Final Novel Stages

I have been busily working with my editor and the layout person for my novel. After receiving the marked up copy of the manuscript, I carefully went through each area which needed work, made changes where appropriate, and then did a complete read of the manuscript.

Even after I had proofed it and the editor had, I still found a couple of words that were wrong. My editor has been amazing, making the book better, and even letting me know he should have caught the words, but grateful that I had. The manuscript was sent back to him, with my corrections, then it went off to layout. She has been a joy to work with, as well. Both of them have commented on how much they enjoyed the manuscript, and both asked if I had planned to continue the story, in a series.

And, as I have noted here, this novel, The Wrath of Amun, is the first in a series of historical mysteries set in ancient Egypt. Having two people read the novel and comment favourably on it is so gratifying and humbling. As writers, we want to have our work recognised for its voice, its characters, its story. Getting the feedback I did on this first novel has only made me more confident in my writing.

Now, I wait for publication. The end of a wonderful journey, but the beginning of the next. My characters are anxious to continue their stories, and I, as their voice, must bring it forth.

The Joys of Writing

As writers, our greatest joys are our accomplishments. To have a work recognised for its merit by publishing is what we all strive for. And, to that end, I wish to share my news with you.

I received the edited manuscript of my first novel, The Wrath of Amun, from my publisher. The editor enjoyed the work, sent me a list of suggestions to tighten it up, expand on some areas, and add a little colour here and there. But, overall, no major changes or rewrites.

As this is my first work of fiction, I can not describe how this makes me feel. Non-fiction has been my genre for the past nine years; non-fiction, to me, is much easier than fiction. Whatever possessed me to think I could write fiction - well, it must have been a weak moment.

But, to have my fiction accepted for publication, now in the editing stage, and with publication pending, my world has opened up to far more possibilities. Writing is what I love, but I have more avenues to persue, by writing in multiple genres.

So, don't limit yourself and think of yourself as just a one-genre writer. Experiment, test the waters, even if it is just a short story. Though I shall continue to write non-fiction, fiction gives me the chance to fantasize, to create, to soar. Stay true to what you love and never give up.

Are You Kidding, Again??

When did we become so desperate that, as writers, we would take a job for no pay? To further rant on my perusal of craigslist postings, are people really that clueless to believe a professional writer or editor would take a job with the promise of pay from possible royalties?

These postings only illustrate how little people understand about the business of publishing. If traditional publishing is the route these people intend to go, less than 5 percent of manuscripts submitted ever get published. And, of those that do, many never realise royalties, and only receive an advance and nothing more.

So many of these postings are for ghost writers to write their memoirs or autobiographies. Unless you already have an established platform, are a celebrity, or somehow well-known, what "hook" do you think will interest a publisher in your story? And, if I'm going to devote weeks or months to writing a manuscript, I want to know my time and effort is worth more than a promise of "possible" payment. The last I checked, my mortgage company does not accept "promises to pay" while I submit a manuscript for publication.

Now, if your goal is self-publishing, some will charge you for the privilege to see your name in print. Does the ghost writer get in line, waiting for payment that may never come? We have all heard stories of "overnight" success, where an unknown writer is "discovered" by his first self-published work and signed to an outrageously funded contract by Big Name Publisher. But, they too are few and far between.

The computer age and the advent of electronical publishing has been a blessing and a curse. The blessings are many: books no longer have to be printed in large print runs, books can be distributed electronically, less printing costs should translate to higher profits and higher advances to the authors. The curse: everyone with a computer and a story thinks they can be the next Truman Capote, Stephen King, or Stephanie Meyer.

Writing a book, or making it a career, is hard work, thus the reason professional writers freelance. Helping a fledgling author to realise their dream is fulfilling and satsifying. But, as a professional, my time is worth something. Why do I want to use my valuable time ghost writing your book for no money, when I can be writing my own? If I don't attract a publisher with my own work, I can move on and write something else, but it is my time and my work. And it is what I love to do, knowing that it can, and has, paid off for me.

So, please, do not insult us. We write for the love of it, but we also write for the monetary remuneration. If we want to be rich, we would be in another line of work, but we do want our work appreciated -- you certainly wouldn't hire a plumber or advertising agency and expect them to "hope" to get paid. Expect to pay for writing services, just as you would any other service.

Are You Kidding?

As a freelance writer, I believe in presenting my work in the best possible light, and often edit the heck out of my work. And, I am also willing to assist others, to make their work sing. Copyediting and proofreading are skills which not all possess, and as such, I am more than happy to offer my services. But, have we really sunk so low that we will take jobs which undermine our integrity.

Two recent Craigslist postings, "Help Me Cheat on My Spanish Test," and "Will Pay for Classes," illustrate what is wrong with our society. The first one I refused to open, but the second one was quite interesting. The person who posted does not "have time" to attend his/her online classes and is willing to pay someone $100 per class, to attend instead.

Numerous posting ask for professional freelancers to research and write thesis papers, do their homework, and now, attend classes for people who apparently don't understand the concept of education. If I'm going to do your work for you, regardless of what you pay me, that diploma or degree better have my name on it, not yours.

What makes me even more sad, is there are writers out there perfectly willing to take on these jobs. Is it really worth it, to sell yourself out, for the amount someone is willing to pay to steal an education. Because that is what it is -- theft. I often wonder if the colleges and universities know, or even care, that their students are paying for their grades, rather than earning them on their own merits.

I am struggling financially, as are many people in this economy, but I will not compromise my ethics and take such a job. And, I would love to know why a professional writer would. I may sound naive, but if you have no intention of doing the course assignments, and apparently can afford to pay someone to do them for you, why bother going to college in the first place? Your education amounts to just a piece of paper, that someone else earned, and should be rightfully theirs.

Writing Ennui

When I wrote my first novel, the book took many twists and turns I had not anticipated. Once I got to know my characters and they began to trust me to tell their stories, I let them lead me. And, though my outline kept me (and them) on track, it was never etched in stone. It constantly evolved with the telling of the story.

But, my second novel did not go as smoothly. I made many changes to the outline along the way and many of the scenes were not planned the way they eventually played out. I began to realise, about half way through, that I didn't know if I wanted the story to end. Many nights I avoided my computer, all the while my characters were anxious for me to get back, to finish their stories.

Now, I am two-thirds done with my third novel, and I have reached that point again. I know how the story will end (according to my outline), but I don't know how my characters and I shall get there. And, I am loath to sit at my computer and write. For writing the end means the end of this journey with my characters.

When I outline a novel, it is with great anticipation: of the story, the characters, the direction, and the ultimate outcome. Once enmeshed, I want to know how the story will end, but it is also with a great deal of anxiety. For when it does end, I am left empty, sad, and lonely. My characters are alive to me - they populate my waking and sleeping mind, nagging me about a plot point they don't like, or urging me on when the action is fierce.

So why the avoidance? I don't believe in writer's block, but I have writer's ennui. I get to a certain part in my novel and I don't lose interest, I just don't want it to end. I try to hold off, as long as I can, to write the last few chapters. Because I know, it is emotionally draining, fraught with high tension, plot resolutions, and ultimately the end of the novel. And, then, I am left to start anew, but with a sense of loss. One story behind me and another ahead, some characters still sharing the journey with me, others left behind for now, or worse.

So, when writing a novel, or in my case a novel series, keep in mind that although there is a beginning, middle, and end to every novel, it isn't always that clearly defined, or easy to write. We become our characters and we need them as much as they need us.

How Much Is Too Much

I have been struggling with some critical scenes in my third novel, The Savagery of Set. Though tension in a mystery novel is a good thing, can there be too much?

As a novelist, I know that our characters must face danger, unusual situations, and more drama than occurs in most lifetimes. And, our characters must endure or perish. I have grown attached to my characters, like old friends. I feel comfortable with them, and they with me. Which is why they share their stories, so I may be their storyteller.

