Joely Sue Burkhart

Y’all know I’m a Missouri girl through and through, raised on a little country farm.  The most exotic thing I’ve ever done is take some French classes at Drury a hundred years ago, which I sucked at, by the way.

So last night was our little adult dinner get-together with That Man’s brothers and their wives.  We had a little surprise:  his parents arrived unexpectedly from the Lake of the Ozarks.  We left the monsters with their cousins and headed to the Metropolitan Grill, my choice this time.  We’re having a lovely time visiting, when Aunt BB left to use the restroom.

She came back glowing with excitement.  “They have a bidet!  You’ve got to try it!”

Now this wasn’t any boring old bidet by any means.  This one was programmable with a heated seat.  Oscilliate or pulse?  Front or back?  Dry? 

I’m not kidding.  We giggled and laughed throughout the rest of the dinner, with BB encouraging all of us to drink faster so we could all try the restroom.  She challenged me to try it, and you know I never refuse a challenge.  Write a zombie love story?  I’m there.  Try an electronic bidet?  Ooookay.

They had a sign in the restroom with instructions on how to work the thing, and the header was “To Bidet or Not to Bidet.”  That cracked me up and I was sold.  Of course I tried it.

I don’t think they’re going to let me go back to the Metropolitan Grill.

Kidding.  I didn’t blow up anything.  But you know my history with power cords…

Clarissa has given a wonderfuly wicked review of Rose:

Those are just two words to describe “The Rose of Shanhasson” by Joely Sue Burkhart. Joely expertly blends Fantasy and Romance in a novel that will make your heart thump thump thump as mine did. She produces characters that pull at your heart-strings and you’ll ache just as they ache. They are well put together and absolutely magnificent.

She ends with a special request:

I want more! ….and a Gregar doll.

hehehe  I’ll keep my eyes open for a Gregar doll, but if I find one, I’d have a very hard timing letting him go!

Thank you so much, Clarissa!

I reached the midway turning point of Road tonight.  It’s nearly 1:00 a.m., I cleared 4K today to get here, and yeah, it pretty much sucks in a gloriously bloody heart-wrenching way.

May the thunder of the Great Wind Stallion’s hooves carry you home to His Clouds.

There your hooves and feet will never tire.

Your body will never falter or fail.

You will gallop across the sky at Vulkar’s side,

and we who remain will hear your thunder, and remember.

This section comes shortly after the one from last week when Shannari cut the Shadowed Blood up pretty well.  If you’ve read The Rose of Shanhasson, you know that Shannari has a deeply ingrained fear when she’s grabbed or threatened from behind (another reason those little touches last week were so significant).  Gregar is determined to make sure she’s well able to defend herself if he’s not at her back.

First draft, edited for content to reduce spoilers to the first book in the series. 

From the eager look on Dharman’s face as she faced him with a rahke, Gregar had certainly been correct. The boy looked more than happy to receive the same kind of punishment that she’d given the Blood yesterday.

“It was not punishment, Khul’lanna. You honored me greatly.” Gregar laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “You honored me so much that now Khul demands to drill with you as well as these lads. Soon even Varne will demand the chance.”

“She shall refuse.” Dharman bit off each word, his jaws straining.

Gregar gave him a considering gaze and nodded. “Aye. I should not like to see Khul’lanna drill with Varne any time soon.”

How dare they dictate whom she drilled with? As though either of them had any say in what she intended to do. “I believe I’ll march back to Camp, find Varne, and demand he drill with me immediately.”

Dharman blanched, his hand fisted on his rahke, but Gregar bent over laughing. Shaking his head, he straightened and slapped the boy on the back. “You have my sympathies, Dharman. Watching you attempt to order her about will prove quite amusing.”

Irritated, she turned away and started walking back toward Camp. She didn’t much appreciate Gregar’s sense of humor, not when he backwards encouraged the boy to try and give her orders. A boy! She–

A footfall behind her was the only warning. Arms locked about her, one hand about her throat, another pinning her arms to her sides. Fear curdled her stomach, until she recognized the boy’s sweet scent of buttered honey.

Because he’d made her afraid, she quaked with rage. She fought him, slamming her head back, kicking his shins, raking at his face with her left hand.

