I just published a new cover for The Fury Clock. To be honest, the book simply does not sell, even though I think it’s a vastly readable and hilarious story. What’s not to like about scoundrel heroes, beautiful barmaids, cantankerous dwarfs, sanctimonious ogres, evil necromancers, monsters, roast boar, and dirty farmboys intent on saving the world? Humorous fantasy seems to be a very narrow field, despite the success of Terry Pratchett and…well, Terry Pratchett. At any rate, there’s a rather nasty dragon in the story, so I’m giving him front and center billing for the cover. I hope this attracts a few more eyes…

The Seal Whistle is the name of my newest Tormay story. I just passed the 100 page mark and I’m not sure where the end is. It could turn into a regular novel or just a long novella. We’ll see what the characters want to do. I’m fairly pleased with this one for various reasons. For one thing, it answers a big question that was left unanswered at the end of the Tormay Trilogy. I can’t say what the question is, as it would reduce a certain amount of the story’s fun. However, the question concerns what happened to one of the main characters of the trilogy, after the trilogy ended. The Seal Whistle involves the sea, of course, which you probably already figured out from the title.

I’m finding it an interesting thing to revisit Tormay. The land exists in such detail in my mind that I’m discovering the story refuses to simply unfold in a straight and quick fashion. Rather, characters intrude and have their say and then go back to whatever they were doing: herding cattle, fishing, chatting in a tavern, several doing rather evil things, a young boy trying to earn enough money for a pair of boots.

If you’d like a sneak peek at The Seal Whistle, I’m going to release the first eight pages next week. However, you have to be on my email list to get them.

The old stories about Sleeping Beauty never got it right. I’m sure you suspected that. I’ve written the real story. The genuine article. It all began in a little Central European country called Bordavia with a princess named Rosamonde. Well, I’m getting ahead of myself. You’ll have to read the story for yourself and find out about Rosamonde and the family curse. It’s actually more of a novella than a story, being a length somewhat in between a story and a novel. Now, I’m off to work on my newest Tormay tale. It can’t wait any longer (actually, I’m about 2/3 of the way through the first draft).

My mother is the quintessential picture of the renaissance woman. She’s never been fond of institutional education, having walked out of college on the first day of school, never to return. Yet, she is the consummate artisan in many disciplines: stained-glass, painting, weaving, tailoring, and other pursuits. A rather large loom sits in her studio. Occasionally, these days, she will set up a weaving, which involves a great deal of planning and the mysterious work of threading yarn through different eyelets on the loom, all in preparation to the actual weaving itself (the shuttle, pedals, etc).

While I’ve dabbled in painting over the years, as well as a few stained glass pieces, I’ve never tried weaving, as it looks too complicated for my patience level. However, the work of shuttling the yarn back and forth, twining the different colors with each other and then tightening and adjusting and tweaking…it all reminds me of writing stories. I imagine the Greeks were onto something when they pictured the Fates as weaving the stories of our lives together in their cave.

I’m currently neck-deep in another Tormay story called The Seal Whistle. It’s turning out a rather beautiful shamble of a tale, full of the sea and the north and lostness and the dark. I think about 2/3 of the way through the first draft, but what I’m looking forward too is tightening the threads. Like a weaver, I suppose, adjusting and tweaking and snipping here and there until the blanket comes out warm, practical and, hopefully, somewhat beautiful.

I can’t weave, but I can write stories. I’m glad to be back in Tormay, and I’m already teeing up the next Tormay story in my mind, as soon as I’m done with this one. The current one takes place about ten years after the end of the Tormay Trilogy, borrowing a few characters here and there from that story. The next tale, however, will jump off directly from an incident that happened in the second book of the trilogy, and incident involving an ogre. I’m looking forward to it, because I’ve often wondered what happened…

Fantasy should be written for children, not adults. Have you ever sat down and read a child a fantastical story? If they aren’t the sort of child who’s had their imagination ruined by a vigorous schedule of television and video games, their eyes will grow wide and sparkle, they’ll listen avidly, and they’ll laugh and nod and be full of questions. Full of faith that marvels can happen. They have the capacity to believe that dragons might still be lurking under the mountains, dwarves still mining for silver and mithril, elves wandering the forests, shadows creeping in the darkness.

Children still have the capacity for wonder.

Adults, on the other hand, do not. Most adults, I’ll grant an exception out of the goodness of my heart and the knowledge that it’s always chancy to claim 100% when dealing in statistics. Adults are stunted and jaded. Jaundiced and weary. They do not have the capacity for wonder. They have a capacity for sensation, which is why so much of the adult fantasy inflicted on the reading world these days is full of violence and gore and sex and a great deal of mind-numbing sensory overkill.

I rather think that most adults are a lost cause in this respect. But children? No, they’re still willing to suspend the dreary bonds of mundanity. Write fantasy for them, if you’re going to write it. Perhaps some of the adults out there, those with younger minds, will read your stories as well. If they do or if they don’t–that’s irrelevant–save your creativity for the children, for they’re the only ones who truly understand about hobbit holes or white rabbits who are in dreadful hurries or flying bedsteads or black cauldrons that should really be left alone.