Another Trip to Frewyn - The Blog Hop for Tales of Frewyn

Michelle Franklin takes us back to Frewyn! 

Join her as she tells us all about it!

The Haanta Series is the longest, ongoing, online romantic fantasy series. Thousands of readers visit the world of the Two Continents to enjoy the daily short stories featuring all their favorite characters from the Haanta Series novels. In between the business of the books, the commander, Rautu, Otenohi, Unghaahi, Leraa, Kai Linaa and Alasdair enjoy some time together in Diras Castle, but as the stories portray, mischief lies in every corner of the keep where spiders, chocolate pies, petulant giants and grouchy cooks abound.

 

From the short story “The Five-Second Rule”

There was a long-standing rule in the kingdom of Frewyn pertaining to food that had gained tolerable popularity, but while it was followed with decent devoutness, the exact stipulations of this rule had gone mostly unspoken: the Five-Second Rule, though a favourite with many a man in Frewyn, contended that any meal which had the unfortunate claim of falling to the ground might again be picked up if done within the boundaries of five seconds. There were other more precarious iterations of the practice that allowed for a period of ten seconds, but those who kept such a prolonged observance were certain to die from the disease that would latch onto the fallen article within the added time. It was generally unknown when this practice had begun or whence in the kingdom it came, and while it may have begun as a means of salvaging food during times of privation, the rule was soon a settled thing, ingrained into many a mind and practiced by young and old.

Men were the great champions at applying this rule, for those who took their daily feriation in the taverns asperged about the kingdom became well versed in the art of reclaiming a fallen slice or two during their bouts of mild insobriety. It became a sport, the finer points of which were discussed and remonstrated over pints of Mother Morlund and Go to the Wall. Rules within the rules were made: damp and dirty floors must never be eaten from, cooked meats and steamed foods must be left for the hounds, but anything that was somewhat dry and could be easily swept away might be taken up again and eaten with tolerable comfort.

Fallen food, once assessed by a discerning eye, could not be eaten with careless alacrity; it must first be subjected to the proper scrutiny, must be blown upon and turned over and blown upon again, must be examined for any excessive debris, must be burnished with a somewhat clean hand or polished with a corner of a sleeve, and then it might be passed round and subjected to a public assessment before it could be deemed eatable. All this, seemingly a waste of time and effort, while prized by many a Frewyn farmer, had been used to horrify the Den Asaan. Many time during the Galleisian War had he observed a cern or a captain reclaiming fallen provisions, and while to lose dried beef and cured pork was a terrible thing, it was far more terrible to see a sullied piece, knocked about by many a boot, taken up and eaten. The poor giant agonized over such a practice. He should starve rather than eat something that had been so bemired. His chief horror in the business was in seeing the cerns take up a fallen piece which had been kicked about and trod upon and eat it without any attempt to clean it. The giant's looks of horrified disdain garnered an explanation: the ground, though dirt itself, was not dirty, and indeed there was no time in a war to bother with cleanliness or epicurism. Disgusted by such an insalubrious practice, the Den Asaan had avowed never to understand it and swore never to accept such a ridiculous rule, but the imminent loss of a piece of Tyfferim Dark, forged by the hands of so skilled a chocolatier, soon changed his mind.

He stood at the kitchen table, unpacking a delivery made to him from Diras Delights, and as Betsiegh was in the secret of the giant's favourite treats, she had placed the large slab of Tyfferim Dark at the top of the parcel. Instantly, upon opening the box, did the giant attack the chocolate, tearing away the thick brown packing paper with all the fervency that his dependence could excite. His eagerness, however, had been his ruin: a small piece of chocolate broke from the bar as he finished unwrapping it, tumbling down and skittering across the ground, stopping at the foot of the table, waiting patiently to be picked up and admired and eaten. Consternation struck him most forcibly: what was he to do? He could not merely leave it derelict and forlorn, but taking it up only to throw it away should be an unbearable shame.

About the AuthorMichelle Franklin is a small woman of moderate consequence who writes many, many books about giants, romance, and chocolate.

Blog Tour Link: http://wp.me/p30w17-5w

Add the book to Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11162598-tales-from-frewyn

Buy links: Amazon (http://viewBook.at/B00BLGQJUM)  

Barnes and Noble (http://bit.ly/WXSeaB) 

 iTunes (http://bit.ly/Zn3fQh)  

Kobo (http://bit.ly/13nPhmh) 

Smashwords (http://bit.ly/YzMm4m)

Social media links:

Website (http://thehaanta.blogspot.ca/) 

Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Michelle-Franklin-and-the-Haanta-series/129616710425835) | 

Twitter (https://twitter.com/MrsDenAsaan)

Congrats, Clare Wilson!

One of my oldest and best twitter author friends, Clare Wilson, is launching her second book, and my blog is part of the release celebration! Today Clare tells us about her experiences as a traditionally and self-published author. 

Congrats again, Clare! You've written another lovely book! How I wish I could be there for your launch party and get an autographed copy. Have a lot of fun! x

PS: And yes; you ARE an author!

