects of your life, such as social events and family time. It's easy to get so absorbed in a new project that it's the only thing you can think about. This isn't always bad, but if you ever find yourself feeling guilty for not writing or restless in bed thinking about story ideas, it's okay to remind yourself that taking a break is okay and sometimes necessary. Not only can it impact your mental and social health, but it can end up burning you out or making you resent the story you're trying to write. This, in turn, can lead you to write poorly, which will only lead to more frustration.
 
If you're trying to adhere to a schedule, it may be helpful to select a day of the week or a certain time of day during which you put down the pen (or keyboard) and engage in something else, like reading, gardening, or fighting dragons. If you're not so in love with your current project, try resting up for a few days! Even something as simple as changing projects can help, if you insist on writing.
 
Remember Why You Want To Write This Story
 
Every one of us has a reason to write the story we're writing. Maybe you think it's cool. Maybe you're trying to share your experience with others, or pay tribute to authors who impacted your childhood. There's no good reason to write, but there aren't any bad ones, either. Writing is one of the earliest inventions, and for good reason—it can change the world. Wars have ended and begun with writing. Scientific discoveries have been recorded and petitions for the cause penned, each stroke another drop of knowledge. Truly, to write is to sculpt the world around you, and even if you're only chipping at a tiny corner it's still changed. Because of that, all of us are blessed.
 
Thanks for reading! I'll be back next week with a new topic. I'm excited to hear your thoughts and experiences.
 
If you're interested in using the companion worksheet for this article, click this link to go to my Patreon | https://www.patreon.com/glasswrites | Worksheets can be accessed for as low as $1.00. Please know that I charge per creation.
 
References
 
(1) Lally, Phillippa, et al. "How Are Habits Formed: Modelling Habit Formation in the Real World." European Journal of Social Psychology, John Wiley & Sons, Ltd., 16 July 2009, onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/ejsp.674/full.
 
(2) Doran, G. T. "There's a S.M.A.R.T. Way to Write Management's Goals and Objectives." Management Review, Vol. 70, 1981. 
thechromabooks: A glass of water. (Default)
2018-12-10 03:57 pm
Entry tags:

Hello!

I’ve met a lot of new people today so I just wanted to say “hello” to you all!

I bet a lot of you are pretty intro’d-out given the mass emigration to Dreamwidth, so instead I’ll ask what you’re most interested in seeing from this page (you can also tell me about yourself if you want, though)! 

I am brand-new to this site so I’m still figuring out the interface and where everything is. If you see something that looks unintentional you’re probably right. 

Anyway, that’s all! 
- Glass
thechromabooks: Three poppies on a black background. Text reads "Thirty Three Tales of War". (tales)
2018-12-09 06:41 pm

Thirty-Three Tales of War: I

 
FOG had gathered in the valley overnight. It clung to the trees, the ground, the air, a blood-white cloud so thick it choked the morning sun. A village had stood beneath these mountains, once. Mavska. Most knew it as the sole settlement for spans and spans. A lantern in the gloom. It, like the sun, had succumbed.

A priestess stood where the village once had. The fog curled away as she whispered to the Void, revealing a field of flattened wheat to her north. In her hand, a red candle. On her lips, a prayer.

She walked amidst broken bodies and the shafts of spears, lone shoes with no feet to wear them and scattered, dented shields. The ground, glutted with filth and blood, threatened to suck her in with every heavy step. Yet, she carried on.

Nine times she paced the field until black blood saturated her leather turnshoes. Black blood; not red. All this had begun with the redbloods. Then the caste-whore queen. The priestess turned her mind from such treacherous thoughts. There was work to do.

In the burlap pouch at her side she collected things for the dead: beads and talismans, iron tadril coins, scraps of tattered banners and cloth. She kissed each item and set it delicately in the bag. A quiet joy quelled the mournful murmurs of her soul. Here laid her altar. So many souls returned to their mother here in this very field. How lucky was she to be Her priestess. How lucky were they to find their path home.

At the tenth turn she paused and raised her candle skyward. The flame trembled. Searching for the stars beyond the fog, the priestess bowed her head.

"In anger you called to her, she who avenges your wounds."

Tendrils of fog slithered across her lips.

"In sorrow you prayed to her, she who felled your friends and foes."

A hole in death's cloak. She cast her sight to the sky. "In death you came to her, she who ends all things."

Red wax pattered against her feet. The candle hissed as it melted onto her palm. She knelt and set her pouch at her knees, reaching inside to find the first offering. She kissed the helmet she collected from within. "In her sight," she whispered.

One by one she drew their possessions and arranged them on the ground. When all laid in a circle about her, she took a bundle of sage from her skirt pocket and lit it with the last flicker of the candle. She placed the bundle in the palm of a worn leather glove.

"Rest now, sweet children, and be at peace, for in hope the shards of your soul ran to her, she who will set them from."

A pulse of something divine shuddered across the valley. Gradually, the fog thinned until it was nothing more than crisp autumn air. The priestess stood. Hundreds of spears and work-hardened swords quivered up to their hilts in the bloody ground. How lucky were they to no longer suffer. Hundreds fell here, but this battle did not end the war. Thousands had drawn their last breath the two years last. Thousands of souls, shattered. Her countrymen, her friends. Yet, the priestess lifted her arms to the sky. The Seamstress' mercy was a gift to them all, no matter for which side they fought and died. And, for that alone, she was thankful.