Author: Nicole Luttrell

I'm a speculative fiction writer. That means I write about dragons, ghosts and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the ghosts of dragons on spaceships.

My review of Three Simple Lines

I have talked (a lot) about Natalie Goldberg and how much her work has taught me about writing. While she’s best known for Writing Down The Bones, she has many other books about writing, Zen, and how those things intersect.

Having read Writing Down The Bones, Thunder and Lighting and Wild Mind, I thought I knew what to expect from Three Simple Lines.

I was wrong.

Released in January of 2021, Three Simple Lines is a deep and reverent look at the art of haiku. To really explain this book, I think it’s best to start by describing what it is not.

It is not technically a writing manual. At least not in the same way Writing Down The Bones or Wild Mind were. This is not a collection of personal essays, followed by introspective writing advice and prompts. There are no exercises in this book.

Instead, Three Simple Lines chronicles two trips that Goldberg made to Japan to learn about two Haiku masters that inspired her work; Matsuo Basho and Yosa Buson.

Most of the book reads like a travelog. And honestly, with Goldberg’s deep and melodic writing style, I could read her description of a trip to the grocery store. So that alone was worth the price of admission. I loved her descriptions of exploring Japan. Especially the food.

This would have been an education by itself. If you want to write about travel, this is how to do it. I wanted nothing more than to hear everything about her trip.

But of course, that wasn’t all of it.

Learning how to write a haiku isn’t hard. You write three lines. They should add up to nineteen syllables. The standard belief is that the lines should be five syllables, then seven, then five. But most artists agree you can play a little fast and loose with that.

The soul of a haiku comes from the subject matter. A haiku should capture a moment in time, like a firefly in a bottle. Some people say that they should exclusively be about nature. But I’ve seen plenty that have moved me and had nothing to do with nature. The important thing is that it captures that moment and the feelings within that moment.

These descriptions seem simple, and they technically are. The difficult part is in the doing. This takes years and even lifetimes to master.

During Three Simple Lines, Goldberg talks about the lives of famous haiku masters. She also shares some of their most famous works. I am astounded by the slow pace of these artists. They seemed dedicated to their craft before all else.

This is especially astounding to my modern mind. I feel like I am so often focused on producing rather than creating.

Three Simple Lines is a blend of Goldberg’s story and the stories of these two haiku masters. If nothing else, this book will leave you inspired by the small, lovely craft of haiku.

And probably craving mochi.

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Broken Patterns is now live! You can get it right now on Amazon.

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Broken Patterns, Chapter Three

Lenore stood with the other ladies of court on the steps of the palace, trying desperately to suppress a sigh. Her cousins, Harper and Joan, stood next to her. Joan was Uncle Joseph’s daughter and a Mestonie. She stood closer than Harper, who was Uncle Lewis’s daughter and on the queen’s side of the family. Lenore thought that if Joan whispered one more comment about how they were the only Mestonie girls and therefore should set a shining example, she was going to go ahead and let Harper punch her out of her boots.

Lorna glanced back at Lenore, and said, “Wipe that nasty look off of your face. King Omar will arrive any minute. I’ll not have you looking like a spoiled toddler.”

She widened her eyes and planted a great smile on her mouth. “How lovely indeed, Mother. Perhaps King Omar could explain to me how it was vitally important I not be allowed to have even one of my dogs with me, seeing as how the last time we visited him in Calistar I had three, and he seemed to find this delightful.”

Harper giggled, but stopped after a look from the queen. “Sorry, Auntie,” she whispered.

Lorna glanced back at Victor, who stood just behind Lenore. “How ungrateful you are, Lenore. I did let you bring one of your dogs,” she snapped.

“Why is King Omar coming to visit now?” Hannah asked quickly.

“To talk to Ambassador Vitaly, and be a friend to Papa,” Lenore said. “He’s holding up really well after Uncle Issac’s death, but I can imagine he’d like to see his friend right about now.”

“It was such a crushing loss to the Mestonie family,” Joan said, batting her eyes. “Really, it’s been difficult for us all.”

“Especially those of us who actually liked Michael,” Harper muttered. “As opposed to those who lived in their country estate and only saw him once a year on his birthday.”

Lorna cleared her throat. The crowds at the front of the palace were cheering, as the royal gondola glided into view.

King Omar was the first person anyone would have noticed. Over six feet tall, he had the dark brown skin of Calistar, a completely bald head, and a neat goatee. He wore a white silk tunic and loose flowing breeches, with a long dagger tucked into his sash. He was standing up on the gondola with Samuel, both waiving to the cheering people.

“Princess, how should I feel about this man?” Victor asked.

“He’s my papa’s best friend, and he likes us well enough,” Lenore said. “But he won’t be in the same room as a girl unless her husband or father is there.”

“That’s not just the king,” Harper said, “It’s the law in Calistar. Don’t make it sound like he’s being strange, Lenore.”

“The girls wear veils over their faces, but leave their bellies exposed like prostitutes, you tell me how that’s not strange,” Joan replied.

“I really hope we just got that all out of our system before anyone important could hear you,” Lorna said.

“Yes, Aunt,” the other girls replied.

The gondola came to a halt in front of the steps. Samuel and Omar disembarked, and made their way up the stairs. “Ah, Queen Lorna,” Omar called in his booming voice. “You look more lovely every time I see you.”

“Thank you, King Omar,” Lorna said with a smile and a curtsy.

“And the little ladies,” Omar said. “Samuel, I don’t know how you let them walk around without veils. They are too precious to be seen by all these unworthy men. Princess Lenore, I hardly recognize you without your puppies.”

Lenore and the girls made neat curtsies to Omar. “I am honored to see you again, King Omar,” she said, in perfect Calistarian.

He laughed out loud, and said in the same tongue, “Clever girl, very clever. I’ve brought my two oldest daughters to visit with you. I am sure you will have a wonderful time with them.”

Lenore, who knew very well that Omar’s oldest daughter was two years younger, suppressed a wince. “I am sure that I will be as good of friends with them as you are with my papa,” she said.

A second gondola was pulling up to the docks. Two girls dressed all in white silk sat on the benches, their faces covered in veils. How am I to carry on a conversation with two girls whose faces I can’t even see? she thought.

As they disembarked, Lenore noticed that the taller of the two was indeed wearing a shirt that didn’t cover her stomach, and there was a diamond set in her navel. They walked serenely up to Lenore, and set their hands together before giving an inclination of their heads. Lenore did the same, having learned to do so while staying in Calistar. Joan tried to imitate her, but Harper simply curtsied.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Princess Lenore,” said the taller one. “My sister and I were too young to be properly introduced when you visited our home. My name is Sultiana, and this is Chrissie.” The shorter girl nodded.

“I’m very happy to meet you both,” Lenore said.

“Let’s head inside now,” Lorna said, gesturing towards the courtyard. “It is rather warm out in the sun today, and we have cold drinks waiting.”

As the Calistar Princesses fell into step beside Lenore, Chrissie whispered, “Warm? It’s freezing out here.”

“Chrissie, shut up,” Sultiana hissed. “You are a guest.”

“D’you really think it’s cold?” Hannah asked. She and Lady Larissa, the final young woman of court, had quickened their steps to join them.

“It is in comparison to home,” Sultiana explained.

“That’s right, Calistar is a desert,” Harper said. “I’ve always wanted to see it, but my papa doesn’t like it. He says it’s too far away from the water for mages like us.”

“How do you survive with all that sand?” Larissa asked. “Doesn’t it just ruin your things?”

“Not all of us wear cloth of gold gowns to Midweek supper,” Lenore replied.

The other girls laughed. Larissa, whose father was the royal treasurer, pointed her nose in the air.

They all settled in the large library just off of the dining hall. This was Lenore’s favorite room in the palace. Sofas were scattered around the room, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. The whole roomed smelled of paper and ink, though there was still a lingering scent from the tobacco her Uncle Issac had smoked.

