Haus of Rhi

Haus of Rhi September 2023 Newsletter

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Mon, 04 Sep 2023 19:36:00 +0000

Haus of Rhi Newsletter
Monthly Updates

Craft Chats make a better Writers Group

Every writer struggles. Many times, usually, in the process of a single book. A critique group that only reads what you've already got written isn't going to necessarily be useful in helping with plot structure, character dynamics and consistency, or a million other details that aren't restricted to a single story.

So when I took over a group that was losing its leader, I discussed with the other members what would help them the most in their writing process. Since none were previously published, we settled on a structure that didn't focus on line edits, but would hopefully be more valuable.

And that's how our Craft Chat began. We have focused discussions on dialogue, plot structure, character POV, conflict, antagonist forces. Helping new writers feel brave enough to keep going also inspires me to hack through the underbrush and push on with my own works. I'm giving them what I wish I'd had a couple decades ago, what would've helped me, and all the things I didn't know (my English and Creative Writing education was sloppy at best). I've had to teach myself a lot of things, and that can be difficult to do when you don't know what you're doing wrong.

What's best of all? A lot of writing's aspects, from the POV of author's craft, are consistent across genres. Our tools are the same even if we employ them differently. Getting to talk to people about my writing every week. When I'm struggling or need to vent, or need an unbiased opinion, it's really encouraging to have other writers who can offer encouragement or support. Walking others through their issues that I've had firsthand experience tackling. For me it's become a great motivator and battery charger, so to speak.

My Latest Tool

There are two volumes to this particular title, and I'm planning on working through the second one in the coming month(s). Click the picture to see the book listing.

If you're a writer and the group idea piques your interest, please let me know. While expanding the existing chat group may not be feasible, I'm willing to start a second weekly chat. Reply to this email or reach out to me at rhianon.etzweiler@gmail.com

Every Artist-Writer Needs Tools

More than that, we need the right tools in our toolbox, and here's a few I've found especially useful in the past two years.

https://writershelpingwriters.net/writing-tools/
https://onestopforwriters.com/storytellers-roadmap
Story Genius
Save the Cat! Writes a Novel is also worth checking out because everyone works differently.

And Scrivener, obviously. I've had this program for so long that when the most recent version update came out, I had to buy it again because my version was incompatible, obsolete.

Haus of Rhi Monthly Newsletter for August 2023

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Sat, 26 Aug 2023 12:52:00 +0000

No, This Isn't A Cooking Blog, But...!

Look at that chocolate babka with butterscotch chips.
Sourdough. ON A PIZZA TRAY.
I shit you not, I cooked it on a parchment lined pizza tray and it was almost too big.
Next time I'll remember to split the dough in half and make it a reasonable size. As it was, I had to cut it in pizza wedges and store half of it in the freezer so it wouldn't go bad before I could eat it.
Alas, my pre-existing condition of carb addiction aside, the brain needs sugar to sustain it. Sugars are the only thing capable of moving through the brain's barrier or whatever. *waves hand* Science things. So I try not to judge myself too harshly, and I cook most of my carb craving satisfaction in my own kitchen (using sourdough) to keep it as healthy and preservative-free as possible. I tend to use almond milk and kefir a lot as well.
(Hang the recipes, they're more like guidelines anyways.)

Side Projects Are Great

This lovely dragon-eye pillow has been brought to my attention multiple times by various sources. I figured I'd better give in finally. For my own health & well-being.

For Procrastinating Plotting

But it can't just be ANY dragon, it's gotta be Falkor. There will be hair. And maybe even some sequins for scales. Or his ear, even. Once again, hang the recipe LOL.

I'm batting 0-2 for following directions. So it's easy to understand that I struggle with plots and plotting because for many years when I've sat down to write, I just let the character muses roam about like they exist in an open world video game, and do whatever they wanted.

I'll be the first to admit that it doesn't really work well for me anymore, and never has. I get to a certain point in the story (roughly 65k words) and then I hit a brick wall because I skipped past the important pieces like a flat stone over a calm lake, at just the right angle and velocity.

So I've been trying to go back to the drawing board with Malin and Arjun and the fight for Khorrado, but my attention span is superseded by that of a squirrel, and it's slow going. I'm rewinding all the way back before the existing opening scene, because I'm not sure that it should begin there. Arjun's story arc is pushing me.

Having some level of college education in English makes the process of writing a great deal less daunting, I think. I've had to teach myself (via Google) a good bit, and it made me wonder just what the hell my primary and secondary level English instructors were teaching me, exactly.

Send some positive energy my way if you would, should you have a bit to spare. This takes guts and bravery and mental energy like I've never flexed before.