But, that doesn't make me feel any better when I place them in jeopardy. My protagonist lies unconscious, and in ancient Egypt, the prognosis is not good. Most individuals with head trauma would die, though mummies have been found who had their skulls chiseled into and survived. Fortunate for me, as the writer, since historically, my protagonist can survive.

The challenge of writing a novel, keeping up the action, and keeping it historically plausible is daunting, but it also gives the novelist a chance to experiment, push the envelope, and keep the readers' coming back for more. And, as this novel is the third in a series, I would hope they will keep coming back.

So, when faced with a difficult situation, always look for plausibility. Your reader will accept a lot, but will not accept the impossible. Make them cheer for the protagonist, make them worry about him, but never make them disbelieve in him, or you.

A Day of Mourning

Today is not a day to be dispensing writing advice, it should be a day of remembrance and reflection. Our lives were irrevocably changed ten years ago today. Hopefully, it will never again happen on American soil, but we must be vigilant.

We often forget that in order to be free, we sometimes must give up some freedoms. Travel has become cumbersome, but I would much rather feel safe, than live in fear each time I board a plane. Because freedom is not free - it is costly, in money, time, and lives lost. A member of my family is currently deployed in Afghanistan, doing his part to protect us, and allow us to enjoy our way of life.

So, today, remember, reflect, and never forget that freedom is difficult. It requires sacrifice and courage, from each and every one of us, not just the members of our armed forces. We all need to do our part to protect our freedom, our way of life, and those who are most important to us.

More on Writing Difficult Scenes

Another scene that seems to give writers pause is the love scene. Obviously, some books do not need them, while some include them for no reason, yet still others are richer for them. And, some writers really have no clue how to handle such a scene.

Since I write historical mysteries, my love scenes have to be faithful to the time period, so words become quite important, as do descriptions. Words that could be used in contemporary fiction would seem vulgar and out of place in a historical setting. The emphasis therefore is on the interaction between the characters and the deep feelings they have for one another.

A further note, a love scene does not require page after page of detail. Belabouring the point is not necessary; if the scene is handled properly, it may only cover one or two pages. Since my main character is married, it is only appropriate that he is portrayed at home, with his wife. And, in ancient Egypt, the nobles had a great deal of leisure time, so it is natural that such scenes will play out on paper.

These are scenes I don't have to outline, as opposed to a fight scene or chasing after a fleeing suspect. A love scene should flow onto the page, while a fight scene needs to have structure and stay within the confines of realism.

As writers, it is important to write what we know, but it is just as important to write what may be difficult for us. In exploring emotions which are strong, we grow as writers, testing the boundaries of our comfort zone, and, sometimes, even amazing ourselves.

Writing "Difficult" Scenes

When we write fiction, we sometimes have to venture out of our "comfort zone," and write what we do not know. I was faced with just such a scene recently, a confrontation between my protagonist and antagonist, and the resulting fight scene.

Now, I know nothing about physical combat, and, originally, knew even less about ancient weaponry. So, I did my research first to be knowledgeable about the weapons used in New Kingdom Egypt. The khopesh, a slashing weapon with a curved blade, and the mace, often with a heavy, carved stone head, were the most common weapons, as well as the dagger and the bow and arrow.

But, in close quarters, the bow and arrow are useless. So, on to the other weapons. The khopesh could inflict great damage, open up chest and abdominal cavities and the mace could crush bones and skulls. But, the injuries have to be severe enough, but not lethal, or my protagonist is done for. After choreographing the scene and investigating the proper treatment of wounds, I was ready to write the crucial scene.

Two men, each with their own reasons for the conflict, face off. Little is said, but the drama needs to build and be sustained with action and injury. To make sure the scene worked, I shot off a copy of the completed scene to a fellow author, Bruce Thole, who could give me the proper perspective, from the eyes of a man.

This may seem like a lot of work for one scene which is only a fraction of the total book, but the scene is critical. To shortchange the reader is just not an option. Stepping into unfamiliar territory is how a writer grows and becomes better at his/her chosen craft. And, without the support of other writers to read and critique, a good scene may be acceptable, but feedback can make it great.

Stretch your boundaries, try writing a scene you normally wouldn't write -- you may find a new genre to explore and write in.

Discipline in Writing?

A dear friend and fellow author, Dana Eilers, recently complimented me for being so disciplined in my writing, since I write each day. The comment took me by surprise, since I do not think of myself as disciplined. But, I am fortunate to have the time to devote to writing at the present.

I know I am more productive in the evenings, for writing, and more productive during the day for research, editing, and proofing. So, I guess I do follow a schedule of sorts. During the day, I research any plot points that need to be resolved, I proof what I wrote the evening before, and do necessary edits. Sometimes I write, sometimes I don't.

In the evenings, I turn on my favourite radio station and let the words rip. Sometimes I may not write too much because I get hung up on a particular scene or chapter. Sometimes I write 1200 words without batting an eye. So, my output changes each day. And, sometimes I write crap that just needs to be tossed in the trash and I start all over again.

My schedule works for me because I know my best times to write and because I do it each day. Your schedule works for you -- it could be every day, or once a week, but it's yours. Writing should be a pleasure, not a chore. Once it becomes too much of a chore, your writing will suffer. But, you should find a schedule that is right for you and then stick to it. You will find your work will improve and so will your output.

Loss of Languages

In the course of my research this week, I had occasion to revisit an activity I enjoyed when I was younger - the study of languages. At one time, I actually wanted to be an interpreter, and had quite an ear for languages. Now, as I get older, I am reminded of how many of our words come from languages which are no longer taught in schools, primarily Latin.

I took three years of Latin in high school and could conjugate a verb like nobody's business. My love for Latin opened up opportunities to other languages, as well as a deeper understanding of my own. I was exposed to French at home (my father spoke it fluently), and to this day, though I am no longer fluent, I can still follow a converstion in French.

The love of languages should not stop when one graduates from school. And, that was brought home to me this week. Though most of my research centers on ancient Egypt, and I am comfortable with hieroglyphics, I wish to broaden my horizons, and Latin seemed like a natural progression. But, I do not intend to stop there. I still have a number of dictionaries, German, French, Italian, Spanish, and Hebrew, to name a few, and have every intention of learning the basics.

So, if you think you are too old to learn a language, I don't think it is ever too late. And, I know my Latin will help me to build upon my knowledge. As a nod to the ancients: sublimiora petamus (let us seek higher things).

Demise of a Bookseller

The loss of another brick-and-mortar store, the Borders chain, has given me pause this week. I went to the location at which I once worked, spoke with some of my former coworkers, and was astonished at how many people were actually in the store.

Often when I worked on Sunday mornings, I did not have a first customer for almost three hours. And, our store was a top performer. So, what does this all mean? I love the feel of books, but the trend is going electronic. And, I must admit, I too want a Kindle or Nook.

For me, the benefits are immeasurable. I possess a personal library of over 3000 books. How wonderful it would be for me, when travelling, if I had at my disposal, at the very touch of a button, my library with me. I could access the information I need, my research material would be constantly at my disposal.

But, what I do fear is that we have become enamoured by our electronics. We want information, but in 500-word bites. Distillation has become the norm, rather than curling up with a lovely book, in front of the fireplace or on a patio on a Sunday morning.

My fellow author and friend, Rabbi David J. Wolpe, recently posted these same frustrations on a blog post for the Huffington Post:

I used to write books. Now, I write Facebooks. Somehow it is not the same.

There was a time when being sequestered in a room was not that difficult. When I wrote my first book there was nothing really on TV at 3 am. Netflix was not. There were no emails waiting, no tweets tweeting, no IPODS purring, no seductive flashing updates that remind you if your news is more than 15 minutes old. I could write relatively undisturbed except for the manic bouncing of my own thoughts.

