An Empire of Thorns with Mark Lawrence #guest

Today I welcome fantasy author Mark Lawrence, author of Prince of Thorns, to my blog. One lucky reader who answers the question I'll ask at the end of this blog will receive a signed copy of the novel from the author.

A while ago, I read a review of Prince of Thorns that appeared on a blog I encountered during my browsing. The reviewer wasn't 100% sure how he felt about the novel, and when he went into why the story bothered him, I knew immediately that this was a novel I would add to my reading pile.

Of course I have gone one step further by asking Mark how he'd describe Prince of Thorns to someone who's never heard of the book before. Mark says: "A violent swords-and-sorcery romp, a moving poetic literary exploration of the human condition - take your pick."

The main character, Jorg, was quite an engaging character to write and Mark also shared why he thought Jorg appeals to some of his readers ... or not ... Mark adds: "He's clever, imaginative, unpredictable and dangerous, with hidden depths... what's not to like? His passionate and amoral nature will turn off readers looking for a hero to inspire them and engage readers with less simplistic expectations."

And as a scene from the novel that Mark reckons has high impact, he says: "I like the title scene, visited twice, where Jorg is in the thorns. If that doesn't touch you then you should probably chuck the book at that point."

With regard to what makes the world of Prince of Thorns stand apart from other books in its genre, Mark says: "I'd like to say the quality of the writing, but that's not my call. The most commonly cited reason is that the main character isn't a hero, and isn't an anti-hero either. Anti-heroes are variously hard-bitten loners who turn out to have a heart of gold and do the right thing whilst grumbling through it, or cowardly every-men who bumble through a tale accidentally succeeding and discovering hidden reserves. Jorg isn't like that."

And, lastly most authors can attest to the fact that writing a novel is pretty much a journey. Did writing the Broken Empire series changed him? Mark concludes: "Well that's hard to say. It's been written through some very dramatic years. I started the first book just before my daughter Celyn was born very badly damaged at birth and not expected to live. The past 8 years dealing with her severe disabilities have been life changing to say the least - writing has been a much needed diversion and the possibility of making a living whilst caring for Celyn has been very welcome as I may not be able to keep looking after her whilst continuing as a research scientist."

Curious? Want to read more? Go check out Mark's website at http://www.princeofthorns.com/ or follow his blog at http://mark---lawrence.blogspot.co.uk/

Now for the question. What is the title of the series that Prince of Thorns is part of? Email your answer to nerinedorman@gmail.com with your name and postal address, and if you're the lucky sod who comes in first with the correct answer, I'll forward your details to Mark, who'll be visiting the post office before long with your prize. Trust me, you *want* to read this book.

Cover Love from Joan De La Haye #guest

Today South African author Joan De La Haye visits again to chat about her cover art for Requiem in E Sharp and Oasis. Welcome, Joan!

* * * *

On the June 2 I made the decision to move all three of my books to Fox Spirit, a new indie publisher, which is being run by the incomparable Adele Wearing. Since making that move things have happened rather quickly, including the cover designs.


Two of my books, Requiem in E Sharp, a twisted thriller, and Oasis, my Zombie novella, were released in July.

The covers, like the stories, are incredibly different to each other. The cover for Requiem in E Sharp was designed by South African artist and designer, Jacques Stenvert. Jacques and his wife Anina are good friends of mine and when I'd finished Requiem I asked Jacques to do the cover for me. I gave him a few ideas of what I wanted. What he finally came up with surpassed anything I could ever have hoped for. It's a truly beautiful piece of art and it fits perfectly with the story. The blood on the piano and the font are evocative.

The process for the cover for Oasis, which was designed by Tom England, was completely different. I'd never heard of Tom before. I'm now a fan. I'm not even sure how Adele found him, but I'm glad she did. I didn't have any discussions with Tom about the cover before hand. I only got to see the final image, which made opening the email almost like opening up a birthday or Christmas present. I think he read the book and came up with this amazing image. It was perfect. It's so eye-catching. There's no way you'll be able to browse around any ebook store and not have it catch your eye. It's just so damn cool!  

* * * *

Visit Joan's website here. 

The Blackfeather Chronicles, excerpt 3 #fridayflash

This is my continued light fantasy WiP, The Blackfeather Chronicles, which should appeal to fans of Mercedes Lackey and KJ Taylor. Yes. Talking griffins.

Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2

The Surabi villa and its surrounding estate was my whole world and, one where I was loved and accepted unconditionally. I suppose in hindsight I might add that I was a pampered and oft-indulged curiosity, but who am I to complain? After all, I was the only griffin anyone knew. Within five summers I filled out, growing from the size of a housecat to that of an overly large wolfhound, though far more streamlined. Being of the tribe of Ravenkin, I was black and glossy, my eyes beady and my beak a sabre made for stabbing.

Although I knew I should try and indeed could fly if I put my heart and mind to it, I didn’t. Sure, I managed a brief burst of speed followed by an ungainly hop into the air, to glide for several feet, but I never put more effort into it.

Frankly, the idea of the earth falling away beneath me frightened me beyond all belief, and by that stage I’d certainly read enough from the Surabi family library to know that not all alchemical beasts could fulfil their composite natures. I had no desire to find out whether I could overcome the earth’s call. And, besides, Anwyn wasn’t built to fly, and my place was by her side.

At eighteen she was considered old—too old to still be considered marriageable—but she insisted that none of the young men her father proposed, were any good. In private she confided her very real fears that these men sought her hand only to merger their businesses’ interests.

* * * *

“I don’t like him,” Anwyn whispered to me.

We were in the botanical gardens attached to the Temple of Zenu, Goddess of love—and warfare.

Benedictus was deep in conversation with a pair of young men who’d approached him here, of all places, to discuss a recent shipment of barbarian prisoners of war.

Of course I wouldn’t reply to her, not here where there were perhaps dozens of curious ears to overhear our conversation, but I cocked my head and gave a soft snort. Anwyn’s smile was wan. We’d discussed numerous times how she wanted to eventually take over her father’s estate and not hand it over to some upstart who’d expect her to produce an heir almost immediately. I also knew she was afraid—very, very afraid—of giving birth.

The men laughed at some remark Benedictus made, and a small flock of fireflits took wing, obviously startled by the disturbance. Anwyn sighed and seated herself on the edge of the fountain. Above her, Zenu poured endless stream of water from one of her bowls, and a fireflit alighted on the goddess’s head, chirped once then spread its membranous wings, half-ready to take to the air again.

“If only we didn’t have to deal with these men,” Anwyn murmured. “They make me so tired. So full of bluster.” She absently stroked my head.

I sighed and closed my eyes, content to feel the sunlight on my plumage the shivers of Anwyn’s touch. This was enough for me, to know that we were together—a well-trained griffin and his mistress.

“Must you fawn over that creature so?” Benedictus stood before us, his face slightly flushed. His friends were departing and it was clear, from the way he stood with his arms folded over his chest, that something annoyed him.

Anwyn got to her feet, and a prickle of her annoyance communicated itself to me. I couldn’t help it—my hackles rose and I growled, low and deep in my chest.

Benedictus glared at me. “That thing’s too big and dangerous for a woman to consider a pet. It belongs in the circus.”

The sharp crack of Anwyn’s palm on Benedictus’s cheek made me jerk but when he swung back an arm to strike her, I moved fast. With a suddenness that surprised even myself I rose on my hindquarters, gripped the man by his shoulders and shoved him over, my beak inches from his face. His fear was a powerful intoxicant and he lay there, dazed, for a few seconds until he gathered his scattered wits. I could so easily...

“Silas! Heel!” Anwyn cried.

I obeyed, but I did not let my hackles down, nor did I stop growling, my wings half unfurled so as to include my mistress within the arc of my protection. The bastard! He must not touch my lady.

Benedictus lay there frozen in fear and, judging by the sharp stink in the air, had soiled himself.

Anwyn placed her hand on my head. “Enough now, Silas. I don’t think he’ll try to harm me again.” Her voice shook, however, and her fear and shock thrilled through her. And something else—power. We knew, without speaking, that when we were together, no man might challenge her.

Slowly Benedictus picked himself up. His friends of earlier were nowhere to be seen. If they’d turned to witness this altercation, they’d now proved themselves true fair-weather friends by making themselves scarce. He was on his own, and he knew it.

“I’ll make sure that you and that beast are destroyed for this!” he said, shaking.

“You’ll do no such thing,” a woman said behind us.

We turned to see one of the priestesses. She was an older woman, her iron-grey hair braided with amethysts and strings of pearls, her eyes clear as she regarded us.

“I saw and heard everything, Benedictus, son of Batravian. No one will gainsay a Priestess of Zenu in her own sanctuary. You have dishonoured the Goddess by raising a hand to a woman here. Leave now and do not consider any retaliation. Indeed, if you are wise, you shall seek to make some amends. Our temple always welcomes gifts and you appear to require some indulgences from the gods when it comes to matters of the heart.” Although she smiled, none of the humour reached her eyes.

