Map It!

Some people are map people. And some are not. If you're not a map person, your eyes will probably glaze over and you'll fight off the urge to doze.

For a map person, though, there will never be enough maps in the world. I'm a map person. I collect them. I display them. I draw them for my books. Without a map, I'm lost. For every book I've ever written there is a map. Maybe not elaborate, but I have one that tells me where the stores are located on "Main Street" and which direction the characters will travel to reach the beach.

The map above is the original map for Mystic Valley. It was colorful and detailed. With each book I added more notes and bits. Now it's time to update and re-do the map. Likely I'll just do it in black and white.

Some readers enjoy having maps to pore over while they read the story. Other totally ignore them. If you're a map person, check out the maps I have posted on my website for the Mystic Valley series and the Flowers of Camelot series.

In March, a new series of mine will launch from Siren-Bookstrand--Shadows on Stone (Tuathan Treasures 1). By then, I'll have the map for that series available on the website.

I think maps are important--particularly for fantasy series. Keeping all that information in your head is difficult without it. A map keeps the author on track. No, not everyone agrees. 

If you're a map person, though...check it out! www.annycook.com

anny

Blue People, Dintis, Firkas and Packits

For more than thirty years nobody knew I was walking around with more than five hundred people in my head. I also had a wide variety of animals and plant life in there. Of course I needed to keep everyone in line so there were the laws and rules and my helpers, the warriors and...

After a while it got very crowded in there. They were a noisy bunch, always making suggestions about how I should manage my life and how I should rear my kids. They wanted more room and some of them were impatient to get on with their lives.

And then a few years ago, I finally tossed most of them out. Oh, there are a few still hanging on, waiting for me to tell their stories, but most of them are living in the valley I created for them, busy having babies and carrying on as though I never carted them around.

They're blue. One or two of them weren't too happy about that but that's the way the cookie rolls...Jade thought I ought to find a way to grow chocolate in the valley. Bishop whined about the lack of electricity. Personally, I think I did a pretty good job.

The dintis are happy with their role as mentors for the women and they're proud their long silky hair is shorn twice a year to weave in the bonding blankets.

Sneering at the dintis low expectations, the packits  (big hunting cats) trot off into the woods, hunting at the side of the males they choose to mentor. But both packits and dintis have saved the lives of their humans so they all have reason to be proud.

In the gardens, the tiny firkas industriously keep all tidy and weed free in exchange for a few pottery huts. Once in a while an orphan firka is adopted by a human much like a gerbil or hamster, though they're never caged, of course. After all, one doesn't cage members of a sentient species.

Not everything is sweetness and light in the valley. If it was, the humans would grow lazy and careless. That was never part of the plan. In exchange for longer lives and protection from the outer world, they work hard. Yes, they do. But that's pretty much life, isn't it?

If you would like to know more about the Blues, check out Traveller's Refuge. It's free for the next week. I think you'll like the people you'll meet. Who knows? You might even want to be blue, too?

Just click on the book cover for more info!

anny

Free Book!

Free book? Well, yes! Beginning today and for the next two weeks my publisher, Ellora's Cave, is offering Traveller's Refuge for FREE on both the home site AND third party sites. If you ever wanted to read about my blue people and see what the excitement is all about--here's your chance.

Blurb:

Framed and running for his life, Traveller Devereaux decides to follow his missing brother Dancer, using the clues he left behind when he disappeared. They lead Traveller to the mysterious Mystic Valley where the people are blue, the flora and fauna are decidedly odd, and the mating customs are definitely different.

On his journey to the Valley, he is injured in a serious accident that traps him in a cave with his best friend, Bishop. Bish finds the hidden tunnel leading to the valley and takes Traveller to safety. Trav’s slow recovery allows him much needed time to adjust to the valley and fall in love with Wrenna, the woman chosen as his bond mate. When he finds out that she is related to the man who murdered his parents and siblings, he must choose between the woman he loves and her murderous grandfather.

Excerpt:

Bishop Llewellyn woke with the certainty that it was not going to be a good day. His head was full of tiny elves industriously beating on drums. His stomach was jumping in time to the drum beating. And his arms were twisted uncomfortably behind his back, where they appeared to be tied to his ankles. No, it wasn’t going to be a good day. A dark bag that seemed to be impregnated with cow manure was pulled over his head. He sincerely hoped that most of the cow manure had been emptied from the bag before he had dubious pleasure of its acquaintance. As he carefully took stock of his situation, he realized that he was stark naked and cold and had been rather carelessly dumped on the rough metal floor of a moving vehicle. It was a stupid way to spend his forty-fifth birthday.