Hope all is well in your comfy corner of the world. You can find me on Discord as Rhi.E, drop me a line if you'd like to chat or watch me work.

Til next month,
Rhi

Writers, Authors, & Validation

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Tue, 25 Jul 2023 00:28:00 +0000

Alright. So I bumped into a couple articles on Literary Hub, and it got me thinking. I needed to do my morning pages anyway, so I grabbed my journal and figured, "what the hell."

We're all artists, the way I see it. Some of us know our optimal medium and some have yet to find it or are still exploring because their poly instead of mono (like with sexuality, it's whatever).

I think as humans "Embracing Doubt" is a part of claiming authority not just as a writer/author but also as an artist in general -- and as a human as well, come to think of it. There will always be some measure of self doubt. There's mental insecurity in the unpublished artist as well as fear -- of failure, of success. of judgment and rejection. The immortal self doubt that, even my book pubs later, will still burst from the thorax and rear its anxiety-riddled head. The beast will declare the authorship line in the sand has shifted and you didn't cross it after all; it's now thousands of miles away in a new location altogether.

Sounds too much like Pilgrim's Progress for my liking. I've got news for your -- my -- insecurity and fear: that isn't how this works.
A writer writes. Do you write? Well then. You're a writer.
Oh... you mean the definition of THE AUTHOR then?
In legal parlance, the writer of a book, article, or report. Someone who is the originator or create of a piece.

So go write a blogpost or a newsletter. Publish it on a blog and out it out into the maelstrom of digital information known as the internet.That alone is enough to make you both a writer and an author, regardless of what anyone else claims while they nitpick and try to deflate your enthusiasm with vindictive persistence fueled by their own fears and self-doubt.

What about audience? Pfft. That's all social media visibility; hardly what I came here for.
Market saturation? Big words for business people. Everyone knows the best advert is word of mouth networking, friend to family etc. Let your readers come to you. Make yourself present and allow them to come to you. The most productive use of your time, as an author, is to continue creating and inspiring yourself by whatever means necessary.

Well okay, qualifiers and standards, but I'm lazy and will just toss out the Marine Corps version of the Safety Briefing:

Don't add to the population.
Don't subtract from the population.
Stay out of the hospital, the media, and the holding cell.

I think, barring these actions and their consequences, pretty much anything in life qualifies as artistic research. Even if your art isn't at the forefront of your mind, it still counts; artists are more renowned for rumination than dairy cows.

So I say these things to bolster my own courage as well as that of my fellow artists. Own your writer space and make room for it, both physically and mentally, in your life and in your mind. Dedicate resources (time, effort) to your aspiration, ideas, and desires. Set small and attainable goals for yourself because it will help you build your momentum and keep you moving in the direction you want to go.

You're a writer (artist), competent and professional and prolific.

Define what success looks like to you. Set yourself some small, attainable goals. When you reach them, set new ones. A half hour without digital distraction, thinking about your project. Make some mind maps on actual paper with an actual pen.

At the beginning of this year I made a rather lofty goal of finishing all five novels I have sitting at 65k by the end of the year. It's going on August (my two year anniversary) and so far I'm batting zero. I figured, back at the beginning of the year, that if I aimed for something ridiculous then I'd at least get something accomplished but I'm not entirely confident my brain works that way anymore.

AND IF YOU'VE READ THIS FAR YOU DESERVE COOKIES.
FeNRiR said so. Then again he thinks all things and all peoples deserve cookies all of the time. He's also 20 pounds overweight and living his best life. Dog food kibble? Not for this boy. He eats whatever we're eating, though in much smaller quantities.

I feel like this new med is making me just ever so slightly manic. So we'll have to wait and see if my good intentions of getting back into the habit of monthly newsletters actually sticks.

Strange Magicks & Stories That Frightened Me

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Fri, 18 Mar 2022 10:00:00 +0000

Once upon a time (stay with me here, because it was A Dark And Stormy Night, as well, let me tell you)...

I sat down and wrote the beginnings to half a dozen stories, all set in the same world. A few of them had a single recurring character. One of them was set over two thousand years into the future from the others.

'Then' Me became concerned by the horror aspect of this latter story. I distinctly recall writing the scene where one of the characters calmly turns to the MC and says, "Run."

And the MC doesn't immediately register what's going on. And then they look up and freak out and have an understandably visceral prey response to what they see, reek of fear from every pore, and bolt.

Apparently between that scene and the schizophrenic high-functioning sociopathic serial killer human spliced with unknown alien genetics who's another of the POV characters, this story was just too much for the feeble psyche of 'Then' Me to tackle finishing.