I hadn’t thought it possible for Benedictus to grow paler, but he did. His mouth opened and shut a few times but no sounds came out. Then he gathered his stinking toga to him and scuttled from the courtyard.

The woman turned her gaze toward us and I was immediately struck by the sense of grace and power she possessed. I went down on my belly before her, and laid my head by her feet. This felt like the most natural gesture ever. Similarly, Anwyn bowed her head and went to her knees before the holy woman.

“Rise, my children,” the priestess said, and I felt a light touch to my head.

Tears shone in Anwyn’s eyes. From what I knew of human customs, the priestesses rarely, if ever entered the courtyard to mingle with supplicants. If anything they might send their handmaidens to minister to visitors, but never one of the holy ones themselves.

“Your holiness, I thank you,” Anwyn said as we rose to our feet.

The woman smiled and raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s nothing. Come, we shall refresh ourselves with something to drink. I would like to see for myself this griffin that’s been the talk of the city.” She gathered her stola and arranged her palla—which shimmered with the feathers of peacocks, and inclined her head so that it was clear we must follow her up the stairs and into the sanctuary.

Anwyn and I shared a brief look before we obeyed. We did not see anything particularly special or out of the ordinary about me being a griffin. As far as I was concerned, I ate and shat just like any other creature. But by the same measure, we weren’t about to decline an invitation to visit with the servants of a deity either.

Let the Right One In #review

Title: Let the Right One In

Author: John Ajvide Lindqvist
Publisher: Quercus, 2007
Buy link

Oskar, a 12-year-old boy in the Swedish suburb of Blackeberg, has problems. He puts up with severe bullying at school and is socially withdrawn. The large support cast is varied and just as defective as the boy. Readers are introduced to the dysfunctional relationship between the alcoholic Lacke and Virginia, as well as the murderer, and the rather pitiful Eli, and a host of others, all of whom go through their day-by-day existence.

Lindqvist paints a bleak picture, of ordinary folk dulled by the mundane, all of whom have potential that has been eroded by routine, dreams discarded and the passive acceptance of their lot within a society that grinds along. Yes, there is something fundamentally and profoundly depressing by all this, and in this lies the true horror of Let the Right One In—not so much the horrors people perpetrate on each other.

In a sense this novel is a coming-of-age story for Oskar, and the complex relationship he has with Eli, whom I can only picture as a sort of warped anima/animus figure. This is a love story too, about two isolated people who forge a deep regard for each other despite their vast differences. Yet while this is admirable, Lindqvist does not steer away from the unnaturalness of this situation.

Perhaps what I appreciated about the story is how at first Lindqvist introduces a number of seemingly unconnected story arcs then slowly, but surely winds them together until they are inextricably bound. He does not shy away from that which is ugly and brutal, and Let the Right One In is not an easy novel to read. Its slow start is deceptive and the ending without remorse.

The only fault I could pick was the translation, which at times felt a bit clunky, and I suspect some of the nuances might’ve been lost when the story was carried over to the English. This being said, I appreciated the almost clinical tone of Lindqvist’s writing, and the way he succeeds in building tension.

I recently read one of his short stories in editor Stephen Jones’s A Book of Horrors anthology, and I can pick up echoes of familiar themes. All I can say is that Lindqvist offers no compromises, hitting hard and fast at contemporary society in such a way to display the true horror. It’s not so much the vampire that is monstrous in the novel, but rather human behaviour.

Let the Right One In is an uncomfortable read. Also a perfect antidote to the current popular slew of glittery, schmexy defanged monsters. If you’re looking for a novel that will unsettle you with disturbing images, then look no further.

Shooting the Breeze in Mfuleni #opinion

Builder chic for the coffin chick
Now *there's* something you don't see every day!

This might shock a few people, but I’m going to be upfront. I didn’t help to build a house for Mandela Day out of any altruistic sense of “being a good person”. I don’t feel like I owe anyone anything so that I feel compelled to “give back”. Yet when we received an e-mail request for volunteers to build a house for a family in Mfuleni with Habitat for Humanity, I didn’t even think twice. I put my name down.

Why?

Because this day would be spent outside of my comfort zone.

Since I spend most of my days in front of the computer, my only point of contact with the rest of the world is often only through my Twitter feed and the e-mails I receive. Sure, I work for a newspaper publisher so I do get to read the titles we publish, but there’s always a degree of separation. All this stuff I read about happens “out there”. Not here. The closest I get to seeing the “real world” is when I catch the train to and from work. But even there I’m insulated by the music I listen to and the fact that my nose is shoved in a book.

