Stranger in a Stranger Land: Guest Blogger: Anne Barwell

So this was supposed to go up yesterday. But due to my actual life getting thoroughly in the way the last week, it didn't. I'm a horrible person. Anne is a wonderful, patient kind person who never says a bad thing about me or any body else even when she ought to. Please read further to make up for me being an asshat. - Real Life Dean

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Thanks, Dean, for the opportunity to be here today J

One of the themes I enjoy reading and writing in fantasy and science fiction is that of a stranger in a strange land. I enjoy the 'fish out of water' scenario in which a character finds himself out his depth in either a land or situation in which he is totally unfamiliar. Half the fun of this scenario is him trying to work out what is going on, and the other half is him coming to the conclusion that what he thought was reality needs a healthy dose of adjustment.

The theme runs with the theory of suspension of disbelief, but with a twist. When viewing or reading science fiction/fantasy, the audience has to be prepared to ignore what they think is 'reality' and believe dragons, vampires or werewolves exist. That's why world building within the genre is so important, and why the 'science' or 'magic' within it needs to follow its own set of rules.

Continuity goes a long way in making something believable. For example if I make up a world in which dragons cannot fly, I can't have a dragon show up three chapters later that can fly. Not unless I have a very good reason as to why this particular dragon can break the rules. Readers tend to notice things like that, and if annoys me as a reader, I'm certainly not going to do it when I'm writing.

But, getting back to the idea of a stranger in a strange land... Suddenly our hero's conceptions of reality are pulled out from under him and it is a scary thing. Even someone who is very capable can flounder when faced with a situation in which none of the rules he's had instilled into him since he can remember still work. Or they might, but with a major adjustment. Arthur C. Clarke once said that 'any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic'. But if thrown in the deep end and with no clue as to how that advanced technology might work, what happens then, especially if the inhabitants of that world refer to their 'technology' as magic?

In order to survive the hero needs to 'go with the flow' and pick it up as he goes along. Opening his mind to possibilities is a good start, and the growing realisation that perhaps his favourite quote about magic and science isn't as simple as he thought.

This is the very situation Tomas from my Hidden Places series finds himself in. He quotes Clarke in a couple of places in the story but the reality of it is somewhat different. In the first book Cat's Quill he meets Cathal, a mysterious man who is a mix of 'old fashioned and other worldly'. Cathal does not know of many things Tomas takes for granted and speaks of the past as though it was only a short time ago. The truth of Cathal's origins is very much outside Tomas's perception of reality. After following Cathal into another world, Tomas is forced to accept the truth, but it's another matter trying to persuade other people that he isn't losing his mind. Telling a friend that a cat isn't really a cat but―sorry, that's a spoiler ;)...

And really for Tomas, that's just the tip of the iceberg. But, after floundering and struggling to get his mind around the existence of magic, and that things work differently in Cathal's home world of Naearu, Tomas decides to trust the man he loves, and go with the flow, relying on his new friends to guide him through their strange land. Even amongst all the weirdness and him being completely out of his depth there's still one thing that holds true and is more important... He loves Cathal and losing him is not an option so he will do whatever it takes to make sure they both survive. Some things are universal no matter what world you're in, and although this world might be unlike anything he's used to, it's part of who Cathal is and where he comes from, so Tomas is not about to turn his back on it and run back to the way things were. It's the right decision, and the only way he's going to survive his new outlook on life, even if it's fraught with danger and plenty of 'you can't be serious' moments.

But that's half the fun of being a stranger in a strange land isn't it? 

Blurb: Cat's Quill (Book 1 in Hidden Places series)

Tomas Kemp has two successful novels to his name and the true belief that a successful sequel is only a matter of a little inspiration. When Tomas meets a mysterious stranger under the branches of an old oak tree, he feels compelled to tell him about a book he holds dear and the sequel he wants to read. But Cathal doesn’t share that deep belief that the sequel Tomas seeks ends happily. Cathal has seen enough of a world where stories are real to know that happy ever after is sometimes the dream that won’t come true.