Her left hand. He’d only pinned her right. She reached across her body and dragged the rahke from the sheath. It felt awkward, even more so than when she’d first taken the small six-inch knife into a hand well-used to a sword.

“Good.” Gregar glided around in front of them. His eyes glittered in the sunlight, faceted obsidian and shadows, his voice cold and hard. “Most men are right handed and so typically eliminate that threat first. Since you’re a woman, a man will likely want your throat in his hand, too. He won’t consider your left hand a threat at all.”

Dharman kept his hand firm on her throat, but he didn’t close off her wind. He actually held her very carefully indeed, which only pissed her off more. Her best effort had done nothing but make the boy sweat more of that sweet innocent cookie scent. “The rahke feels strange in my left hand. I don’t know how to hold it so I can stab him.”

A small tremor flickered through the boy at her back. Not fear. Anticipation. His fingers tightened minutely, his body shifting slightly as though in…welcome. Her stomach clenched with dread.

“It shall be easier once you carry my ivory rahke,” Gregar said. “You should wear it on your left. You’ll know when to use it rather than the black.”

“I’m not going to carry your rahke,” she retorted. “This is pointless! I’m not going to stab anyone.”

Gregar lifted her left hand and turned the rahke in her grip so the blade pointed down and back along her wrist. “This is the position for rear defense. You can hide the blade relatively well by keeping your hand down and holding the rahke flat along your forearm. When you strike, let the blade drop into your grip at right angles, like this.” He demonstrated, wrapping his fingers around her hand firmly.

Stepping closer, he moved her arm back slowly until she felt the blade point dig into the boy behind her. Her palms were so sweaty she likely would have dropped the blade without Gregar’s fingers on hers. Dharman held himself very still. As tall as he was for his age, she could only imagine exactly what body part she threatened with the vicious rahke.

“Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. If someone grabs you, unsheathe a rahke and smoothly stab backward, like this. Then drag the rahke up with all your strength. Slash side to side if you have time.”

The thought of maiming the boy like that made her light headed. Breathing shallowly, she closed her eyes and concentrated on deeper, slower breaths so she didn’t thoroughly embarrass herself and faint.

“Although it hurts like the Three Hells, this is not necessarily a killing blow,” Gregar continued. “The more you scramble his intestines, the better your chance at escape and his death.”

Her eyes flew open, locking on his face. “If I did this to you, you’d die.”

He smiled slowly, flames flickering to life in the dark shadows of his eyes. “Do you think so? As a Death Rider, I’m already half dead. Some argue more than half dead. To win this ivory rahke, I climbed the jagged slopes of Vulkar’s Mountain and sliced my body to ribbons. Thankfully, Vulkar accepted my sacrifice, else I would have died on those black slopes. I saw the fiery lake at the center of His Mountain, but the cost was part of my life. I’m very, very difficult to kill, Khul’lanna. All Death Riders are. If one were to grab you thusly–”

His jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. Dharman gathered her closer to his body, his grip comforting, now.

“Gut him like this, but don’t assume he’s disabled. The best way to kill a Death Rider is to slit his throat and offer his own blood sacrifice to Vulkar as quickly as possible. Aim for the large veins in the neck and groin. If you don’t finish him quickly, he’ll slaughter you with his own intestines tangled about his legs. We do not stop. Not for anything.”

“You did,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.

“Nay.” He stepped back. “I have not stopped, Khul’lanna. That is why we shall do the drill again and again and again, until you would stab even Khul if he dared seize you from behind unawares.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Aye, you can, and you will.” The look in his eyes made her skin crawl. It was as though he looked into the future, reading the weft and weight of some tapestry she was only vaguely aware of. “Your life depends on it. If Dharman doesn’t bleed from a dozen wounds within the hour, I shall be severely disappointed.”

 

The scene I’m writing in Road showed me exactly what a coward I still am sometimes.

Oh, I think I’m so brave.  Boldly writing exactly the kind of story I want instead of suffering to fit a square peg into a round hole and wondering why it doesn’t work.  Shipping off contest entries to be reamed.  Proudly earning the rejection badge of courage with agent query after query shot down.  I’ve grown as a writer, nearly five years old now.  I know a few things.  I’ve survived.

So brave.

