Book Challenge #3: The Great Book of Amber

Decades before Game of Thrones, Zelazny had already penned the quintessential sprawling fantasy epic. Amber instilled in me an abiding passion for thoughtful intricate plotting, complete with a  multitude of exquisitely drawn characters whose distinct personalities leap from the page. Indeed, the first installment of what eventually became a vast tome in 10 parts was entitled Nine Princes in Amber. The nine princes are the sons of Oberon, the mythical realm of Amber’s powerful and enigmatic ruler, who has disappeared leaving no instructions for succession. Before all is over, you’ll get to know each and every son–and all their sisters too. The sons’ struggles for survival (and the shifting allegiances they entail) rock the very foundations of existence–itself an overarching theme that takes the concept of world-building to a fascinatingly literal extreme. Zelazny assembled the story in installments, each intertwining with and adding complexity to the one before it. The work is a testament to the ability of detailed organically grown storytelling to keep readers enthralled. With his signature elliptical style, which always left out just enough of the current machination to keep me slightly off balance, Zelazny kept me ever hungering for more. I confess Amber inspired the Tarot Cards that appear in the Heiromancer Trilogy, and though the use to which I’ve put them is entirely different, my chapter entitled “Trumps of Doom” is an homage to the identically titled 6th installment in the Amber series. For my money, Amber Trumps Thrones any day!

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A House of Cards – Cover Reveal

As the release date for A House of Cards, the third book in The Dreamweaver Chronicles, draws nigh, I’m seeking feedback on the latest cover mockup. If this cover popped up on your screen during an Amazon browse, would you give the book a closer look? All viewpoints, impressions, analyses, questions, and constructive criticisms welcome!

 

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Book Challenge #2: The Dying Earth

Vance’s work, Tales of the Dying Earth, is jaw-droppingly creative. Two aspects in particular stand out. The first is a ruthlessly Machiavellian main protagonist (Cugel) who is endlessly inventive in devising new scams to further his relatively straightforward goal of returning home. The second is Vance’s breathtaking use of stylized language. No word is too large for Vance, and if a sesquipedalian example isn’t handy, Vance doesn’t hesitate to improvise. Despite that proclivity, the prose has a gorgeous otherworldly flow to it that makes those often bizarre word choices seem somehow inevitable. Nothing else I’ve read even comes close. Of course, this peculiar combination won’t be for everyone, so if you read only a sample, make sure it’s Chapter 2 of Rhialto the Marvellous (entitled Fader’s Waft), in which rival magicians pursue the affections of the ravishing Lady Shaunica. When G’s spirits are flagging, I’ll pull that out for a reading, and regardless of the intensity of the current complaint, it never fails to elicit at least a grudging chuckle.

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Book Challenge #1: The Fellowship of the Ring

In response to friendly prodding from Mary Vensel White, I’m on the hook to list 7 books that somehow influenced me. Number one on that list is J.R.R.Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. For me, this series was to fantasy what Star Wars was for sci fi movies–it forever changed how I viewed the genre.

Two characteristics in particular stand out. The first is obviously the exquisite detail and consistency of Tolkien’s universe–there’s still nothing I’ve read to rival it. Faced with that depth of background, other fantasy novels pale, each seeming more like the facade of a spaghetti western than a living, breathing universe ripe for exploration in all directions.

The series’ second remarkable trait is Tolkien’s incomparable flow. His gentle prose lures you into the scene, with each word somehow anticipating the next so effortlessly that once you reach it, you’re convinced you knew it was coming all along without the bother of thinking about it. The result is subtle, immersive, and mesmerizing in ways that would put Saruman to shame. Even that trek through the dead marshes couldn’t set me free.

It’s the only series I’ve multiply re-read, and I discover new marvels each time.

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The Rescue

Hanging with my bud.

The very day after I e-published The Demon of Histlewick Downs (a tale of a young man’s quest to rescue his parents) in July of 2014, our much-loved 25-pound lynx point Nero passed. Within the month, my wife Genelle moved from California for a year to test drive a faculty position at the University of Kansas, while I stayed behind to ready the house for potential sale. Loss of my two constant companions was rough, but I kept busy–we’d been in the house for 13 years, with all the attendant deferred maintenance that implies.

When Genelle came to visit at Christmas, I happened across a small orange tabby sunning himself on a tin shed roof within arm’s length of our backyard wall. Thinking Genelle could use a cat fix, I invited him over. He was a slip of a thing, no more than ten pounds–but he seemed starved more for affection than for food. Still hurting from our loss, we were happy to oblige.

