"Here once stood a lofty idol, that saw many a fight, whose name was the Cromm Cruach; it caused every tribe to live without peace.

He was their god, the wizened Cromm, hidden by many mists: as for the folk that believed in him, the eternal Kingdom beyond every haven shall not be theirs.

For him ingloriously they slew their hapless firstborn with much wailing and peril, to pour their blood round Cromm Cruach."

You might recognize this quote as the opener of the second novel in my Three Wells series, The Salamander's Smile. So who or what was this Crom Cruach and what does it have to do with my story?(Warning: spoiler alert if you have not read The Salamander's Smile. May I suggest you do?)

People always ask, "Where do you get your wild ideas?" I borrow them from the past. Like Crom Cruach, aka Crom Dubh or Cenn Cruach. According to one of the oldest records in Ireland, the Annals of the Four Masters, Crom Cruach was a god worshipped by the Milesians, a tribe of invading Celts that came from Spain and arrived in Ireland in the early Iron Age. What is interesting to note is that all the "gods and goddesses" we associate with the early Irish, Morrigan, Lugh, Brigid . . . were never called gods as such in the old texts. They were called heroes of legend, colored by the Christian monks who first wrote down the old stories. The one and only name that is labeled as a god is Crom Cruach. That goes for all of the early texts. 

This is rather interesting coming from Christian writers. Maybe it was to set up the fable that St. Patrick struck the stone idol of Crom Cruach with his staff and broke it, releasing the spirit of a demon which he cast into hell. This story does not appear until much later, however, so I argue that is not the reason. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

What is Crom Cruach? The name is variously interpreted. Crom means twisted or bent or crooked. Cruach can mean things like bloody, gory, mound, stack of corn. But cenn definitely means head. So you could say it is associated with a bloody head or a severed head. Or a severed sheaf of wheat, conversely.  In many Irish and Welsh legends severed heads are kept and brought to council, they chat it up and give advice. The taking and preserving of heads is a very old in the practice in Celtic cultures. All the evidence points that they believed the soul resides in the head.

Physically, Crom Cruach has been identified as a round stone in the shape of a head which once sat in the middle of a stone circle in an area of County Cavan known as Magh Slecht, the Plain of Prostrations or the Plain of Slaughter. They actually have the stone! It was found in an excavation. It had been removed from its position in a ring of standing stones (Derryragh) nearby, broken and buried. It is known locally as the Killycluggin stone and has always been associated with Crom Cruach through local legend. It had indeed been smashed to pieces and buried outside of the stone circle as if to break its power. So someone broke the idol, which was described as being covered in gold. We see incisions of swirls and grooves in the stone, common in the Le Tene or early Celtic art traditions. It might have been gilded, but that has not been determined. A replica has been placed at a crossroads near where it was excavated, not back inside the stone circle (see photo above.) But the pieces of the true stone are kept in the Irish National Museum. (See drawing of the pieces below.)

According to the old texts, first born children were sacrificed here, their blood sprinkled over the stone. This was to assure the family fair crops and fat cows. But something terrible befell one ancient king.

Tigernmas, alternately spelled Tiernmas, was a devout worshipper of Crom.  On one Samhain eve, he and his army of men had bowed before the stone in worship and were struck dead. There is no explanation of the event other than that, but the plain itself is named for the event, Plain of Prostrations. Perhaps they were set upon by another army and killed, we don't know. Using Tiernmas as one of main characters, I chose the battle -- more believable not to mention dramatic.

Part of the backstory of my novels involves the battle for the Five Quarters between the invading Ildana and the Old Blood who ruled before them. Fought a thousand years before Lyleth and Connor's time, you could say the Ildana represent the Milesians and the Old Blood stand in for the magical Tuatha de Danaan of Irish legend. I have chosen to make Tiernmas the king of the Old Blood as it serves my story better. As the Ildana fight the Old Blood on the Plain of Slaughter, King Tiernmas is captured and beheaded, the head encased in stone by Lyleth's earlier self. The stone is guarded by the twelve standing stones, the Knights of the Stony Ring, who are charged with keeping him there. Inside the stone, the head of King Tiernmas awaits the breaking of the stone, for the coming of the Child of Death to free him.