And yet when a scene comes along that I’ve been dreaming of for years and years…I cheat.  Skipping ahead to this dream-come-true scene, I write the set up, happily, but when I get to the heart of everything this story is, I write a one-paragraph “summary.”  I know it’s not right, but I’m so frozen, so full of dread and fear, that I can’t do it.  So I let that paragraph ride and I go back to the main story line.  I shouldn’t skip ahead, I tell myself, but in reality, I need to write something safer.  Assassination attempts, political manuevering, battles, even another sex scene, because hey, that’s a hell of a lot easier than facing the scene I fouled up.

Word by word, page by page, I’ve caught up to that foolhardy cowardly paragraph.  I had skipped ahead in my glittering confidence, sure I could bang that “candy bar” scene out; now, I can’t afford to mess around with it.  This IS the candy bar scene of scenes.  This is what so much of the journey has been about.  I can’t mess this up.  I can’t sit here and play this scene safe.  Safe will kill this story, and if I kill THIS story, then I kill myself as a writer.

I’ve got to hang it all out in the wind and take my punches.

So I did it last night.  I finished the brutal scene that should have been a pleasure, a dream come true, and was in fact harder to write than slaughtering a beloved character.  The scene’s not right yet, but at least I quit being a coward.  At least I took the shot, I took the risk, though I haven’t decided if I hit the basket or not.

I guess in the end, that’s what matters.  At least that’s what Gregar told me when he hauled me out of the Well, dripping wet with my lungs full of water.  Lying there, gasping for breath and coughing, I realized something.  It all seemed so clear (I hear near death experiences do that).  I never could have written this scene two years ago, even one year ago.  Hell, I barely wrote it now.  It wasn’t on the realm of possiblity when I first started out nearly five years ago.

It all began to make sense.  Why this story had to take so long to come to fruition.  Why I had to dream about it for years.  Because in the end, I never could have written it right until I’d suffered and bled and earned the right to be here.  All of these years, I’ve been climbing up Vulkar’s Mountain, bleeding a little more each day, and hoping, praying I would reached the top.  I almost turned back so many times.  

This Mountain has nothing to do with success, not like I thought at first, and everything to do with Seeing, myself most of all.

Last night, I found the lake of fire at the top of the Mountain, I saw the heartfires of the earth dancing toward heaven, and I understood.

Since we’ve been talking about a book that really pissed me off last week, I thought I’d do a “readers meme” of things an author does that you as a reader deem Unforgivable.  What makes you throw a book against a wall and scream “Never again?”

1. The Imhotep Syndrome:  The hero does something unheroic live action in the book, like leaving the love interest behind to die.  This is what made the recent book unforgivable for me personally and earned the Imhotep reference.  Yeah, Anck Su Namun does leave him to die at the end of The Mummy Returns, and she receives an appropriate recompense.  Unless you’re going to kill the hero for payment of such cowardly behavior, this is unforgivable in my book.
2. The “Who Shot JR” Syndrome:  Ever since the last episode of the season for House, M.D. (season 2 or 3?) was a dream sequence, only revealed at the end, I’ve refused to watch it.  I love musicals but despise Oklahoma!  Again, because of that retarded dream sequence.  Now if I *know* it’s a dream and the dream ends up crucial to the story, that’s different.  But as a reader or viewer, I despise being tricked.  (For those of you too young to remember Dallas, the evening sitcom very popular in the 80s, a very large mystery involving “Who Shot JR” was later revealed to be a dream.  At least that’s my foggy memory of the show, and if that’s an invalid reference, let’s call this the #$*@ Dream Syndrome.)
3. The “I See Dead People” Lie:  I loved Sixth Sense.  I loved watching it the first time, completely unawares, and then watching it again and catching the little clues.  I get goosebumps when stuff like that works.  As a reader, I relish those little crumb trails and follow it eagerly to the Gingerbread House in the center of the woods.  I want the Witch there ready to eat the little children.  If it’s all just random garbage thrown in there to trick or confuse me, and those little crumbs lead absolutely nowhere?  That’s unforgivable with a potty word flying from my mouth as your book hits the wall.
4. The Dr. Who Are you Again?:  I don’t actually watch Dr. Who (I’d love to but That Man is too busy watching Matlock and MASH), but one of the kisses of death for me as a reader is when it’s just not memorable.  When I’ve been reading the book, put it down to cook dinner, and then have a free half hour to spare between monster baths, dishes, bedtime stories, etc.  I look at the book, and I can’t remember the characters’ names.  Oops.  Why should I pick up that book again?  Definitely unforgivable.
5. The Death-By-Chocolate-Caramel-Butterscotch-Banana-Split-Everything-But-the-Kitchen-Sink Soup:  Oooh, paranormal is hawt!  Lots of sex is hawt!  Menage scenes are selling like hotcakes!  I’ll throw it all together and make a killer dessert!  Who cares if none of it actually makes sense….
6. The Perfect Record Seatbelt Law:  We should always follow the speed limit and wear our seatbelts because readers don’t like us to take risks.  It’s too shocking and not very politically correct either.  Safety first!  Meanwhile I’ve smeared ink on my forehead because I fell asleep on the book. 