But stories have never let Tomas down, and as he follows Cathal across the reality shift between their worlds, he learns that Cathal is right: Happy ever after is never just given—but sometimes, it can be fought for and won.

Excerpt:

Cathal wiped his palms on his trousers and then turned the page of the journal back and forth, his eyes scanning the words again. “Maybe I could help?” he suggested. “Can you tell me what the story is about so I can get more of an idea of what this kiss should, er… involve?”

“Involve?” Tomas’s voice sounded strained to his own ears. He coughed, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Umm, it’s about a writer who meets someone he thinks might be a muse.”

“I see.” Cathal nodded slowly. “Why does he think that?” He edged closer to Tomas, the book still balanced carefully on his lap.

“He’s drawn to this person he’s not long met.” The explanation sounded somewhat weak now that Tomas had to actually explain it to someone else. “It’s like they have a connection….”

“Like Alan and Roger in your other book?” Cathal frowned. “That doesn’t explain why—” He checked the name. “—Deimos might be a muse though, but then I haven’t read enough.”

Tomas opened his mouth to explain more, how Deimos seemed to appear and disappear out of thin air, how he seemed otherworldly, how Mark kept thinking about him all the time. Cathal placed one hand on Tomas’s knee, his breath warm against Tomas’s face. “Cat? What are you doing?”

“I’m getting into character.” Cathal reached over and brushed Tomas’s hair from his face. “You’re a writer, so you need to be Mark. That leaves me the role of the muse.” His voice was barely a whisper. “This scene is too good for it to be abandoned like the other one.” His eyes dropped to the page and back again. He licked his lips, his fingers tightening on Tomas’s knee. Tomas’s breath hitched.

“Yes, it is.”He swallowed again, reaching out his own hand to caress Cathal’s cheek, echoing Mark’s actions in his book. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered, his words following the script, his heart speeding up.

Cathal closed his eyes as he followed Tomas’s cue, slipping into a role that could have been written for him. “I think I’m in love with you,” he murmured.

Their lips brushed together, tentatively, awkwardly. Tomas pulled away, unsure, his breathing growing ragged, Cathal’s skin warm under his fingers, soft but for the slight stubble across his lower cheek, blond facial hair almost invisible. Tomas leaned in again, his lips parting this time in invitation as he pressed their mouths together. Cathal moaned softly, opening his own lips, leaning into it, his fingers threading through Tomas’s hair.

Wet skin, soft and inviting, tasting of coffee and something else Tomas could only describe as uniquely Cathal. It felt right, better than anything Tomas could have imagined. He whimpered, pulling Cathal to him, convincing himself for that moment they weren’t play acting, that this was real, that the man in his arms was someone who loved him.

The need to breathe drove them apart. Cathal’s eyes opened with a start, searching Tomas’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be.” Tomas traced Cathal’s lips with his fingers, committing the scene to memory, allowing himself a photograph he realized he wanted frozen in his mind forever. “I’m not.”

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A little about Anne....

 

Anne Barwell lives in Wellington, New Zealand. She shares her home with two cats who are convinced that the house is run to suit them; this is an ongoing "discussion," and to date it appears as though the cats may be winning.

In 2008 she completed her conjoint BA in English Literature and Music/Bachelor of Teaching. She has worked as a music teacher, a primary school teacher, and now works in a library. She is a member of the Upper Hutt Science Fiction Club and plays violin for Hutt Valley Orchestra.

She is an avid reader across a wide range of genres and a watcher of far too many TV series and movies, although it can be argued that there is no such thing as "too many." These, of course, are best enjoyed with a decent cup of tea and further the continuing argument that the concept of "spare time" is really just a myth. Livejournal Link

 

Buy it HERE at Dreamspinner Press!

Why Romance is Like a Cheeseburger

Hello, Fearless Readers! I know I have been a very quiet around these parts. I apologize. If you've been keeping up with my twitter (@Dean_Ocean  and @Dogitmayconcern) you would know I've been recovering from surgery. And there were some complications. I am going to be fine and dandy soon enough, but the recovery is slow going. And because I'm too stoned on pain medication to be much good as a writer (or blogger) I have coerced people to write posts for me. Really it was more like "Hey Gus, wanna guest blog?" And it was on. So with out further interruption and mindless rambling from yours truely, Gus explains to us why Romance is like a Cheeseburger. While he does that, I am going to get something to eat because a cheeseburger sounds delicious...

