Yeast Makes the Story Rise

Why do I keep posting about the similarities between fiction writing and cooking?  I really think there's alot to be said for the analogies.  The more I write, the more parallels I see.

My wife will tell you (she tells me, anyway) I'm a pretty good cook.  She's amazed that I can season without measuring, and can take 3 regular recipes and combine them into one allergy-free dish that tastes good.

She'll also tell you I'm very impatient in the kitchen.  Which makes breadmaking a chancy, frustrating process for me.  You just can't rush good bread!

I put the dough together - regular mixing stuff, done that - then add these little pellet-grains of activated yeast.

And then I wait...

For about 3 minutes.  Or maybe 5.  And then I start to get this yawning fear that something isn't right - that maybe I did something wrong.

Ten minutes in, I'm trying to figure out what I might do to correct my presumed mistake.  Soon, I might be acting on that presumption, and probably short-circuiting the whole rising process!

I'm lucky I don't act that way as a writer.  Maybe you've noticed? :)

Yes, it's true.  I've been telling people my first fantasy story - Uprooted - is "almost" done for about four months now.

In truth, the story has been "almost done" for four months.  It's just I was never satisfied with the result.  I kept thinking I'd be disappointed with myself if I published it in that shape.  I keep wanting it to be more compelling.  More interesting.  More tense.  I want the characters to be more meaningful to the reader.  I want the story to be more suggestive of a wider world and more stories ahead.

So I've been working on it.  Alot.

Gradually it's been taking shape.  It's been "rising."  It's been taking on a shape entirely unlike what I imagined I was writing, when I first set out.

Not long ago, I was planning to publish a story that was 17,000 words long.  Recently I sent out a story that's 33,000 words long to a set of trusted beta-readers.  And while they're working on reading and providing critiques, I'm changing it yet again (in relatively small, but meaningful, ways).  It's growing, and filling the "pan."

I've grown wary and tired of using the phrase, "It's almost ready to publish."  So I won't say it again.  I may never use that phrase in the future!

But the fact that the "rising" has slowed, and the fact that my beta-readers are reading and sending back final comments, should give you an idea that this first story set in the world of Orinthia will be ready relatively soon.

I keep comfort in the idea that alot of the depth and background I've developed for this introductory story will be very helpful for me as I expand the series and add more novels.  Hopefully, those will be easier and quicker to write! 

Or maybe I'll just realize that the story tastes better when it's allowed to take its own sweet
time.

Sample: First Scene of "Uprooted" (my upcoming fantasy novella)

Sorry I haven't been posting much, here.  One of my last posts was at the end of July, which was partially entitled "Close to Publishing..." (somewhat amusing in retrospect).

I've been adding brief updates on a more frequent basis on my Edwin Hanks, Author Facebook page, which is now up to 199 likes/subscribers (want to be #200?).

The long and short of those various updates is that, after more or less completing the story, I've been adding layer upon layer of depth, receiving comments from a number of deeply-valued beta-readers, and making changes according to what they or I feel isn't working quite right.  It's a refining process I intend to discuss shortly in a blog post about croissants.

Previously, I've shared with you samples of my historical fiction writing.  I've meant to supply some writing from other genres, but I haven't found a good sample.  Now, it's time.

What I have for you today is a sample from the upcoming novella, "Uprooted."  It hasn't changed much, at all, in the last two months, and I surprised myself yesterday by making some minor improvements, but I don't anticipate I'll change it again except in response to comments which you can leave here.

As a special bonus, you'll get to see one of the illustrations from the book!  Thanks to Nicole Charpentier for doing some of the interior illustrations.

Chapter 1

The odor of damp earth and warm forest penetrated Caran’s nostrils.  He lay on his side, rocks and twigs uncomfortably prickling through his tunic. 

A youth in his mid-teens, dressed in simple woolen earthtones, his tousled brown hair eclipsed his searching green eyes ever so slightly.  He peered out from a concealing copse of trees and brush, hoping to catch sight of his prey. 

Caran glimpsed nothing of interest.  Just the gray-whiteness of a thousand aspen trees.  The clustered red of the tappery bushes.  No movement but the flutter of small green leaves.  No sound but the call of a hawk circling high overhead, its piercing cry sharp like its talons. 