I’m going to have to make some tough decisions this year.  Looking at my list of everything I want to work on, I’ve realized I simply can’t do it all.

At first, I was rather gloomy about it.  If only I had more time, I could finish more projects.  But this is my reality.  I have to make it work.  I have 1-2 hours each morning to write, depending on how early I can drag my ass out of bed.  Any time during the evening that I can write is gravy.  That’s it.

Meanwhile, April is a page I’ll soon be ripping off my calendar, and the year is slipping through my fingers.

Now that I’m under contract, I have commitments that must be met.  That’s a very good thing indeed.  That gives me my highest priority.  Road will be finished this year.  A third Keldari novella will be finished this year.  Book 3 in the trilogy will follow on those heels–maybe I’ll write the first draft as my NaNoWriMo novel this year, or at least start it.  Next year, Charon’s book for the Mythomorphoses world, unless Deena asks for it over Return to Shanhasson.

I might, if I work really hard the last part of the year, be able to get through revisions on ONE story.  One.  While I’ll be grinding through editor revisions and promo on two other stories at the same time.  In my head right now, I hear the record guy from Walk the Line asking Johnny Cash what’s the one song he’d sing.  If he was dying in a ditch and this was his only chance to tell God what he felt about this life…

I love Letters.  I do.  But.  I don’t know that it’s the smartest choice for me right now.  Based on recent contest feedback, it might be better shelved.  It’s definitely a love it or hate it kind of story and it does nothing for my brand.  But.  That story’s a gut-wrencher and powerful in many ways.  The revision is almost finished.  Hmmm.  See why I keep waffling? 

RHP or Night Sun Rising.  Not sure which, yet.  The latter has a ticking clock associated with it and I know I’ve seen at least one other similarily premised story announced in Publisher’s Lunch already.  Both are rough first drafts.  RHP is a departure in many ways for me.  Both need so much work it makes my stomach clench with anxiety just thinking about sitting down and locking on to one or the other. 

But that’s exactly what I need to do.  One of these two stories is a definite must do for the second half of the year.  And the rest, well, will just have to be gravy.  With a cherry on top.  *winks*

What a great weekend! 

Saturday, I drove down to Joplin (a bit of an achievement because I really don’t like to drive on the freeway, but I didn’t have any problems) to go to a Ren Faire with my Beloved Sis!  I got to catch up with Pesh and meet her husband as well as several other friends.  They are a hilarious bunch, let me tell you, but with Molly as a friend, I expected nothing less than to come home with my sides hurting from laughing. 

Conn was rather disappointed with the weapons demonstrations, but otherwise, it was a lovely day.  Not too warm or too crowded.  I picked up some neat hair garlands for the monsters with matching magic wands.  They’ve been dancing around giving out wishes ever since, but oddly, no laundry or dishes fairy has shown up yet.

I did get a little writing done each day and I’m close to my 30K goal for April.  May is forming up to be a brutal month with at least 30K to finish the first draft of Road.  I mean, hello, I’m not even ON the Road to Shanhasson yet…  However, I’m definitely on the metaphorical Road, and some agonizing events must happen first to force Shannari’s feet onto the Road where she doesn’t want to travel. 

I’m just scenes away from Gregar’s heart’s desire.  That scene’s been years in the making, and I’m actually dreading it.  Lots of expectations and worries twisted together into such a simple scene.  I’ll just have to jump into the Well and hope for the best.