Lenore sat down on one couch, and the girls sat around her, with Sultiana on her left and Hannah on her right.

“I do wish we might have visited somewhere away from the men, so that we could take our veils off,” Sultiana said. “At home, we have our own sitting rooms, so that we can rest in privacy.”

“Must you have your veils on all the time in front of men?” Joan asked. “How do you eat?”

“We do not eat in the company of men unless they are our family,” Chrissie said.

“Oh, that might make supper difficult here,” Victor said.

The Calistar Princesses gasped, and turned away from him quickly.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk to them, Victor,” Lenore said.

Victor blushed. “Forgive me, Princess Lenore, for insulting your new friends. Please tell them for me that I did not intend to violate their customs.”

“What can one expect from a savage, after all,” Joan muttered.

“Princess Lenore, you allow your noblewomen to speak in such a way?” Sultiana said, her voice suddenly very quiet. “Because, it seems to me that the warrior responsible for protecting the greatest jewel of Septa should be shown more respect.”

“The greatest jewel in Septa,” Harper laughed. “Lenore, can I call you the greatest jewel in Septa? We should embroider that on your night robe.”

“Apparently we’re not as particular about nobility here,” Lenore said, trying not to laugh at Harper. “But you’re right. Seems awfully stupid to talk about a loyal man like that. Seems like a girl might just take offense at that, and slap someone’s face, if she doesn’t stop running her fat mouth.”

Joan gasped. She and Larissa excused themselves quickly, and left without waiting for Lenore’s leave.

“That seemed cruel,” Chrissie said.

“I quite agree, those girls were very rude,” Sultiana added.

Across the room, the kings were getting to their feet. “My friends,” Samuel said, “King Omar and I must discuss a few things, matters of state and such. Rather than bore you all with that, I’d like to invite you into the garden, where food and drink are waiting. We’ll join you when our work is completed.”

Lorna rose, among her ladies, and started to lead everyone out into the garden. Sultiana glanced around, and said, “That is very peculiar. Kadar and Shilom are not going with my honored father.”

“Who are Kadar and Shilom?” Lenore asked.

Sultiana pointed to a very tall man dressed in red with his hair in thick braids, and an older man dressed in blue with a prominent forehead. “That is Kadar, of the smith tribe, and Shilom, of the Scholars. They are his chief advisers. If our honored fathers are to discuss work, these men should be with them.”

Lenore glanced around, and noticed that Lord David and Uncle Lewis, her father’s own chief advisers, were leaving with the rest.
“What are they talking about without them, I wonder?” Lenore whispered. They went out into the garden. The sun was shining, and tables of food had been set out with blue tablecloths. Lenore glanced towards the wall. It had been repaired, but the bricks were of a different shade. She shuddered, wondering if she was the only one who thought it morbid that they were playing in the garden where Uncle Issac and Michael died. She glanced over at Devon. From the look on his face, she wasn’t.

“So, you won’t be able to properly meet my brothers, or the other boys of the court?” Lenore asked, trying to distract herself. “Or can you speak to them with your father present?”

“We may not speak to them at all,” Sultiana said. “In fact, I am surprised that my honored father even allowed us to be in this garden with all of these men without him.”

“Whatever he is talking to King Samuel about must be of the gravest importance, to break such laws,” Chrissie said.

“I wonder,” Sultiana said, looking along the wall, “if someone wanted to hear their conversation, what would they do?”

“They would be smart to forget that idea,” Chrissie said, “After all, they are kings, and if they want a moment of private conversation that not even their advisers are privy to, then surely their daughters should respect that.”

“Of course,” Lenore said, “but if someone wanted to do it, they could manage it by sneaking into the servants’ hall, and listening at the door.”

“And I am off,” Hannah said, “If my mamma finds me spying, she’ll have me shut up in the kitchens for a week, scrubbing pots.”

“I shall come with you, as Malonie smiles upon little girls who obey their elders, not those who delight in disobedience,” Chrissie replied. They made their way towards the food table.

“Right, so the servants’ halls have got an entrance right over here,” Harper said, pointing her thumb towards the wall.

“I think I ought to wait here, Princess,” Victor said. “I do not think it will be healthy for me to be found sneaking about with the Calistar princess, even in the company of others.”

“Good thinking, you can keep watch,” Lenore said. “Tell my mamma we went to the necessary room if she notices us gone?”

Victor gave her a wicked smile. “The Queen is well occupied, showing off for the ladies of court. You will not be missed, I think.”

The three girls glided serenely across the grass. “Will Chrissie tell?” Lenore asked.

“No, will your friend, Hannah?” Sultiana replied.

“She won’t,” Lenore said. They looked around when they got to the door to make sure no one was watching. Then, Harper opened it, and all three of them disappeared into the hall.

The servants’ hall was well lit with torches and set with a cobblestone floor. Lenore led Sultiana and Harper along until they reached the door that would lead them to the library. They saw no one along the way.

Outside of the room, all three girls clustered around the door to listen.

“I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you,” Omar was saying. “I know this is not the best time.”

“Not the best time!” Samuel cried. “Issac and Michael were just killed, right in front of two of my children! I’ve got the whole damn country in my lap, which I am apparently handling terribly, according to every single person who’s got anything to say to me. We’re on the threshold of war with Montelair. Not the best time is an understatement!”

“I haven’t got a choice,” Omar said. “You know how sensitive these things are for my people. If I don’t have an heir, I’ll be looking at civil war.”

Lenore looked at Sultiana. “What’s that about?” she asked.

“My father does not have a son, brother or any male relatives,” Sultiana said. “My honored mother passed into The Goddesses’ hands a year ago. Our people grow restless, with no heir apparent.”

“And your people are a little fussy with each other, aren’t they?” Harper asked.

“If by that you mean the tribe leaders would sooner cut each other’s throats than decide together who our next heir should be, then yes,” Sultiana replied. “There has already been fighting between the Smiths and the Herdsmen.”

“Samuel, I won’t get another chance like this,” Omar said. “Don’t you see what this would mean to my people? I’ve spent my life trying to get these closed border fools on my council to listen to me. You are still the only Septa man who can enter our lands without getting shot on sight. And a man who leaves with his family is hunted like a traitor by his own family. Now, I’ve got the Traders on my side, the Scholars as well. The Farmers will side with me just to stop the war. I’ve got the Smiths and the Herdsmen outvoted. If I can’t do this now, I will never get another chance.”

“Omar, you are asking me to give up one of my children,” Samuel said. “You’re asking me to change his family name, as though he was never even mine.”

“Not until they are married,” Omar said. “He’ll stay here until then.”

“Octavian?” Lenore whispered.

“Who is that?” Sultiana asked.

“My little brother,” Lenore replied. “But he can’t go to Calistar. He’s our heir.”

“Omar, I think you ought to meet the boy first,” Samuel said. “He’s not really the sort of man who’d likely get on well in Calistar.”

“Well, now I know he’s not talking about Octavian,” Harper said.

“Oh damn,” Lenore whispered.

“Devon seems like a bright boy,” Omar said. “And he’s young. It’s still too early to tell what sort of man he’ll be. I am sure that he and Sultiana will get on very well.”

“Is Devon your other brother?” Sultiana asked. “The quiet one?”

“He is,” Lenore said.

Samuel sighed. “I wanted him to stay here, and be an adviser to Octavian, like I was to Issac.”

“But if he comes to Calistar, he will be a king,” Omar said.

“And why in the nine levels of hell would I want that?” Samuel asked. “Weren’t you the one who told me that the crown was a curse? That being a king would always come before being a father and husband? Why d’you think I’d want that for both of my sons?”

“I don’t,” Omar said. “But I know that you do want peace. I know that you know what will happen to Septa if Calistar falls to war. I know that you are already acting as a king first. And I know that Devon will do the same. I am sorry, my friend, but this is the best option for both of us, not just me. Unless you want Octavian to inherit a warring neighbor after my death.”