The photo you see at the top is a reconstruction of Crom Cruach from the pieces found many years ago. I say it looks like a head sticking out of the ground. Indeed some references in the old texts speak of kings being buried with just their heads showing. But the Celts in mainland Europe were known to worship severed heads . . .

​It’s that time of year when we look back at our accomplishments with pride and maybe some regret and set goals for the coming year. I’ve encountered more than a few obstacles and made some discoveries  as I retired from my teaching career to take up writing full-time. First, what I’ve accomplished:

1. It feels daunting to release the second book in a series, which I did in June with the launch of The Salamander’s Smile with Digital Fiction. Both Three Wells of the Sea and Salamander received a reworking of the covers to reflect the series. Check them out.
2. Drafting a novel is much faster when you don’t have a day job. I have completed the first draft of a science fiction novel set on the first colony planet outside the solar system. I can’t wait to get back to revise this one. It is shaping up well.
3. And . . . By the end of December, I will have drafted Halls of the Sunless, book three in the Three Wells universe. I started this draft on September 11, so I feel I am reaping the rewards of having long spans of time to write. I should have this novel to alpha readers in the spring.
4. My novelette The Wood will be re-released under Digital Fiction’s logo this coming year, as will a reprint of my short story “Rock and Roll Will Never Die,” which first appeared in New Myths Magazine.
5. My short story “Teens Teach Tech” will appear soon in the anthology Undercurrents published by Wordfire Press. What happens when a high school student teaches a woman with Alzheimer’s how to navigate virtual reality?
6. I’ve rekindled my love for embroidery since I have a bit more time, as well as yoga. So, there's that.

I feel so fortunate to have the opportunity to devote time to my writing. My goals for next year are:

1. Deliver a completed manuscript for Halls of the Sunless to my publisher.
2. Complete my SF novel and get it into the hands of my review team (by the way, if you’d like to be part of my team, SIGN UP HERE. You will receive pre-published stories and novels in exchange for your honest opinions and reviews.)
3. Write at least two short stories.
4. Outline and draft another SF novel.
5. Read thirty books.
6. Walk. My teaching job required me to be on my feet most of the day. Now that I’m writing, I’m on my butt all day. This has been the toughest adjustment in this new lifestyle.

I hope this season of reflection allows you time to look back as well as ahead to the year that awaits.  Don’t be afraid to give yourself a pat on the back for all you’ve accomplished and the good times you’ve shared with family and friends.
Happy Winter Solstice!

Many of you have heard the story of Matilda Jones and her father, out for a swim on a hot day in Cornwall this summer.  When she looked down she saw the hilt of a sword just below the surface, lying flat on the bottom of the pool. Dad reached down and pulled up a sword that looked like it fell off a prop wagon in the shooting of the 1981 movie “Excalibur.” Even more fun, they found it in a body of water known as Dozmary Pool, which by all media accounts, is the legendary home of the Lady of the Lake and the final resting place of Arthur’s sword Excalibur, called Caledfwlch in many Welsh tales.

But the casting of Excalibur into Dozmary Pool is very likely an echo of a Celtic votive custom from the distant past. Archaeologists have found hundreds of swords in lakes associated with Celtic tribal lands throughout Europe. Most swords uncovered in water appear to have little wear; others have been snapped or bent.  This has led to a theory that swords were left in pools that were associated with being gateways or liminal spaces between the living and the dead. Maybe it was thought the deceased would need a sword to fight his way through to the Otherworld.

Throwing a perfectly good sword, a thing of great value in the Iron Age, into the water could not be accidental. If a battle was fought on the banks of a pool, one would expect to find weapons lost in the water. They have found shields in the Thames where plenty of battles were fought, but overwhelmingly, the finds are swords and often they are far from the shore and many seem unused.

