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Author: Deven Kane

Author of dystopian and urban fantasy tales. Plays the bass.
Mar-Kryn of Dilleag-Lusán

Mar-Kryn of Dilleag-Lusán

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(Darkwood flash fiction #3)

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?”

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“Isn’t ‘Thriller / SF’ a little vague?” Guilty, with explanation

“Isn’t ‘Thriller / SF’ a little vague?” Guilty, with explanation

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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 “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).

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Spy for Hire

Spy for Hire

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(Darkwood flash fiction #2)

“Do you understand the terms of your assignment?” Senator Adrán’s haughty expression was the perfect match for his imperious tone.

Daenag Sarko kept his expression carefully neutral. He was a career glausadan b’haile — a listener-in-secret — and well-versed in dealing with the arrogant attitudes of those who paid for his services.

“Yes, of course,” he replied smoothly, with a carefully-cultivated nod. Senators like Lor Adrán — the Assembly’s Public Relations spokesperson — could be won over by subtle signs of deference. Hence Daenag’s calculated nod. “It’s a natural extension of this afternoon’s exercise at the Alternative Energy Research Center.”

Adrán watched him closely. “Ah, yes, you visited AERC today, didn’t you?” The Senator’s question was rhetorical and Daenag knew better than to respond. “Do you have anything to add to Meyrad’s report?”

Again, those watchful, calculating eyes.

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Toxic Parley

Toxic Parley

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(Darkwood flash fiction #1)

Tension gnawed at Jacotan Beltrus. The alley was dark, the desert wind hot and burning on his skin. He dropped to one knee, fidgeting with his camera.

The baleful wind snaked around him and he paused to adjust his sandshades. The last thing he needed tonight was razor-edged grit in his eyes.

“Are you ready, Jaco?” The whisper came from his left. R’chelle Darlos crouched beside him in the filthy alley, clutching a microphone in her diminutive fist. She flashed him a reassuring grin. “We’ve covered stories in sketchier locations than this.”

“It’s not the location that bothers me.” Jaco took a steadying breath. “Have you ever confronted a Forest Prophet before?”

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Three ways to combat writer fatigue in a lockdown

Three ways to combat writer fatigue in a lockdown

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I’m involved in numerous online writing communities. It’s a great way to give and receive encouragement among my creative peers.

It’s also an eye-opening window on the effect of ongoing lock-downs and pandemic-related abnormalities on the writing community.

Even the introverted writers. You’d think they’d be thrilled with the enforced isolation. Perhaps it’s the modifying adjective “enforced” that makes the difference. I’m an extrovert by nature, and I can’t wait for the day when I can write in a coffeehouse again. But even my introverted friends are struggling with their creative output.

I’ve been able to maintain a reasonably steady pace in writing and editing. It felt harder than usual, but the second and third books in my dystopian Tracker Trilogy were released in 2020, Darkwood will be published a little over a month from now, and the first draft of Treehawke is awaiting its turn on the chopping editing block.

That doesn’t make me an expert in dealing with pandemic-related stress—not claiming otherwise. But here’s a few things I’ve found helpful.

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Strong, stronger, strongest: Taking your manuscript from shoddy to spectacular

Strong, stronger, strongest: Taking your manuscript from shoddy to spectacular

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We’ve all heard the timeless wisdom: “First drafts don’t need to be perfect, they just need to be written.”

We’re also familiar with Ernest Hemingway’s famous dictum, reproduced here in a format I’m allowed to use when speaking to high school students about writing and editing.

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Writing in a crowd is good for your craft

Writing in a crowd is good for your craft

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Authors and coffeehouses. They just “go together.”

Like butter and toast. Whiskey and a warm fireplace. Ice cream and happiness.

(And, on rare and typically regrettable occasions, nitro and glycerin.)

I’m an extrovert. I like being around people, even when I’m writing.

I don’t want them talking to me, of course — I’m writing, after all — but I’ve always found the vibrancy of sitting in a teeming pond of humanity to be the perfect creative ambiance (with a couple of caveats).

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This year, we write (not your typical New Year’s resolution)

This year, we write (not your typical New Year’s resolution)

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It feels like I’m always writing. I published two books last year, began editing a third, and finished the first draft of yet another.

So, saying “this year, we write” isn’t technically a New Year’s resolution. Not in the traditional sense.

It’s more of a declaration.

It’s my way of saying that — despite the concurrent uncertainties swirling around just about everything — I’m plowing ahead.

I’m a writer. That’s what I do. It’s how I’m wired.

And the regular discipline that writing requires — “butt in chair, pen in hand,” as the saying goes — was (and is) a source not only of creative expression, but also a form of author self-care.

It’s impossible to predict how this next year will play out. We just don’t know. That level of perpetual uncertainty can be like a leaking faucet when you’re lying awake at 3:00 AM. It can eat away at your soul, drip by drip.

Hence the need for creatives to practice deliberate self-care. To pace ourselves wisely. To have enough gas in our emotional tanks to encourage and lift up the people closest to us. To not run so close to the edge — stress-wise — that the least little thing drives us over a cliff.

And so … this year, I write.