“You are right,” Samuel said. “Creator preserve us, I know it. I’ll speak to Lorna, she’ll be livid.”

Lenore got to her feet. “I’ve got to go find my little brother, excuse me,” she said.

“I do not think that you are very happy with this news,” Sultiana said.

“It’s nothing against you,” Lenore said. “It’s only that, well, my little brother’s not the sort to be very happy in Calistar.”

Copyright © 2024 by Nicole C. Luttrell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

If you love the story and want to support Paper Beats World, you can do so on Ko-fi.

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Broken Patterns, Chapter Two

Devon Mestonie had lived in the palace of his uncle the king for most of his life. His father had a castle and lands of his own, of course. But in all of his fourteen years Devon didn’t think he’d spent more than a handful of months there. His papa said it was because there was a lot of work to do in the capital, and he was needed. His mamma, Lorna, said it was because Samuel and Issac were too close to stand being parted for very long.

In all that time, Devon and his brother Octavian had shared a room in their cousin Michael’s suite of rooms, as royal cousins and first in his court. Now, Octavian was being moved into Michael’s room. But he wasn’t going without making noise.

“Michael’s been dead for only two weeks, and we just can’t wait to shove all of his things aside and move on, can we?” Octavian cried at the head manservant, Peter, as he oversaw the move. Lighting was crackling along his shoulders, a sign that he was losing control of his magic right along with his temper.

“Prince Michael has gone to the arms of The Creator, and your father has been ordained king,” Peter said with a sigh. “That means that you, sir, are the new heir. This was never Prince Michael’s bedroom, it was the bedroom belonging to the heir of Septa, our next ruler. That is you. If you don’t like it, go and speak to your father the king.”

That, Devon decided, was the bit that was bothering him most. “Your father the king.” It had always been your uncle the king before. That left his father just to be papa. To Devon, it felt like their father didn’t belong to them as much as he had before.

Deciding that he wanted none of the fight that was brewing between Peter and Octavian, Devon ducked out into the hall. Sadly, there didn’t seem to be a single quiet place to be found in the whole palace.

He went first to the training rooms, to play with the bows. There he found Dennis Synthia and Oliver Castille, two of the noble boys of the court. Dennis was Lord David’s son, and he looked like it, being the tallest of the court, with the biggest nose. Oliver was, in Devon’s opinion, too pretty for his own good, with hair that he was too fond of caring for.

Devon selected a bow, and started to fit an arrow to the string. “Bet your papa wants you to take up sword work now,” Oliver said.

“Bugger that,” Devon replied. “I’m terrible with a sword.”

“But it’s more princely,” Dennis said, firing his bow.

“I’m not,” Devon replied.

The indoor range was near the conference chamber. The lords and ambassadors were there, apparently having another argument.

“What are they on about now?” Devon asked, listening to the men’s voices rising and falling.

“That man that stayed from the Montelair soldiers,” Oliver said. “My papa thinks that he’s a spy, and he wants him hung.”

“Lord Lewis thinks we ought to march on Montelair,” Dennis said. “He said that we’re taking the word of someone we know nothing about that this wasn’t an act of war on King Kurtis’s part.”

“Except when he said it, there was a lot more swearing,” Oliver said.

Devon fired his bow, sinking the arrow into the very edge of the red target in the center of the butt. “I was hoping for a bit of quiet,” he said.

“Then don’t go out to the outside range,” Dennis said, “Hank and Howard are out there, sparring.”

“Oh, Creator defend us, I wish they’d stop that,” Devon said. “They only get started fighting, and Hank gets mad if Howard uses his magic, even though he knows he’s got no control over it.”

The door to the conference room opened, and the ambassador from Coveline came out. She was a large dragon, thin in body and green in color.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to dragons in the palace,” Dennis whispered.

“Does Ambassador Lau look different from that language master she brought with her?” Oliver asked. “Isn’t she shorter, and fatter?”

“Of course she does,” Devon said. “Ambassador Lau’s a Vondrai dragon. They’re the ruling class. Mistress Risus is a Monnor. They’re more common.”

“Probably shouldn’t call her fat, though,” Oliver laughed.

“I’m going to go find Lenore,” Devon said

“Think she’s in the tower,” Dennis replied.

“How d’you know that?” Oliver asked, smirking.

“Because she’s with Hannah, and Papa likes me to know where my sister is, arse!” Dennis replied, blushing a little.

“Right, I’ll see you later, then,” Devon said. He set the practice bow back in place, and nearly ran to the tower workroom set aside for the thread mages in the palace.

It was Devon’s favorite room. It was circular and huge, with two great fireplaces to keep the cold away in the winter. Every available bit of wall space was covered with hooks that held thread and yarn in all different colors and weights. Great chests were placed beneath them for even more yarn and thread. Comfortable chairs were set around the room for the mages to sit. As his mamma had been the highest ranking thread mage in the palace since their grandmother died, this room did not change hands, and looked just the same as it always had.

Lenore was there, along with Hannah, Ramona, and Victor. Hannah was a heavier girl, with a thick braid tucked over her shoulder. She sat next to Lenore, stitching a bright green vest.

Ramona was the head of the royal nursery. She was an older woman, with a stern face. She knelt before a loom, weaving a tapestry that showed birds flying across a blue sky. Thanks to her magic, the birds were moving.

Lenore sat in the sunlight near a window, spinning the light into her thread.

Victor’s appearance had changed a lot since the first time Devon had seen him. His hair had been cropped short and neat, his facial hair shaved. He dressed as most other men of Septa did, the same sort of cloths that Devon wore, with a jacket, undershirt, and breeches, with high polished leather boots. He stood next to Lenore’s chair, watching her spin with a look of fascination that amused Devon.

“Hello, Prince,” Ramona said when she saw Devon.

“Please, don’t call me that,” Devon replied. He came to her side, and sat next to her on the floor.

“But that’s what we are now, prince and princess,” Lenore said with a grimace. “As though it does us any good. Octavian will be king, and you’ll be his adviser, I’m sure. But I’ll just have more of the lords after me for their sons. Disgusting, as though I’m nothing more than a means to an end.”

“Oh, stop,” Hannah said. “Being a noblewoman is an important calling. We’ve got lands to run, and families to look after. It’s not like you’ll ever be bored.”

“One can be busy and bored at the same time, if the thing one is doing is boring,” Lenore replied.

“Nurse, can I use your hand loom?” Devon asked.

“Sure,” Ramona said.

“You weave?” Victor asked. “Boys do not weave in my country.”

“Boys don’t weave here, either,” Lenore replied. “Just my little brother. And I wouldn’t allow it, but he’s not bad. You just cannot tell Papa.”

“And how am I to avoid telling him anything, being sworn to him and all?” Victor asked. “A man is not a man if he does not take his vows seriously.”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll ask you direct,” Ramona said. She set the loom in front of Devon, and he started to set it with base yarn. “Besides, a talent is a talent, even if it’s unusual.”

Devon smiled at her. “Thank you, Nurse.”

The five of them sat in silence for a while. Victor wandered around the room, glancing out of windows and looking bored, but otherwise everyone stayed still. With the rest of the palace in such a rush with the funerals and Samuel’s coronation, this was a mercy.

Devon’s fingers started to itch while he wove. He stopped to rub his fingers on his breeches, then went back to work.

“Does the king know a group of Montelarians are coming up to the palace?” Victor asked, looking out the window.

“I don’t know,” Devon said.

“He does, and he said so yesterday,” Lenore said with a sigh. “Honestly, Devon, you are so hopeless. Papa sent a messenger up to Kurtis about the attack, and this will be the answer.”

Devon was pulling colors from Ramona’s rag bag at random. He looked at the fabric strip he was making, which should have been a simple striped pattern. Instead, it looked vaguely like a crossbow bolt, black with a thin arrow head and wooden fetches at the back in place of feathered ones. Around it was a pattern of flames.

“How did I do that?” he whispered.

Ramona looked down at his loom. “Well,” she said, “that is a clever little pattern.”