Archaeologist Patrick Hunt from Stanford has this to say about it:

“Since weapons like swords are death-dealing, it should not be surprising to find such weapons so closely associated with the Otherworld (not at all necessarily the same place where the dead go). . . Swords deliver so many warriors to the threshold of departed spirits as well as to the Otherworld whose boundary is often watery.” 

But what about the sword found by Matilda Jones? Clearly not Iron Age but made within the last fifty years, and it is not a real functional sword, but probably prop-like in nature.  I think it was a votive offering of someone who resurrected the ritual in the form of a neopagan rite of death. There are so many who have revived practices no one really understands and given it some kind of personal meaning.  In fact, a Cornishman named Mark Wilkins has come forward and claimed he threw the sword into the pool in the 80s as an offering to the gods.  Mark Wilkins says of the sword, “I love the legend. I hope for her (Matilda) it’s a magical thing and that she gets strength from it.”

Though we have no real information on the why and how of these rituals of two thousand years ago, we are still drawn to the idea that the mists part and worlds open upon the calm surface of a pool where magical ladies bear swords of destiny. But for now, we only have the swords. 

I spent the morning at KKFX in Santa Barbara where I was interviewed by Danny Max about my fantasy series, Three Wells of the Sea.  I was welcomed by the local bookstore, Chaucer's, who offered to have a signing when I publish book three. Time to get busy. . .

I'm excited to say that "Three Wells of the Sea" has received a very positive review from Scott T. Barnes, the editor of New Myths magazine.  I'm still peeling myself off the floor after reading his comparison of my novel to Tad Williams' "To Green Angel Tower." 

Scott says, " I enthusiastically endorse this book as a worthy addition to Celtic canon. If you are a fan of Celtic literature, or have fond memories of To Green Angel Tower in particular, pick up Three Wells of the Sea as fast as you can."

On the sequel front, ​I am happy to announce that proofreading is complete on "The Salamander's Smile" and we're getting closer to a release date.  I am halfway through draft one of my science fiction thriller, and things are looking good.

I am currently reading Witchy Eye, by Dave Butler, and thoroughly enjoying it. The command of language the man possesses (he speaks thirty) is manifested in the depth and breadth of the world and characters he has created. His writing reminds me of Tim Powers in many ways. An alternate history/fantasy. Pick it up, you won't be disappointed.

There has been lots going on this past month in my writing life as well as the day job. If you haven't read Three Wells of the Sea, its on 0.99 sale right now on Amazon! I would be honored if my readers recommended it to their friends.

I have sold the second novel in my fantasy series, and it is in development, with the proofreading, layout and cover gods working on it there at Digital Fiction Publishing. The Salamander's Smile will be out in the next two months, and I can't wait. My beta readers have told me they think it's better than the first book. I was once told by Dave Farland, "If you're writing a series, your second book has to be better than the first, or people will stop reading." I was somewhat daunted when I set out to write Salamander, but am very satisfied with the end result. I hope my readers will feel the same way. 

As a high school teacher, my writing time is principally summer and weekends. I made a big decision this year, and gave notice to my headmaster that I will not be back next year, but will become a full-time writer. I have no delusions that I will replace my income with my writing, at least not right away, but we can be creative about our finances and see what happens. It will be an adventure I anticipate with excitement and trepidation. But I know I will miss my students tremendously.

I am currently working on the first draft of a kick-ass science fiction novel that I can hardly wait to get into the hands of beta readers. Once finished with that, I will outline book three of the Three Wells series. By the way, I figure I should use a different name, or a different version of my name for my science fiction. Any suggestions?

Most people are aware of ancient megalithic structures like Newgrange and Stonehenge that were built to track and mark astronomical events such as winter or summer solstice. Clearly, even before the tribes collectively known as “the Celts” arrived in the British Isles, a systematic charting of astronomical events was in place. Other solar events seem to be tracked at countless tumuli and stone circles around the British Isles and the mainland. But what rituals might have accompanied the igniting of the inner chamber of Newgrange with the midwinter sun? Other than calendrical uses, what did the solstice mean for the people of pre-Celtic and Celtic Britain?
 