From that day, the Orange Cat was a regular visitor. He’d pound on the front door in the morning and I’d invite him in for a bowl of milk before work. He’d be back for more when I got home. On weekends, he’d often spend the whole day with me–sometimes binge-watching Netflix on my lap, other times directing the house repairs. Come evening I’d tell him he had to return to his family. If it was chilly, I’d get a disappointed hiss–it was the only time he wasn’t upbeat, curious, and well-behaved. He loved our bed’s white feather comforter, and anytime he wasn’t with me, I knew to find him there. I’d go move him, patiently explaining that outdoor “kittehs” (that’s catspeak) who roll in dirt were not permitted there. He’d rowr and move onto some other exploit (at least, until I wasn’t looking). 

The gift.

When it came time to sell the house, his routine was firmly in place, though there were occasional surprises. One morning he pounded on the door, mewling with particular excitement. On the way to the car, I learned why–he’d brought me a nice plump rat, which he’d displayed in the very center of the front courtyard. He beamed with pride as he posed near his prize. Presuming a “thank you” would suffice, I hopped in the car and headed to work. Of course, the rat would be gone by the time I returned at 6, right? Turns out I’d misunderstood. He was still waiting for me beside that rat when I returned 9 hours later–apparently, it wasn’t merely a trophy rat, it was an eating rat. When I demurred again, he shrugged, and ate it himself.

One day I came back from work to find him sitting squarely on the dining room table, posing smugly next to the flowers I set out for house-staging purposes. I still have no idea how he got in–whether I forgot to let him out, or if he darted in when the realtor showed the property.  Whatever he did, it worked–the family shown the house that day bought it. I may never know whether he wooed them with his personal charm, or whether he simply bribed them all with rats.

Showing the house.

By May 2015, we were caught up in the whirlwind that is packing for a cross-country move, and we still didn’t know to whom the Orange Kitteh belonged. By then, Genelle had discovered the reason he scratched so much–he was covered with fleas. It finally dawned on us that perhaps he was actually a stray. We bought a collar and put it on him with a note with our phone number and directions to call. Someone actually called that day and left a message–to the effect it wasn’t his cat. Odd, right? The next morning, our buddy returned with a brand new collar. We were disappointed, but resigned–clearly His Orangeness belonged to someone after all–though we still had no idea who. We braced ourselves for farewell.

Two days before the move, we were out in front packing up when a lady walked by, her two leashed puppies in tow. She spied our little buddy and called out to him.  “Linus, want to go for a walk?”

“So,” I said. “This is your cat!”

“No, she said, “It’s not my cat.”

“Well, then, whose is he?”

Turns out, she had replaced his collar. She hadn’t known who we were, but had wanted us to know someone was looking out for him. Linus had once belonged to this lady’s neighbors, but when they got dogs, they and Linus didn’t get along, and Linus was turned out. Now on his own, he set about wandering the neighborhood, making a broad network of friends who provided food, temporary lodging, and occasional de-worming tablets. His new friends helped out when they could, but were unable to adopt him because they already had multiple pets of their own.

“Would anyone mind if we were to take him with us?”

“He’s been on his own for seven years–we’ll be sad, but he needs a forever home.”

With only one day to spare, Genelle dropped what she was doing and hauled him to the vet. After seven years homeless, the fleas were his only health issue. We adopted him on the spot, and rechristened him “Reshi.”

On moving day, folks from the neighborhood dropped by–some we’d never met–to say their fond farewells. More showed for Reshi than for us.

Yes, he is all that. And if he hadn’t taken that time to win our hearts, we might never have realized just how much we needed rescuing.

Moving Day.

 

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Progress in Paradise

Just spent seven days on the island. Much strolling, eating, beaching, anniversarying (21!), and even a bit of writing. Seventeen chapters are now complete on my new first-person standalone, set on the not-nearly-as-tropical island of Irrevera, for a total of 53,000 words. It’s coming together! Also anticipating finishing up A House of Cards, the second book of the Heiromancer Trilogy, sometime this summer. Aloha!

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It’s in the Cards!

 

Photo Credit–Laura Perkins http://www.lauraperkinsediting.com/

Work continues on the second book of the Heiromancer Trilogy–I’ve completed my in-depth edit of the second book, A House of Cards, and it’s shaping up nicely. It should be ready to ship out for external editing shortly, I had the privilege of reading excerpts at the Southern California Writers’ Conference last weekend, which was a ton of fun and is a great way to keep up to day on the publishing business and connect with other writers and publishing professionals. Next up–designing the new cover!