Lenore and Hannah bent over to see as well. “That is a manly thing to weave, I suppose,” Victor said.

“That is good,” Lenore said. “Well, if you can’t sword fight, and you aren’t a mage, at least you are good at something, little brother.”

“Wish my brother did something quiet,” Hannah said.

“Let’s go down and see the people from Montelair,” Lenore said, putting her spinning away. “Maybe Papa will let us sit in on the meeting.”

“Why would you want to do a thing like that?” Lorna asked. “They will only talk about boring matters of state. Surely you would be more interested in going to visit the hounds?”

“I am tired of hearing things secondhand,” Lenore said. “Besides, I’m sure Victor will want to know what’s going to happen.”

“I would like to know later, when the nobility of Montelair cannot see me and have me gutted,” Victor muttered.

“Come on,” Lenore said. Devon shoved his loom back into Ramona’s bag, and followed after her and Hannah.

“Here,” Hannah said, offering Lenore a bit of fabric. “I stitched that, so I’ll be able to hear anyone who talks into it. They’ll probably let you sit closer than me.”

“You ladies really are interested in politics?” Victor asked.

“This is history in the making. How is that not fascinating?” Hannah asked.

“I just want to know what’s going on,” Lenore said. “Men are always making all these decisions and they act like it’s not going to concern us poor little girls at all.”

Samuel and his lords were coming from the conference room as Devon and the others came around the corner. “Papa, may we come meet the delegates from Montelair with you?” Lenore asked.

“Oh, Bug, you’ll be frightfully bored,” Samuel said. “Devon, I didn’t think you had any interest in this sort of thing.”

“I do, Papa,” Devon said.

“And so do I,” Lenore said.

“You may come, but you may not speak,” Samuel said. “Montelair has a different opinion of ladies, and I can’t trust them to act like gentlemen to you, dear.”

“I won’t say a word, Papa,” Lenore said.

They fell into step behind the lords. “How do men treat women in Montelair?” Devon asked Victor.

“Not very well,” Victor replied. “I have not lived here long, but I am already seeing that men are more gentle with women here. You would not like Montelair, I think. We are not gentle with many things.”

The gondola holding the Montelair group was pulling up next to the boardwalk in front of the castle. “I will never get used to not having proper roads here, instead of all these canals,” Victor said.

“I can’t imagine living any other way,” Lenore replied.

“Thought we discussed no talking,” Samuel said.

A man was getting out of the gondola. He looked as different from Victor and the other Montelarians Devon had seen as it was possible to be. He was thin, and so pale that his veins could be seen on his face and neck. His eyes were watery. He wore a red velvet coat, and a large decorative velvet hat, encrusted with gold along the rim.

“What’s the matter with him?” Hannah asked.

“He’s inbred, like all the other aristocracy,” Victor whispered. “Stupid kuo i, weakening their whole line because they think their own people to be inferior.”

“What does that word mean, ‘kuo i?’” Lenore asked.

“It is a not so nice word, Princess,” Victor replied. “I believe in Septa, you would say ‘ass.’”

The man looked around. Devon was sure he’d heard Victor. If he had, though, he made no mention. “I am Vitaly, official ambassador sent by King Kurtis of Montelair,” he said.

“I am Samuel Mestonie,” Samuel said. “I welcome you to our land, and I hope that we can move past the hostilities of the past to a better future for both of our countries.”

Vitaly smiled, “I hope so as well. I see that you’ve contained one of the Broken Chain men for us. Thank you. I’ve brought guards, we will take him into custody.”

Victor hissed. “Should have known I wasn’t getting off so easy,” he muttered.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Samuel said. “That man is my daughter’s bodyguard. He’s working off a debt to the family.”

“Ah,” Vitaly said. “In the interest of friendship, King Samuel, I want to caution against that. These commoners, they are like stray dogs. They will wag their tails for a meal, and happily sleep at the foot of your bed. But in the end, they will always belong to the person who feeds them best.”

“Well, also in the interest of friendship,” Samuel said, crossing his arms over his chest, “let me tell you that Victor knelt under my blade and swore fealty to my family. I don’t know what that means in Montelair, but in Septa we take a man at his word. That’s a Septa man you’re insulting right now, and if you want this conversation to remain ‘friendly’, I’d advise you to stop.”

Vitaly gave the king a gentle wave of his hand. “Of course. No offense meant, I assure you. My apologies.”

Devon’s attention was drawn to the wall. There was movement there, beyond the rhythmic back and forth of the guards marching. One of them had stopped, and was holding a crossbow. It was aimed at Vitaly.

“Papa!” Devon cried, pointing towards the man. Everyone looked up, just as the guard fired.

Samuel’s sword was out in a moment and he swung, throwing a wave of fire at the arrow. It caught, and fell to the ground in cinders. Victor was pulling Devon and Lenore back, as the guards on the wall grabbed the attacker. They pulled his helmet away, to reveal long blond hair.

“That’s one of the men that attacked us,” Lenore cried.

Vitaly’s guards were steadying him, and helping him to brush the ash from his cloths. “That was some very fast magic work, Sire,” he said, with a shaky laugh.

“I think we found your rabid dogs,” Samuel said. “It’s my turn to apologize, I thought we’d swept the palace before your arrival. Come inside, we’ll get you settled with a nice brandy.”

“Yes, that does sound like a good idea,” Vitaly said with a nod.

The king led Vitaly inside, a hand on his shoulder. The others followed, Lenore falling into step beside Devon.

“An arrow,” she said, looking at him sideways.

“What of it?” Devon asked.

“An arrow surrounded by flame,” Hannah added.

“That nice little picture you made, Prince,” Victor said. “Rather prophetic, don’t you think?”

Copyright © 2024 by Nicole C. Luttrell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

If you love the story and want to support Paper Beats World, you can do so on Ko-fi.

You can preorder Broken Patterns right now on Amazon.

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Broken Patterns, Prolog and Chapter One

Part One

Prologue

I have been so alone for so long. Since the other one cheated me, leaving me in the darkness and cold, I have been alone. I had tried to find another place to bear my egg, my child, but there are precious few warm places in the darkness of the universe. There was nothing I could do, but hold it close to me as it died.

The other one’s child has flourished. Upon it, thousands of species had grown, warm and safe in the light of the sun. The sun that should have been mine.

I can bear this no longer.

Calvin Olendae didn’t believe in me, but that was all right. Men who didn’t believe were just as likely to hear my voice. They are just as likely to call me by my name. I’d spoken to him since he was young, whispering of the sins of Septa, and what he should do to stop them. Now, tonight, it was time.

He led his men through the cold, black waters of the canals, right up to the side of the palace walls.

“Makes you sick, boys,” he whispered, “Those fine nobles snug and warm while our babies freeze to death in the night.”

“I still do not see how starting a war after five years of peace is going to fix that,” Victor muttered from beside him.

“Shut up, Vicky,” Calvin hissed. “Now I know you are not very bright, but I would think this plan was simple enough to understand. Do you think you can manage to take orders for once?”

“Yes, Calvin,” Victor muttered. There was one I would have to keep an eye out for. There was too much light within him.

Without another word, the men crawled from the canals, and took oiled cloth bags out from under their cloths. Even after nearly an hour of swimming through the dark waterways that served Septa as roads, they were still dry inside, thanks to a bit of magic from Calvin’s woman. It was a good thing too. The Septans were far more likely to believe they were actual Montelair soldiers if their red coats weren’t soaking wet.

The men stripped their wet coats, and pulled on the uniforms. Then, Calvin led them to the wall that surrounded the palace.

A guard on the wall saw them coming. “You there, stop!” he yelled, training a crossbow on them.

“Victor,” Calvin said.

Victor walked to the wall. When the guard fired, he held up one hand that glowed blue. The bolt hit it, and bounced off.

Calvin clenched his own hand, and a ball of the same blue light formed. More guards were running along the wall. Calvin waited until they got closer, then tossed the light at the wall.