A wise hunter is patient.  Still.  Silent.  Eyes scanning. 

The mountains of the Burgundy Range loomed large against the distant horizon – a startling contrast of brilliant green vegetation and bright red rock, with a hint of snow dusting the very tops.

Nearer, to front and left of the woods where Caran concealed himself, ran a crescent of bluffs overlooking an oxbow of the Jerat River, whose smoothly flowing waters bit softly into their base.

A wisp of breeze ruffled Caran’s hair.  A trio of birds flashed past, winging through the branches in chase.

He continued to watch.  His mind drifted to thoughts of Kiya, the tall, beautiful, brunette a year his senior who occupied his thoughts often.  He imagined he might now be hunting for food for her table.  Their table – the one he hoped they would share someday. 

Occasionally he convinced himself Kiya shared his interest.  Sometimes it seemed...  Some times, that was, when she wasn’t acting as if he was utterly beneath her notice.  He tamped down a surge of irritation.  Why would she…

There!  A small child in drab brown clothing stirred from a thicket.  The boy’s gaze darted furtively.  Excitedly.  He began to move.  Wrestling with entangling branches, he blundered through his first steps, making enough rustling, crackling noises to rouse a bear from slumber. 

Caran shook his head with a wry smirk.  Slowly, he shifted, leaves crackling quietly under his form.  He raised his bow to match his gaze.  Pulling the bowstring back, he took careful aim.  “Pfft….  Thut!” he shouted, sound effects pitched to carry.

The boy stopped abruptly.  His eyes goggled, and he stared in stunned silence at Caran’s location for a full two heartbeats.  Then he dropped to the ground.

“You missed me!” he yelled back.

 

Grumbling, Caran called back, “I had a perfect shot!  There’s no chance I missed you.  You’re a corpse!”

“I was running!”  After a second’s thought, the argumentative youngster added, “And I ducked!”

That simply evoked a mocking laugh.  “Yeah… After your head got split open!”

Unexpectedly, the youth stood up again.  His body and throwing arm arched back and flung forward to propel some object.  It landed a full twenty paces from Caran’s location.  But the range wasn’t bad, he noted.

“Kawhumpf!” the boy shouted.  “A naptha bottle!  You’re dead!” 

As Caran considered whether to dignify that with a response, he heard a shout of alarm from across the clearing.  Real alarm.  Or so it seemed from the tone.

“Tev?!” he called back.  “You okay?”  A beat or two of silence… 

Caran leapt to his feet and dashed intently toward where he had last seen his little brother.  As he ran, he reached back and pulled a real arrow from his quiver, notching it for ready use.

He hadn’t crossed half the clearing before the younger child squeaked, “Caran!  Come quick.  You won’t believe this!”

Flavor in Cooking and Writing

I made a lot of flavor enhancements to my story today!

The story -- a fantasy murder mystery, turned chase/flight -- is structurally complete.  The step I'm attending to right now is making sure the reader understands what things and people look like, has enough background to understand elements of the story, etc.

And, in addition, I'm adding phrases that do nothing but add depth to the world in which the story is taking place.  For instance, a flight of birds dashes through a scene.  No reason for them to be there, except that, while the story is taking place, unconnected parts of every living things' life continue also. 

Immersion in the Story

It's my hope that the reader will take this as a sign that we're not on the set of some play.  We're in a living, breathing world.

I'm adding background because it may not matter to readers of this story what the region's wider geography is.  But it probably matters to the characters -- they would be aware of it, and it may have a deeper meaning to them than to the reader.

Those tidbits, also, add flavor and immersion. 

Adding Seasoning

Earlier this week I made dinner a couple of times.  Once, I picked a German Potato Cassarole, and it was actually pretty fun to put together.  We eat gluten and dairy free, so what I had to do is gather three different online recipes and combine them.  Which wasn't easy -- they were very different.  I've found enough of an identity as a cook that I have a rough sense of what I can take from each recipe, and what can be left out. 

What's more is how great it tasted!  One for the books!  Definitely a repeat appearance is predicted.