'Then' Me was a bit of a wuss and wondered where the hell in my head this character strolled out of because that's some scary shit, and what the fuck, maybe I needed help?

So this story ended up in the "Idle Projects" folder on my computer for the past...

Eight years, give or take?

Ehh. Judge thee not, gentle reader. As the writer, I experience a great deal more with my muses than I actually end up documenting on the page in the finished work.

And since I haven't shared a single piece of anything for a while (yes I'm horribly negligent and evil yada yada yada), here's an interview with my troublesome sociopath, Gregor. ...Brace yourself, Betty. ;)

Gregor walks into the room, his large build crowding me even from a distance. The crown of his head is scant inches from the ceiling that suddenly feels dangerously low as he makes his way over and props his hips against the edge of the antique stereo system in my living room.

I try to glance up at him furtively, but it reminds me of trying to catch sight of the Eiffel Tower out the corner of my eye. It just doesn’t work. He’s wearing a sleeveless tee that began garment life as something rather different, evidenced by the frayed quality of every edge. The thin, comfortable fabric hangs loose on his body though, which is probably the point. A form-fitting exosuit hugs his lower body, slinging precariously low around his hip bones and tapering to an end just above his prominent ankles. Between the two, a generous few inches of abdomen and oblique muscles lie exposed, resembling a blazing glimpse of sunset on an overcast evening. His hands brace on the top of the stereo, thick fingers curling over the edge with such force, his mountainous knuckles begin fading to white. It’s sufficient incentive for me to work up the nerve to meet his gaze.

His eyes look brown from this distance, but I know the hue is a combination of every feasible color flecking through his irises. They’re only such a mundane shade when he’s calm—which is a good sign. I definitely want him to remain calm.

I relax a bit and try to smile.

“Hello there.” His voice makes me blink in surprise. That his mere presence in a room feels intimidating and hostile doesn’t sit well with me. I nod slightly, lowering my gaze until I’m able to look at him over the rim of my glasses. Being short-sighted, it reduces the aggressive sensation of his attention.

I have to clear my throat before I manage the moisture to form words. “Hi.”

Not much of an introduction. He doesn’t appear inclined towards interaction, though, just watches me hunched over my laptop. Eyes flickering from the movements of my fingers, to the involuntary expressions ranging across my face.

“You really want to hear my story,” he says finally, the blatant tone of disbelief strangling me. I glance up and nod. “That’s a first.” He shifts slightly, hands flexing on the thin wood. The restrained power in the movement makes me cringe. “Nobody gave two shits, back when they first discovered what I’d done. They just wanted me put away. Way out of the way. I knew too much, and they didn’t have the authority to put me out of my misery.”

“Misery?” I look up and take a moment to really see him, without daring to cow to the intimidation factor radiating from every inch. He shrugs his shoulders, the muscles in his neck undulating. Culturally, one would think the “ultimate warrior” type to resemble some hyper-evolved version of a Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal. Conan, perhaps?

Conversely, his aristocratic brow, wide-set eyes, broad nose and flaring nostrils remind me of some eerie amalgam of predatory mammalian features. Terran genetics strongly outweigh the alien genomes in his makeup; I know that much from the provided research. What it creates is a slightly unearthly taint to his features. Nostrils a little too animated, with just a hint of unusual shape. His face is long and oval, his jaw an eerie, thick line bringing to mind large cats and grizzly bears. Prominent cheekbones balance his features with an effeminate cast. Definitely far from purely human.

“Yes, misery, Rhi. It was like going through adolescence all over again, only the growing pains were more like invasive surgery without anesthesia.”

I wince at the description, and he offers me what probably passes for a smile in his opinion. It’s a twisting of his lips which resembles more of a smirk, and it’s innocent enough when he’s in this guise—save for the excessive number of large teeth in his mouth. He has fangs. Not hyper-extended canines or incisors, but ... fangs. I catch sight of them tucked up along his gum line in their retracted position despite his efforts to grin without exposing them. They’re mounted in the gums like an elephant’s tusks. Hence the reason for the strange facial structure, I decide.

“Like what they did to Wolverine, surgically enhancing his skeletal structure with that metal alloy, whatever it was. Because they knew he could heal himself.”

“Adamantium.” He grimaces at my comparison, but nods. “Yeah, like that I guess. Only... worse.” No doubt because no matter how he bargained, begged, and pleaded, there was no one who could make it stop. And it wasn’t like they’d given him a choice.