Folklorists excavate local customs that have persisted through the centuries to look for clues to the nature of the religious/mythological beliefs of people in the distant past. Many of these customs continue even today, though most have lost all real meaning except in providing a sense of community and kinship in towns and villages. Things like hunting the wren and the dancing of the Mari Llydd most certainly had meaning at some point in the distant past, meaning that can only be conjectured at this point.
 
The Mari Llydd is a Welsh custom of unknown origin. I used the imagery of the Mari Llydd in my novel “Three Wells of the Sea” when the townspeople of Caer Ys dress up their Mari Llydd with sea shells to represent the water horse. The traditional Mari Llydd is the skull of a horse placed on the end of a pole and decorated with ribbons, baubles, anything. It is carried by a man hidden in sackcloth and accompanied by a troupe of people who go door to door asking to be allowed entrance. They sing songs in exchange for food and drink, then move on. The keeper of the Mari offers to bestow good luck and fortune on those inside, though some have said they were threatened as children that if they were not good, the Mari Llydd, a ghostly horse, would come and carry them off.  In this account, I see vestiges of the Puca, or Buca.

The skull might be decorated in many ways, such as the Penglaz pictured above, but the older photos show a rope or lead is always tied to it and is held by the one who does the knocking. The use of a horse’s skull is not unique to Wales. In Cornwall, the skull is paraded at mid summer and midwinter as well, but is called the Penglaz or “gray head.” The appearance of the Hobby Horse on May Day, or Beltaine, another significant ritual day for the ancient Celts, might also be linked to the cult of the horse. It survives in the Morris Dances and Abbott’s Bromley Horn Dance as well. Though a hobby horse does not use a skull, it is simply a stick horse, ridden by one of the revelers. Much speculation has arisen as to the origin of these traditions, and though there is no firm evidence, it appears to be pre-Christian, evidenced by the similarity to other winter solstice rituals from neighboring lands like wassailing in England and the hunting of the wren in Ireland.
 
What is the significance of the horse among the various “Celtic” peoples? (The use of the term “Celt” is now hotly debated among scholars. There may have been no such thing, but a very loose collection of related tribes as different as the Romans from the Greeks.)  More specifically, why the skull of the horse and its association with the winter solstice?
 
Winter solstice marks the day of the year when the sun reaches the southernmost declination. At dawn, it rises at the most southeastern point on the horizon and its zenith would be canted to the south. The effects of this is that the hours of night hit the maximum on this day, just as the hours of day hit a maximum on summer solstice, June 21. If you were an ancient person, you might wonder what makes the sun stop in its southern trajectory, do an about face, and start moving north again. The notion that the actions of humans might affect this turn is possible, the idea of appeasing the gods is one that is well documented in all ancient cultures.

The horse has been linked to divine sacrifice among several Celtic tribes. The horse is also associated with kingship, especially among some clans in Ireland where, even in the early medieval period, the inauguration of the chieftain of a clan was accompanied by the sacrifice of a white mare, after which, the candidate bathed in its blood and wore its hide as a cloak.  The mare signified fertility, and the sacrifice of such on winter solstice in order to raise the sap to the branches once again and bring the spring, is not a stretch of the imagination. There are accounts in Ireland again (since it has the most recent pagan past) of a man wearing the head of horse and jumping through the midsummer bonfires to assure the health and fertility of the herds is well known. But no accounts exist that I have found that specifically speak of sacrifice being made on winter solstice.
 