The speed at which the vehicle was moving down something that resembled a dry pot-holed river bed did not auger well for either the vehicle or his skin. He bounced from one side to the other, slamming into hard pointy objects and concluded with faint resignation that he had no hope of getting out of this situation with a whole skin. The vehicle slammed to a stop and he heard the driver get out and shut the door. A few seconds later, the back door was opened and he was yanked toward the opening, losing more skin on the way. Almost with relief, he felt the tiny needle prick in his ankle and then he knew no more.

When he woke next, the elves were still with him but he was stretched out on the cold ground with his arms and legs firmly tied to stakes. And much to his dismay, he was still naked. The odiferous bag had been removed from his head and he saw that he was surrounded by darkness. About six feet away, a small fire was merrily crackling but it provided no heat for him. The duct tape that had covered his mouth had obviously been ripped off, taking part of his skin and mustache with it. It still burned, so he decided he was glad that he had not been conscious for that particular delight. His field of vision was limited but it seemed to him that he was in a cave.

“Happy Birthday, Bishop. I see you decided to finally rejoin the almost living,” a dark velvety voice observed and he knew exactly why he was in this situation.

“‘Lo, Trav,” he said casually. “Lots of work to piss off my father.”

“Now, Bish,” he was assured, “nothing is too much work to piss off your father.” Traveller moved into his field of vision and looked down at him. “You don’t look very comfortable, Bish. Aren’t you cold, like that?”

“Freezing,” Bish replied curtly. “But I’m sure you have something in mind to warm me up, so I’m not too worried about it.” He shivered artistically but Trav wasn’t buying. “So, what’s the deal? Are we waiting for a party? Or is this a stag deal?”

“Just you and me,” Trav informed him agreeably. “Straight trade. You for Dance.”

“And if Dad doesn’t have Dancer?” Bish didn’t think that his father had Dancer.

“We-ll, we’ll get to be better friends than we are now.” Traveller laughed quietly, sending chills up Bishop’s back. “I do hope that your father believed me when I said that I won’t negotiate.” He moved away and Bish heard the sound of liquid splashing into a container. “Are you thirsty?”

“I could use some water,” Bish replied.

“Here. Turn your head,” Trav instructed as he held a metal cup to Bish’s mouth. “There are approximately six hundred men out there on the mountain, trying to pinpoint this position. One of them is your girlfriend’s father, Carl DeMarko.” he said casually, as he tossed his heavy auburn braid back over his shoulder.

“Tiff’s not my girlfriend,” Bish declared curtly. “She’s a Fed they sicced on me when you disappeared.”

“I see. Now it’s my fault you were sleeping with that foul-mouthed wild cat?”

Bish shrugged. “Why turn down what’s offered?”

“Oh, maybe because she might just stick her gun up your butt and pull the trigger?”

http://www.annycook.com

Vision

Have you ever had a vision for a book or series...and then lost it? I have several series I'm right in the middle of writing and something happened. I forgot what the overall plan was. Sort of. I've spent three days looking through notes--extensive notes--trying to understand what happened. What was the plan?

Part of the difficulty is time passes. Yes, it does, despite our best efforts to stop it. And with time, we forget. That is just what life is about.

The difficulty is when we go back to write the next book in the series and we have no idea what we were going to write. Now I've never been a plotter. But I usually have a general idea about what's going to happen. This time, not so much. This time doing it later is not working out well.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the story might be better because of it. Yes, there will be more background work, but maybe I was wallowing in a rut. Maybe, this is what really needs to happen to regenerate the story line. Who knows?

Have you ever had this happen? How did it all come out?

anny

Groundhog Day

As usual, when I started researching the origins of Groundhog Day, I instantly zipped down the nearest rabbit hole like Alice. Apparently, the tradition of using an animal as a weather forecaster is quite ancient. A variety of animals have been employed...bears, snakes, badgers. Similar customs have been reported across the northern hemisphere--and even from some places in the southern hemisphere (for their spring). The groundhog day celebrations in Pennsylvania were introduced by German immigrants in the 1700s.

The holiday has also been associated with Candlemas, Imbolc, St. Brigid's Day, and a number of other very early pagan celebrations. This day was seen as the day when "light" was more prevalent than the "dark" of winter.