Even his own men jumped when it burned away in a blast of blue light and dust. He ran through, with the others on his heels.

Inside of the wall, there was panic. I had made sure that Calvin would recognize King Issac Mestonie on sight. He stood in front of his wife and son, holding a sword. As Calvin watched, he swung the sword, and it lit with fire.

“That is a cute trick,” Calvin said, “but I have an even better one.”

He clenched his fist again, and threw another ball at Issac. The king and his family were dead, just like that.

Guards were yelling, and men were running out of the palace. “Calvin,” Victor gasped, “that was a boy you just killed. He could not have been more than fourteen years old.”

“And now he will not reach fifteen,” Calvin replied. “You need to steady yourself for this, boy. This is what war is.”

A nobleman was running from the palace. He drew a sword, and set it afire just as the king had done. “Look, see?” Calvin said. “The nobles are just like weeds. You pull one, and there is always another to take its place. That is why you have to rip them out by the damn roots, Victor. You take that one.”

Victor swallowed, and nodded. He walked towards the man, his hands glowing. Perhaps I could use him eventually. Calvin turned his attention to the guards. The other Brothers worked their way through them as well. Soon the pretty lawn was painted red with blood.

As Calvin stopped to take a breath, he noticed a flicker of light from behind one of the garden trees. He looked, and saw a young woman, no older than fifteen, and a boy of roughly thirteen. They were hugging each other, and obviously trying just to keep out of sight. That was never going to be possible, with her dress decked out in embroidery that light up like a lantern. The blessing of The One, the one they called The Creator was on her. They were nobles from the looks of them, with that same Mestonie curly black hair.

Calvin started towards them, already pulling together another ball. The girl saw him coming, and held the boy closer. “You get back!” she said.

“How like a noble,” Calvin laughed. “Never knowing when to stop giving orders.”

He started to pull his arm back to throw, but suddenly someone grabbed him from behind. He looked, and saw Victor.

“Let me go!” he yelled, wrenching his arm free. What was he doing?

“Calvin, you cannot keep doing this!” Victor yelled. “Think about what Da would say if he knew you were killing girls.”

“I do not give a damn what Da would have said,” Calvin said. “Any noble that is left over can start this whole mess again.”

Victor stepped in between him and the children. “This was not the plan! We were supposed to just attack, make them think we were soldiers, and leave. You already killed one child, will you kill two more? Look at them, Calvin, that girl is the same age as June!”

“And if I have to kill her to make sure June and my other children survive, I will do it!” Calvin cried. “Now move!”

Victor held up his hands. “No,” he said.

Calvin swelled with fury. “How dare you?” he hissed. “How dare you choose these noble hounds over your own family? Who raised you after Da died? Who put clothes on your ungrateful back?”

“That is why I have got to stop you. How much innocent blood do you want on your hands?”

“There is no innocent blood on my hands, little brother,” Calvin said. He threw the ball.

Victor caught it, and it knocked him back into the noble children. The girl tried to catch him, but all three of them went down. Victor cried out in pain as he landed, but he still didn’t move away from them. “You would really kill me, just to kill them?” he yelled.

Calvin looked down at him. “I do not even have to think about it that hard.” He raised his hand to form another ball. Before he could, though, he was hit from the side by an arrow. He gasped in pain, and another arrow struck his leg. He turned to run back toward the canal, and another arrow hit him in the back. Calvin stumbled, and fell into the black water. In too much agony to swim, he sank into the darkness.

Damn. And I had wasted so much time on him. Oh well, at least there was the other one. But, then, there was also that girl. There was light in her, yes. But perhaps there was room for darkness as well.

Chapter One

Lenore Mestonie pulled her little brother, Devon, close to her. She tried to catch her breath. The boy who’d saved them scrambled to his feet, and ran towards the canal. She wanted to scream for him to come back, that there were other soldiers who might still hurt them, and she still couldn’t even see her brother Octavian, but then she realized how foolish that was. She didn’t even know this boy, after all.

Devon was struggling out of her grasp. “Michael was hurt, Lenore,” he cried. “We’ve got to check on him.”

“What are we going to do, stupid?” Lenore snapped. “Just stay here with me until we see Papa.”

Septa soldiers were running through the garden, trying to round up the Montelarians. Lenore saw some of them get away, and she hoped that they all drowned in the canals like their leader.

Samuel, her father, was running out into the garden, followed by the other men of the court. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a head and beard of thick black hair. He was looking around, as though trying to figure out what was going on. Lenore had to admit that it was very difficult to guess, given the chaos.

A guard was kneeling over Uncle Issac. He looked up, his face pale, and announced to no one in particular, “The king is dead!”

“Prince Michael, too!” someone cried. Lenore looked toward them, to find that it was her younger brother Octavian, the middle of the children, holding their cousin Michael in his arms and sobbing.

Lenore looked back at her father. His strong face was ashen. He took a deep breath, and then another. Finally, he walked over to her. “Bug,” he said, kneeling in front of her, “tell me what happened here.”

“Uncle Issac brought Devon, Michael and me out to see the bats leave the tower,” Lenore said. “Then the wall, well, it just sort of exploded, and those Montelair soldiers came running through. The biggest one shot some sort of light ball at Uncle Issac, Aunt Grace, and Michael. I grabbed Devon, and we hid here, but the soldier saw us. He would have killed us, but that boy over there saved our lives.” She nodded her head towards the boy kneeling next to the canal.

“Papa, I thought we were at peace with Montelair,” Devon whispered.

“No tears, Devon,” Samuel said. “Look at your sister, she’s not crying.” Lenore thought that was a very near thing.

“I know that we were at peace with Montelair, and I’ve no idea why they’ve decided to attack us now,” Samuel said, getting to his feet, “but we will find out.”

“It was not Montelair,” said the boy.

Everyone looked towards him, as he rose to his feet, and turned. “It was not the king that sent us,” he repeated. “It was the Brothers of the Broken Chain. My older brother, Calvin, he was leading them. I was only along to try to stop him.”

Samuel pulled his sword, and swung it, lighting the blade on fire. “Not another step closer, not yet,” he said. “It was your brother who was leading, so it was him that killed my brother, the king?”

“And it is him that is now dead, at the bottom of your canal,” Victor said. His Montelarian accent was thick. Lenore had thought that he was a boy, but looking at his face, she realized that he had to be at least twenty-three. His roughly cut blond hair hung in wet strands around his face.

“Papa, don’t hurt him,” Lenore said. “He saved us.”

“Who are you?” Samuel asked.

“My name is Victor Olendae. I was a member of the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain.”

“And why did you save my children?” Samuel asked.

“Because I did not want to see more innocent lives taken because my brother could not tell an enemy from a bystander. Because it was the right thing to do.”

“So, what am I to do with you now?” Samuel asked.

Lenore was astonished at how calm her father sounded. She wondered if anyone else noticed how his hands were shaking on the handle of his sword.

Samuel walked up to Victor. “I’ll make you a deal, Victor Olendae. You swear your fealty to me, and I’ll spare your life. I’ll give you a job, and a place in my household. Otherwise, I’ll hold you accountable for your brothers’ crimes.”

“So, my choices are death or slavery?” Victor asked.

“Fealty isn’t slavery,” Lenore snapped. “It’s a promise of loyalty and service. A slave is a bought and paid for possession, and slavery is a filthy practice. There haven’t been any slaves in Septa since my family overthrew the old church.”

One of the noblemen, Lord David, cleared his throat. Lenore looked over at him. He was a taller man, with more nose than his face really needed. “Prince Samuel, we are awaiting your orders,” he said.

“Oh,” Samuel said. “I suppose you must be. Yes, Victor, please look after my children while I get this mess sorted, will you?”

He wandered towards David, calling for guards to collect Issac and Michael, to sweep the grounds in case any more rebels were hiding, and to rouse the ambassadors.