My own feeling is that it has something to do with the reign of the two kings, the Holly King and the Oak King, made famous by Robert Graves in his book “The White Goddess.”  Though his scholarship has lately been called into question, I feel there is evidence for the pagan origin of this lore in the hunting of the wren in Ireland. But to back up a little, the folktale of the Holly King and the Oak King says that two kings do battle for sovereignty over the land. During one half of the year, the Holly King reigns, and during the other, The Oak King reigns. The two solstices mark the battle of the kings, when one is slain and the other takes control and changes the path of the sun. There is some folklore that gives credence to it:  Sir Gawain vs. the Green Knight, Lugh vs. Balor, etc.  Neopagans have latched onto this myth and made it their own. All well and good, but let’s look at what might be considered evidence for such a story in Ireland.  
 
Wren Day is celebrated on December 26th in parts of Ireland.  The origin of the custom is unknown, though when taken with the idea of the duality of the year and the kings of light and dark, it makes some sense. The custom looks rather similar to the Mari Llydd, though instead of parading the head of a horse through town, the “Wren Boys” (wearing straw suits and motley) parade the corpse of a wren, a little bird known for singing sweetly even in the middle of winter. In distant times, the wren was actually hunted and killed, certainly a sacrifice. Nowadays, a stuffed bird is carried about. PETA would be proud.  It is worth noting that the Irish refer to the wren as King of the Birds, and the Irish word for wren,  dryw, is a cognate for the Irish word for druid. The king of the waxing year has been thought to be the robin, though not as much evidence can found for that idea.

​What I suggest here is that the horse and the wren are local variations on a theme, that of the sacrifice of the sacred to assure the return of the sun and the quickening of the green flow in the earth. A fertility rite to bring the sun back to his summer reign. Personally, I find this season and its darkness offers a time to reflect inwardly, to be the barren apple tree that awaits the turning of the sun and the summoning of warmth from the cold chambers of the earth.
 
Happy Solstice.   

I am closely approaching the finished draft of book two in the Three Wells series. For those who have read and enjoyed the first book, Three Wells of the Sea, I would like to share the prologue from the second book. I hope you enjoy it and that it stirs a bit of anticipation for what's to come...

                                  ***


Here once stood a lofty idol, that saw many a fight, whose name was the Cromm Cruach; it caused every tribe to live without peace.
He was their god, the wizened Cromm, hidden by many mists: as for the folk that believed in him, the eternal Kingdom beyond every haven shall not be theirs.
For him ingloriously they slew their hapless firstborn with much wailing and peril, to pour their blood round Cromm Cruach.
                   --From the Metrical Dindsenchas, poem 7

Prologue
By the time the long twilight of the northern summer had descended, Talan’s men were loading slaves and ingots of silver onto their ships. After six summers of taking back what had been taken from him, Talan found the ice-born had not improved the defenses of their villages in the least. No more than stockade fences and miners with pikes protected their silver, which Talan found easily, buried in an obvious souterrain.

The head of the jarl who had ruled this place hung beside the door to his hall, little more than a clapboard barn with carved beams and a sod roof. A trestle table filled the center of the room and servants wailed and wept as they served smoked salmon to Talan and his chieftains.

“They left the door wide open,” he said to Pyrs, and handed him a bowl of honey-creamed cloudberries.

“Are they so ignorant?”

“I’d not count the ice-born among the ignorant,” Pyrs replied. “Stubborn perhaps, but not ignorant.”

The sound of soldiers taking what they wished from the village drifted with the smoke about the high rafters of the hall. Women’s screams, goats’ bleats, impossible to tell one from the other.

“Perhaps they thought your vengeance was sated after last summer.” The voice belonged to Maygan, Talan’s solás. She asked, “How much more do you need to be satisfied?”

Talan’s solás, his druí advisor and conscience these past six years, spoke with the voice of the land, as if she knew what the gods of the Five Quarters wanted of him. Her ash gray eyes were locked on his, and he knew ignoring her was not an option. Her plain face was set upon a weak neck, her mouth, a pale gash above a receding chin. Before he had become king, he had imagined that his solás would be a woman of uncommon beauty, uncommon wit and wisdom, one to be lusted after the way Nechtan had wanted Lyleth. There was magic in that desire; there’s magic in all desire. Yet Maygan surely wielded no magic at all. 