For that reason, perhaps sufferers of SADS should celebrate this turning of the season! In any case, Happy Groundhog Day!

anny

When the Soul Sings

Lately I've noticed a lot of writers moaning and whining because they aren't happy with their writing. Some complain of writer's block. Others don't have any motivation. Apathy, drudgery, a lack of interest in their characters have all been mentioned. It's not fun or exciting any more. Their joy in writing is gone. It's a job.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear ya.

The truth is out there.

Here's what I think. I think most writers--regardless of genre--went from writing the books of their souls to writing market books. In the back of their minds is the overriding question, will it sell? 


When I look back at my earliest work, I see a different writer. I see a writer involved in telling the story. Yes, my technical stuff was a bit shakier. I see the mistakes I made if I'm looking for them. But I have to look hard because the stories involve me. Me, the author. When I'm reading, I keep stopping and marveling that I wrote this book!

And then...I made the mistake of worrying about whether or not the book would sell. When the author is truly involved with the story and characters, each day is a new adventure. We're not worried about whether we have enough or too much sex because it isn't our story. We can't wait to get up in the morning to see where their story will take us. Our soul sings as we pound the keyboard. Every interruption is nearly unbearable because we can't bear to be parted from our hero/heroine. Sounds like love?

Yeah, it does. If our writing doesn't make our soul sing then we're writing the wrong stuff.

A dear friend sent me a short piece she'd written. It was very different from her usual writing. This piece was written from her soul. The difference in the emotion and depth of feeling was striking. Her fascination with the characters was obvious.

When we lose that never-ending fascination, we lose some part of the soul of the story. Oh, it may be technically sound. We may have the POV down and most of the adverbs weeded out. We might have even followed every damn rule in the White and Strunk's. But underneath, niggling away at us is the certainty that the story has no soul.

When it does, it enthralls even when the technical aspects are less than perfect. When the soul sings so does the story.

anny

Winter Grayscale

Remember when grayscale was a choice on your printer you used because color was so expensive to print? It was supposed to be a little jazzier than plain black and white.

This is the time of year we live in grayscale. Emotionally, financially, spiritually we drag through January, surviving in a colorless world, faking it out and trying to convince ourselves it isn't so bad. The days are dreary and rainy or snowy. The nights are cold and bitter.

We draw inward, closing the curtains or blinds to block out the early darkness, and gather around the hearth with our loved ones. It used to be a true fire the family would huddle next to while someone read a book or told a story. Now for most people it's a television's bright flickering lights and noise that fills the room.


Some may choose to hunch next to their individual hearths, playing computer games or living the virtual visitation with virtual friends they've never met (and likely never will).


Winter is a natural time of rest. It's a downtime--a time to complete the small chores that pile up through the year, those things we never have time to do because we so busy going and doing. It used to be winter was the time for planning and preparation for spring.


Somewhere along the line, we've lost the rhythm of the seasons. I believe that's why we're so tired. We're supposed to be resting along with all of nature. That's why it's dark so early. Instead we're rushing around, trying to fit twice as much in our day.


Maybe we should take a breather. Watch the snow or rain. Curl up on the couch with a book. Drink hot chocolate. Contemplate the future. Be prepared.


anny

To Bra or Not to Bra...

The house hunk and I went out gallivanting yesterday just to get out of the house. We had lunch, went shopping for the two things on our list, and generally enjoyed the sunshine.

I don't usually go bra shopping intentionally, but each time I'm in the store I check to see if they have any sports bras in my "size" and that's a relative term at best. Anyway, yesterday I found two and was quite pleased. In the car, going home, the hunk asked me what I would do if I had not found the new bras.

Now these were two that fastened in the front. I wanted them for after my swimming. Any woman who has tried to wrestle on a bra while she's still damp will understand my predicament. Usually, I put on a tee-shirt and jacket and go bra-less until I get home. I explained all of this to the hunk.

And he said, "I like it better when you don't wear one."

Um, did I mention I'm built on the generous side? Unless I'm at home in the privacy of my own surroundings, going bra-less is not an option. I explained that viewpoint to the hunk...in detail.

He wanted to know why not?

So that started me wondering. Why do women wear bras? Is it personal choice? Cultural mandate? Fashion? Do we wear them for ourselves or for the men in our lives?