But that's very much like what I am doing in my story, today.  When I cook, it's easy enough to assemble the base ingredients -- the potatoes, onions, vegan "cheese", etc.

Flavor -- what makes it taste like more than the sum of its parts -- is more challenging.  I could have just used white onions.  I did.  But I also added green onions.  One recipe called for celery, which I dislike.  But I did add plenty of celery salt.

When a recipe, or a story, comes together with lots of flavor, it is bound to be well received.

That's the reaction I hope to get from my readers when I publish, in two or three weeks!

Close to Publishing - The World of Orinthia

It's been an exciting week for my fiction writing!

I am about to introduce you to the World of Orinthia!  More on that later.

The main story I'm working on is up to 8 scenes, and I'm going to add one more at the end which I felt was important.  My characters must do what is necessary, because they're smart, unless there's some reason why they're not picking up on what the best action would be.  So, coming to the end, it occurred to me that they would leave themselves and their friends vulnerable if they didn't undertake one last action.  So I'm writing it.

I've already engaged an artist for the cover art, and another artist for some interior illustrations.  I have at least one published author who has offered to read the draft and provide suggestions.  Once all this comes to a head, which I expect it will in a couple of weeks, I'll place the manuscript into Amazon's Createspace, and within a few days it should be available for you to read!

It's amazing how the story changes and grows in depth as it develops.  The story, as it is now, is nothing like I envisioned at first.  As the characters went from caricatures to people, and as their intellects, motivations, personalities, etc. developed, they have changed the story.  The story has wrapped itself to conform to them.  And it's a much more interesting story, now.

The Plan Going Forward

I've finally decided exactly what steps I will take to launch into the fiction writing world.

My first "book" won't be a novel, nor a short story, but rather a hybrid.  I will be publishing this first story on Amazon Kindle as an "Introductory Novella" -- this will hopefully whet your appetite, and get you salivating for the next elements of the series, of which there will be many, all set in the fictional, fantasy world of Orinthia.

I've seen this done before.  Many years ago, in college, probably, I located a book at a bookstore that had a very interesting cover -- it drew me in.  It was advertised as "the first part of book one of The Wheel of Time."  Now, Robert Jordan fans know that his first book was The Eye of the World.  But this half-book was only to get people interested.  It worked!  Many years later, I've read at least 9 of the books, and intend to catch up on the final volumes once I can find time.

But that first book -- The Wheel of Time -- introduced me to Robert Jordan's "world."  A good fantasy fiction author (and many sci-fi authors use this also) has a relatively full picture of the geography, cultures, traditions, history and peoples of the fictional world they're writing about.  The more details you "know" about your world, the more enveloping the stories are for the reader.

I started developing a fantasy world for a self-produced role-playing-game (RPG) about 12 years ago, and now that I'm writing fantasy novels I picked that world up, dusted it off, and I'm modifying it to fit my new needs.  I'll be producing maps, "encyclopedia" articles (for my own use, so I know what I'm writing about), and other aids to how the elements of this world fit together.  You won't see those materials -- they're mainly for my benefit, as an author -- but you'll sense them, as the stories develop and provide glimpses of the world and its history.

My First Story

To give you an idea, my first story about the world of Orinthia will be a murder mystery which later turns into a Lord of the Rings style chase for dear life.  It will be available as an e-book on Kindle and other electronic platforms, and will probably be a perfectly affordable 99 cents.  For those who still want a hard copy, I may also offer a 50 or 60 page print-on-demand "chapbook" for 2 or 3 dollars.

After that, I have plans for many more fantasy stories set in Orinthia, which will help flesh out the people and history of this richly detailed planet.  You'll see kings and queens, as well as powerful magicians (mages) and seemingly helpless mere peasants, all thrown into an interactive cauldron of turmoil.  Achieving survival, or even success, in such situations as these may seem daunting.  But these stories show that the human spirit can persevere against just about anything.

At the Same Time

I'm also not limiting myself to the fantasy fiction realm.