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WHY ROMANCE IS LIKE A CHEESEBURGER 

Hello readers! I’m Augusta Li, or Gus, hoping to entertain you with a guest post. Thanks to Dean for letting me take over for a bit. Today I’m going to talk about expectations and tropes particular to different genres of literature, and how much authors should adhere to them. And food. Please feel free to comment and offer your opinion. I would love to know how readers feel.

Readers come to every genre with a set of expectations, usually developed from reading other books in the genre. For example, most readers who pick up a romance novel are looking for a love story, obviously. But they expect more than that. Usually, they are anticipating some tension between the protagonists, some obstacles along the way, internal and maybe a bit of external conflict, all culminating in a happily ever after in which two people forge a bond of love and trust and plan to journey through life supporting one another. This formula has worked well for a long time, and some (though not all) readers can be disappointed if an author strays too far from it. Romance is one of the few genres where the author must divulge their conclusion if it’s something other than what’s expected. After all, mysteries and crime novels aren’t required to come with a warning if the ending is less than a fairy tale.

I’m not saying this is a bad thing. When you purchase something, you expect to receive the item you were told you’d get, within reason. Say you go into a diner and order a cheeseburger. You expect a meat patty, bun, and cheese at the minimum. Are you outraged if you get cheddar cheese instead of American? Probably not. A slightly different style of roll? It’s still a cheeseburger, still basically what you thought you’d get when you ordered. Now, if you order a cheeseburger and get spaghetti and meatballs, well… you have every right to be a bit cross.

There’s a lot you can do with the humble cheeseburger, though. Creative chefs have imagined infinite variations on the classic formula, and if you stay away from the fast-food chains, you’ll likely have a different burger at every establishment you visit. You’ll get your meat, cheese, and roll, but it’s what the chef chooses to add that can make that sandwich phenomenal, or… completely disgusting. Sometimes the smallest addition can take it from ordinary to extraordinary. As with most things, taking bigger risks will either succeed phenomenally or fail spectacularly. 

 

So, my metaphor is food-based. Go figure. I swear I didn’t plan it that way. But I truly see the romance genre like a cheeseburger. You start with those three basic components—meat, bread, and cheese—or, two protagonists attracted to each other, some conflict, and a happy ending—and build from there. Sure, you can stay pretty true to the original formula and end up with something pretty damned delicious. With some attention to detail—the right seasonings, fresh bread, a fat, juicy slice of tomato—it gets even better. What about some roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, and an artisan mustard? The possibilities are endless and limited only by the creativity of the cook—or author.

How would you feel about a slice of avocado on that burger? Wasabi mayonnaise? Hummus? Kim-chee? What if the burger isn’t beef, but turkey or salmon? How about buffalo? Kangaroo? When does it stop being a cheeseburger and transform into something else? Just how far can one deviate from the meat/cheese/bread formula and still be justified in offering their creation as a cheeseburger? I think there are a few factors.

First, the chef (or author). If you bite into it and it’s so amazingly delicious it completely blows your mind, you’ll probably like it, right? Even if it’s a little, or maybe a lot, different than what you’re used to. Likewise, if you put down a book that’s so well-crafted you miss it instantly and the characters stay in your thoughts long after, you may not mind a small swerve off the established path. This is all in the hands of the creator. I’m sure somewhere in the world there’s a master chef who can make a cheeseburger with peanut butter on it and make it scrumptious (Thai-style, maybe?) Can most of us pull it off? Probably not. But does that mean we shouldn’t try? No guts, no glory, but on the other hand, we don’t need anyone throwing up. It’s a fine line.