Now wireless follows me like a stalker. Café, library, streetcorner, no place is free from the lurking server. Yes, I know I can turn it off. I also know that I can remove my fillings and have my fingernails extracted, but I am not about to do it any more than I will cut the ethereal lifeline to the world. After all, if I sit in a room to write something with a greater half-life than last nights dessert, I may miss the urgent news item that has a half life, well, of last night's dessert. You see - it is a conundrum.

As writers, we grieve the loss of brick-and-mortar stores, like the loss of a friend. We are so wired into the digital age, we sometimes find it difficult to unplug, even to write, which is our stock and trade. So, I shall continue to support Borders, to the bitter end, and will shop at other local booksellers, to find that one jewel to add to my ever burgeoning library.

But, someday in the near future, my library shall consist of only a Nook or Kindle, loaded to the max with my treasured books. Will it be traumatic? Yes, for there is nothing that can ever replace the seductive smell and feel of a book in one's hands. Which is why Rabbi Wolpe and countless other writers, myself included, continue to write books, electronic time permitting of cours.

Book Signings

For unpublished authors, this is the day you dream about. Hundreds of people all queued up, waiting to catch a glimpse of you, their favourite author. But, unless your book hits The New York Times Bestseller list right out of the gate, book signings are usually more intimate affairs.

I write for a small niche market. I have done events for over fifty people and I have also done events where I was fortunate to speak with three people. Book signings are not what they used to be. Publishers have limited dollars to spend on promotion and will use them wisely. If a publisher has a choice of sending "Bestselling Author" on a book promotion tour or of scheduling an event for "First Time Author," where do you think they will get their best return?

That is not to say the publishers ignore you. They are quite proactive in assisting you in your quest to get your book in front of the most people, in your markets. Since this is my third published work, I know what to do. I contact all my area bookstore in advance of the release, let them know I am available for book signings and events, and supply them with a sample copy. You, as the author, must also take the initiative. As with everything today, a guest spot is not going to fall into your lap. And, with the advent of social media, getting your name out is easier than ever.

So, for the unpublished authors out there dreaming of overnight success, remember: writing a book is a difficult process. You pour your heart and soul into it and if you do not do all you can to make the book a success, your publisher may not either. Follow the guidelines they send you for promotion -- they're the experts in publicity and promotion; you are the writer. Make it your best work and then, promote the hell out of it.

"The Wrath of Amun" -- Installment from the novel

The next installment of "The Wrath of Amun." We will learn a bit about the poor deceased woman and the new Chief of the Medjay.

Having assisted with the morning ritual, Qaa with two Medjay escorts headed across the Nile to the verdant fields on the East bank. They found Semti, with his wife and children, tending an emmer field; he was lowering the shaduf into the water channel while his wife and children weeded. Qaa motioned to the man he wished to speak with him privately. Off to the left of the emmer field, there was a small personal garden; the plants appeared to be barley, radishes, leeks, and onions. As a farmer in service to the temple, he also had a few goats, sheep, and geese, for his family’s consumption, grazing in pens in front of the mud-brick house. He was a small, wiry man dressed only in a loincloth, flint cutting blade with a wooden handle tucked into the waist, bare feet caked with mud; Semti barked orders to his family to keep working. He carried himself like a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.

“You are Semti, father of Iput, the woman who was murdered at the temple?”

“I am. Who are you, hem netjer?” Semti looked up at the imposing figure, sporting a reed switch tucked neatly into the waist of his kilt.

“I am Qaa, the new Chief of the Medjay. I have been called to Waset to look into the death of your daughter. Did you see your daughter on the evening of her death?”

“No, Medjay. I had worked all day in the fields and had another long day ahead of me.” Semti bowed low before Qaa.

“Was your daughter happy in her marriage?”

“Unas was divorcing her. He came to me and asked to send her back. She was barren; what other use is there for a woman except to pleasure her husband and provide him with children. She was trouble all her life; I told him she was his wife, not my responsibility. I had no use for another mouth to feed.” Semti seemed untouched by Iput’s murder.

“You say she was trouble. Did you beat her as a child?” Qaa’s stomach lurched, remembering the abuse he had seen on Iput’s body.

“I had to. She wouldn’t cook, do her chores, work in the fields. How else could I get her to do anything?” Semti looked to Qaa for sympathy, man to man.

Qaa was outraged. He tried to keep his voice measured and his anger in control. “Did you tell Unas how to make her obey?”

“Of course.” Semti smiled broadly. “He needed to know how to handle her. Unas always did like the wild ones. Her mother was like that when I took her the first time. Screamed and kicked, almost bit my ear off. She still has some fight left in her, but I too know how to use a switch.” He chuckled to himself.

In one swift motion, Qaa withdrew the switch from his waist, raised it above his head, and struck the farmer a sound blow across the cheek, drawing blood. Qaa fought hard against lashing out in anger, preferring combat in battle, but intentionally inflicting pain on a woman was something he would not tolerate.

“If you have lied to me, farmer, I shall return and shall not stay my hand at just one blow.”

***

After traveling back across the Nile to the West bank, and still in the company of the two Medjay, Qaa found Unas at one of the temple metalworking tents. Wearing only a loincloth, he was sitting on a stool in front of a brazier, tongs in hand, a glowing piece of metal in the charcoals. Even from this distance, the heat was palpable and breathing was an effort. Qaa motioned to the overseer to bring Unas to him. The overseer spoke to Unas who put down the tongs, stood, and compliantly followed the overseer’s instructions.

Qaa appraised Unas, having seen the brutality on Iput’s body. The man was about his own age, but at least a cubit shorter. He had powerful hands and shoulders from working the various metals, and bore numerous burns and scars, both fresh and healed. His hands had the familiar appearance of crocodile skin, brown, scaly, and toughened from the heat of the crucibles and hearths. He sported a dagger at his waist, bronze with a bone handle. He moved with the swagger of a man too self-confident; he exuded an air of importance though he was only an apprentice.

“I am Qaa, the new Chief of the Medjay. I am looking into the death of your wife. Did you know she had left your home to go to the temple the night she died?”

“I was asleep. She must have slipped out; she did that often. I suspected she had taken up with another man. I had no use for her, she was barren and I was going to divorce her.”

Qaa’s temper simmered just below the surface of his calm exterior. Semti had put him in a foul mood. This man’s wife is brutally murdered and he speaks disrespectfully of her. He withdrew the switch and slapped his own palm with it. “Did you beat her often?” Qaa’s voice had taken on the tenor of a confidante, one man to another.

“She would not submit to me. I would have to bind her hands and feet in order to mount her.” Unas laughed.

Qaa could feel his anger dangerously close to exploding. Even a reed switch, in his hands, could inflict serious injury. “She may have been more receptive if you had been patient or kind with her.”

Unas leaned in to speak low, so only Qaa would hear. “Chief Medjay, do you have a woman? Trust me when I say they need to be beaten regularly. How else can you make them submit?” He stepped back and continued to speak. “I now have a woman who knows her place and will do whatever I demand. Is that not the duty of a woman?” He smiled broadly.

Qaa wanted to retch. Brought up in an abusive home, married to an abusive husband, what chance did she have? Were all the men in Waset this brutal toward their women? He could not contain his anger any longer. “In the future, apprentice, when you see me, I expect you to bow before me, showing your respect. Medjay, hold this man while I interrogate him further.”

Each Medjay grabbed an arm of Unas and held him tightly. Qaa began beating Unas on the back, just as Unas had beaten his wife to submit to his needs. “How does it feel, Unas, to be powerless? Do you think she enjoyed her beatings? If you have lied to me, I shall be back. And if I hear of you beating any more women, you shall wish I had killed you.” Qaa’s chest heaved and sweat trickled down his back, having taken out his anger on the man who had inflicted much of the torment on Iput. He again raised the switch above his head.