Victor walked up to Lenore, who was just getting to her feet, pulling Devon along with her. “Your dress shines,” he said.

“I am a thread mage, I spin light into yarn,” Lenore said. “Thank you for saving us. I am sorry that you lost your brother.”

“I am sorry that you lost family as well,” Victor said. “I tried to stop the whole thing several times on the way here. This is not how my people should gain their freedom from our king.”

Octavian stumbled up to them. “Lenore,” he asked, “is Papa the king now?”

Lenore looked at him. For a moment, she had a hard time remembering what the words he’d used meant. King wasn’t a title, king was her uncle.

Finally, though, she said, “I think so.”

Copyright © 2024 by Nicole C. Luttrell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

If you love the story and want to support Paper Beats World, you can do so on Ko-fi.

And you can preorder Broken Patterns right now on Amazon.

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Looks like we made it

As I write this, I’m sitting in my home office. It is sun-drenched, messy, and smells of the cinnamon wax melt I have burning on the windowsill. As I write this, we are creeping closer to the relaunch of my first fantasy series, Woven. I’m writing the last book of the Station 86 series. I’m on a path to joining SFWA.

As I write this, I’m so much farther than I ever thought I would get. A professional author and critic. A blogger. A happy woman.

There are many dark and terrible things in this world, and indeed in my own life. It is never perfect and will likely never be. But what life ever is? It’s hard to think of these things when I feel so blessed today.

I have a beautiful, fulfilling, joyful writing career. I have people who show up to read what I write. I have put art out into the world and it has been well received.

I want to keep this short today because I feel like I’m repeating myself. But I do want to thank you all, again, for being here. I’ll keep showing up if you’ll keep reading. And yes, I have lots planned for the rest of the year.

And, God willing, many years to come.

See you soon.

Today is the last day of our Paper Beats World giveaway week. And today, I’m giving away a free copy of Broken Patterns before it’s even published! Just like this post and leave a comment to enter.

If you liked what you saw here today, please consider liking and sharing this post. Or you can support the site financially on Ko-fi.

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Ten ways to fill your creative cup

I write most days. Not every day, because I live in a capitalist society and I have to have a job. But I try to get some writing in most days.

I don’t do writer’s block. This isn’t to say I’ve never looked at the blank page and been stuck. Because of course that happens. That happens all the time. But I don’t like the term writer’s block. It makes it sound like a large, unmovable brick in your path. That is pretty daunting. I prefer thinking of it as an empty cup. And you can fill a cup.

What do we fill our cups with? Well, I tend to fill mine with things that take a little effort, but not much. Coffee and tea, mostly. You have to do a little more than just pouring something from one container to another, but not a lot.

That is how I want you to think of the advice in this post. These suggestions will take a little effort, but not much. But, like a cup of warm coffee or tea, you will feel filled in more ways than one.

Freewrite

Of course, this is where we always start. Freewriting has always been the first line of defense against an empty creative cup. Sit down, set a timer for five, ten, fifteen minutes, and just start writing. They don’t have to be good. They don’t have to have punctuation or good spelling. Hell, they don’t even have to be in order. They just have to exist

Read people who inspire you

Many writers inspire me. Natalie Goldberg and Maya Angelou come to mind first. So when I’m feeling creatively drained, I read some of my favorite works from them. It always encourages me to get back to the page quicker.

Find a random picture online

This is something I’ve done as a group game, and as a way to unstick my creativity. Jump on a website like Pixabay, and check out some random pictures. Or if you’re trying to write a certain genre, look up a keyword from that. Look up ghosts, dragons, haunted castles. Whatever you want. Then write a story about the pictures that come up.

Grab a writing prompt

Similar to the last bit of advice, find a writing prompt.

I used to think this was cheating. Was I really writing my own work if I wasn’t coming up with my own ideas? But honestly, I’ve written some of my best work from a prompt. And trust me when I say, it’s still your story. You can give a group of writers a prompt, and every one of them will write a completely different, unique story. So go get one and get writing.

Do a writing exercise

A writing exercise is different than a writing prompt. A writing prompt is an idea for a story. An exercise is a little less structured.

What does blue make you think of?

What are five things you wish you didn’t remember from your childhood?

How many ways can you write the same information?

Write the same scene from three characters pov.

These are little things that stretch our writing muscles and make us look at the world differently. This is never bad.

Give yourself a goal that is aside from finishing a project

Sometimes if you sit down and try to write a thousand words, that can feel oppressive. And if your goal is to write a whole novel, that can feel like a goal that is never going to happen. So these goals, while good in theory, can get in the way of actually getting writing done.

So try to give yourself a more unique goal. Write until a sand timer runs out. Put on a song and write until the end of it. Or write just this one scene, however long or short that scene is.

Rewrite something

Sometimes I find that my cup is empty because something is wrong with the story I’ve been writing. I’ve messed something up somewhere, and what I’m trying to write now doesn’t feel right. The cure for that is to go back and rewrite whatever isn’t working. Maybe it’s the scene before. Maybe it’s further back.

A warning, though. Sometimes this is the whole damn project that needs to be rewritten. This happened to me recently with my latest Station 86 book, and I had to throw out over fifty thousand words. While this was necessary, it also sucked ass.

Read over what you’ve read already

Sometimes you just need to get back into the groove of your story. So try reading the scene or chapter that came right before the one you’re working on. Maybe you forgot something that can turn into a serious plot bunny.

Write a list of things that absolutely won’t happen. Why won’t they happen?

If you aren’t sure what is going to happen next in your story, try making a list of what you are sure won’t happen. This helps get your brain moving in a way that doesn’t have a lot of pressure behind it.

A funny thing happens every time I do this, though. As I’m writing things I’m sure won’t happen, I start to wonder why they won’t happen. Wouldn’t it be cool if this happened? Wouldn’t it mess things up for the characters if that happened?

It’s your story, after all. Anything can happen.

Plan a writing date with a friend

Peer pressure! Grab a writing friend, and make a plan for a creativity date. Plan to go somewhere, or even get together over Zoom. When you see someone else hacking away, you’ll feel inspired to do it yourself.

If you don’t have any writing friends, there are a ton of virtual writing events online. You can find a bunch on YouTube, both live and prerecorded. There’s a big, wide community of writers out there. And we’re ready to write with you.

So now it’s your turn. What is your favorite way to fill your creative cup? Let us know in the comments.

And don’t forget, we are still doing a giveaway a day for Paper Beats World’s Tenth Anniversary. Like this post and leave a comment for a chance to win a free copy of Nova.

See you tomorrow.

If you liked what you saw here today, please consider liking and sharing this post. Or you can support the site financially on Ko-fi.

Broken Patterns is available now for preorder! You can order it now on Amazon.

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Ten amazing pieces of writing advice

I have done a lot of talking this week. But now, I think it’s time for me to take a break.

While writing often feels like talking to yourself all day, some of the best writing advice you can ever take is to listen. Listen to people’s stories. Listen to how they talk. And listen to the advice of people who have gone before.

So today, I thought I’d share ten of my favorite pieces of writing advice. These are from some of my favorite authors. Women and men who have inspired me through my career. I hope they do the same for you.

Be sure not to discuss your hero’s state of mind. Make it clear from his actions

–Anton Chekhov

You can’t use up creativity. The more you use the more you have

–Maya Angelou

In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person- a real person you know or an imagined person and write to that one.

–John Steinbeck

Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on

–Louis L’amour

Getting the first draft finished is like pushing a peanut with your nose across a very dirty floor.

–Joyce Carol Oats

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.

–Stephen King

Don’t identify too strongly with your work. Stay fluid behind those black-and-white words. They are not you. They were a great moment going through you. A moment you were awake enough to write down and capture

–Natalie Goldberg

You have to be careful as an author. You have to remember that you are not the protagonist’s friend. You are actually the enemy of the protagonist. The idea is to get the protagonist in as much trouble as possible and then finally get them out at the end.

–R.L Stine

A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.