I can tell he doesn’t want to discuss this. From the records I’ve scanned, they just sat back and watched him writhe in agony, waiting to see what weird semi-sentient shape he would mutate into next. Knowing them, they probably took bets on it. The past didn’t matter at the moment, though. Not that part of it, at least.

Some would argue he doesn’t have much else in his life but the past at this point, seeing as how he’s been incarcerated in Everkept for two centuries.

But he doesn’t look like a caged man. There is a quality of satiation in his stance, the relaxed manner in which he rolls his head to stretch the kinks from his neck. He exudes the demeanor of a wild animal set loose from captivity. As though these moments of astral projection which free his psyche somehow enable him to forget where his corporeal form remains—and even what he is.

“How did you meet Michel?” This is what really fascinates me. What are the chances two prisoners, both bred and trained on Earth for two horrendously different reasons, would manage to find each other in a place like Everkept? It’s not like they get yard privileges on a space station drifting through space five lightyears past The Ass End of Nowhere. And astral projection wasn’t really something the Society would actively breed or genetically enhance in its product. Too unpredictable, uncontrollable.

“He found me, actually.” His words are soft, spoken absently. The query has triggered fond memories. For a man of his formidable bulk, his voice is eerily gentle. Not the deep, gravelly baritone one would expect from a being with such tampered genetics. I wonder what sort of control he has over his vocal cords, if he’s able to manipulate them the same way he can the rest of his form. There’s a distinct burr to his speech patterns, though—one the scientist in me immediately attributes to the alien aspect. But it could very well be the feline capacity to purr, or the dolphin communication array influencing the notable difference.

“He walked into my dreams one evening after they sporked me with the incapacitation array. It’s an electromagnetic field generator that induces deep sleep patterns,” he explained, upon seeing my confused expression. When he sensed my urge to laugh at the choice of his verbs—sporked? I mean, come on—a faint smile pulls at the corner of his lips and his retracted fangs bulge behind the skin as if his control is relaxing. “I could tell he wasn’t a figment of my own mind, because I’ve never seen his like before in all my years of active service outside this asylum.”

A frown twists my lips. ‘Active service’ makes for an interesting choice of words. “Never come across a pleasure slave?”

His bark of laughter is harsh and resembles a predatory growl. “Oh, plenty of them. That’s not what I mean, though.”

Okay. I’m not sure what to make of that. He’s being rather cryptic, but it’s no less than I expected from him. As I study his face, the aggressive vibes bleed from his body, his features relaxing further. His pupils shift into horizontal slits, extending the width of his eye, the iris elongating and expanding until not a speck of white remains.

So not human. Even less so, I think, as the nictitating membrane slides out and blurs the variegated irises beyond recognition. He releases his grip on the stereo with effort, and I see score marks in the old wood from his claws as he reaches up to brush the hair behind one oddly shaped ear lobe. Is he transforming into something closer to his actual form? Is it because he’s relaxing in my presence? Or are my questions pushing his stress management to the brink?

“Michel is so much more than what the Center bred and trained him to be.” He looks me directly in the eye, then. “Just like me, you could say.”

Surely one could argue that after two hundred long years, he has more than paid his due for the actions which resulted in his incarceration. I certainly would—especially since no effort was made to rehabilitate him. Well, not officially at least. Likely because there’s some underlying motivation for his continued presence here.

“How so?”

“He’s taught me control. Acceptance. Helped me find some level of inner peace.”

Michel is his sensei? It’s almost laughable, a pleasure slave becoming mentor to a mercenary.

I feel like I’m missing something here. The confusion must show on my face, because the large man shifts uncomfortably and reaches up to tug nervously at his earlobe. I get the impression he isn’t even aware of what he’s doing.

A nervous tic? You’ve got to be kidding me. Next he’s going to have a tail or something he’s hiding expressly for my comfort. Or because he’s self conscious of it, which would be equally laughable, considering. Or... well, perhaps it’s not so far-fetched.

Wouldn’t be the first time being incarcerated in an asylum made a rational individual develop some strange idiosyncrasies.

“So ... the changes you’ve undergone. Are they complete, do you think?”

For the first time, I witness a scowl contort his features. It reminds me of the felines at the zoo. They look so harmless, bordering on cuddly, until the moment they stretch -- flexing their claws, elongating their bodies, and offering a demonstrative yawn exposing every sharp tooth in their jaw. He’s no exception. That is no smile, I decide, watching in morbid fascination as all four of his impressive fangs extend. His large, angular jaw has more than sufficient room for them—so long as he doesn’t need to close his mouth. Or talk. Why does the visage of a long-extinct saber-tooth tiger come to mind? Surely the scientists would not have dared tap into such unpredictable genetic material... The thinner flesh on his face ripples oddly, olive-toned skin giving way to an indeterminate hide a combination of reptilian scales and an amphibious mammal. The patchy transformed areas are an odd hue of purple.