Between a Rockin' Ebook and a Hardback Copy

There have been countless articles written on the merits and disadvantages of self publishing versus traditional. One thing is for certain, the world of publishing is going through its biggest change since the rise of the affordable paperback, and we as writers all need to roll with the punches.

As a young writer (relatively speaking), I have never been a part of the old-school publishing world. Any writer will tell you, the people getting lottery win advances are few and far between. Much to my frustration, most of these people tend to be celebrities either writing about their boring lives, or fulfilling their hidden dreams to pen fiction. How much of it is directly written by such people is another hot topic for debate, but as mere artists, ours is not to reason why...

Anyway, I wanted to talk a little bit about where I find myself in this mystifying new universe of books. I am not a self-publishing evangelist, nor, as I have said, am I a die hard traditional publishing stalwart. I strangely lie somewhere in a murky grey area betwixt the two.

My first book The Long Staff was published by Olida Publishing in October 2010, and the second book in this series The Ancient Exile is being officially released as of the start of May 2013. Olida is one of the many up and coming indie publishing houses, which are pushing the big boys to sit up and take notice. In my case, they are responsible for the hard copies of my Staff Wielder Books, and do not have the e-book publishing rights. While I don't know how common this is, it has given me a rather unique learning opportunity. I am responsible for self-publishing my book online, while my publisher has produced a fabulous hard copy of each title and also provides me with the benefits therein.

Since my book was released in 2010, my relationship with my publisher has allowed me to gain access to such organisations as The Society of Authors. I have visited a good number of schools as a 'published' author, and this has allowed me to reach out to an audience that wouldn't be more complicated to reach from behind my laptop.

I have also had my book appear at such prestigious events as The Edinburgh Book Festival and the Bologna Book Fair. Finally, a highlight for me was getting to appear on the official programme at The Wigtown Book Festival in 2012. 

Being affiliated to a publisher has also opened the doors to great organisations like The Scottish Book Trust, who have enabled me to perform at paid school events north or the border, something which greatly boosts a non-existent income. 

The one area which still eludes me is the bookstore... While I have had some great support from that rare breed, the independent bookstore, chain stores like Waterstones are much harder to crack. I don't come from a large publishing house, so getting in the door is extremely difficult, even with my publisher. 

Still, maybe as bookstores dwindle, this is something that doesn't matter to the same extent. There is a worldwide audience out there, and through the internet, no-one is unreachable any more, even if you need to be smart about where you look.

So, we come to my self-publishing experience. I find that I have learned a great deal, and also been given a great deal of freedom. The editions of the books which appear online are ones which I have been able to finally edit myself. Not only that, but I have control over the pricing of the books, and I can track sales figures at any time, rather than waiting for a statement from my publisher. I have been able to reach a great many new readers online through Twitter and Facebook, using my control over my ebook as a tremendous tool. 

Using KDP with my first book, I have been able to achieve more than double the figures in downloads than I have in hard copy sales, even if a lot of these were when my book was on special offer. 

So, in conclusion, where does this leave me? As I said, I am neither a self-published author, nor am I paid cash advances by a publisher with the clout to get me in shop windows or on TV book clubs. I am the little indie author who sits between the two worlds, belonging to neither, yet striving to succeed in both. I don't think traditional publishing is dead, but, like Professor X's new generation of humans, there are some super-smart writers out there, swimming upstream. They won't be ignored and they won't wait for an illusive deal with an agent or publisher.

Who am I? I write, therefore I am... I may not make a serious living yet, but I AM a writer.

The World of Khantara

High fantasy, romance, quirky humor and writing that reminds of Jane Austen - all these you can find in Michelle Franklin's novel Khantara! It's my honor to welcome her to my blog today, where she stops by on her blog hop to celebrate the release of her novel.
I will tell you this much: my favorite character is "the wren".

If you like fantasy, and if you appreciate a good read, this is for you!

Find Michelle's book here

Remembering Kindness: Vyrdin’s Dream 

PART 4

                Twenty minutes had gone since Vyrdin had left the farm, and he had not returned and closed the low gate when Mr. Carrighan came thundering toward him from the house. “Where you been, boy?” he growled, his good eye flaring, the veins in his forehead throbbing, his dry and crag-like mouth caught in a cracking flout. He grabbed Vyrdin by the collar and jerked him forward. “That kiln ain’t lit,” he hissed, giving his prey a fierce shake. “You’re gonna tell me where you been or I’m gonna take the hazel to you.”

                “The cleric, sir,” Vyrdin murmured, trying to maintain his balance as he was jerked about. “The cut on my arm wasn’t healing.”

                “You ask me if you could leave?”

                There was no answer.

                “You hear me, boy?” He jostled his captive, but Vyrdin remained silent, his eyes downcast and his head down in solemn contrition. “You’re askin’ for a birtchin’, boy,” he seethed, gripping the back of Vyrdin’s collar with the opposing hand and hurling him round.

                Vyrdin almost toppled over his own feet and regained his footing only to be met with the sight of his master’s free hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. He knew what was hiding there, was well aware of the pain he should be in a few hours hence from the sting of the delimbed shrags, and tensed his shoulders, tightened his fists, and winced in preparation of the anguish of what must follow.

