Gods do swear

Gods do swear,

I had years,

Of stolen breath.

Living trouble?

Wrong.

Living god.

D: A, A, why are you doing this to me?

A: Doing what?

D: Torturing me!

A: Thanks for the support, D.

D: You are the first person to admit you’re not really made for this sort of thing. I mean, there’s that up there and then there was the response to Dean’s September 1 prompt at the Community Storyboard. It really must end.

A: I know D, but I’m trying to learn.

D: . . .

A: Fine. Put it this way, you are made for this sort of thing and you fail, on many occasions, to impart your wisdom. What is the point of having a centuries-old Druid camped out in your brain if he won’t teach you how to turn a bit of prose now and again?

D: Job security?

A: D! You are a Druid – you are a born tale-teller, a master at words, an orator and mystic. I can do an okay limerick.

D: Sometimes.

A: Exactly.

D: I still don’t get it.

A: (Sigh) You’re a 7^th century Pict. They had a written language, but much of their histories and stories were told through song and oratorical extravaganzas. Since the next two books spend a fair chunk of time in the 7^th century, it would behoove me to at least be able to give a few lines here and there of your mastery.

D: Ha, you said I had mastery.

A: D, pay attention.

D: (snicker) I have mastery!

A: D!!

D: Okay, fine. Do I understand you correctly in that you would like to learn how to write a stylized oratory extravaganza in order to do my mastery justice?

A: I don’t know why I even try talking to you some days.

D: Because I have mastery.

A: (Eye roll) Fine. Yes. I want to learn. You’re the one who plopped the Ballad of Dubhshìth and Mairead in my lap at the last minute (name changer!) and I want to do it justice. At least, I want to fake well enough so you sound marginally eloquent.

D: Oh! So now I’m eloquent and masterful.

A: Someone shoot me.

The Druid Tells the Tale

D: Because I’m masterful.

A: I take that back – can someone shoot the Druid?

D: Oi, I’m talking here!

I criticize A all the time. Of course, it is rare that she listens to me, which is why you have this blog. If you have an eagle-eye for detail and would like to be told the truth of your own work, check out Diamonds or Dust, an unbiased critique group for serious writers.

A: There is so much fun at the Community Storyboard, but please check out the first-ever, CSB chain-story event, Squirrels: This Time Its Personal. Each episode just gets better and better.

D: In case you didn’t see it the first time, Ionia Martin, Queen of Readful Things and all of us, her minions, beat cancer. Can we give the lady the biggest hug the blogosphere has ever seen? Please? Tell her the Druid sent you.

A: D – I think Ionia might like this:

D: . . .

A: She said something about a pole dancing, and I’m just wondering if this is what happened after.

D: You mock me, but I am sill masterful.

A: I’ve created a monster.

Speaking of Ionia and Queenlieness, Part 2 of the Query Letter Series is now available. This post series is helpful, to the point, and takes a lot of the fear out of creating something an editor or an agent – or rather, their hapless assistants – might want to read and (gasp!) respond to in a positive fashion!

D: Speaking of which. . .

A: Editing, D. Editing.

D: So you say . . .

Since A is editing, take your fill from a published writer, a one Charles Yallowitz, Scribe of Windemere, whose work “Sari Fairy Tale” is available for view at wePoets Show It.

What was the wackiest thing (to you) that you learned to do in order to write a story, get a job, or do that thing that you’ve wanted to do so learning to walk on your hands backwards really didn’t seem so wacky after all??