A new month is just around the corner.  Are you thinking about your goals yet?

Soleil Noir has given a terrific review of Rose!  She says:

 It took me three days to finish reading this book, and I have no doubt the characters and their world will haunt me for the rest of my life.

My hands are still shaking.

I highly recommend “The Rose of the Shanhasson” to any lover of romance, fantasy, or even better, both. I am seriously considering putting it above even the likes of The Princess Bride. (No small compliment from me here as I love that book. But, honeys? I’m so sorry, Wesley has got nothin’ on Rhaekhar, in my humble opinion.

Joely, you tore my heart out with this story and made me loved it! My heart’s still racing and my eyes are still a little moist, I need to go grab some Klennex.

What a fantastic review!  Thank you so much, Soleil.  Gregar salutes you.

I’m cursed, I say, cursed.  I’ve had so many computer problems over the years, almost all involving power cords in some fashion.  This laptop is not quite a year old yet, but it’s been through hell. 

There was the coffee spill…  I was sitting outside in the garage while the monsters rode their bikes last summer, and Middle Monster ran into my chair on her bike, spilling coffee all over me and the laptop.  Brand new keyboard, but at least the motherboard was fine.  However, while it was in the shop, they had to replace the power cord for some reason with a junky replacement one.  The original Toshiba cord just quit working.

Then two nights ago, I was sitting here in my green chair writing while That Man watched TV and I heard a strange snapping sound.  Coming from my computer.  No, coming from the power cord…  YIKES.  The flexible bendy part had a short in it!

So I went back to the computer place yesterday for yet another cord.  At least he had one in stock that does fit, and it’s a better quality one than the other.  (Cost me double, too.)

Writers beware:  keep my away from your power cords!!

I’m working on the first draft of Road with a goal of hitting “The End” by the end of May.  Since this is the second in a trilogy, I’m not going to be able to share a lot without giving away huge spoilers.  So I will edit these for content to hide certain facts that I don’t want you to know until you read Rose.  I know, I’m wicked.

Dharman and Sal are two young men (Dharman’s the oldest at age 15) and they’re making a bit of a nuisance of themselves.  Shannari doesn’t quite know how to handle them, but right now, they’re the least of her worries.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Blood and Shadows world snippet without some Gregar action…

Dharman and Sal had been joined by a third boy with golden hair that glinted in the sun. Grazing nearby, Wind nickered softly, pressing her soft muzzle into Shannari’s back. The gesture was typically comforting, but she couldn’t help but worry. What did they want?

They said nothing and made no move to intercept or speak to her, but they watched. Every day, they lingered, making an appearance right as she left Camp to drill with the Blood. She highly suspected they followed to spy on her.

“Do not worry, Khul’lanna,” Gregar said, his voice carefully light and unconcerned. He touched her back lightly, a small soothing caress, his hand instead of the mare’s nose. “I’m glad they remain near. If I slip while we drill, shout Dharman’s name. He’ll hear you and reach you before Khul may.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “I’m certainly not going to call for the boy, and I’m not afraid of you, either.”

Gregar could have called her on the small lie, but he let it slip. Standing across from him with knives in their hands was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and he’d promised to do it every single day. After nearly two weeks, it was a little easier, but her heart still pounded frantically. Sweat trickled down her back, her palm so damp the hilt felt oily in her hand as she drew the rahke from the brilliantly colored belt.

Wind didn’t like their drilling sessions, either. The mare hovered, bumping into her, snorting at the Blood and striking out at him with her hooves. She never kicked him, but her warning was clear. “Wind, enough. Go graze.”

The mare threw her head up, shaking silver mane in denial.

“Go on,” Shannari insisted, giving the horse a friendly swat. “I can’t practice if you interrupt. Go!”

Gregar inclined his head to the horse and touched his right fist to his heart. With a final fierce snort, Wind trotted off into the distance. Not too far, Shannari guessed, the same as those boys. Bloody hell. She might as well have Rhaekhar standing around playing nursemaid too.

Carved roses dug into her palm. Staring at Gregar, she struggled not to flinch back into a defensive crouch.

The Shadowed Blood stood with the sun at his back, his face lost in the brightness. He simply stood there, without the rahke in his hand, and she knew the cold suffocating terror of nightmares. When he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave, low and rumbly bass. “Attack me.”