Secondly, of course, the reader and his or her preference. Some people just want McDonald’s, want to know exactly what they’re getting and that it will be relatively uniform each time. Nothing wrong with that. They read/eat for a familiar, comforting experience—one they can trust to give them exactly what they’re looking for. Then there are the foodies who go in search of the warthog burger. They want something completely different, and they’re willing to risk it being unrecognizable (and maybe awful). And there’s everything in between, the whole spectrum. I’m a reader who enjoys both. Sometimes I’m in the mood for something bizarre, and I take a chance. Ebooks are pretty inexpensive, so if I have to spit it out, I don’t feel like I’ve lost much. But then there are those days when I just want a Happy Meal: simple, maybe a little predictable, but it hits just the right spot sometimes. Most often, I land in the middle: a lean, juicy burger, hand-seasoned, a fresh roll, mushrooms, swiss, onions, pesto-mayonnaise. Made with love. That’s what I really look for.

What about you? What’s your favorite burger? How far are you willing to step outside the box? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tried (food or book) and was it a rewarding experience? Are you a Burger King person or an alligator-burger person, and why? Or does it all depend on the talent of the person who made it?

Thanks for reading and sharing. I’ll leave you with the blurb and an excerpt from my most recent novel, Ice and Embers, the sequel to Ash and Echoes. If I have to guess, on the burger scale, it falls somewhere in the middle with a slight leaning toward foodie-weird. No peanut butter though.

Blurb:

go buy this! Support the poor and
starving artists of the world!

Despite their disparate natures, Yarrow, Duncan, and Sasha united against overwhelming odds to save Prince Garith’s life. Now Garith is king and the three friends may be facing their undoing.

Distraught over Yarrow’s departure to find the cure to his magical affliction, Duncan struggles with his new role as Bairn of Windwake, a realm left bankrupt by his predecessor. Many of Duncan’s vassals conspire against him, and Sasha’s unorthodox solutions to Duncan’s problem have earned them the contempt of Garith’s nobles.
When word reaches Duncan and Sasha that Yarrow is in danger, they want nothing more than to rush to his aid. But Duncan’s absence could tip Windwake into the hands of his enemies. In addition, a near-mythic order of assassins wants Sasha dead. Without Yarrow, Duncan and Sasha can’t take the fight to the assassins. They are stuck, entangled in a political world they don’t understand. But finding Yarrow may cause more problems, and with his court divided, King Garith must strike a balance between supporting his friends and assuaging the nobles who want Duncan punished—and Sasha executed.

 

Excerpt:

THE bairn of Windwake cast off his golden ceremonial cloak emblazoned with the crag eagle livery and let it fall heavily to the stone floor of his chambers. Duncan collapsed into an upholstered chair by the inglenook and rubbed his forehead. The fire had long ago diminished to embers, leaving the expansive suite dark and chill on this early spring night. Ruling Windwake had turned out nothing like he’d imagined, and the stresses of yet another day of listening to the demands of squabbling nobles wore on him. When Duncan had been granted his lands and title, he’d anticipated protecting and providing for his people, much as he’d done when he’d been a knight. The reality clashed hard against his expectations. He’d rather face an entire field of soldiers than those nattering, duplicitous aristocrats any day. At least men with swords were honest about wanting to destroy him, and he knew how to counter them.

Duncan had no sooner let his eyes fall shut and his head rest against the padded velvet of the chair when he heard a sound, even softer than the flutter of a night bird’s wings, on the balcony opposite his hearth. He tensed, his exhaustion replaced by alertness. Many of his vassals couldn’t be trusted; he found them avaricious, their only loyalty to their own treasuries. Some of them still owed fealty to Taran Edercrest, the traitor whose mantle Duncan had assumed after the man’s death in a failed attempt to overthrow Selindria’s true king. Duncan knew at least a few of the backstabbing nobles might stoop to murder if they could profit from it. He crept as quietly as he could to the weapons stand and picked up his greatsword. He held it in both hands as he approached the balcony, ready to defend himself.

