Boskone

I had a wonderful time attending Boskone, the convention of the New England Science Fiction Association.

The guest of honor, and the reason I decided to go, was Brandon Sanderson. I was very excited about the opportunity to talk about his books with him and with other fans, and I was not disappointed. We got to discuss the magic systems and some of the background plotting in his books, along with his research and future plans.

You may recall a previous post in which I rewrote one of his epic fantasy series in the style of Dr. Seuss. I improved that draft and printed off a copy to give Brandon. You probably need to have read The Way of Kings to appreciate it. You can read it at the bottom of this post. I only managed to illustrate the first half of the book, but I am particularly proud of my Seuss-style illustration of Rysn, a character with ridiculously long eyebrows.


In addition to Sanderson, there were an impressive number of big-name sci-fi and fantasy authors at the convention. I signed up for a small group discussion with Jane Yolen and with Max Gladstone, and loved getting to meet both of them.

Jane has published over 350 books, including Wizard's Hall, the Commander Toad series, the Pit Dragon series, and How Does a Dinosaur Clean up His Room? The main character in Wizard's Hall was one of Sarah's primary inspirations for Shuyeh in our (still to be revised) Wanderfolk manuscript.

I particularly enjoyed meeting Max. He was clever, personable, and insightful.  Max is the author of the Craft Sequence, a series that I have described as "prequels done right." He wrote the different stories out of chronological order, with the idea that you could pick up any of them and read it as a self-contained novel. Together, they tell a story of global change across generations. In the Craft novels, magic is based on entirely on contracts, and is the lifeblood of the world economy. That means that magicians are all some flavor of lawyer, accountant, or financier. It also means that the climax often does double duty as high-powered action sequences and a dramatic courtroom showdown.

Other authors and artists who I met or listened to (but didn't chat with) include Michael Whelan, Jo Walton, and Ada Palmer. Quite a few of the presenters live here in Massachusetts, so I will be on the lookout for other opportunities to meet them at writing and fan conventions in the future.

Oh, The Way that Kings Go

This is a work in progress, and I will be editing it over the next month or so. I am planning to attend the Boston signing for Brandon Sanderson's Shadows of Self tour (Mistborn #5), and I hope to give him a Seussically illustrated hardcopy of this Stormlight Archive tribute.

One spren, two spren,

Lie spren, truth spren.

Are those blue spren truly glue spren?
This one makes a skyeel fly,

That one shows up when you die.

Oh what a lot of spren I spy!

You have light in your spheres, You have shards in your hand,

You have surges to help you to fly and to land!

So where will you go?  Somewhere high? Somewhere low?

To the great Reshi Isles, or somewhere with snow?

Perhaps you will dine on some Horneater Stew,

Delivered directly through Urithiru.

Or maybe the Shin will sell you a chicken

(eating it helps Thaylen eyebrows to thicken).

There’s so many places and people and spren,

It’s easy to wonder just where your path ends.

But please, don’t forget, it’s the way that you walk

that matters much more than the place that you stop.

Yes, the road that you take, whether straight, curved, or bendy

always matters the most—just ask the Parshendi.


___
Less complete stanzas, may not be included:

I looked and I saw him step onto the wall.

I looked and I said, "Now, why don't you fall?

The ground should be down!" and I said it with feeling.

He smiled and simply stepped onto the ceiling.

Look at this place all broken and cracked,

Those bones that are scattered, those stones that are stacked.

It started way back on the night of the feast,

And now they have been here for six years at least.

They all came down south to have a big fight

All because of the man who wore white.

The place where you think is an odd sort of spot

Where you're likely to meet all the things ever thought.

Some things are backward and some upside down

In this place where your thoughts live in cities and towns,

Where ideas you've had and things that you've known

Have taken on life if their own--and then grown!

Shadows go backwards and seas become land

 and the land gets replaced by an ocean of sand

 And each little grain holds a glimmer of light 

that makes sure something out in the real world looks right.