“My Chief that was twenty lashes.” The Medjay saw the wrath in Qaa’s eyes and fell silent. His rage spent for now, he lowered the switch. Qaa straightened up, wiped the bloody switch on Unas’s loincloth, and slid it into the waist of his kilt.

After taking a deep breath to bring his emotions under control, Qaa spoke smoothly and authoritatively. “Medjay, you may release him.” When the Medjay released Unas’s arms, he fell, in a crumpled heap at Qaa’s feet. He looked down, spat on him, and turned back to the temple, followed by the Medjay.

***

Launching a Book

New authors often wonder why it takes so long for their manuscript to become the lovely, published book they always imagined. Having freelanced in the publishing industry, let me give you a little insight.

After acquisitions and editorial have their go at the manuscript, it is assigned an editor. After he polishes the work, it next goes to a copyeditor. It is her job to check the work of the editor, ask questions on style and formatting, and produce a style sheet and/or word list. From there, the fun begins. The next stop is the proof reader, who uses the style sheet and word list to polish even further.

After that, the author gets involved. This is usually the time for the page proofs. It is often the last chance an author has to make any corrections, or to address any issues which may have come up in the editing and formatting. Of course, once the author makes his changes, it is back to the editor and may end up in the hands of yet another proof reader for a final check.

And, while all this is going on there are other processes going on -- cover and back cover art, interior drawings or photographs are inserted, back material and indicies are created, marketing starts their work, and the list goes on and on.

The tasks involved are important, to make your manuscript the best it can be. And, believe me, I know all too well. I have done both copyediting and proof reading. Both require attention to detail, a different set of skills for each task, guidelines must be adhered to (think, The Chicago Manual of Style), and the ability to work quickly, efficiently, and always with a deadline looming.

So, when you submit your manuscript for publication, remember all the unsung hands that make your work the best it can be. The people behind the scenes share in your success, but their names do not appear in the credits. They do it for the love of the work. I know, because that's why I do it.

"The Wrath of Amun" - Fifth Installment

Another installment of "The Wrath of Amun." Hope you are enjoying the posts.

After the preparation of the unguents and the noon ritual, Thanuny and Qaa retired to their private quarters. Qaa took out a new scroll and wrote notes about his observations of the poisoned wine and what the priests had told him. When he had finished, he secured the reeds in the palette, took the scroll and palette with him, and crossed the corridor to Thanuny’s room.

“Thanuny, may I speak plainly? The king has appointed me First hem netjer; I need to know if you had hoped to gain the position.”

“I am quite content with my duties here at the temple. I often have to act on behalf of the First hem netjer, but without all the political intrigue that comes with the position. I do not envy you your task. I shall serve you well, just as I did Raneb. Harkhuf, Weni, and I are the only permanent full time priests here, as was Raneb. I shall notify them of your appointment. Whatever you need, hem netjer, I am at your service.” Thanuny bowed to Qaa.

“I would prefer informality from you and hope to count you as a friend, Thanuny. I have spent much of my life in military service, never settling in one place very long. My previous appointment, Viceroy of Kush, required my dedication to protecting our southern border. I hope to settle in Waset and would enjoy the company of my fellow priests.”

“You may depend on me, Qaa, if I may address you as such.”

Qaa smiled for the first time in the presence of the priest. “Yes, Thanuny, you may. There is much I need to know, and you are my eyes and ears. Please sit and we may begin.”

Thanuny sat on his bed and Qaa sat on the stool at the writing table. He spread the scroll on the table, set the palette next to it, prepared the inks, and consulted his notes.

“Thanuny, do you have the bowls and vessel? I think I would like to examine them first.”

The priest motioned to a side table. Qaa was able to reach them from his position at the writing table. The bowls contained some sediment, but it was difficult to determine if it was from an herbal mixture or just from the wine itself. The vessel, however, was much more informative. Just looking down the neck, Qaa could see a great deal of “mush” in the bottom. He gently tapped the clay vessel on the edge of the table to crack it. With his large hand, he grasped the neck and broke it off, to expose the inside. The first item of note was the unmistakable odour of lotus flower. It was often used for pain or to quiet those suffering from demons, but in large doses it could lead to unconsciousness and death. The plant material looked like it had been filtered through cloth; there was little that was recognizable. From the smell, however, he suspected one of the ingredients could be monkshood or henbane. He placed the broken vessel on the table, scribbled some notes on the papyrus scroll, and then turned his attention to Thanuny.

 “You and Raneb carried Iput into the preparation tent, after the hemet netjer had been settled in her quarters. Tell me what he said of his observations, as well as what you observed. No detail is unimportant.”

“You should know the weapon was recovered. It was found next to the body. Raneb directed me not to wash it until he examined it. I placed the dagger on a piece of linen cloth and brought it into the preparation tent for him.”

“Tell me about the dagger and, if it is still in the preparation tent, I would like to examine it as well.” Qaa picked up the reed, dipped it in the ink, and took notes as he listened to Thanuny.

“It is an unusual dagger, foreign; I have seen daggers like that being traded in the marketplace. Many of them come from the Near East. Rather than describe the dagger, I shall show it to you when you have finished your questions.”

“Thank you, Thanuny. Tell me what Raneb saw when he examined the body.”

The older priest shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He had been troubled greatly by what he had seen.

“Take your time. I know this has been a very unsettling event. I have seen men killed in battle, but I have never seen anything as brutal as this.” Qaa looked sympathetically at Thanuny. “I would not ask for such information if it were not necessary.”

“I have been greatly affected by this murder; even sleep offers me no solace.”

“Then tell me, Thanuny, and allow me to carry the burden of this crime.”

The older priest took a deep breath and commenced his narrative, as Qaa made notes.

“Raneb examined her body thoroughly, just as you did. He also spread her legs and examined her genitals and rectum. Aside from the wounds you see, her attacker used an object on her, tearing her open in both areas.”

Both men sat for some time in silence, Qaa trying to understand how a person could do such a thing, Thanuny struggling with the horrors he had seen inflicted on Iput.

“After Weni helped Raneb pack the body cavity, Raneb dismissed the other priests and asked me to remain. He told me he was troubled by something he had seen and asked me to assist him. We removed some of the natron packets from the body and Raneb examined other organs.” Thanuny’s face was ashen, his voice quavered, and he looked quite ill.

“Let me get you some wine. We can speak of this later, when you are feeling up to it.”

Qaa exited the room and crossed the corridor to his room. He had a vessel of Kushite wine in one of his traveling chest. He extracted it from the chest and found the two new drinking bowls on a shelf in his room. He brought the bowls and vessel to Thanuny’s room, poured him a generous amount, and held the wine out to the older priest. With hands shaking, he took the bowl and drained it straight away.

“Qaa, you must not reveal what I am about to tell you. Only Raneb and I knew what he had found when he again examined that poor woman.”

Qaa poured more wine into Thanuny’s bowl, poured himself a bowl, and sat down again. When they had both drunk, Qaa spoke to the priest.

“Raneb was the Chief Medjay in charge of the investigation. It now falls upon my shoulders to complete his work. I need to know what he knew.”

“Iput was with child when she was killed.” Thanuny buried his face in his hands, trying to erase the scene from his memory.

***

Submission Jitters

I was reminded this week, by a writer friend, of how nerve-wracking it can be to begin submitting your work. Checking submission guidelines, crafting the perfect query, boiling a novel down to a three-page synopsis. As writers, our profession is crafting words, so why are submissions so difficult?

Part of it is that this "novel" is not just a novel to us -- it is a living thing, like a child, that we have created. It must be nurtured, cared for, until it is ready to make its way in the world. For us, we want to know it can stand on its own merit and, as a reflection of ourselves, shine as we so hope it will.

To further complicate the process, if you can write a 200-300 page novel, words are your business. Trying to distill that much information into three pages seems unrealistic. And, to capture the true essence in just a query, is plain torture.