With the sole of his boot, Duncan nudged the wooden double doors, and they swung open with a rasp and a groan. The red-tinged crescent moon provided little light as he glanced from one end of the parapet to the other. Nothing moved except a few leaves tumbling across the stone in the light breeze. Duncan blinked hard as sweat dripped into his eyes. He knew he’d heard something, but now he wondered if the combination of his weariness and the ever-present threat of treachery toyed with his mind. He’d never been a paranoid man, but as he stood looking out from the western side of Windust Castle, over the deep, round Barrier Bay, sheltered on three sides by high cliffs, he heard nothing but the gentle lap of the waves against the strong, gray ironstone that made up so much of Windwake. On a clear day, Duncan could see almost to the southern shore of Lockhaven from this balcony, but the gloom of the night and the chill mist rising from the water restricted his vision to the dozens of ships huddled close to the shore, bobbing gently on the calm tide.

“You should be more careful.”

Duncan started and turned toward the low, velvety voice. He scanned the shadows but couldn’t locate the speaker. Then, at the opposite end of the terrace, a sliver of shade separated from the wall, and a lithe silhouette tiptoed along the thin, stone railing before leaping down in front of Duncan without even disturbing the leaves. His boots met the stone silently, and the leather armor he wore didn’t even creak or rustle.

Duncan blew out an extended breath and lowered his weapon. “Goddesses, Sasha. Why must you sneak around like that? I could have cut you in two before I recognized you.”

Sasha answered with a sensuous laugh devoid of any genuine amusement. “I don’t think you could have.”

“Perhaps not,” Duncan conceded, his happiness at his lover’s return trumping his slight annoyance. Besides, he knew Sasha spoke not out of arrogance but simply stated the truth. Sasha had been trained by a cult of assassins so legendary and feared most doubted they even existed. The Order of the Crimson Scythe held mythical status throughout Selindria and Gaeltheon, and Duncan had witnessed Sasha’s lethal skill on more than one occasion. If he’d been inclined, Sasha could have cut Duncan’s throat while Duncan stood watching the boats like a dull-witted child.

Sasha’s training was also responsible for what Duncan saw when he stepped closer to his partner: a face that, while exotically beautiful, betrayed no hint of emotion. Shrewd, black eyes offered no clue of the intentions behind them. Though they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, Duncan looked into the cold face of a killer, not the warm smile of a lover. He tried, unsuccessfully, to staunch the hurt by reminding himself Sasha had been taught almost since birth not to feel love or attachment, let alone show evidence of what he’d been told was weakness.

Duncan reached up and stroked the soft, black hair that fell to Sasha’s slender shoulders. Sasha batted his long, thick lashes and smiled mischievously. He had the most amazing, full, dark lips Duncan had ever seen, and the sight of them curling up and parting slightly sent a tremor of desire down Duncan’s spine. He hoped Sasha showed sincere pleasure at his touch, as much pleasure as he experienced feeling the smooth skin of Sasha’s cheek again after what seemed like forever. Sasha had no reason to perform with Duncan, but Duncan knew old habits held on tenaciously sometimes, like a cough that lingered after the fever had passed.

“I missed you,” he said, pressing a kiss to Sasha’s forehead. “But you could try using the front gate like a normal man. Or are you trying to impress me?”

Sasha curled his body against Duncan and brushed their bellies together. He rubbed his face against Duncan’s whiskers and whispered close to his ear. “Did it work?”

Duncan glanced over the railing at the sheer, four-story drop to the sharp rocks surrounding the fortress. A wide gravel road wound out around those cliffs from the docks to the gate at the southern wall, on the opposite side of the fortress. Aside from that entrance, Windust was virtually impenetrable. “I suppose it did. Did your—” Duncan still felt uncomfortable discussing Sasha’s work. “Were you successful?”

Sasha snorted as if insulted and crossed his arms over his slim chest. His devastating smile widened. “Pym Goodsal and his associates will cause no more trouble for your friend Garith.”

“His Majesty will be pleased,” Duncan said, taking Sasha’s gloved hand, careful of the thin blades hidden at his wrists and the razor-like spikes over his knuckles, and leading him inside.

Sasha shrugged. “So long as he produces the agreed-upon gold.”

Duncan almost asked what Sasha would do if Garith, High King of Selindria and Gaeltheon, the largest and most powerful kingdom in the known world, withheld the payment. He thought better of it, though, and went instead to add logs to the fire and stir up the coals. By now, Duncan knew Sasha regarded a prince and a beggar alike only as men who bled and died for his Cast-Down god.