“We have peace through strength,” Talan said. “Isn’t that right, Pyrs?” He clapped a greasy hand on the shoulder of the chieftain who sat beside him. “Our people prosper as never before. Tell Maygan, Pyrs. Do you wish to stop this retribution we serve to the very people who enslaved our own but six short years ago?”

Pyrs was still a handsome man, though past his prime, golden-haired, unscarred, and broad in the shoulders. It had been difficult to win his allegiance, for he had been Nechtan’s closest ally and friend. They had both subscribed to their own lofty code of honor which had left their lands in ruin. But Talan had offered Pyrs the chance for vengeance, the taste of which brings such sweet satisfaction that it seduces even the most deluded and honorable, Pyrs among them.

“We are in the right to take what was taken from us,” Pyrs agreed. “But Maygan speaks some truth, my lord. The score was likely evened some time ago.”

“And now we sow the seeds of pure hatred among the ice-born,” Maygan said. “We’ve paid our debt of pain. Now we take for the sake of taking.” She never had the presence required of her position, the commanding aura of one who spoke with the authority of the green gods. She said, “Soon they will seek their own vengeance on us.”

“Blood makes us strong, blood is our song, blood is our past, blood binds us fast.”

It was the voice again, screaming inside Talan’s skull—probably spilling out from between his lips. By the looks of the faces at the table, it had taken his tongue and screamed the verse aloud. The voice came from the little man who had burrowed deep inside him and now he wasn’t sure if it was Talan or the little man who had spoken. The creature had been so quiet for so long, Talan hoped he had left him.

Maygan gave him a horrified look, and the chatter of his captains down the table ceased and all stared at him.

“Words of the Old Blood,” Maygan said. “Do you feel unwell, my lord?”

He could not be unwell. Not in front of his chieftains. “Weary,” he whispered, then clamped his mouth shut for fear something else would spill out.

He stood and navigated a path through the men who crowded the hall, pouring ale down their throats to nourish their own little men, those voices that make the decisions for each one-- the puppeteer that draws the bow, that swings the sword, that rapes the girl in the village square, because this is war and war forgives all.

Seeking a place to rest, Talan found his way to the jarl’s personal quarters where he found a treasure of silver bowls, combs, ewers, and an effigy of a god with a single red stone for his one eye. He picked up a silver mirror and opened his mouth wide, searching for those ember eyes. But the little man hid in his gullet.

He heard Maygan enter the room. Come to taunt him some more, or force her soporifics down his throat to quiet the little man. Like a crow harassing a hawk.

He picked up the crude sculpture of the one-eyed god, saying, “Why did this god fail the jarl? He clearly abandoned him in his hour of need.”

When she did not reply, he went on, “Or perhaps the god was usurped by another, a younger god who wielded powers far greater than those of the old. Isn’t that the way of gods? Just like men, they fall to the stronger ones who come after. Just like Nechtan fell to my spear.”

He turned to look at her. There was no shock on her face. She didn’t even humor him with a look of fear. Of course, she knew that Talan had killed his uncle. Didn’t everyone? Yet no one cared, for Talan had brought peace through strength. He had brought them a king who could not die, a king who would rule forever. His fingers absently touched his neck, the scar left by an ice-born axe that should have taken his life.

Maygan looked at her hands and swallowed hard. “The green gods allowed you to take the throne, my lord. Without their will, you would not have succeeded.” But her words lacked conviction.

“What gods will usurp your green gods, Maygan?”

“It is not my place to predict the future for my gods. Let me mix you a draught.” She reached for a silver cup and pulled a pouch from her belt. The sum total of the magic she knew lay in some crushed weeds.

He batted the cup across the room. “Your gods are powerless, sister greenleaf. Others stir. You feel them. You sense them. You hear the voice of the little man, but claim to be deaf. I know you hear him.”  