For those who are as yet unfamiliar with the Dreamweaver Chronicles, The Demon of Histlewick Downs, which serves as a stand-alone prelude to the Heiromancer Trilogy, is free on Amazon for a few more days. If you snag one and like it, please consider leaving a review. Enjoy!

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My Very Own Rhineland Connection

Reading House of Johann got me thinking about my own German roots on my mom’s side. My mom’s father, Levi Ruffing, was born in 1896, married late, and passed away when I was 9 or 10 (and my mom was 32-ish) so I didn’t know him well. I had certainly never had an opportunity to meet his parents, though I’d been told their names–Joseph Ruffing and Theresa (Tessie) O’Donnell (daughter of Hugh and Mary O’Donnell). I do recall asking my grandmother what nationality “Ruffing” was (at my brother’s wedding reception) and she’d said it was Prussian. Armed with that data, I internet searched for relatives of Joseph Ruffing and immediately brought up the following picture:

Peter Joseph Ruffing

Since the search brought up a number of other Joseph Ruffings, my initial instinct was to start checking through them to make sure this was the right one – until I took a closer look at the image (and perhaps my relatives will back me up here) and realized the resemblance to my grandfather is uncanny, right down to the uneven widow’s peak, which I alone of my siblings also inherited, as seen below. (That photo was probably the last time my hair was short enough for it to be obvious–Stylist Credit–Ev Bornemann).

A closer look at the site (which also has an image of Peter’s grave marker) confirmed his image is indeed a photo of my grandfather’s grandfather. Further searching revealed he was born in Schwabisch Hall, a fascinating town about 180 miles southeast across the Rhine from House of Johann’s Oberzerf. Ancestry.com, by the way, has the family line hopelessly confused, which would have made a search directly back from my grandfather difficult (they have Joseph’s son, born the year of my grandfather Levi, named Franz (his middle name was Francis), and great-aunt Irene isn’t listed). They also have Joseph married to Theresia O’Donell instead of Theresa O’Donnell – but at least they got great-uncle Ray correct.

I haven’t found any more information directly back through Peter’s line, but there were apparently a large number of Ruffings in Oberbexbach in Saarland in the early 1800s, which is a mere 45 miles from Oberzerf. That line also contains a number of Peters and Josephs and traces eventually back to French ancestry. Would probably take some digging to firm up that connection, though. May be time to consult with Kathi Gosz for her sources.

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A Truly Captivating Read

In House of Johann, Kathi Gosz shares her love of 19th-century Rhineland from the perspective of her ancestors, the Rauls, a farming family in the village of Oberzerf. Gosz’s gentle approach is immersive – while events and details were thoroughly researched and information-packed, I experienced them not as though I learned them, but as though I’d lived them as a member of the Rauls family. The writing is straightforward and endearing, setting the perfect tone for relating the joys and heartaches of these unpretentious hard-working folk. Through Gosz’s remarkable tale, we glimpse a slice of the Rhineland during a simpler time – at least as far as the technology goes. For when it comes to the strong-willed Rauls, we are reminded that few things in life are as complex as family.

Note: Mom knew Kathi Gosz in passing when they were both students at St. Mary’s High School in Menasha. I’m sorry Mom didn’t get a chance to read this–historical fiction was her favorite genre, and I’m sure it would have made her smile.

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Fin

Dorothy Irene Bornemann, age 76, passed away on Thursday, January 26, 2017. Dorothy was born in Stockbridge, Wisconsin on August 16, 1940 to the late Levi and Irene (Price) Ruffing. On August 1, 1957 she married Everett H. Bornemann in Saint Mary’s Catholic Church in Stockbridge. She was preceded in death by her sisters, Gloria (Joe) Torres, Lucy (Keith) Stuckey, and Sylvia Ruffing, as well as her brother Bernard (Dolores) Ruffing. She is survived by her husband Everett, her three sons, Scott (Nancy Van Dera), Douglas (Genelle Belmas) and Bradley, her grandchildren Derek Bornemann and Brittany (Geoffrey Cook) Bornemann, and great-granddaughter Indie Cook. Dorothy’s signature blend of wit and mischief enlivened every gathering, and to her twinkling eye, no cow was sacred. For her family, she was fearless and indefatigable—in the face of her quiet strength and deep wisdom, no challenge was too great, no issue too trivial. Through her love of gardening and the steadfast support of husband Ev, she transformed her yard into a verdant summer sanctuary. Lively curiosity drove her lifelong quest for new experiences, technologies, and knowledge, though quite reasonably, she drew the line at sushi. When her light winked out, the whole world dimmed. We love her beyond words, beyond reason, beyond time. A celebration of Dorothy’s life will be held at 3 pm on Saturday, February 4th at Countryside Golf Course, W726 Weiler Road, Kaukauna, WI, 54130, though visitors are welcome to pay respects any time between 1 and 4 pm. In lieu of flowers, please come prepared with a cherished memory of Dorothy to share.