Character Keteks (Poetry Month Day 1)

A ketek is a 5-line palindrome-like poem where each word is repeated, allowing for some grammatic changes. It is original to the fantasy world of the Stormlight Archive, and these keteks each describe a character in that series. I have previously posted a posted a reverso about a different Stormlight character.

Szeth
Unheard screams
own my life, 
still Truthless,
still alive, 
my own screams unheard.

Shallan
Lies held close
dangerously hide
self from self,
hiding dangerous
closely held lies.

Kaladin I
Protected, trained to heal;
betrayed and wronged, overcome.
Choosing honor, by honor chosen,
overcoming wrongs and betrayal
healing to train, protect.

Kaladin II
Failing again, never protecting,
Oaths betrayed.
Renew honor,
renewing betrayed oaths,
protecting, never again failing

Taravangian
Brilliance without compassion
required this action today
for salvation, yet salvation
for today's action, this requires
compassion without brilliance.

low 40s

Night drizzle in early February,
the damp cloud cover keeps it warm enough
that a soggy gray morning sees mist in the air
instead of frost on the ground.

And on the third floor
around 1 a.m.
a tear-sodden pillow kept
a heart from freezing over.

Luncheon Cinquain

Taste it:
soft brown heaven,
soothing cream of softness
a full jar of peanut butter
for me

rind (Poetry Month: Day 20)

thick citrus of an idea
mists the air with the smell of oranges
as i dig my thumbs into it
peeling back the initial image
eager to explore the delicious ins and outs
and underpinnings,
eager for juice to dribble
and for hands to remain sticky with remnants,
depositing residual wonderings on everything else
that i touch today.

the skin pulls away and the plump flesh emerges...
except it doesn't.
i hold an empty rind of a poem
nothing in it
and my hand is slick with superficial oils

Some Texts (Poetry Month: Day 19)

