Dalton Smith ducked into the nearest alley, pivoting to plant his shoulders against the brick wall. Humid air blanketed him, and his shirt clung to his ribs.
Mallory crowded against him in spite of the heat, her fingers clasping his in a vise-like grip. “How did that merchant know you’re a Speaker-with-the-dead?”
Dalton shook his head. “I have no idea. That’s only the second time in — what, eight months?” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’ve never seen the guy before, but it’s like he sensed something …”
Mallory stole a glance farther down the shadowy alley. “Apparently it’s not just Asukan eyesight that’s super-sensitive.” She shivered despite the stifling humidity. “A dark alley isn’t much of a hiding place.”
I’ve always enjoyed the tactile sensation of reading a physical copy of a book. I also love my Kobo e-reader for its portability, and having Kindle on my laptop for those ebooks which are only available through Amazon.
But there’s nothing quite like stoking a fire in the fireplace during winter, or sitting outside in the summer, and reading an old-school printed book.
And now, for the first time, all of my books are available in both paperback and hardcover. It was a lot of work, redoing the layout for a (slightly) different trim size, but it was time and energy well-spent. I’m very excited about the finished hardcovers.
Driving along the highway, car full of bass gear, en route to performing live. Windows rolled down, music cranked up.
A warm summer breeze blowing through the windows, reminding me of countless other summers, highways, and festival stages.
It’s hard not to feel a little nostalgic. I love writing speculative fiction, and I love performing live music with a band.
The absence of live music during these past two summers has been (note: classic understatement ahead) really hard on concert-goers, and also on musicians. Cancelled festivals, gigs, and tours have become an all-too-familiar lament among my musical friends.
Every journalism student dreams of a career-defining “scoop,” one that sets them apart from the herd, perhaps making their name into a household word.
All the President’s Men is the go-to inspirational book-turned-into-a-movie that encapsulates this dream.
But at what cost? Is your soul—or a portion of it—for sale, and what’s the break-even price point?
Some journalists pursue the elusive Pulitzer prize, while others carve out a decent living chasing ambulances (“if it bleeds, it leads”) and crafting tabloid exclusives with tenuous connections to reality. There’s a market for both Pulitzers and tabloids, and the ambitious journalist has to decide which to pursue.
Just like the 2020 conference, this one will be 100% online. If last year was any indication, this will be another stellar(or substitute your favorite superlative here) event. If anything, I got to meet and interact with more people through the online version.
Highly informative, great camaraderie, the Aurora Awards show—I really can’t say enough good things about Randy McCharles and the team, who pivoted on a dime and brought When Words Collide into an online format. This year—the 10th Anniversary of WWC—will be no less epic (probably more).
As the photo at the top shows, I’m already paging through 30 pages of workshops as I pick, choose, and agonize over which workshops to attend. Perhaps not surprisingly, I’m drawn to an entirely different set of priorities for learning this year.
Learning Curve Smorgasbord
The beauty of writing conferences is that no matter where you’re at in your writing journey, you’ll always find new topics and challenges. And a writers conference is a great place, among your friends and peers, to learn from others who are further along the path.
For example, I don’t need to attend any workshops about what genre(s) I’m writing in—I’ve worked that through. The workshop on the “Plotter vs. Pantser” controversy would be fun to attend (and I might, for old time’s sake), but it’s another question I’ve already settled for myself.
This year looks to be divided between going deeper into genre and cross-genre writing, coupled with a healthy collection of branding and business-related workshops. Added to my ongoing studies at Ryerson University, 2021 looks to be a banner year for learning.
I’ll be even happier when we’re able to gather in one location for When Words Collide 2022, but I’m looking forward to this year’s version just as much.
A Final Word from Collette
“Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you’re a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.”
And writing conferences are an excellent place to learn how to do just that.
What if there’s more to climate change than just the weather?
The centuries-old warnings of the Forest Prophets have fallen on deaf ears. Caorran, the capital city, has turned its back on the Forest, refusing to acknowledge the environmental crisis.
Journalists R’chelle and Jaco thought their documentary on climate change would be a routine assignment—until they stumble upon the Eve of Battle, an ancient warrior rune.
Caorran’s hostility toward the Forest Prophets takes a turn for the worse with the arrival of Mar-Kryn, high priestess of the Forest, who harbors a secretive mission of her own.
A runaway teenager, hounded by the ruthless Desert Spirits, seeks asylum in the troubled capital. She could be the key to the Eve of Battle.
Árd-Shagar’s gravelly voice interrupted her reverie. “You seem troubled, Mar-Kryn.” He peered at her with obsidian-dark eyes, one gnarled hand wrapped around his wooden staff.
Mar-Kryn lifted her head, gazing at him through half-lidded eyes. Among the Forest Prophets, she alone stood tall enough to look the Árd in the eye.
“It was a memory, Shagar, of an era long past.” Her fingers tightened in a painful spasm around the bonemask in her hand. “Before the Desert Spirits set their teeth against Leaf and Branch.”
Wall-mounted torches lit the Árd’s face with a flickering pattern of light and shadow. His head dipped in a solemn nod, and the lines in his weathered face seemed to deepen. “And what did the Forest reveal to you, Bearer of Memories?”
Oh, they’ve tried to pin me down. Believe you me, they most certainly have.
You’ve probably heard the jokes about “grammar nazis.” You may even know a few. Well, apparently, their next-of-kin are consumed with nailing down an author’s genre—maybe we could call them the “genre gestapo”?
Or perhaps less feathers will be ruffled if we substitute the term “genre purist” instead.
Every genre has its own unique tropes, and genre purists can get their collective knickers in a knot whenever an author colors outside the lines (metaphorically speaking).