And sometimes it’s good just to remind yourself there’s a “real world” out there (and no, in my book shopping malls and visiting friends don’t count). This was my opportunity to go out and explore, gain new experiences.

Predictably, with my luck, the morning we set out in the staff taxi, it was raining, and by the time we reached Mfuleni, the weather hadn’t let up much. Bright spark that I am, I had not brought a jacket. (In my defence I’ll state that, until now, our winter has been very mild.) I needn’t have worried, however.

Our team leader, Linda, soon had us huffing and puffing for breath. First, after donning our hardhats and gloves, we had to help move piles of bricks. These cement blocks weigh several kilograms and, while the first two you manage to swing seem a breeze, try several hundred.

Next up was learning to mix the “dugga” or cement mixture that we had to use. For each batch we needed six wheelbarrows of building sand mixed with bags of cement and this was heavy going. Considering that we had a lone man in our team, we really had to put our backs into it.

What I found fascinating is that even though at first we kept bashing our spades accidentally, by the end of the day we’d learnt to anticipate each other’s movements and work as a team.

And we worked quickly, and hard. Tea time of vetkoek loaded with apricot jam – something I would never eat under ordinary circumstances – tasted absolutely heavenly. Short breaks aside, we focused on our goal: put up four walls consisting of eight courses of bricks, with door and window frames. Slowly but surely the random ingredients of cement blocks, wooden frames and piles of sand transmuted into something that was beginning to look like a house. That knowledge – of a target set and met – was worth the sweat and the aching muscles.

Hard work? Hell yeah.

Pushing little blocks of text and pictures around on a screen all day very rarely feels like work, even when I hold a newspaper in my hands afterwards.

I couldn’t ignore the team-building aspect either. While we started the day a bit stilted, we soon laughed easily and commiserated about our sore muscles or just took pride in what we’d achieved. I’m not the world’s greatest “buddy-buddy” kinda gal, but hell, I felt some of my ice melting towards colleagues I’ve sometimes wanted to cheerfully throttle.

But perhaps the most important reward from this day of work was chatting to the family whose house we were building, and sharing in their excitement. I’ve been a homeowner for almost a decade, and I reckon I take this for granted. Here, folks who have been living in a rusted corrugated shack are finally able to move into their own home. With a real roof. And real doors. And windows. One lady smiled with obvious pride in her gaze, and told me she was so happy she was getting her own room. That simple statement gave me pause for thought.

I don’t want to get all gushy and fluffy about “having done my bit” for Mandela Day. I feel that every once in a while, and for the right reasons you should do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do.

This wasn’t about proving to the world how good I am. It was about stepping outside of myself briefly to do something to create positive change. I reckon that’s what Madiba had in mind.

This piece initially appeared in the Life supplement of the Sunday Independent on July 22, 2012.

Reading the Cards with LK Below #guest

As an author, I love weaving my knowledge into the books I write. In the case of my newest release, Beauty in His Bed, that knowledge is about Tarot cards. I've been reading tarot cards since I was fifteen years old. For those of you who don't know how readings work, allow me to enlighten you:

The reading starts with a question from the Querent, the person wanting the reading. This question can not be a yes or no question. It also must have a timeline. For instance, the question Amy asked in Beauty in His Bed is: "What will my future bring during my stay in New Orleans?"

Once the Querent knows the question, he or she thinks about it while shuffling the cards. This is to bring the cards in tune with the Querent's thoughts. Then the Querent returns the cards to the reader. They do not tell the tarot reader their question. This is so that the reader can be objective in reading what is in the cards, rather than seeing the most likely answer to the asked question.

The reader then turns over the cards in the desired layout. The layout used in Beauty in His Bed was a simple 3-card spread. The first card overturned represents the past. The second represents the present. And the third represents the future.


Amy's layout was this:



The first card, the two of swords features a blind-folded figure, meaning that the Quenent was once blind to something or someone. The second, the six of swords, shows the Querent sailing through choppy waters. This could mean they are running away from something, or towards something. The third card, the four of wands, indicates a celebration to come -- anything from a wedding to a housewarming party to a promotion to the celebration of an accomplishment.

Here's an excerpt of the reading:

After a minute, she looked up. “Has something turbulent happened to you recently?”

Flabbergasted, Amy felt her mouth drop open. She craned her neck to peer at the cards. Did they show that Tim had broken up with her? All she saw was a bunch of swords and staffs. What did that mean?