Actually, most of what I've written online (not "published," per se) has been in the "alternative historical fiction" genre.  I take a time in history, and subtly (or drastically) change things, so that history develops differently from the history we're familiar with.  This always provides interesting stories, and the side benefit is you'll get to see many historical people -- personalities you may know from our history -- set into these alternative worlds, where they will use their own talents and predilections on a set of problems they never faced in our world.

Furthermore, I'm also writing various science fiction stories -- one series in particular about space pirates -- and a set of fiction stories based on my experiences in Civil Air Patrol Search and Rescue in the 1980s.

I'm really looking forward to this.  I hope you are too!

Thanks for your support!

Edwin Hanks

A Replica of Creation

It's been a weird weather week in Denver.  Yesterday it went from quiet and dry to monsoon in about 10 minutes.  Splash & dash... then it was gone.

We own a lovely 1997 Saab convertible.  It's popularly known as "The Goose" because the 900 SE looks like "goose" when spelled out.  My wife wanted to drive it today, but this morning was cool and she doesn't deal well with that.  I ended up with the Saab, which I couldn't have planned better.

There's nothing I like more than zooming around in cool weather with the top down.

I left Downtown Denver just in time today.  It was spitting rain, but never caught hold.  I drove fast, and broke free, like I was trying to cheat the weather.  I should have known it would catch up.

I was clipping along the highway with the top down, the music up, feeling the wind, and enjoying the 360 degree view when I noticed what looked like severe weather off in the distance, to my left.  Were those funnel clouds?  Little twisty hooks, hanging down from the clouds?

Just being around thunderstorms gets my jazz up.  My heart beats faster.  Imagine the joy and excitement I felt from the experience!  It was Heaven!

But I was so fixated on the possible tornadic activity to the east that I didn't see the wall of water I was about to drive into!

Whoosh!

Already drenched, from just a few seconds in the downpour, I pulled over, put the top up, and started drying the seats.

It occurred to me that, as a writer, I can't make stuff like this up.  I mean, I can.  But it wouldn't be this perfect.  The wonder of God's world, in all its splendor, is difficult to capture in mere words.  And yet we try.

I became more humble, as a writer, today.  I will try to imitate the Creation.  But my creation is just a replica.

Nevertheless, I think He smiles when I write.  To paraphrase Eric Liddell's character, from Chariots of Fire, when I write, I feel His pleasure.

Sample: Queen Victoria Passes Quietly

Here's another sample of historical fiction writing by Edwin Hanks.  I'll get to the science-fiction soon.  This is primarily a dramatization of a historical event, character and emotion added.  What I found most poignant about this is the bond of family between these several great figures of state who had their own countries to run, and widely varied interests.

_________________________________________

Later that evening, Victoria took a turn for the worse.  Her closest family were assembled, including the Kaiser and Bertie, the Prince of Wales.  They both knealt there, the Prince her Son on the Queen’s right, and Willy, the Emperor and Grandson, on her left.  Alexandra, Princess of Wales, stood nearby, or sometimes sat.  She, the Danish expatriate, had placed her animosity toward anything Prussian aside for the time being, but still seemed unhappy for reasons unconnected to her mother-in-law’s ailment.

Other than the Queen, whose majesty was unfairly diminished by her condition, the gravity of the room tended toward the Kaiser, whose strength of character and utter devotion to his Grandmother stood out from the rest.

Victoria made a gesture to her ladyservant – an unspoken language driven by long intimacy.  She said aloud that she would help the Queen sit up, who then nodded, approvingly.  The Kaiser helped hold her up in bed as she rose.

Victoria took a few ragged breaths, and seemed somewhat relieved, but then became suddenly anxious.  Her hand worked, as if to say that she wanted someone to hold her – a certain connection to this world.

Willy grasped her cold hand firmly, and enclosed it as if to lend his warmth.  The Queen’s breathing eased.  But she still seemed vaguely uncomfortable.

“Allow me, Grandmama,” Willy said as he reached for a plumped pillow and placed it behind her.

Victoria settled back onto the cushion, and seemed glad for it.  “I…  Some air,” she rasped, with what seemed the last of her own.

“Of course,” Willy said.  Bertie seemed as if to start awake when the Kaiser turned from his place and proceeded toward the window.  Alexandra creased her brow, wondering what he was up to.