But, we do it. For if we don't, our creation will languish: in a box, a filing cabinet, or on our computer desktop. We write for ourselves, but we also write for the approval of others. We write what entertains us, but we know that someone else will be entertained by our words as well. So, we take that giant leap of faith, after editing and rewriting and editing some more, and send our creation out into the world.

Letting go is difficult for many of us, but in order to publish, we must accept that we have made it the best it can possibly be. There is a sadness, a let-down, while we wait for the acceptance or rejection that follows, but we keep on doing it. For us, there is no other life but through our words.

"The Wrath of Amun" - Fourth Installment

Here is yet another clip from The Wrath of Amun. Other clips will follow, but I certainly do not want to give away too much of the story.

“My lord, I have examined the house of Raneb. Aside from the disarray, I saw no outward signs of injury. I directed Thanuny to remove his body to the temple for preparations. I shall observe the removal of the organs this evening. The gods may provide me with some answers at that time. I also examined the body of Iput. I now understand why your daughter was shaken by what she saw.”

Ramesses, seated on his throne, said nothing. He had lost a close friend and advisor, and this unpleasant business which had so unsettled his favourite daughter still had not been solved.

“I left a soldier guarding Raneb’s home. Is there a soldier or Medjay who may relieve him? The sun is high in the sky and he has been keeping watch since early morning.” Qaa looked to Ramesses for some direction, but still none was forthcoming.

“I also inquired with the Harbour Master before I returned to the palace. This may not be related to the crime, but one ship departed for Phoenicia at sunrise. Could the ship be intercepted at the next port? I await your orders, my king.” Again, Ramesses sat mute, struggling with his inadequacy at the current state of affairs.

“Did you not say your daughter has information about the murder?” Qaa asked, hoping to prod some response from Ramesses.

Ramesses finally looked up and considered the young man in front of him. Even though Qaa’s mother was not Egyptian, he was like a son to him, more trusted than some of his own sons. He was a strapping man, towering a full head and shoulders above most people, quite capable in battle, strong as a bull, most likely able to overpower the most dangerous individuals in Waset.

“Qaa, I am appointing you Chief of the Medjay in Waset, as well as First hem netjer in the Temple of Amun. The soldiers and Medjay are yours to command; they shall obey you as they obey me. You may make your quarters here in the palace, or at the temple. Raneb kept quarters in the temple, which can be made available to you as well. As for a guard, I shall dispatch one to Raneb’s home to keep watch until you are satisfied you need nothing further.”

“I am honoured by your confidence in me, your majesty, and I shall serve you well,” Qaa bowed to Ramesses. “I would prefer to stay at the temple for the present, to oversee the burial preparations, and meet with the temple administrators.”

“Please, Qaa, you may still call me ‘Father’ when we are alone. You grew up in my home, with my sons and daughters. Your father served both my father and me well; I treated him like a member of my family and shall treat you just as well,” Ramesses replied, smiling faintly. The king stood and crossed the room. “Medjay, dispatch a soldier to Raneb’s home. Have a guard there at all times until dismissed by Qaa. Summon my daughter at the temple. Tell her I wish to see her in the palace gardens. And dispatch a Medjay to the ship Qaa arrived on and have his belongings brought to the temple,” Ramesses commanded. The guard at the door scurried away as the king turned back to Qaa.

The two men walked out into the gardens and talked at length about past battles, the state of affairs in Kush, and the foreigners who seemed to be prevalent in Waset. Qaa inquired about the health of the royal family, and Ramesses spoke passionately about his children. Although three of his sons had joined with Auser, and his youngest daughter was plagued with evil demons, he had many children. Aside from his son, Pentaweret, they brought him a great deal of joy; his daughter, Tentopet, was due to deliver her fifth child soon. When Qaa asked about the king’s daughter, Nebettawy, he flushed deeply, unable to hide his feelings for her. Ramesses laughed heartily; his daughter still captivated Qaa, even after an absence of twelve years.

***

Nebettawy was escorted to the palace gardens. Her father was laughing, and quite animated with the stranger seated next to him. She had not seen her father this happy in some time; she had broken his heart when she made her choice to serve the temple, and even now when she came to the palace, she could see the sadness in his eyes.

“My beloved father, I have come at your request. How may I serve you?” Nebettawy bowed deeply in front of Ramesses.

“Our new Chief of the Medjay has arrived and is anxious to hear what you know of Iput’s death.”

For the first time, Nebettawy really looked at the stranger who had made her father laugh.

“Qaa?!” Her voice was barely audible. She stared intently into the blue eyes she had never forgotten, they threatened to overpower her, drown her like the Great Sea. The blood drained from her face and her knees buckled.

Instinctively, Qaa rushed forward to steady her, grabbing her by the arms. They were so warm to the touch, soft and supple, like a dancer’s. Being this close to her, he could feel the heat of her body and smell her musky scent. She smelled of myrrh and cinnamon, blue lotus and rose, and it was intoxicating. He felt his desire for her rise up inside of him, uncontrollable like a wild jackal. The heat in his loins burned like a torch, the throbbing between his legs unbearable. He wanted to pounce upon her and carry her off, possess her, devour her. His head ached, his chest pounded, and his ears buzzed. He forced himself to breathe but the air, heavy with scent, clogged his lungs, like the Nile at inundation. His thoughts swam in all directions until . . .

“Qaa! Release my daughter!” Ramesses’s words struck him like a thunderbolt.

***

Book Release

Friday marked the release of my third book on Egyptian magic. To celebrate, I took a copy of Egyptian Prosperity Magic to my main library. They maintain a section for local authors and have my previous two books in their collection.

Holding a copy of your own book never ceases to amaze and thrill me. I hope, as an author, to never lose that feeling of accomplishment, of excitement, of wonder. I read somewhere that less than five percent of manuscripts submitted for publication are accepted. If that is the case, then I am certainly blessed to have found publishers who have seen merit in my work.

Now, I begin my journey as a novelist. I shall continue to write non-fiction -- I have several books in process -- but fiction will give me the opportunity to spread my wings and create new worlds, new people, new ways of looking at the lives of others.

So, for those of you struggling to get published, I know I sound like a broken record (that would be vinyl), but never give up your dream. It is sometimes easier to break into publishing in certain genres, but never compromise your ideals just to get published. Stay true to what you do and what you write. Trust me, I write for a small niche market and I would not trade that for anything. And, my fiction may also only appeal to a small market, but again, this is what I love -- so, write what you love. Who knows? You might be visiting your local library soon, with your own book under your arm.

Freedom

Rather than post about writing, I wish to thank our men and women serving all over the world, who embody what has made this country great. A member of my family is currently deployed in Afghanistan and his dedication makes me proud.

May you all have a safe and enjoyable holiday. But, take the time to remember those who have sacrificed so much for us to live in a land of freedom.

Staying on Track

Sometimes it can be very difficult to see light at the end of the tunnel. Writing a book takes a toll on each writer to some degree, physically, emotionally, spiritually. But, to be a writer takes that effort, to never give up. We are driven by our passion, our need to write -- it is as natural to us as breathing.

So, today, a little advice and wisdom. Save every scrap of paper on a work -- what you might delete in editing may be useful in another book. Keep all correspondence between you and prospective agents and publishers. Someone who rejects you today, could be your saviour tomorrow. And, don't ever lose sight of why you do what you do.

I love writing: creating new worlds, sharing a part of myself with each reader. Writing is life, writing is love, writing is not just what I do, but it is who I am. I will always be a writer, always striving to create something new, something different, something to be proud of. Stay focused and never give up on your dream.

The Wrath of Amun - Third Installment

Words to know: hery heb is a lector priest and wab-priest is a purified person. Though Qaa is a military man by profession, even he is shocked by the brutality of the crime. Feel free to post comments and let me know what you think. According to the publisher, the manuscript is in the hands of the editorial staff and we are looking at a possible August release. The beauty of a small publisher -- it doesn't take 12-18 months to publish.