Sasha removed his gloves, loosening the buckles and then tugging them off one finger at a time, while Duncan poked at the ashes in the hearth. Sasha unbuckled the belts over his hips that held daggers and pouches likely full of poisons, and then he unfastened the strap crossing his chest, along with the weapons it held, and let it drop onto a wooden bench. Sasha effortlessly disarmed himself in absolute silence. Duncan admired Sasha’s grace and fluidity of movement from the corner of his eye as he tended the fire. The room soon glowed warm and bright as the flames flickered and grew. Orange light reflected off the snug, deep-red leather wrapping Sasha’s slender limbs and made shadows dance across his face. The fire couldn’t melt the icy mask the assassin wore, but Duncan knew what might. He replaced the iron poker and crossed the room to Sasha, who stood only a few feet from the balcony door, as if waiting to be invited inside, seemingly unsure of his welcome.

Duncan curled his big hands around Sasha’s waist, almost encircling it. He drew Sasha’s chest against his, rubbed his palm up Sasha’s back to his neck, and guided Sasha’s head to his shoulder. Burying his face in the top of Sasha’s hair, he inhaled the spicy fragrance that almost masked the scents of leather, steel, and blood. “Sasha, this is your home as much as mine. I wouldn’t have any of it if it hadn’t been for you. You don’t have to enter it in secret.”

Sasha laughed icily, but his lips and nose felt warm as he nuzzled against Duncan’s neck. The tickle of his breath against Duncan’s dampening skin when he spoke made Duncan shudder. “So, you’d parade me before your nobles and officials? Claim me as part of your household, as your friend?”

You can Reach August Li at the following Interslice locations:

Gus's blog of lemony Goodness!
Gus on Facebook
Books by Eon and Gus, Website

Guest Post: Grace R. Duncan

 Readers! Meet Grace R. Duncan, fellow author and sci-fi nerd. She decided to do a guest blog for me today, and in it she talks about some of her writing process, and how she goes about letting the readers know about the world's she creates. As a not-so-reformed Role Playing Dork I appreciate a good 'Verse. Sometimes I think I am more interested in building the world of my characters than actually writing a story, which was probably why role playing appealed (and still does, shhhh) to me so much. Be sure to check out her new book "CHOICES" in theaters--err...released by Dreamspinner Press. Also go cyberstalk her on the web, it's what all the cool kids are doing, and by that I mean; it's what I'm doing.

Please note I absolutely love having guest authors on this blog! (And not just because it means I don't have to do any work...) So if you want to write something for "Real Life Dean" send me an email ( real.life.dean@gmail.com ) and we'll make it happen. You can write about anything folks, I am not a fussy man. But onwards to Grace's brilliant work...

When I sat down to put together my post for today, I envisioned myself being nearly tormented when it came to deciding on the excerpt I would want to use for my post. Worldbuilding has definitely become one of my favorite parts of writing – creating the world, deciding the rules and laws, figuring out the history and politics and then coming up with a way to describe it is so fun to me.

But when I started to dig through my book to find the excerpt for this post, I ran into a bit of trouble.

See, I learned a long time ago that information dumps are bad. Like, the kind of bad that the reviewers and readers like to take an author out back and shoot you for. Of course, I’ve actually have a few people complain that I didn’t do an info dump in a couple of places, but those seem to be the exception.

But because of hearing this kind of thing over and over, I’d taken it to heart so much, that… there are very few passages that talk about my world. Not at length. So, instead, I thought I’d pick up a few of the individual bits from the book and show examples of how I set up the world in small bits and pieces.

Choices has three distinct countries in it, as I’ve mentioned in other blog posts. There is Saol (essentially medieval Europe), Neyem (the Middle East) and Tiantang (China). As my characters didn’t really venture into Saol in the text, I didn’t have to describe it. Instead, I focused on the two countries they did travel through: Neyem and Tiantang.