Sir Thomas Barlow panicked and forestalled the Kaiser by rushing toward the window, gently gesturing the Kaiser away.  “Please, Your Majesty.  Allow me to raise it for you.”

Willy seemed taken aback, and he blinked.  He chuckled, good naturedly.  “I am perfectly capable of opening a window myself,” he said.  “But thank you, my kind sir.”  At that, he returned to his chair beside the Queen while Sir Thomas wrestled with the aged window to admit a measured portion of the cool evening breeze.  It seemed to improve her temperament, and her strength seemed to rally a bit.

“Willy, Dear,” Queen Victoria said very softly, tipping her head a bit toward his.  “Your Mother?”

He smiled a touching, but bittersweet smile.  “She is doing slightly better, Grandmother.”  The Dowager Empress Viktoria, Willy’s mother and Victoria’s daughter, had been suffering from a cancer of the spine.  She, too, was dying.  “She has begun taking drives around the city, and into the country again, and it lifts her spirits.  She sends you her love.”

Victoria smiled weakly, and nodded her head almost imperceptibly.  Wilhelm leant back, again, watching her, caressing her hand, waiting to meet any further needs she might have.




Late on the evening of the 23rd of January, 1901, Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India and all the Realms of the Empire, quietly passed away, bringing to a close the era which quite naturally bears her name.

Her funeral was scheduled a few days later.  The Emperor Kaiser Wilhelm II rode side by side with the Prince of Wales behind the Queen’s casket.

* It should be noted that a great deal of the story here recounted is actual history, including the behavior of the Kaiser, as recorded by those who were present when the Queen died.  I am grateful for The Oxford Book of Royal Anecdotes, edited by Elizabeth Longford, for many of the verbatim quotes and accounts.  I did try to remain as close to the actual history as possible, though surely in the interpretation I have strayed somewhat.

Writing: Getting the Pages to Take Fire

I've had a great day!

Yesterday, I kind of knew where I was going with my story, but I had a lot of kinks to work out.  Places where I wasn't sure which direction to head, or how to resolve some problem. 

I had three potential versions of the story, and wasn't sure which one I wanted -- the long one (novel-length), or the shorter one (novella).  What's worse, I knew what I really was trying to write was a short story, and it just wasn't working out.  There was just too much to fit in!

Today, everything resolved itself, and fit together.  All the fog cleared away, and I could see forever.

It dawned on me that finding inspiration to write fiction is a little like building a fire in a fireplace the old fashioned way (without firestarting logs, or natural gas switches).

Getting a fire going requires you to have the proper materials and good preparation.  Even still, a number of other things all have to work right.  Many times, I've gotten the tinder in there, added quick-burning materials as starter (not sure about you -- I use crumpled newspaper, an egg carton and used pistachio shells), and had a couple logs of fast-burning pine, and it still would go out before really
catching fire.

For me, and I imagine for a lot of you, writing is like that.  You can't force it.  You can do everything right, and you still can't get it going.

Writing is a creative process.  Particularly for fiction, though I've experienced this on non-fiction projects, too.  Sometimes you just have a block, or maybe you just lack inspiration.  You can dabble, and get heat and smoke, but the fire won't take hold.

Today, it lit.  And once I had it started, it kept burning, hotter and hotter. 

And, as an author, you know.  That's how you get that really warm feeling inside.

Sample: Louis Napoleon Threatened

Another example of historical fiction writing by Edwin Hanks, from a story published on an online forum.  Many of my historical stories deal with high-level politics, but also intrigue, espionage, etc.  This one has all three, plus, later on, some real adventure action!

This, by the way, is an example of my "alternative historical fiction" -- I take real-world people from history, add some fictional characters and elements, and weave a story that is both, plausible, but different from the way real history occurred.  Some of these characters -- Trochu and Louis-Napoleon (a distant cousin of Napoleon Bonaparte), for instance -- are real people, and I approximate their thinking and personalities as closely as possible.  But they are both in a situation very different from what happened in real life.