The home of Raneb was still being guarded by one of Ramesses’s soldiers. The soldier stepped aside to let Qaa enter. The interior was cool and dark, providing respite from the morning heat. The main room was small and showed evidence that someone had been here looking for . . . what? A broken drinking bowl lay on the floor, next to the body. An open wine vessel sat on the table. An imported wine, far more expensive than he surmised the chief could afford, based on the simple residence he occupied. Qaa picked up the vessel and sniffed its contents. The aroma was full and fruity, but with a hint of something unpleasant. He put it back on the table and bent down to examine Raneb.

The man was twenty or so years older than Qaa, but he looked fit. He obviously had not let the benefits of the temple go to his stomach. Numerous flies and beetles covered various parts of Raneb’s corpse. His face was purple and contorted in a grimace; his eyes were staring out at nothing and had clouded over. His body showed no evidence of blows and there were no drag marks on the earthern floor, so he had not been moved. Whoever had ransacked Raneb’s home had done so without disturbing the body. Although the body was warm, it was likely that he died the previous evening. He tried to move Raneb’s head, but the neck was stiff, as were his limbs. He had seen this often in Kush; the man had died the night before and turned completely to stone. To make carrying him easier, he laid Raneb on his back; he noted the side of the body was dark where the blood had settled.

Qaa looked at the various papyri strewn about the simple mud-brick house, but most were sacred texts. The few that were secular in nature contained no mention of murder. On the side table, he noticed another drinking bowl with a black smudge on it. Qaa turned back to the body and noticed the thumb on his right hand was stained, but dry. He carefully examined the clay shards of the broken bowl and found a similar smudge on one of the larger pieces. He had seen all he needed to see for now; he would further examine the body at the temple this evening when the preparations were performed.

He stepped out into the bright Egyptian sunlight, blinking to adjust his sight. He looked up and down the street at the close-set structures; any unusual noise would have been heard in the neighbouring houses. He looked down at the sand outside the house. Too many feet had passed this way; it would be impossible to tell if Raneb had more than one visitor the previous evening. He walked a short distance in the direction of the temple and then back. He looked in between the houses on the left and right, but again, too many feet had walked these paths.

He turned to Thanuny. The priest was older than he by possibly fifteen years. He was a short, fit man who looked like he kept himself well. His kilt was pleated sharply and gleaming white. He carried himself with confidence and appeared to be the type of man who liked order. Thanuny looked to be a man upon whom he could depend to carry out his wishes.

“Thanuny, you may remove the body, but I would like to examine it further, before you start the preparations. Bring the vessel of wine back to the temple, but take care with it; it may tell me what I need to know. I have to return to my ship, and then I shall come to the temple to see the young woman’s body.” Qaa turned to the guard. “I do not want anyone to disturb this house. But I fear the sun may be strong today. Step inside the door and I shall see to getting someone to relieve you.”

Qaa ambled toward the Eastern gateway, threading his way through the narrow streets, looking side to side and down at the sand. He found only one set of footprints leading to the gate from this area, whether it had anything to do with Raneb’s death, he did not yet know. He walked down to the docks and inquired of the Harbour Master if any ships had departed this morning. One had put out at first light, headed down the Nile, to Phoenicia, and three others had left headed to Kush. He stopped briefly at the ship on which he arrived, to change into a lighter linen kilt, and then hurried to the Temple of Amun.

***

Thanuny had arrived before Qaa and notified the lesser priests to direct him to the body of Iput. When he entered the preparation tent, he found Thanuny and three priests waiting for him. They had removed the linen and loose natron covering the dead woman.

“I would like to know who handled the body and assisted Raneb in his initial investigation. And, would someone tell me the name of this unfortunate woman,” Qaa edged close to the table. He looked briefly at the desiccating body; his stomach lurched and he had to look away.

Thanuny spoke for the group. “Her name was Iput, daughter of Kawit, and she was a wick-maker.  She was married to a temple goldsmith’s apprentice, Unas, and her father is Semti, a farmer supplying the temple granaries. Raneb took the hemet netjer to her quarters after she found the body, and then he and I carried the body into this tent. Raneb directed Anedjib to remove all traces of blood outside the entrance. After Raneb had examined her body thoroughly, I began the preparations with Harkhuf and Weni.”

One of the priests stepped forward and bowed. He was a small, thin man about his own age. He appeared nervous in Qaa’s presence and his hands trembled. “I am Anedjib. It was my responsibility to remove any trace of blood from outside the entrance. When I completed my task, I assisted the priests by preparing jars of clay for the internal organs. I am a hery heb and not allowed to touch the body.” He returned to stand next to his brother priests.

The second priest stepped forward, bowing low. By his clothing Qaa knew he also was a hem netjer, as was Thanuny. But, unlike Thanuny, he did not keep his kilt as well. He was about the same age as Thanuny, but was short and thin, as were many Egyptians. He seemed to like the status service in the temple afforded him, by wearing a great deal of adornment. “I am Harkhuf. Raneb and I removed what was left of her clothing and washed the body. I brought Raneb the unguents and oils to anoint her.” He returned to his place.

It was now up to the final man, who wore the kilt of a wab-priest. He was short and plump, old enough to be Qaa’s father. He evidently had enjoyed the luxury of the temple for many years, and now wore a weary countenance. He too bowed in deference to Qaa. “I am Weni. I prepared all the instruments for Raneb, brought in the natron for the organs, placed it on the tables with their jars, and assisted him while he packed her body with the natron packets.”

“Which of you assisted when Raneb removed her organs?” Qaa needed to know.

“It was I who assisted Raneb in the removal of the organs,” Thanuny replied.

“I shall wish to speak with each of you at length. You shall be my eyes as to what Raneb observed and you, Thanuny, shall be invaluable as to what Raneb may have told you. I would like to look at the body myself, and then I must return to the palace. This evening, I shall oversee the preparation of Raneb’s body. I would ask that you have the linen, natron, unguents, and oils at the ready. Raneb served this temple well and deserves to have only the finest preparation. Thanuny, you knew Raneb so it is only proper that you prepare the body and I shall assist,” Qaa dismissed the three lesser priests to begin their tasks. He turned to Thanuny.

“Would you assist me in turning the body so I may look at her back?”

Thanuny and Qaa turned the body so her back was facing them. Her back and buttocks showed numerous healed wounds, which had been inflicted over time.  There appeared to be a healed burn mark on her left buttock as well. There was a large open wound in her lower back on the right side, which could have been the fatal wound.

“Let us lay her back down,” Qaa said to Thanuny. He had seen some horrible wounds in his military campaigns, but this woman had lived a short and brutal life. She bore telltale burn marks on both wrists and ankles, like many a captive, which told him someone had restrained her against her will. The marks were not recent, and also appeared to have occurred over time, so they may not have been inflicted by her killer. Qaa further noted that the fingers on her left hand appeared to have been broken, as they had not healed properly.

Qaa now turned his attention to the front of Iput’s body. There were two large wounds, probable stab wounds, one in her lower left abdomen, the other in her left chest. Again, either one of these could have been a fatal wound if delivered with enough force, but taken together, mercifully she must have died within minutes. However, it was the other wounds on her body which disturbed him more than what he had observed on her back. He prayed they had been inflicted after death.

Her throat had been slashed numerous times, making it appear she had been attacked by a wild animal. But the wounds were all of varying length and depth, which meant her killer had deliberately taken the time to inflict them. Both breasts had been slashed in a similar manner, as had been her genital area. He would ask each of the priests about any internal injuries Raneb may have observed. Qaa felt like retching; doing battle against an enemy was one thing, but brutalizing a woman . . . there were no words to describe a person like that.

***

My First Critic

As I held my author copies of Egyptian Prosperity Magic, which arrived this week, I had to smile. My first critic would have been so proud, had he been here to share it with me.