–Maya Angelou

Use all your seasoning sparingly. Do not worry about making your characters shout, intone, exclaim, remark, shriek, reason, holler, or any such thing, unless they are doing it for a reason. All remarks can be said. Every time you use a fancy word your reader is going to turn his head to look at it going by and sometimes he may not turn his head back again.

–Shirley Jackson

So what do you think? What is your favorite writing advice? Let us know in the comments.

And don’t forget, we’re still doing a giveaway every day for Paper Beats World’s tenth anniversary. Like this post and leave a comment if you want a chance to win a free copy of Station Central.

See you tomorrow.

If you liked what you saw here today, please consider liking and sharing this post. Or you can support the site financially on Ko-fi.

Broken Patterns is available now for preorder! You can order it now on Amazon.

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Ten toxic lies I believed about being a writer

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was thirteen years old.

Thirteen years old is still basically a child, despite the insistence to the contrary by any thirteen-year-old. And some Republican lawmakers. Children don’t have a very good grasp of what their dream careers actually look like. When a kid wants to be a doctor they don’t imagine the paperwork or fighting with insurance companies. And when a kid dreams of being a writer, they don’t picture staring at a screen with a brain that can’t give them anything but the lyrics to the Carmon Sandiego theme song.

My perception of what a writer does and what kind of lives they live have changed dramatically in the two-plus decades since I was thirteen. My perception of a lot of things has changed, thank God. But some of these toxic beliefs followed me further into adulthood than I’d like to admit. Some of them didn’t go away until I started meeting and spending time with other writers.

Some of these still haunt me today. So I wanted to share them with you. To call them out for the limiting bullshit they are.

All writers are very serious people

I thought this about college professors, too. Until one asked during a Zoom convention panel if another panelist’s dog was ‘pickupable’.

I love that man.

This one really messed with me, because I am not a very serious person. I am a very silly person. I like watching children’s shows and painting with my cats.

But no, you don’t have to be a serious person to be a writer. Even if you’re going to write about serious things.

All writers are very smart people

All you have to do is meet a few writers to know this one’s bullshit. Or read some books that have been published by actual publishing companies.

This was great news to me, though, because I do not consider myself a very smart person anymore that I consider myself a very serious person. I am clever. I am smart about many things, but not everything. About some things, I am a dingus.

That’s kind of the human condition, though. So please don’t ever feel like you’ve got to be smart all the time to be a good writer.

Writers write all the time

And I mean, all the time. Real writers, as I thought when I was a kid, want to write all the time. They skip meals, don’t go out, have trouble keeping a day job, and make terrible partners because they just don’t want to do anything at all but write.

Or read.

And while that seems lovely in theory, it’s not exactly realistic. For one thing, most of us do not want to write and read all the time in the same way that we don’t want to eat ice cream and sushi all the time. It sounds fantastic until you do it. Then you realize you miss French onion soup.

You are allowed to enjoy other things and still be passionate about writing. This world is too full of amazing experiences to limit ourselves. Even if it’s our very favorite thing.

Writers are often tortured by their work

How often do we see this in the media? A writer is suffering from writer’s block. They can’t think of an ending. They can’t get their character right. Their plotlines are more tangled than secondhand yarn.

It’s tearing them apart, Lisa!

Look, I’m not going to say that I never feel messed up when my writing isn’t going well. But it doesn’t wreck my whole day. Rather, it’s a puzzle I’ll keep coming back to. A song that gets stuck in my head because I don’t know all the lyrics. But most writers aren’t chain-smoking because they can’t get a line of dialog right.

Writers focus more on their work than their family

Maybe this is just the inherent guilt I felt being raised in a church that discouraged women from doing anything for themselves. But yes, I understand this concern very well.

Let me tell you, it’s not going to kill your family to deal without you for an hour. And no, writing will probably not, as we already discussed, take all of your time away so you have no time to care for the people who depend on you.

Drinking makes you a better writer

I don’t know where this one got started. I can’t write well when I’m drinking. I can’t even string sentences together without using fuck like a comma. I’m sure not writing anything worth a damn.

Worse, being dependent on a muse that comes from a bottle (or other places) only kills you. You need to be healthy to write. Overindulging in drinking isn’t a healthy decision.

Stay safe, drink tea.

The only way to be a real writer was to be traditionally published.

Boy howdy, was this one wrong. And because I was so sure that this was the truth, I jumped in with both feet for the first company that would take me.

We see how that turned out.

Self-publishing used to be laughed at. But these days it’s a respected option and one that I am so glad to see.

Once you are traditionally published, your career is on lock

I think we also know that this one didn’t work out how I thought it would.

Anything can happen in the publishing industry. Your company can liquidate. Or drop you. Or decide to break your contract. Or maybe your book doesn’t sell as well, so they refuse to buy any more books from you. The point is, just because you have a published book doesn’t mean you’re set. You’ve still got to put in that hustle.

Writers don’t bother with social media

Maybe this is just because I’m a bit older, but I never thought writers would be on social media as much as we are. And honestly, I love it. I keep up with my favorite writers and my writing friends. Social media also allows me to let people know what projects I have going on.

Real writers only write books or poetry

This one is a killer. So many writers write screenplays, scripts, podcasts and blogs. There are some fantastic writers on Wattpad.

Yes, I am a novelist. But I’m also a scriptwriter. I’m also a professional critic and blogger. These are all also valid writing. And even if I didn’t write novels, I would still be a real writer.

Remember, all you have to do to be a writer is to write. Everything else is a bonus. But also, don’t develop a drinking problem.

We are still doing our Paper Beats World anniversary giveaway. Like this post and leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Virus. See you tomorrow.

If you liked what you saw here today, please consider liking and sharing this post. Or you can support the site financially on Ko-fi.

Broken Patterns is available now for preorder! You can order it now on Amazon.

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We need to talk about A Well-Trained Wife

Sorry, today’s post isn’t ten-themed. There will be more of that this week. But I just finished A Well Trained Wife by Tia Levings. And I need to talk about it.

Like, a lot.

For those who saw Happy, Shiny People on Amazon, Levings’s name might sound familiar. That documentary introduced me to her, as well as Fundy Fridays, one of my favorite YouTube channels. It also set off a very long journey into the anti-fundamentalist movement for me. A Well Trained Wife is part of that journey.

A gut punch part, but a part nonetheless.

I feel like I sat across from Tia over coffee and heard all of this. I delighted in her successes. I felt rage when people abused her. Honestly, after reading this book I kind of want to put her ex-husband’s name in a vinegar jar. The only thing stopping me is that I doubt Tia would be too happy with that.

This book talked about a lot of situations I have personal experience with. I was also in a physically abusive relationship. I was also raised in a high-control fundamentalist religion. I also escaped from both. Maybe that’s why I have such a strong reaction to this book. Maybe there are way too many of us who might feel that way.

And I have one more thing in common with Tia, which I’ll get to soon. In the meantime, I want to talk about why this book was so powerful, and why everyone should read it.

So many horrible, beautiful lines

When you read A Well Trained Wife, you might want to do so with a highlighter. Or at least the highlighter function on your tablet at the ready. Because there are so many lines that jump off the page and demand to be remembered. Of course, the best example of this is the tagline for the book.

“Today it hit me when he hit me, blood shaking in my brain. Maybe there wasn’t a savior coming. Maybe it was up to me to save me.”

Damn Tia, I feel like I got hit after reading that line.

Her healing hasn’t been easy

I thought Tia’s story was going to end after she escaped from her ex-husband and divorced him. But the story went on. She talked, openly and honestly, about her healing process. How it wasn’t a straight line. There were setbacks, backtracking. She got into a relationship too early. She had to go to several therapists before she found one who helped her. She got sick and had to help heal herself. She had to rest. She wasn’t able to be the mother she wanted to be.

I think too often we end stories too soon. We don’t see the emotional fallout. The monster is defeated, the hero saves the day, and we assume everyone’s going to live happily ever after.