Neyem, an Arabic desert nation is the main location for the story. Most of it takes place inside the royal palace, so the vast majority of description is of it. The opening chapter, in fact, has very little description about the world. I wanted the reader to get a basic idea, but in truth, exactly where they were wasn’t important. I included a few bits like this:

THE cold night air bit at his nose and he yanked the thin black cotton of his face covering higher. Nighttime in the desert, even in summer, even in the city, had a sting to it that made these types of jobs miserable.

And:

The wind kicked up a bit and sand blew in small dervishes that danced across his tiny hiding space.

I thought that, though it might give a bit of flavor, it wouldn’t distract from what was really going on. It wasn’t until after they’re caught, taken to the palace and sentenced that I got into it. Here, I thought, would be where Teman might be able to pay more attention, would want to since he’d never been there and, thus, give me a better opportunity to build my world a bit. The following is probably the longest bout of description I have in the book, from chapter two:

Finally, several levels up, they emerged in a hallway much smaller and less open than those of the first floor. Doors lined either side, all closed. The hallway itself, lit by low-burning oil lamps, was dim and long, and Teman’s trepidation grew as they walked. He found himself wondering what they’d gotten themselves into this time, because he wasn’t sure he could see them getting out of it.

Teman saw that the hallway ended by opening into a large, round room. Before they got to that room, however, the captain opened a door to their left and waved a hand for them to precede him. Sheer fabric fell in long streams from the ceiling in reds and oranges. There were large, intricately woven rugs covering the cool marble floors, and two big windows opened out into the cold night air, silk fluttering in the light breeze. Along one wall, a fire burned to ward off the chill of the desert night.

There was a desk off to one side covered in papers, inkpots, and a host of other indications of business, a comfortable-looking chair at an odd angle behind it. Opposite the desk was a long lounger covered in plump pillows, and on small tables here and there burned incense, giving a spicy scent to the air.

There is one other description that is part of Neyem that I really like. Without giving too much away, they are out and on their way to Tiantang. As they are, I included this bit that is one of my favorites:

THE desert was an unfriendly, brutal place. Teman’s early life out in the miles and miles of empty terrain full of sand and heat had taught him well how to deal with it.

He’d learned early on how to ration water to make sure he would have enough. He’d learned to take care of his animal first because, while he could pass out on its back, if it gave out, he would be dead. He’d learned to travel early and late in the day, and leave the heat of the afternoon for hiding in tents and other shelter.

This is not to say that the above descriptions are all I did of Neyem, just two of them. However, I tried to weave it in with action or other goings-on so I didn’t have Tolkien-esque blocks of text.

I have decided that I thoroughly love worldbuiding. I hope in the not too distant future to make up even newer worlds with a longer history, perhaps its own religion, among other things. For now, Neyem, Tiantang and the rest will have to do.

What parts of another world do you like to read about? What are your favorite things to find see?

Do remember to leave a comment for a chance to win a swag bag full of goodies from Choices! Each commenter will be entered and one person will be chosen by random number to win.

Thanks to Dean for hosting me today and thanks for stopping by to read!

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Choices blurb:

Born and raised a gypsy in the late eleventh century, Teman values freedom over everything. He and his best friend, Jasim, are thieves for hire—until one night they're caught and their precious freedom is revoked. Given the choice between the dungeons or palace pleasure slavery, they become slaves, but Teman vows to escape someday. 

Bathasar doesn’t want the throne. He supports his brother instead, which suits their sadistic father, Mukesh. When Teman, the handsome slave Bathasar has secretly been watching, saves his life, Bathasar requests a slave for the first time. Before long, Bathasar and Teman fall in love. But all is not well. One day Mukesh brutalizes Teman before the court, angering the empress of a neighboring nation. To appease her, he then offers her Jasim as a gift, and Teman decides to stay with Bathasar for now—despite the abuse he may suffer. 

The peace doesn’t last. Mukesh plans to invade Jasim's new country, and Bathasar must find a way to stop the destruction. But if he succeeds, he'll ascend to the throne and have the power to grant Teman his liberty. Then Teman will surely leave him. What other choice could a gypsy make?

Website: http://www.grace-duncan.com/
Blog: http://gracerduncan.wordpress.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authorgraceduncan
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