My father was a quiet man, steady, hard working. But, he could be critical, as many parents are, though he did it with the best of intentions. He wanted his children to strive for perfection, achieve that which he did not, and in so doing, instilled in us the desire to excel.

My mother was, as most women are, more nurturing and instilled in us the desire to learn, to read, to love the English language, both written and spoken. She would praise our achievement; he would push us to achieve more. So, from both of my parents, I learned very valuable lessons which I carry with me today.

The profession of writing is a solitary business, fraught with rejection at every turn. But, having my father as my first critic, made me realise that not all criticism is bad. He was always there to praise our achievements, but he also made us want to achieve more -- to make him proud.

So, on this Father's Day, as I hold my newest book in my hand, I thank my father, who passed away in 2007, for giving me the strength and the tenacity to never quit. He, and my mother, would be quite proud of my accomplishments.

More "The Wrath of Amun"

Another clip from The Wrath of Amun, which introduces my protagonist. Hope you enjoy. A wesekh is the broad collar worn by many in ancient Egypt. A hem netjer is a priest and hemet netjer is a priestess. I want to give you a little look at the novel, without giving too much away. In future posts, I will give you a look at the other books in the series.

As he strode from the docks, in the direction of the Great Gate, Qaa was astonished by what he saw. When he left Waset twelve years ago, construction on the mortuary temple of Ramesses III was just beginning. From the Nile, he had seen the completed complex, safely ensconced behind the high, vividly adorned walls and pylon gates. At the entrance, giant carved marble obelisks, capstones layered in gold, glinted in the harsh Egyptian sunlight. Waset buzzed with activity – workmen painting the columns, scribes and priests marking the symbols for the stone cutters, the distant sound of the goldsmiths. The din from the marketplace was just audible and the smells from the stalls, as well as the temple bakery, were more exotic than he remembered. But all that could wait; he would have plenty of time later to explore his boyhood home.

Blue and white banners, signifying the status of this enclosure as a mortuary complex, swayed lazily in the still air above the Great Gate. As he passed through the First Pylon, he could see the palace off to his left, flanked by columns brightly decorated with reeds and lotus flowers. Qaa quickened his step; he would much rather appear before the king early than be late. He had crossed half the courtyard when he saw someone approach. As the distance between them closed, he recognized the familiar kilt and wesekh of a hem netjer.

“The king wishes me to direct you to his private chambers. There has been a rather unfortunate event and he wishes to see you immediately,” the priest said.

He followed the priest through the palace corridors to King Ramesses’s private chambers. The only sound was the soft, crunching noise of the reed sandals, worn by both men, against the polished tile floor. Ushered into the room, they observed the seated king, deep in conversation with a Medjay, the elite guard of the palace.

“Your majesty, I have brought Qaa as you requested.” The priest bowed deeply to the king.

“Leave us. We have much to discuss.” The king looked troubled as the priest and Medjay both exited the private chamber. Qaa had not seen the man he once called “Father” for five years. He was no longer the warrior-king he fought so bravely alongside. Ramesses had begun to take on the guise of the Nile god, enlarged breasts, rounded belly. Egypt had been enjoying peace and prosperity these many years, and it showed upon the king. His face was weary and worn, as if he were a noble statue, too long in the sun and blowing sand. Qaa approached and bowed low, in deference to his king.

“Your majesty, I have come at your request. How may I serve you?” Qaa straightened and looked at Ramesses.

Ramesses smiled broadly. Qaa had served him well in the campaigns against the Libyans and the Sea Peoples, earning him the Flies of Valour for his bravery, which he still wore around his neck on top of his wesekh. For his unwavering service he had been well compensated by being elevated to the post of Viceroy of Kush. Unlike the sons of his body, Qaa would do anything his king asked. Ramesses stood, approached Qaa, and embraced him warmly.

 “Qaa, you do not have to observe formality with me in private. You are still like a son to me.”

The two men walked out to the palace gardens and sat overlooking the royal pond. It was a beautiful, lush oasis in the middle of this inhospitable desert. Tranquil and restful, the blue lotus flowers floated on the surface of the pond, their scent heavily perfuming the still air. Date palms and fig trees lined the perimeter, creating a barrier from the responsibilities of kingship, providing a private respite from the pressures of governing an empire.  For quite some time neither of them spoke. Qaa sensed Ramesses was burdened by whatever unfortunate event had occurred. Ramesses seemed quite content to just sit in his private gardens, breathing in the aroma of the plants that were now in full bloom. Qaa patiently waited for his king to speak.

“I had summoned you to head up the military, here in Waset, but the gods have interceded. I now need you more in another capacity. My advisors have informed me you are not only First hem netjer in Kush, but also fair and just in legal matters. Any good soldier may work his way up the ranks, but you have excelled in keeping the peace and ferreting out evildoers. It is in this capacity that I now need your skills.”

“My lord, I have always prided myself on my military accomplishments, but you know I serve you and my beloved land. I shall assume any role you feel appropriate.”

“My Chief of the Medjay, who also held the post of First hem netjer nt Amun, was found dead this morning in his home. He had been investigating the brutal murder of a woman found at the entrance of the temple complex. We were to meet this morning regarding the investigation. I now fear the crime may go unsolved, and I am uneasy about his death.” Ramesses stared directly at Qaa, his gaze never wavered from the young man’s unusual blue eyes.

“Had he been ill?” Qaa understood the seriousness of the situation. Waset was the capital city of Upper Egypt and a brutal murder was not an everyday occurrence. The safety of foreign travelers to the city could have a devastating effect on trade if this were not dealt with swiftly.

“Aside from having lived a long life, he was in good health. I need to know that the murder shall not go unresolved; it has disrupted my daughter’s life and she is quite shaken by it. She not only found the body, but in her capacity as hemet netjer nt Amun, she had counseled the young woman at the temple and was expecting her the very night of her death.”

“May I see the chief’s home and his body? I may be able to discern if this was an unfortunate accident or something more sinister. Do you suspect his death could be related to the murder investigation?”

“Raneb had told me he was close to solving the crime and he had been an outstanding officer for many years. If he wanted to see me, he must have had some information that was vital,” Ramesses said.

“What has become of the young woman’s body? Did her family have the means for a proper burial?”

“My daughter is taking care of her burial. She feels responsible for this woman’s untimely death. The body is at the temple embalming tents being prepared.”

“I shall examine her body myself and question the priests who handled her with Raneb. I do not know what he observed, but the priests may be able to shed some light on this matter. I shall also need to speak with your daughter at a later time, since she found the body, if that is acceptable with you?”

“I shall have Thanuny take you to Raneb’s house. His body is still there. When you have assessed the scene, the priests may take his body to the temple for preparation. Return here after you have seen the woman’s body. I shall summon my daughter when you are ready to question her. I trust your judgment in this matter.”

“My king, I shall consult you in all matters concerning this business,” Qaa stood, bowed to Ramesses, turned, and exited into the corridor where the priest was waiting to conduct him to the home of the dead Chief of the Medjay.

Contracts, Agents and the Author

Do you need an agent in order to be a published author? Yes, and no. As with everything in this wonderful profession of writing, there is no hard and fast answer.

For my first book (non-fiction), I did most of the initial submissions on my own to both publishers and agents. At about the same time, an agent took me on and a publisher accepted my manuscript. After the agent and publisher sent me contracts, I still had a friend (an attorney) look them over. After he and I were satisfied with the terms, I signed both.

I eventually severed my relationship with the agent, amicably, and my second contract I negotiated with the publisher directly; again it was non-fiction. I read each clause of the contract, compared it with my first, and was satisfied with the terms. And, I did the same for my third non-fiction book. But, I did have additional wording added to my third contract. You see, now I am also writing fiction.

Most contracts specify the publisher gets first look at your next work. Since my non-fiction publisher does not handle a lot of fiction, I did not want to be in breach of contract by submitting around fiction on my own. So, I spoke up, asked to have the wording in the contract reflect that I was free to submit fiction to other publishers, and the deal was sealed.