And men...what say you? To bra or not? Or does it make a difference if the woman is...losing her pneumatic uplift. Would you rather see some sway and movement or upholstered support?

anny

Fear of Failure

No one gets up in the morning and thinks, "Today looks like a good day to fail." No one plans to fail. If failure was part of a plan, then it would be a success in the end because it was part of the agenda. So in the end, failure is an unplanned consequence of some action.

From the very beginning of our lives, we learn by failing. Crawling, standing, walking...all of those skills are learned by failing repeatedly until we've mastered them. Parents expect their little ones to fail. No one rushes forward to rescue the kid. It's a normal part of life.

When they're older, they learn other skills with the same fail/succeed ratio. Riding a bike. Dribbling a ball. Making a grilled cheese sandwich. Spelling separate (it has "a rat" in it). Learning to write cursive. Adding and subtracting. But I've noticed that parental willingness to allow children to learn by consequences sharply diminishes as the kid reaches their teens.

I don't advocate allowing them free rein. Our culture and society is based on rules. We're expected to obey basic laws. Don't steal. Don't kill. It's the parents' job to rear their kids with respect for the law.

Some of life issues are a bit more abstract. Working for what you want. Delayed gratification. Getting back up when we fail and trying again. If you give a kid everything they ask for, why would they work for it? If they never have to wait for something, how will they learn to wait?

I propose failure and dealing with the consequences is the way we learn how the world works. The rush to protect children from failure prevents their development of coping mechanisms. Look at it this way--suppose we play checkers with our child and we always let him win. Why would he learn the strategy he needs to know to win on his own?

Instead of being ashamed of failure, we should celebrate every time we get back up and try again. That is the essence of success.

anny

Written into the Corner

One of the problems writers face is that terrible moment when they write their story into an impossible predicament. The story stops right on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go. This happened to me over the weekend. I needed a conflict, a confrontation, and had no way to engineer it because I'd snowed my characters in. No way to escape, either. Hmmmm.

Disgusted and irritated, I backtracked to see where I was going to have to make changes, only to discover the solution was already there. A small, insignificant detail I'd tossed into the story several chapters earlier saved the day. In fact, it provided the vehicle for the confrontation and the possibility of escape.

I'm a pantster--a writer who sits down and writes without elaborate plotting ahead of time. I have a vague notion of the general outlines of the story, but no written notes. I keep a notepad next to the computer so I can jot down the odd detail for my story bible. You know--things like eye color, hair color, secondary character names, made-up words for animals/plants/stuff in my imaginary worlds.

In my Mystic Valley books, the men wear their long hair in many small braids tipped by special beads called chinkas. That was a detail set up in Dancer's Delight, book one. Where did the name come from? I have no idea. It was just there.

It wasn't until late in book two, Traveller's Refuge, that I found out why the beads were called chinkas. The scene flowed effortlessly as I wrote it:

The light breeze spread the scent of rain and quoltania bushes through the open window. Dancer enjoyed the light cinnamony scent and breathed in appreciatively before shifting to cuddle closer with Eppie. He spread his hand across her belly and rubbed their baby gently, careful not to wake Eppie. He froze when a tiny out-of-place sound wafted through the open window. A few seconds later, he caught the slight brush of fabric and silently he slipped from the bed, moving across the room to the window.
 

Peeking from behind the soft curtains, he saw a man stalking down the path to the back gate. Grabbing his sharda, he shinnied over the windowsill and soundlessly followed him as far as the river. Within a few feet, he knew he was trailing Merlyn but he was intensely curious about what could possibly bring his bond-father out in the rain in the middle of the night.
 

When Merlyn crossed the bridge and headed out into the open field past the training halls, Dancer waited until the buildings were between them and followed. He sank down in the deepest shadow in a dark corner and waited for a few moments, in case Merlyn returned. Just as he was satisfied that Merlyn wasn’t coming back his way, he heard a soft footstep on the bridge and barely made out the figure of Llyon coming his way.
 

Breathing shallowly, he squatted motionless in the dark while Llyon softly passed him in the rain. Slipping around the end of the building so that it was between him and the bridge, he crept to the corner until he could see the field clearly. The fine hairs along his spine tightened as he watched the small group of men in astonishment. There on the field he saw why the hair ornaments were called chinkas.
 