I love you the most!
Of this I'll boast
from coast to coast
wherever parties have hosts
marshmallows are roast
houses haunted by ghosts
bloggers write posts
colleges hire provosts
or toasters make toast.

~~~

You have got to be the best man ever!!
I will always endeavor
through whatever
stormy weather
to love you forever.
All bad feelings I will sever
though I have them never
cause you're perfect and clever
I will love you wherever
'cause we're so happy always together.

Unattributed
Transcribed from actual texts. 

Poetry Month slipping by (Day 18-sort of)

I realize that i have not
kept up with posting here.
A week behind and no excuse:
I'm simply in arrears
I have no clever metaphor
nor simile nor rhyme
I should have written every day
but didn't take the time.
So now you've been neglected
but I'll try to make amends
with poems daily from now on
until the challenge ends.
I'll also plan to post some verse
written in retrospect.
Perhaps they won't be any worse
than you've come to expect.

Sounds (Poetry Month 2012: Day 17)

sirens scream up the road
horns shout each other down
tires strafe the asphalt

Into this melee,
Full-throated,
A dull-feathered soloist warbles,
Claiming the day.

Homecoming (Poetry Month 2012: Day 16)

I'm not waiting out here.
I just came to enjoy the weather,
the afternoon breeze.
I look up at every approaching car
because the sound startles me.
That's why my heart speeds up each time.

It's the best part of the day
because of the light
from the almost-setting sun,
and the twittering back and forth
between the branches--some sort
of avian reunion
from the sound of it.
Just a coincidence that
in 4 1/2 minutes
you'll be home.

April 15 (Poetry Month 2012: Day 15)

Yes,

tax day

is always

an exercise

in expectations.

If you owe less

you're happy;

owe more,

sad.

But then,

more than cash,

it's the time spent

in calculations

that leads me to

budget for

headaches

here

Peregrination (Poetry Month 2012: Day 14)

The path beside the road

bends and bucks 

a serpentine route:

the sea throwing surfers

into shallow air.

Shadows promise a tranquil repose

safe in thoughts all your own

Don't believe it. This nature walk

makes each step

an adventure.

---

This poem was prompted by Robert Brewer's April 9 post on his Poetic Asides blog. He does a poetry prompt each day of April, and at least weekly through the rest of the year.

The Attic (Poetry Month 2012: Day 13)

hotter than
sand dunes an
entire house of heat and
almost-memories
an other things
that rise
beyond our reach
except with the help
of a drop-down
ladder

but it's too
oppressive
to stay long
and we descend
to our
(blessedly)
air conditioned
un-cluttered
day

Wobble (Poetry Month 2012: Day 12)

So what do you use
if one leg's too short
& the whole table tilts
each time that you lean up against it?

Do you prop it with felt?
Poke your shoe under it each time you sit down?
Use a handy wooden shim,
or a long-unmatched sock?


Folded in half twice
a half dozen pages
wedged under wood
serve our need for now.

But when we move the table
just an inch
the whole balance that we struck before this
is completely off.

Trial and Error (Poetry Month 2012: Day 11)

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

            Wait, why are they blue?

            Shouldn’t they be violet

            Since that’s what they’re called?

Roses are Red

Violets are Violet

I think you’re cuter

Than Bella from Twilight

            wow, bad rhyme and bad poem

            maybe we should try this again

Roses are Red

Violists play the Viola

I wrote out this poem

Using Crayolas

            yeah, probably not a winner that time either.

            let’s skip the violets altogether

Roses are Red

Oranges are Orange

Blueberries are Blue

Periwinkles are Periwinkle

Grass is Green

Sheep are Fluffy

The Sun is Bright

Okra is Gross

Cheerios are Round

Roses are Red

            maybe it’s that first line that’s the problem?

Roses are             pretty             thorny

            flowers             nice gifts

            good in bouquets

            Aargh!

Your car is bright Red,

Your scrubs Navy Blue

In marrying you

My dreams have come true

You are the best wife,

An incredible friend

You are my whole life

I’ll love you to the end

I’m not good at colors

Or rhyming with blue

But I want you to know

How much I love you.

 

S'more (Poetry Month 2012: Day 10)

The past is difficult to shake.
It follows you, sticks to you.
An airhose snaking to a bathysphere.
A contrail streaking after a jet.
Marshmallow sticking to your fingers.
Oh, you can wash it off,
brush your teeth and wipe your face,
erase all traces of the s'more you ate,
but you'll still smell like campfire.
And after you shower, twice,
and it's well and truly gone,
you'll still remember the taste
and want another one.

Th'eater (Poetry Month 2012: Day 9)

Buttery deliciousness, just enough salty savor
for one fluffy mouthful
to follow another.
Some splurge to toss their treat in sweetly burnt caramel,
or orange cheesy cheddar that lingers later for finger flavor.

Popcorn

Th'eater popcorn: in bags, in tubs,
in gloriously giant-sized proportions.
They turn down the lights and the whole room hushes.
Nothing to distract or interfere with this rite, this ritual,
this well-earned Friday night indulgence.
Free to enjoy the delectable, specially selectable
flavored or traditional, utterly unmissable
eminently edible, dazzlingly incredible
Popcorn.

...and sometimes there's a movie.

Rolled Away (Poetry Month 2012: Day 8)

How shall we move the stone,
the heavy door of stone
sealed to keep us from
the object of our grief?

Look! The stone is moved,
the door is open wide,
there is nothing inside.
O heartless, cursed thief!

But then he speaks her name,
and all the fear and pain
give way to sweet relief
and joy, and true belief.

Christ risen today,
all burdens roll away.

Light as Air (Poetry Month 2012: Day 7)

I have dreamed, as you have too,
of resting on a floating cloud,
to float away to neverland
where only comfort is allowed.
This dream has been a bit delayed,
and sweet repose remains belated;
I slept last night upon a mattress
that was only half inflated.
I hope that when my cloud arrives
that my repose is less abortive
and the air inside will be
at least a little more supportive.

image credit: savvyrest.com

Shutting the Tomb (Poetry Month 2012: Day 6)

Hands wring
Nothing but themselves to hold
Shroud laid, wrappings made
Spices, ointment, all complete
They have nothing left to them.

Empty light from the rising moon
Colder than tears, colder than stone
Seems to drown the too-warm night
in broken hopes
and dead promises.

And the stone rolls closed
on a void
that we are
still too numb to feel.