                “Diathanes, Carrighan,” said a familiar voice.

                Vyrdin turned, and without looking up noted the brickmaker hastening toward them from the corner of his eye. Shame and indignation crimsoned his gaunt cheeks, and though he was not released, his master’s hold on him relented. 

                “Gearrog,” Carrighan exclaimed. He took his hand from his pocket and offered it to his visitor, eyeing him charily. “What brings you? You ain’t goin’ to Westren for the holiday?”

                “Can’t. Too much to do here.” Gearrog glanced at Vyrdin, whose face was turned to the side, and then at Old Carrighan, who seemed particularly discomfited by his sudden appearance. He seemed half a second away from doing something which he knew others might find intolerable, and though he appeared somewhat ashamed, he was hardly repentant: his hand was still grasping Vyrdin’s collar, the boy looked as though he were petrified, and altogether the brickmaker received the notion that he had interrupted something which he was certain of disapproving. “I just come by to see if you’re needin’ ‘nymore brick for your kiln. Saw the lad’s arm,” nodding to Vyrdin, “I says that need healin’, so I brought him to the cleric meself.”

                “That true, boy?” Mr. Carrighan said, in a heated tone.  

                Vyrdin looked away, his heart swelling with indignation, his eyes brimming with tears.

                “Practically had to drag the lad there,” said the brickmaker, with pointed circumspection. “Lad didn’t wanna leave.” He paused and gave Vyrdin a solicitous look. “Hope I didn’t cause no trouble.”

                “No trouble at all,” replied the feller, with marked coolness.

                A perfunctory grin on one side, a fleeting smirk on the other, and the brickmaker felt obliged to linger around the land, that he might assured of the boy’s safety. The manner in which the boy was being held, his refusal to turn around, the shifting looks of the feller, his vehement stares all suggested there being something amiss here, and Gearrog would see it if he could. He wanted there to be a something wrong that he might report it, but when Mr. Carrighan said his “Good night, Gearrog,” with stern finality, he was certain of observing nothing whilst he was around to witness. He must take his leave and pretend to go if he should catch him at doing something unwholesome. He nodded his goodbyes, hoped that Vyrdin was well, and turned toward town, looking over his shoulder as he went with marked concern.

                “It ain’t right when a lad’s ‘fraid to get his arm mended,” he murmured to himself, but he observed that the boy was being released, and his mind could not be easy.

                “Get back to work, boy,” said Mr. Carrighan, pointing Vyrdin toward the kiln. 

                Grateful that he had escaped what had promised to be a most brutal punishment, despite his humiliation, Vyrdin felt his fortune and began moving toward the far field. Pangs of intense hunger suddenly assailed him, and as the sensations of stiff fingers and cracking skin were once again upon him, he felt his spirits grow somnolent. “Sir?”  he asked, mortified and desperate, “I’m very hungry. May I have something to eat, sir?”

                “Somethin’ to eat?” Mr. Carrighan chuffed. “You think you deserve it, boy?”       

                Vyrdin knew the answer to this question: if he should say yes, he would be punished for insolence, and should he say no, he would be admitting his own folly at having asked at all. He remained silent therefore and left the fate of suppers and subordination to be determined. He felt the scowling countenance of disapproval and disgust bore through his curls. How disobedient and repugnant an object he was to have gone to the cleric that he might find some small measure of peace and care for an arm which he desperately needed for work. Should he have lost it, he dreaded to think of how vilely he would have been treated thence. A poor and famished orphan with only one arm was far worse than one with two, for as long as he proved his usefulness and asperity, he was given meals — when he deserved it — and shelter where he might otherwise have been forced to find both in a poor house. The Church could not want him any longer; he was too old to be taken in unless he meant to join the laity. Penance and privation must be his due, but he escaped both punishment and remonstrance here: Mr. Carrighan was in want of the plum pudding his sister had shoddily made and was therefore obliged to show his kindness on the holiday and forgive the boy for his lapse. Such a charitable act obliged Vyrdin to say his thanks, and as the master returned to the house, Vyrdin exhaled in relief, marveled at his fortune at having been spared two punishments in one day, and went to the far field, hoping to find the last remnants of a few dandelions about for grazing.

                Some of the kale, cabbage, and sunroot was still in the ground, and after eating a few of the tough leaves and exhuming some of the tubers, Vyrdin found himself able to continue with his work. He drew his scarf about him, tore through the sunroots, rallied his spirits, and with a few stalks of kale in his mouth, went to collect the wood for the fire.

                “Lad’s gonna freeze hisself to death,” said Gearrog, watching Vyrdin mechanically sift through fallen boughs of dried oak. A vicious glare toward the house, and the brickmaker was gone, hastening down the road with all the alacrity that his violent indignation could excite. He would not leave a boy to freeze in the cold, he would not leave him to go hungry when every other house was sitting down to table and delighting in all the revelry of the holiday’s first feast, and he would not leave him to feel wrong for doing what was right. 

See the entire blog hop here: 

 http://wp.me/p30w17-39

Don't miss the next installment!