Danielle continued, “I only ask because of these cards.” She pointed at the first two. “This one, representing the past, is the two of swords. You see how the figure is blindfolded? That could indicate that you were once blinded to something or someone. Even so, based on the figure’s position, you also felt defensive. Maybe you’ve felt that way for a long time.” She moved on to the second card. “But here in the spot representing the present, you have the six of swords. It shows that you’re running away from something. See the choppy water on this side of the boat? You’re sailing from something bad into calmer waters. That could be the reason you’re here in New Orleans.”

Amy didn’t look at Monique. But she didn’t have to. Danielle was completely right--she was running from something. Her breakup.

When she didn’t say anything, Danielle pointed to the third and last card. This one was brighter than the others, with a yellow background and garland twining around four staffs. “This is your future, the four of wands. It indicates a celebration to come. Normally, this card means there will be a wedding in the future, but it could be any kind of party. A baby shower, a housewarming party, or even the celebration of an accomplishment.”

Unfortunately, Amy knew which one the card indicated. There would be a wedding in the future--it just wouldn’t be hers.

***

Do you believe in the power of tarot? Have you ever had a reading?


Beauty in His Bed is now available from Lyrical Press, Inc. Read more or buy it at http://bit.ly/BeautyInHisBed. Visit L.K. Below online at www.lbelow.net.

#fridayflash The Blackfeather Chronicles, excerpt 2

Read the first excerpt here.

"I'm not so sure about this creature in our dwelling, daughter." Carolo leant heavily on his desk and regarded me from beneath a ferociously troubled frown.

I sat upright next to Anwyn's chair, my flank pressed tightly against her thigh. Her hand rested warm and solid on my shoulders by the wing joints-wings I kept tightly furled against my back. Why couldn't I have been born a wolf hound or a cheetah, or even a house cat for that matter, I don't know. I was a griffin. Or so everyone kept telling me.

Oh my goodness, what is that?


A griffin.


Does it bite? 

I could recite those particular words like a mantra and, usually when I did, they elicited a startled response from the previously ignorant parties.

"He learns quickly, Father. He hasn't messed in the house at all, and he speaks. He's capable of reason." Anwyn's voice was warm honey and I leant into her touch.

"That's exactly the problem. You know how they are when it comes to the weres and the nightwalkers. They don't like 'em, and they're as near human as you can get. And guess why dragons are extinct, and unicorns might as well be too for all we see no hide nor hair of 'em. A talking walking griffin..."

Anwyn's fingers tightened. "And if we give him over to one of the temples? They will use him as a sacrifice or he'll end up in the Imperial menagerie to be poked and gawked at. He's a person, Father. Like you and me."

Carolo glanced down at me and his expression softened. "Aye, that I know." Then he returned his regard to his daughter. "That's why no one must know that he is gifted with reason. For all intents and purposes people must think him no more special than a well-trained cockatrice or basilisk. Enough tongues are wagging as it is."

I bristled at the thought. I was no dumb reptilian with a venomous sting or paralysing glare. But I understood the wisdom in Carolo's words, and anything that threatened to tear me away from Anwyn's side was to be avoided at all costs.

Carolo shifted a few scrolls on his desk, took a sip of wine then turned his full attention on me. He has a way of looking at all of me, for lack of better explanation, as if he could consider the present and delve deep into the future. Outside his office, beyond the latticed window frame the sounds of sparrows reached us. Within this hallowed space was only a heavy regard punctuated by the thudding of our pulses.

"Silas, would you be able to give the appearance of being no more than the average alchemical? At least just around strangers and when you accompany Anwyn outside the grounds. It is for the best."

This was the first time Carolo had ever addressed me as though I were another person, and I straightened. I had lived here in the villa for six months already and, up until now, my missus's father had only ever existed on the periphery of my life. Anwyn patted my shoulder. She meant to reassure me but my heart still thudded faster.

"I will, Father."

The man paled slightly and blinked rapidly, but then collected himself. What had I said wrong?

Anwyn cleared her throat and rose. "If I can take leave of you, Father. I need to go oversee the progress in the southern herb garden."

The man nodded briefly and whatever tension had built in the room fled. Anwyn straightened her stola and we left her father's office, and made our way to the south gate by crossing the main courtyard.

As soon as we were out of earshot, I asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

Anwyn paused and smoothed the down on my head. "Nothing you'd understand. I think perhaps Father is reminded of my brother. Both he and my mother passed away when he was born." Her sadness sparked off a pain in my chest, and I raised myself on my hindquarters so that I might be closer to her.

"I don't remember my mother," I told her. "It is terribly sad."

Her eyes glistened but she managed a small smile. "It is all right. I don't remember mine either."