While all of the men stood in a semicircle watching intently, Llyon spun rapidly toward a practice dummy, his braids whipping out around him from the centrifugal force. When he came within reach of the dummy, the chinkas struck it with deadly force, making a very distinctive sound. Chinka, chinka, chinka. Dancer shuddered as he watched Llyon’s lethal dance shred the dummy.

That is an example of my subconscious working independently. If happens often when I'm writing. I could fill a book with examples of small details that take on a life of their own elsewhere in the story. The thing is, I can't plan this. I have tried. It would be so much more convenient, you know?

Instead, when I've painted myself into that clichéd corner, I know it's time to ponder the details, time to pinpoint that small bit that's going to fix my problem. How about you? Do you have a writing quirk that no one else seems to have?

anny

Wrong Side of Life

Some people get up on the wrong side of bed. Others seem to get up on the wrong side of life. Did you ever know someone who can't seem to catch a single positive break? Ever? I have. You want to hug them and tell them everything is going to be all right, but all right never happens for them.

They're the ones with the car that breaks down on the way to the job interview. They're the ones who don't just have Lyme disease, but mono with it. They're the ones who aren't just coping with broken pipes, but also the electricity has gone out.

What do you do? How do you help them? Sometimes...you might not be able to.

That sounds mighty harsh. I've been one of those never-catch-a-break people. Lived that down-to-the-bone life. We know more people now living that barely subsistence life than ever before.

On the one hand, I know how fast life can go from an abundance to freefalling famine. The closer you are to the edge, the less it takes to push you over. A lot of folks who thought they were safe behind their wall of income and savings have discovered that's just not so.

On the other hand...that subsistence living is isolating. Instead of moving out, we tend to huddle inwards, ashamed because we aren't doing well. We don't want anyone to know we need a helping hand. We don't want anyone to know we need food or the electric bill paid or gas in the car. Because if our neighbors and friends know that, they might think we're a failure. And goodness knows, we're not allowed to fail.

It's the same reasoning people use for hiding illness. Or non-existent royalties. Or dozens of other things the world uses to gauge success or failure. No one wants to admit things might not be quite as rosy as they've been portraying. No one.

That very attitude sometimes bars us from assistance. And I'm not talking about welfare or public assistance or a handout from a church. I'm talking about the folks around us who might want to pitch in a helping hand here or there. That neighbor who would gladly fix the pipes. That friend who would take us to that job interview. The ladies group at church who would be pleased to buy some groceries.

There's a rarely perceived opposite side of the coin in the get vs. giving dynamic. People need to participate on both sides during their lives. Giving isn't better than receiving. That old cliché is wrong. But giving does allow for a balance as long as people can do both. That's what that paying it forward business is about.

At sometime during our lives we will need. Perhaps we will need more than we can possibly imagine. Consider those who lost homes, families, every possession they owned in tornadoes or tsunamis. Can you envision the total loss? Yet, even in those circumstances there were people who hesitated to ask for help. We have to get past this shame factor and reach out. Why?

Because at sometime during our lives we will be exactly where we need to be to help someone. That old saw about what goes around, comes around is true. The problem is we think we always have to compare apples to apples or oranges to oranges, when we really should just toss all the fruit and veggies in one pot. Just because someone fixed our pipes doesn't mean we have to fix someone else's pipes to "pay them back". Nope. What the next fellow might really be desperate for is a job reference or a new pair of shoes.

Do you know someone really wallowing in the slough of depression and despair? Have you asked what you can do? Remember, no one gets up on the wrong side of life on purpose. No one.

anny

Because I Can

Why do I get up in the morning? Because I can. Not everyone has that privilege, but I do. So when I'm feeling grumpy and stiff and angsty, I remind myself of days when I couldn't make it out of bed...and I shut up.

Why do I climb the stairs? Because I can. I admit there are some days it takes longer. Some days I have to stop midway up and take a little breather. But there you are. Life is what it is.

Why do I read so much? Because I can. There are places in this world where reading is impossible. I have the right to read and a library full of books. Someday the government may come in and confiscate them, but they can't erase the things I've learned, the ideas I've thought, no they can't erase those.

Why do I protest bad decisions by my representatives? BECAUSE I CAN. Of course, pretty soon that might not be so. At least, I might have to pay a price for that privilege because not enough people understood what we had to lose.

Why do I lift my voice against injustice? Because I can. Many across the world pay the ultimate price. Many have died already. Who will cry out, if not me?

Why do I vote? Because I can.

For now.

anny