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Practical Phrendonics Available in Paperback

The wait for the first volume of the Heiromancer Trilogy is over! To order through CreateSpace:

Paperback availability through Amazon may take a few more days. Remember, regardless of where you buy, Amazon or Goodreads reviews are always appropriate and welcome.

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Welcome to Trifienne!

At last! Practical Phrendonics, Book Two of the Dreamweaver Chronicles, will be live for download starting tomorrow December 8, 2016. Unlike The Demon of Histlewick Downs, which was a stand-alone novel, Practical Phrendonics kicks off the Heiromancer Trilogy (Practical Phrendonics, A House of Cards, and The Hanged Man’s Gambit) which together will form the next discrete unit in the Chronicles. Ten years ago, when I first set fingers to keyboard, I would never have anticipated where this path would lead. May it be every bit as magical for you (and if it is, I hope you’ll leave a review to let me know).

pp_final_fullsize

I’d like to give a shout out to C.M. Allen for his fantastic rendition of the City State of Trifienne. (Note, only the inset portion appears in the ebook–the full map you see here, will appear in the soon-to-be-released paperback version).

We did it, Nero–I miss ya, bud.

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Book Review: The Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe

In The Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe, Kij Johnson enables the reader to journey the world of Lovecraft through the eyes of a sensible and accomplished woman of a certain age. Beautiful stylized prose escorts Vellitt to increasingly fantastic destinations at a determined but contemplative pace fittingly evocative of precisely what one might imagine a dream-quest should be. For me, the allure of fantasy as a genre lies in its potential for breaking molds—my preferences run to well-crafted stories that take me places I haven’t been before. With Dream-Quest, Kij delivers. Very nicely done.

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Wisdom

My grandmother passed in 1984, while I was still in college. Typical of most good Catholic families of the time, ours boasted a man of the cloth who, on such occasions, could be depended upon to do the honors. I recall sitting next to my mother at the church-basement dinner following the services. Although I had never met him, Father Martin and my mother were first cousins and had been childhood friends. Gentle and soft-spoken, he headed the table, regaling his extended family, which included a number of formidable women, with quaint stories about his flock. One such tale involved the doings of the “old women of the Church.” Now, I confess to having inherited my mother’s somewhat unconventional sense of humor, from which no occasion, regardless of its solemnity, is entirely safe.

Assuming my most earnest expression, I raised my hand and interrupted the good Father mid-anecdote. “Father Martin,” I asked. “I’m curious. At what age does a woman become ‘old?'”

He paused, blinking. Silence fell. The table, populated primarily by female relatives, became palpably attentive.

With a gulp, he looked to my mother. Perhaps he was hoping to be rescued. If so, he’d appealed to the wrong savior.

My mother folded her arms. “Actually,” she said. “I’m sort of interested in hearing your answer.”

“Very well,” he said. He spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with infinite care. “In my experience, a woman becomes old at that point at which she becomes proud of her age.”

Greeted by a round of satisfied nods, Father Martin heaved a relieved sigh and quickly resumed his tale.

All these years later, I’m still convinced it’s the right answer.

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Childish Naiveté

Licensed under creative commons attribution

Holocaust Memorial: David Williss–Licensed under creative commons attribution.

I remember as a child learning about the Holocaust, I was stupefied that such atrocities could have been committed in my parents’ lifetimes. I recall my childish relief at having been born in a “more enlightened” time–a time when such despicable acts would be unthinkable. People were better now, weren’t they?

Later, when my graduate training made it clear that the genetic composition of a population is unlikely to change significantly in a single generation, my childish perception developed cracks, but I was thankful that at least the culture had advanced–the brutal societal conditions that had produced such deep-seated angst were surely behind us, weren’t they?

Then, as I witnessed the rise of Fox News, and on its heels the soaring popularity of Donald Trump, I realized it’s not the actual conditions–it’s people’s perceptions that matter.

As a child, I used to sympathize with those who’d argued they were “only following orders.”  Oppose such a brutal regime? At what personal cost?

That was before I appreciated that to empower such a regime, many must be complicit. In The Demon of Histlewick Downs, Flinch would have understood this principle all too well, though he might argue that without benefit of hindsight, most couldn’t have foreseen the horrors their hatred would spawn.

We cannot say the same. History has taught us the risks of power acquired by exploiting hate. Ignorance is no excuse.

 

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