Which brings me to: do you need an agent to submit fiction? I do not have an agent. I have not found one that is right for me and what I write. So, I submit to small publishers who specialize in my type of fiction. If I want to submit to "The Big Boys," I would need an agent.

So, for you as the author, you need to determine what it is you want out of your writing career. I am perfectly capable of reading and negotiating a contract on my own, when it comes to non-fiction. And, I have happily signed a contract with a small publisher for my first novel, without the need for an agent. The landscape of publishing is changing every day, with the advent of boutique publishing and epublishing. It is no longer a necessity to have an agent to be a published author.

Opening of "The Wrath of Amun"

As promised, here is the opening of The Wrath of Amun. It is set in ancient Egypt, late New Kingdom. The term "wab" means "pure one" and was a type of priest in ancient Egypt. The term "hemet netjer" means "female servant of the god, or priestess" and "hemet netjer nt Amun" is "priestess of Amun." Hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think.

Day 4 in month 3 of the Peret season, in year 17 of the reign of Ramesses III

 “Merti, have you come to speak with your father?” the shadow voice wheezed from the darkness.

“My father is Weni, wab-priest of Amun. Who are you? Why can I not see you?” Though her tone was arrogant, the unknown voice frightened her.

“Your mother used to come here to pray for a daughter and she was rewarded for her prayers. You look so much like her.”

Merti backed up against a column in the First Court, peering into the darkness, listening for any sound that would indicate movement, but saw and heard nothing. “How do you know my mother?”

“It was I who gave her a daughter, not the man you call your father.”

Merti was terrified. Could this be the god Amun, having blessed her mother, making her daughter of the god? She fell to her knees, prostrate on the stone tiles. “What do you want of me, Father?”

“Iput, wife of Unas, comes here. What does she seek?” The voice was gentle, comforting, but insistent. “I need to know, my child, so I may help her.”

“She comes to speak with the hemet netjer. She asked for a protection amulet. She comes here often.” Merti trembled at the sound of the voice.

“When Iput comes again, I want you to listen. Find out when she will return. Place a reed at the base of the first column on the north side of the First Court. I will come to you and you will tell me what I need to know.”

“But, Father, I know when she comes again. She is coming to the temple this night. I heard her speaking with the hemet netjer and they arranged a meeting.” Merti looked up to the heavens and saw the sliver of moon almost directly above her. “She should be approaching soon.”

“Go to your chambers and do not return here this night. Tell no one what I have revealed to you. If you speak of this night, you will never see the face of your true father. I will watch for you and approach you again. Now go, my daughter,” the raspy voice commanded.

Merti got to her feet and, without looking any further for the voice, ran to the safety of the temple.

***

Iput hurried down the narrow streets of Waset. As she tried to conceal herself in the shadow of the southern wall, passing the darkened homes of noblemen and priests, she reached up to finger the protection amulet around her neck. The hemet netjer had given it to her the previous day at the temple, which is where she was now going. There was less activity on this side of the temple complex, less chance for someone to follow her.

With just a sliver of moon to light the way, she could almost make out the pylon gate rising off to her left. She would be safe when she reached the First Court. The hemet netjer awaited her at the temple; she would know what to do because not only was she hemet netjer nt Amun, skilled in magic, but also the king’s daughter. The princess would offer her protection, but Iput would have to tell her everything, regardless of the danger.

Iput stopped to catch her breath at the edge of the last house, knowing the First Pylon lay only a short distance ahead. With fingers trembling, she again reached for the amulet. She sensed movement, but at this late hour, no fires burned to chase away wild animals. Holding her breath now, she strained to listen. She inhaled deeply, summoned up all her courage, and spun around to see . . . nothing. The street behind her was empty and quiet. She exhaled with relief.

As she turned back toward the pylon entrance, she flinched from a sharp pain in her abdomen. Instinctively, she touched her side and felt something warm, wet, sticky; she knew from the smell it was blood. Before she could scream, she felt another sharp pain in her chest, making it almost impossible to catch her breath, let alone scream. She lurched forward, hoping to reach the gate, when she felt one more sharp pain, this one in her back. Iput gasped, sank to her knees, and fell face first onto the sand.

Her attacker, hidden beside the last house, stepped out from the shadows, knelt beside her lifeless body, and turned her over. After several grisly minutes of further indignities, Iput’s murderer stood up, dragged her body to the pylon gate, placed the weapon beside her, and quietly disappeared into the Egyptian night.

***

What I Write and Why

My writing covers both fiction and non-fiction. Some days I am wrapped up in facts and research, some days I get to spread my writing wings and fly with fanciful dreams and visions. It satisfies both parts of my life: my non-fiction is more about me, the person, who and what I am; my fiction allows me to bring my passion alive.

You see, my passion is ancient Egypt. Even though my non-fiction is about ancient Egypt, I deal with factual information and research. In my fiction, I get to expand on a given period in ancient Egypt, and bring the day to day life alive. Though many of the people in my novels actually existed, I certainly cannot "report" the facts.

Having researched for the past twelve years, I have learned so much about ancient civilisations, I wanted to show, in fictional format, that they did have a legal system, quite similar to ours. Their cities were relatively safe, though the same types of crimes occurred three thousand years ago. Love and jealousy, birth and death, joy and sorrow all transcend time and place.

Over the next few weeks, I would like to post excerpts from my novels here on this blog page. Rather than take away from my writing tips and techniques which I post on Sundays, I will be adding additional posts during the week. I would love to get feedback from you, the readers of this blog. So, feel free to comment when I post my excerpts, because, after all, isn't that why any writer writes -- to connect with and entertain his/her audience?

Networking 101

Though I am a published author, I also do other writing-related jobs. I freelance as a proof reader and copyeditor, and I am always on the look-out for people to network with. You never know who you could meet, or where it could lead.

I have been travelling this past week on the East coast and had the pleasure to meet a man on the train from Providence to Washington, DC. We got to talking and one thing led to another. He told me of the book he is writing, what he envisions for it, and how he is looking for someone, a professional, to make his work sing. I have offered him my services, and we hope to finalize a deal sometime next week.

At the wedding I was privileged to be a part of, I spoke with many people about my chosen profession. I now have several business cards and the possibility of more work, in different media, since many of the people at the wedding are involved in music, theatre, and art.

Creative endeavours cross many lines, blurring, blending, and making life interesting. So, for writers everywhere, never be reticent about what you do. We so often work in solitude, we sometimes forget that what we do is exciting, rewarding, and may be just what someone else is in need of. Be proud of what you do -- you never know where your next job may appear.

Novel Writing 101

As a new novelist, I had read a great deal about structure, outlining, plotting, subplots, and characterization. I have character sheets on each one of my recurring characters, and I always create new ones when I introduce a character. And, I do a basic outline, a plot outline, and a subplot line.

But, when it got down to the nuts and bolts of writing the first book, I didn't know if I should start on page one or not. So, my first novel actually began as a series of scenes, which I expanded into chapters. Eventually, I filled in the necessary background information to make a first draft. Needless to say, I didn't know if fiction was right for me.

With my second novel, I started on page one and progressed, one step (one scene) at a time, from start to finish. The work was more pleasurable, but it did not always follow my outline. I found the more I wrote, the more my characters were not happy with my plot. So, I listened to them, and the novel went along quite well after that.

Now, I am hard at work on my third novel. And, guess what? I'm back to square one. This book seems to favour the scene method. I have been struggling to write it from page one, but my mind keeps jumping to scenes that need to be written now, before the picture in my head is gone.

What have we learned? For me, it doesn't matter how the novel gets written, just as long as it does. Do you have to start at page one? My opinion -- no. I stressed out so much the first time and I love to write. Is there a right or wrong way to write a novel? Again, my opinion -- no. So, why stress -- just write and edit it later.