____________________

“Well, this is madness…” said Minister-President Louis Napoleon, having read the headlines and skipped around. Besides Longanecker, who had been detailed by Minister Rensselaer to shadow Napoleon and watch his back, he was also surrounded by Prime Minister Ollivier and Chief of the General Staff Louis Trochu.

“The Comte has no serious support. Not here in Paris, especially! He is no threat to me.” Napoleon could look at a plan – provided it was political, and not military – and immediately sense its nature, its implications, etc. It was his special talent, and had served him well for many decades. But this little plan puzzled him. It made no sense. “No matter, though. It is already doing wonders to destabilize my government!” That, he thought, was a point to consider in more detail.

Longanecker had already described the growing, milling throngs of people, upset at the news, and he ventured to explain the deeper parts of the story he had read in the taxi ride to the Palace. “The editor claims that you are part of the plot… That you wish to emplace Henri V as King, so that he will have you as President, or Chancellor, or whatnot.”

Napoleon nodded at that. It clearly explained why people were upset. And he was quite aware that he had earned a reputation for peculiar and secret schemes to expand his power. Anyone who trusted Louis Napoleon completely was a fool, and that was his own opinion! But this newspaper’s claim was also plainly wrong – as perhaps only he knew for sure.

“Oh,” Joachim added, as an afterthought. “And Victor Hugo has returned from England. I saw him speaking in the square. He had quite a crowd.”

Louis Napoleon transfixed Longanecker with a concerned look, though his gaze carried his mind’s eye leagues past his head. Now everything fell into place. “If Hugo is here in Paris, then this is part of a socialist plot!” he declared.

Napoleon knew that Victor Hugo, the poet and playwright who had written The Hunchback of Notre Dame, among other French classics, was also a socialist provocateur. And he had to be at the middle of this matter. Hugo would be the public face of the scheme – a face the people of Paris would trust. But how did this intricate web lay?

Napoleon, the political animal, acted to defend his political turf with assurance and ferocity. “Shut down those newspapers,” he directed General Trochu. “Arrest the staffs. Call up the garrisons and quietly assemble to put down street riots.” He peered over his pince-nez at Ollivier. “Call an emergency session of the Assembly.” Political plans arrived – fully formed – to his mind, and he spat them all out in an instant. “Oh,” he told Ollivier. “And publish a newspaper explaining that the Comte is actually in Sicily, has no army, nor any interest in overthrowing my government.”

“At once, Sir,” the Prime Minister acknowledged.

“Messr. President,” Trochu interjected. “I must tell you that if this is a socialist intrigue, I cannot be fully sure of my resources. The reds have made many allies within the army, as you know. The lower the ranker, the more likely he is to sympathize with them. I must suggest that you might be better off in the countryside for a few days while I act to impose order in the streets. I’m sure it will take no longer than that.”

Napoleon looked dumbly at Trochu for a moment. “I cannot leave Paris! That would be an act of folly. They would see it as weakness, and it would only encourage them.” That settled it, and Trochu backed off. “No, I shall remain here. You do what you must. Anyone who turns should be shot.”

“Of course, Minister-President.” Trochu and Ollivier departed, leaving Napoleon with Joachim – a familiar acquaintance and Prussian agent, the two of them bonded by their shared, perilous journey of a few years before.

“Louis should have known that,” Napoleon scoffed, once they were gone. “This whole situation has people acting crazy. Why would he recommend something like that?” He shook his head.

Longanecker was out of his league. He was no politician. His intellect was inclined in another direction. But a thought did occur to him. “Louis… Could Trochu be working with them?”

He also got Napoleon’s pince-nez stare. Napoleon was, of course, too smart a politician not to have considered that already, and he had. But… “No.” He paused, reconsidering in his mind. “No, Trochu is too ingrained as a conservative. He’s killed thousands of reds for both, me and Bazaine.” He chuckled. “That’s all Bazaine would let him do! Bazaine despised Louis, but I rehabilitated him. No, even if he would consort with the socialists, they would never have him. C’est absurde! They hate him.” He shook it off, and they both returned to consider the many other worries at hand.

“Sicily?” Joachim asked, obliquely. “Won’t someone discover that he’s not really there, and discredit you?”