She took a deep breath, focusing her will, gathering her courage. Fighting him tested every last one of her skills, and she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the much shorter blade. The mirrored lake glimmered in her mind, and she methodically pushed her fears and thoughts into the water, letting them flow from her. Rather, the waters welled within her, filling her, bubbling up like a pure, sweet spring.

A vision flashed in her mind: a strange tree, a trunk gleaming like bone, and drops of blood on shadows for leaves.

“The kae’sangral,” he whispered, his voice so low, so dark. “I am your Shadow, and I will bleed for you this day. Attack!”

She darted forward, swinging the rahke in a quick arc, and he leaped back, his eyes glittering, taunting.

“Faster, Khul’lanna. Do not hesitate. This day, I want you to feel the cut of rahke through flesh, to measure your strike for exactly the right amount of blood. Remember, shallow, thin cuts will honor me. No injury, no stitches, just blood. Can you honor me? Can you bleed me?”

Blessed Lady, he knew exactly the best way to challenge her. She settled the rahke better in her palm and went after him. Even though he held no weapon and couldn’t block her strikes even if he’d wanted, he was incredibly fast. He let her have nothing easily.

Dripping sweat, she finally felt the rahke catch him in the abdomen in a long flash of red. Her stomach pitched queasily and she faltered, her hand shaking.

“Good,” he said, his low voice thrumming her spine. “But you can do better. This is a bit deep. Try again. Honor me, Khul’lanna.”

The scent of his blood ripened on the air, dark syrupy caffe and baking bread, heated by the sun. It was easier to place the next cut on his arm, the next on his opposite shoulder.

When she would have called a break, he urged her onward. “Excellent. Feel how shallowly you cut? Control the blade. It is merely an extension of your hand. You can fight closer, whether with surprise or challenge, and my longer reach and greater strength is not as great a factor as when you wield the sword.”

“Your longer reach means nothing if you don’t even draw a weapon yourself,” she panted. Sweat burned her eyes, but she dared not pause until he told her. He was a fierce task master and could put her Rashan swordmaster to shame for barking orders. “No assassin will let me attack without fighting back.”

“I am not any assassin.” He laughed, and the sound slithered through her like dark chocolate. “Keep bleeding me, Khul’lanna.”

Fear clutched her stomach. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I bleed for you.”

Continuing the discussion from yesterday, yes, I’m still reading the problem book and I’m getting madder.  According to a very reliable source, I’m going to be even more pissed once I read the ending, and it has NOTHING to do with whether or not there’s a HEA.  I could care less.  Seriously.  I was all set for this book to NOT be a romance.  Whether or not HEA happens has nothing at all to do with my overall enjoyment–or more likely dissatisfaction–with this book.

Let me just get one more thing off my chest.

Riddick is an anti-hero for a reason.  Yes, he was going to leave the settlers behind in Pitch Black.  He had that power.  He didn’t have any moral obligation to them–all he cared about was himself.  He chose to go back, not because he felt like it was the right thing to do, far from it.  He went back because he could.  Because he was the only one who could.  That’s why he’s an ANTI-hero.  (Yeah, he’s also a murderer, but I still think he’s an incredible character.)

One cannot have a HERO make that same kind of decision and have me believe they’re heroic.  A hero cannot leave people behind.  I don’t care how scared they are.  I don’t care how many times they think “I’m not heroic.  I’m not.”  YOU, the author, TOLD ME this person was heroic by setting the character up as the protagonist of the story.  I don’t care if the hero then has a change of heart and does save said people.  I don’t care!!  IT’S TOO FRICKING LATE.

Said hero is done for me.

What’s even more alarming?  The one left behind was the LOVE INTEREST.  I’m supposed to believe they care about each other?  Instead, I’m staring at this book like Imhotep at the end of The Mummy Returns as his beloved turns and runs, leaving him to die.  Yeah.  Real heroic, hun.

Now such a set up might work as backstory — and then the book is about how the hero overcomes this past and grows beyond it.  But when such a thing happens live action in the book and then I’m supposed to believe the character grows in the last 100 pages or so?  It’s not happening.  Sorry.

I’m going to finish the book because I want to see how badly it all ends.