He felt a surge of hope that she understood, that she wasn’t as useless as he’d thought. He gripped her hands and placed them on his chest. “Feel him. He’s singing his blasted tune. His wailing drives me mad. Do you feel his voice shake my ribs? Look.”

He opened his mouth wide and forced her to peer into his throat. It’s where the little man lived. And he was awake again, his commands could not be ignored.

“Do you see him?” he cried.

Her eyes were round and full of tears. She shook her head and tried to draw her hands away. But he held them.

“Let me go, my lord!”

“You must feel him! You must cut him out of me! Here—here,” he fumbled to take his dagger from his belt.

“Take my blade. Cut him out!”

But it fell from her weak hand and clattered to the floor. Worthless bitch. Worthless leaf from a worthless tree.

The back of his hand landed on her cheek and knocked her to the floor.

“Please, my lord,” she begged. “You’re troubled, your senses deceive you.”

She’s a pathetic kneeler, the little man said aloud. She’s unworthy of her title, unworthy of our trust.

Maygan clung to his legs. “My lord, I have served you with all of my being--”

He crouched over her, clutching the silver statue of the ice-born god. “Then. Why. Have. You. Failed?”

Talan felt tears sting his eyes. What was he doing? A searing heat rose from his gut and flooded his limbs. The little man clawed his way to his tongue and screamed, “The green gods will fall!”

The silver statue felt ice cold in his hand. He tried to drop it. But that was not the action written upon the skin of time. He knew what he must do. If he did not, the sun would not rise. The little man had been clear about it.  
  
She made no move to defend herself. Talan hammered her skull with the silver god. He fought to step away, but his feet had grown to the floor. His body was not his own.

When she lay in a pool of blood, the little man laughed. He wasn’t laughing at Maygan, but at Talan.

The little man touched the blood. Tasted it. He rewarded Talan with a wave of ecstasy that coursed through his flesh.

The little man whispered with Talan’s lips, “You will find another solás, one who has the ear of a new god.”

Talan crumpled to the floor beside his solás. How would he ever be free of this beast inside?

After the hall had fallen quiet but for the soft sobbing of the women, Talan carried Maygan’s body to the shore in a sack. There, he sent her to the bottom of the fjord. An offering to a new god, one of Talan’s own making.
​
In the morning, he would set a course for the Isle of Glass. For there, Lyleth had given birth to Nechtan’s child. Talan’s little cousin. The Child of Death.

 

I can't remember where I first heard about keeping a 'bible' to track changes when writing a novel. I know many writers use them, a notebook in which you log character sketches, plot skeletons, theme exploration and one of the most important things, the names of minor characters. I know that today many writers do this with software specially built for such things, but some of us are old, and old fashioned.

Over time, a hand-written bible can become a work of art. Notes made during breakfast or after you wake up from an amazingly powerful dream. Notes on changes written in a different color or highlighted with a particular color which has some mystical meaning that I no longer remember.  I thought it might be cool to share a few pages from my bible for "The Salamander's Smile," the sequel to my fantasy novel, "Three Wells of the Sea." I'm hoping some fans of Connor Quinn's might like to have a peek at his backstory as well as the first formations of the theme. I have not included anything that might tip readers off to the plot, only a few tidbits on character.

​I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, let me know. I'll post some more.

I like to use good old composition books. You might notice the title was originally "The Crooked Path" and has been changed. You might also notice I started these notes two years ago, September 2014.

Here's just a bit of Connor's personal history. I usually interview them as well as note major events in their past. I needed to remind myself of where Connor came from. I also see I wrote this on my son's birthday. I have no idea what song I was listening to that got noted in the margin.

This last page is an attempt to explore the themes that arc through all three novels. I am constantly trying to hone in what I want to say with a story without being heavy-handed. It usually takes two drafts of a novel before I discover what the themes might be. Sometimes, I have to narrow it down.

And finally, to update those awaiting book two, I hope to have it in the hands of my beta readers in October. Then it's off for an edit, and away we go. Thanks for waiting. I hope it lives up to your expectations.