A distracted Napoleon was off the mark for a moment, but recovered quickly. “Ahh…” He waved his hand dismissively. “But this whole game will have been decided long before anyone would have time to determine that. Truth doesn’t matter in politics. Only perception.” 

Sample Fiction: Rivalries in the South Pacific

This is the first sample of my writing I will post. This scene is one of the earlier ones in a story about an expansionist Prussia in an alternative historical fiction story called "Fire Warms the Northern Lands." Even though this was before I really refined my "voice" for that story, I'm relatively proud of it, as an isolated scene.

---

Major Stefan Krohn regarded it as very odd -- and lamentable -- that he was spending Christmas of 1839 in a place where one was forced to seek the shelter of a thatch hut so that one could merely sweat, rather than burn. He was very much looking forward to this evening’s dinner, at Reverend Breitenfeld’s cottage. There, he could perhaps forget his misfortune amidst a modest European style dinner.

Breitenfeld led him outside once more, into the blazing sun and suffocating humidity. It was the deep of summer in Samoa, Krohn could never avoid being aware.

“This, Herr Major... Is this the quality you require?” Breitenfeld had taken a length of sturdy rope from a dark-as-night villager, and held it up for Krohn’s inspection.

Krohn looked skeptically at the smiling craftsman before examining the rope. Indeed, this seemed to be a fine rope, perhaps better than typical Army standard in Prussia. “This is a length of rag,” he said to the reverend, “I hope he’s not expecting a high price for these ropes.”

Taken aback for a moment, Breitenfeld assured Krohn, “All native products will seem a bargain compared to what you would find in Europe. These are not sophisticated people.” After a moment’s contemplation, he added, “In fact, he cannot understand a word you are saying, so...”

“He can understand my tone of voice,” Krohn fixed Breitenfeld with an almost derisive stare. Did he actually enjoy spending time with these savages? Perhaps he had gone a bit native. “I don’t intend to pay more than I absolutely have to. This is the King’s money, and it’s not my job to transfer more than I must to... unsophisticates.” He glanced again at the negroid, whose smile had gone a bit slack.

Count von Kauperke had commissioned Krohn to travel the targeted Polynesian islands, find a location for a central Prussian outpost, and make ready the necessities of building it. The war in China, and the anticipation of the island of Hainan soon becoming a center for Prussian commerce, had embued the effort to colonize Polynesia with renewed importance. Krohn had decided that the best choice for a new settlement would be the island of Fidji, and it was his intention to build a small fort there. Now he knew he could purchase locally-produced ropes and other materials, avoiding the trouble and expense of shipping quantities from home for construction in the nearby islands.

Shouts and whoops suddenly drew their attention toward the beach. “The boat from our visiting ship is landing,” Breitenfeld explained. “That’s quite a treat, as you can imagine.” They had discussed earlier how Samoa was occasionally visited by foreign clippers in addition to the regular six-monthly visit of a Prussian vessel. He claimed to have seen a French, a British, two American and even one Japanese ship over the past four years. Naturally, considering Prussia’s interest in these islands, that was of some concern. The sleek clipper that had appeared in the channel this morning was American.

The rope forgotten, both men instinctively headed for the shore. Five men began wading in from the boat as a dozen natives splashed into the water to help unload supplies. Three of the white men were sailors. Ratings, to Krohn’s eye. The fourth man wore a casual tropical outfit, and the fifth... The fifth wore what Krohn could only assume were cowboy’s chaps, with a hat to match.

As Europeans, Krohn and the reverend drew immediate attention from the two Americans. They introduced themselves as Bret Gibbs, a rancher, and Steven Cramer, an American businessman.

“We had heard there was a Lutheran mission here,” Cramer said. “We wanted to drop by and get to know you... Set up some arrangements for trade.”

Breitenfeld was about to continue, conversationally. Krohn cut him off with an interrogatory. “From where will you be trading?”

The rancher caught the edge in Krohn’s voice. Cramer, ever the diplomat, ignored it. “We’ve set up a new trading post at Palmyra Atoll – it’s approximately between here and the Sandwich Islands. Bret has a small ranch in the Sandwiches, and I convinced him that between the two of us we could combine his ranch and a few scattered trading posts into some very good business.”