This is fine in fiction, to a point. But it’s not how real life works. When we experience trauma, we have to heal from that. We don’t just bounce back. Especially after years and years of trauma.

When I left an abusive situation, I was very much in that movie healing headspace. I left that ex, left my high control group church, and thought life would be all good. After all, I was free at last!

But it’s not that simple. Leaving is, first off, not always safe. It’s not always easy. Sometimes some factors mean you have to keep seeing your abuser and smiling like we’re all friends now. Shouldn’t we be able to laugh about the time he shoved me against the wall and grabbed my arm so hard he left bruises? Oh, was I not supposed to tell the new girlfriend that story? Oh well, here’s that box of T-shirts you left in the back of the closet. See you later!

Healing is healing. And healing from emotional trauma takes time. I am still healing from my experiences. And Tia is as well.

We don’t expect someone who survived a house fire to be out to brunch with a smile the next day. We shouldn’t expect it of people healing from trauma either. And I hope that I’m not the only one who feels seen reading this.

Her message is terrifying, and it’s one that I can echo

As I’ve already hinted, I have a lot of the same trauma as Tia. However, I do want to point out that I never experienced anything as horrific as she did. I grew up in a high-control church, surrounded by women who toed the gender expectation line and insisted that I do the same.

Levings says that she wrote this book because she wants to warn people about the rising of Fundamental values in our country. The Joshua Generation is rising. And those of us who escaped that life, those who still carry physical and emotional marks, are terrified of it. And we’ve got to sound the warning.

We cannot force gender expectations on people. Especially the children coming up. It kills kids. Men and women suffer under this umbrella of expectations that most if not all of us fall short of. That none of us should expect of ourselves.

Look, I don’t talk about my faith a lot here because it’s very personal, but I feel compelled to say this. Gender norms are defined by people, not God. God does not care if girls wear jeans or boys wear skirts. God wants us to thrive, and care for each other.

As the prophets Bill and Ted say, be excellent to each other. That’s all that matters.

Making someone feel shitty because they don’t fall in line with made-up owner manuals our genitals seem to come with is not being excellent to each other.

Writing saved her

Finally, as this is a writing blog, I’d like to bring our discussion back to writing.

A lot of things came into Tia saving herself. Her maternal need to protect her children. Her friendships woven across the country across the internet. Her bravery. Her kindness.

It was also her writing, though.

Her writing was an outlet while she was trapped. Her writing gave her an outside community that her husband couldn’t control. Her need to create gave her the strength to stand up for herself. It empowered her to seek God in a new home.

Writing saved her.

Writing saved me, too.

Your art can save you. It can give you freedom in a cage. Sanity in an insane world. Quiet in a storm. Or a safe place to be the storm yourself.

I highly encourage you to read A Well-Trained Wife. It is a hard read, but so very worth it.

Be who you are.

Cling to your art with bared claws.

Don’t forget, we’re still doing giveaways for the Paper Beats World anniversary series. Like this post and leave a comment for a chance to win You Can’t Trust the AI. See you tomorrow.

If you liked what you saw here today, please consider liking and sharing this post. Or you can support the site financially on Ko-fi.

Broken Patterns is available now for preorder! You can order it now on Amazon.

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Ten kinds of books every writer should read

Before we begin, I just found out that Natalie Goldberg put out a new book in July. How did nobody tell me? And she wrote a whole book about haikus?

Don’t worry, reviews are forthcoming. Just as soon as I read them.

Today, though, I want to talk about a different kind of book. Ten different ones, to be specific.

Some of the best writing advice from Stephen King is to “Read a lot and write a lot.” Alright, fair enough. But what should we read?

There are many lists of books writers should read to be better at our craft. And while that’s great and all, these lists can be highly subjective. My original plan for this post was to write a list of books I think every writer should read. But there again, my list was highly subjective. I always suggest Dance Macabre, but that book isn’t going to do shit for you if you write historical fantasy.

So what we have instead is a list of ten kinds of books every writer should read. Feel free to fill in the blanks yourself.

Books everyone loves

The ever-popular books are popular for a reason. Well, sometimes. Sometimes things are popular just because they’re popular. But even then, it doesn’t hurt to know why everyone in your internet circles can’t shut up about a book.

Books everyone hates

Sometimes you hear about a book for very different reasons, because no one can shut up about how bad it is.

Reading a bad book can be incredibly educational. You learn all the things not to do. This is easier with a laugh track though, if you can get it. A great example of this is the Behind The Bastards episode where Robert reads a book by Ben Shapiro.

(Take a bullet for you, Babe. IYKYK.)

Books in your genre

This one’s a no-brainer, right? And if you’re writing in a genre, you’re probably already a fan. No one had to tell me to read Stephen King and Anne McCaffrey. I just wanted to.

Books as far removed from your genre as possible.

This is the one that seems to throw people. But we don’t learn to write just by reading our own genre. We learn by reading widely. We also open ourselves up to unexpected joy. For instance, I have no interest in writing historical fiction. But I read the hell out of Philippa Gregory.

A brief understanding of other genres can greatly help your understanding of your own. And there’s always a chance you’ll be inspired by it. While I’m not likely to write historical fiction, I might write a historical fiction slasher.

That’s a pretty good idea.

Books that teach you about writing

I love books that teach you about writing. Mostly because I love to hear other writers talk about writing.

Even if you don’t agree with all of the advice, it’s great to get someone else’s perspective on the craft. Some of my favorites are On Writing, Elements of Style, and anything Natalie Goldberg writes.

Books that teach you about anything else

Anything you learn can feed your writing. I mean anything. I’ve toured coal mines my whole life (I live in Western PA) and this has influenced my writing. You can see it even in my fantasy work, like in Starting Chains.

Read about history, science, and politics. Read about anything that sparks interest in you. I often find I don’t even try to intentionally write about things I learn in my books. I just do it. The book I’m writing right now is going to have a character who likes bugs because I like bugs.

Learn about anything that brings you joy.

Books that teach you the history of your genre

I mentioned Dance Macabre earlier. It’s an overview of the gory history of horror.

I’m sure it isn’t the only one like that. And I’m equally sure that there are books that go over the history of other genres. I just haven’t found them yet.

Understanding the roots of your genre is imperative. Even if you don’t love the classics (and some of them are dry AF) it’s important to know them.

I’ve read Dracula. I’ve read Frankenstein, Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde, Beowolf, The Oddessy, and Lord of The Rings. Some of these these were fantastic. Some were a learning experience. None of them were ever a waste of my time.

Short story collections

Every story has something to teach us about writing. Short stories are a different form of storytelling than novels. So if you want to write short stories, and there are many reasons to write short stories, it stands to reason that you’d want to read enough of them to see how a smaller plot and smaller cast are achieved.

Poetry collections

Writing an eloquent, beautiful line is a joy. Conveying an emotion that seems brand new and also impossible to deny. Like dust brushed off a desk flutters in a sunbeam, dancing fairies who might have attracted the muses if we weren’t so intent upon our cleaning.

You can picture that, can’t you? I certainly hope so.

The best place to find this sort of writing is in poetry. Poetry is like a sketch of an emotion. It should make you feel like you’re standing in a certain place at a certain time.

If you can convey this in prose, you’re doing alright.

Comic books

Finally, I’d like to make the suggestion that you read some comic books.

Comic books, first off, have some fantastic stories. Especially the indie ones. Bone was fantastic. So was Transmetropolitan, The Boys, Maus, and Preacher.

Reading comic books lets you focus on the dialog. I read a lot of comics when I’m working on AA scripts because that’s all dialog. It was a great education. And, frankly, it was fun.

We are on day five of the PBW Anniversary celebration. Like this post and leave a comment to be entered to win a copy of Quiet Apocalypse. And I’ll see you back here again tomorrow.

If you liked what you saw here today, please consider liking and sharing this post. Or you can support the site financially on Ko-fi.

Broken Patterns is available now for preorder! You can order it now on Amazon.

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