“Palmyra?” Krohn repeated... He knew exactly where Palmyra was. “I had no idea there was an American outpost so near. That is quite an... exciting surprise.” He smiled widely, breaking the mood.

“Won’t you please join us this evening for a traditional Chrismas dinner?” Breitenfeld invited, finally.

“We would be most delighted,” Cramer said brightly. “Much appreciated, parson,” Gibbs echoed.

Introducing... Author Edwin Hanks

I'm not a "new author" -- I'm a newly published author.  Or I will be, in a few weeks.

For many years, I've had dozens of stories trying to get out of my head, with varied degrees of success.  Beginning in a few weeks, I will be self-publishing fiction stories for download as e-books.  They call this "indie-publishing", and I will be an "indie-author."  Ideally, these independent efforts will be noticed by an agent, or a publisher, and they will sign me up.

I have concepts in my head, many of which are already outlined or partly written, for something like a half-dozen novel trilogies and a dozen more books besides!  Plus dozens more short stories, around certain themes.  I just need time (and money) to publish them -- to get them out of my head and onto the printed page.

My stories, novels and trilogies will run the gamut, from high fantasy, to science fiction, to historical, to alternative historical fiction (a rather unique genre where the setting is historical, but the course of history gets shifted, subtly, from what really happened).

These will not be my first published books or stories.  For several years I produced strategy guides for historical strategy games -- Europa Universalis III, Hearts of Iron 3, Victoria 2, etc.  I actually have nearly a thousand pages in print already -- it's just not published under my name.

I have a gift for writing.  It's one of those God-given special talents I was born with.  It's been my passion for my whole life.  I've always known I was meant to be an author.  It has just taken me 40 years to get around to fulfilling that dream.

I've been telling stories since I was a young kid.  I wrote a dinosaur play when I was 4, and convinced my friends to perform in it for the neighbors.  By 8 I was writing my first science-fiction novel (seriously! - 200 single-spaced typewritten pages) on the family's manual typewriter. 

By 11, I was playing sophisticated tabletop wargames (Avalon Hill, SPI, Task Force Games), and by 12 I was writing stories about these games, about characters who supposedly lived in the "world" of the wargame.  For instance, as the Soviets supposedly invaded Berlin in 1985 (Berlin '85 - an SPI game), I imagined what it would be like to be a policeman, or the policeman's family, or a radio broadcaster, during the invasion.  And I wrote those stories.

Over the years, these two things -- writing and gaming -- have been tremendous hobbies for me.  And in many ways they've gone hand-in-hand.  I've always written stories about my games.

When I found the Paradox Forum I realized other people did this too.  They're called "after action reports" -- AARs.  It's like fanfiction for a game.  I've written a number of these AARs over the years, and three of them have included a variety of "alternative historical fiction" scenes.  On this blog, I will occasionally post samples of writing from those stories, or from new ones.

I really value those people who take the time to express their appreciation for my writing.  Constructive criticism is welcome too -- that's how a writer develops.  I deeply covet the advice which has been given to me, over the years, by denizens of the Paradox Forums, where I've posted my game-related fiction.  The combination of feedback and encouragement, together with the self-realized knowledge that I can actually craft a comprehensive storyline from beginning to end, is why I'm here now, putting my name and talents out there for new readers to see.

It helps to have a wife who believes in me.  She has been a tireless champion, and has encouraged me to go follow my dream.  That support is crucial, and I hope to be able to support her through my writing.

If you like my writing style -- if I can get you to imagine you're there, in these stories -- I am asking that you to please help me establish myself as an author so I can do what I really love (and so you can read what you really love to read).  There are some of the important ways you can help, which is how you get to read more of these stories!

First, please subscribe to this blog, so that I can keep you informed of my new stories.  Like my author page on Facebook.  Follow me on Twitter.   Most importantly, though, please read my stories and tell your friends about them.  I will list them here, as they are published. 

Thank you very much for your readership, for your comments, for your support in spreading the word, and for your confidence in me as a writer whose writing you enjoy and can't wait to read more of.

Sincerely,

Edwin Hanks