Just as quickly as his features contort, his calm demeanor returns and he is once again the outwardly genteel guest. “I don’t know. I doubt anyone does.”

What I do know is a good bit more than he does about the donor alien race supplying genetic material to the Society’s scientists for use at the Center.

In the alien’s society, he’s still a spring chicken. A young whippersnapper. Don’t know he’d take that realization too well, though.

And unfortunately for him, the information doesn’t bode well for his sanity or the length of his incarceration.

“I think you should tell me your story.”

“Do you.”

I nodded. “Starting from the very beginning.”

“The beginning. What’s the beginning, to you?”

I shrug, crack my knuckles, and poise my fingers over the keys. “Start with your first memory after leaving the Center.”

...Yeah, if you read this far, you deserve a virtual cookie. This particular story has three POV characters, in its current form. I'll let you meet all of them. Hopefully. I'm trying to ease back into the writing thing as inspiration and energies allow. I'm practicing flexing my plotting muscles in the process. This writer thing isn't easy. I stumbled upon this story half-finished at 47k words and got to the end of what I'd written and actually yelled, "Where the fuck's the rest of the damned story?!" So if nothing else, I'll be finishing this one so I can read the ending and know what happens.

At which point, of course I'll shove it out there for everyone else to read as well, because why not?

Tarot Conversations: August Acclimation

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Wed, 30 Aug 2017 14:25:00 +0000

The Writer's Tool: The Eclipse Tarot

This month was a fortuitous one for me to get to know my Eclipse Tarot. I created the deck with the intent of using it as a writing tool, exclusively. Yet I still needed to spend some time getting to know it, to grasp the nuances of its voice, the currents of its energies, in order to successfully and efficiently employ it for its purpose.

After all, any craftsman must invest the time in familiarizing himself with a new tool before setting its edge to precious raw material.

Tarot Rebels' August Challenge employed a series of questions, one each day for the duration of the month. Silly questions like, what restaurant would you prefer, what kind of pet would you have, what's your musical taste, that on the surface seem flippant and out of place. Yet through the course of the month I found my way to hearing this deck's voice, to understanding its insecurities and immaturity. It doesn't mind clutter, for instance, understanding the environmental demands of a working writer.

Nothing wrong with clutter, there's a natural flow involved.

It's a fan, I've concluded, of 80's hair bands and quality sound. It has decent taste in music, at least, and my writing tracks aren't likely to jar its vibe -- and isn't that a relief, let me tell you.

Vinyl is the best sound, and Steven Tyler is god.

This particular spread was also a sort of turning point for my relationship with the deck because it jumped this pair of cards out at me, and I don't usually observe jumpers to mean more than "pay attention when you're shuffling" most of the time. When I tried to ignore it with this deck, however, and cut the deck before drawing an answer card for the day's question, I got a blatantly belligerent response that pretty much said, oh, you don't want to listen to me when I give an actual answer? Well fine then, let's listen to KIDS BOP, MUTHAFUCKA.

Not only has this month given me a greater comfort level with the deck, I've discovered a freedom to ask shallow, blunt questions of this deck. It will respond in a manner that befits the framing, it turns out. I've spent a great deal of my time as a learning reader investing much effort in the importance of framing and wording my queries. I understand the importance of focus, and many times it's the framing of the question with explicit care which forges and maintains the focus for me.

But it doesn't have to work that way every time. I spent this month loosening up and relaxing my interpretations to fit the mood of the questions, and it was fun and engaging and didn't lessen the value of the responses in the least. I've learned, yet again, to trust myself in reading the answers I see, both at face value, and to varying depths as needed.

Things might get bloody. Maintain a healthy balance.

And that's great, that's such a relief, because this is a working deck, this is my writing tool that's going to help me understand my muses better, and ultimately it's that relationship, that communication, which is fundamentally crucial for me. Reaching in and understanding that other part of myself, and translating it into actual words -- it's a rough stretch of road sometimes.

Tarot Conversations: The Three Bears

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Wed, 19 Jul 2017 13:38:00 +0000

For July, the Tarot Rebels Blog Hop focuses on the task of reading with a deck you've not previously used before.

I had a few sitting around, actually, and I felt inspired to try each in turn. The exercise became quite revealing, both of the decks and of me as a reader and toward what sorts of decks I intuitively gravitate. For each deck, I employed a different spread, in each case one I'd not used previously. In hindsight, it's entirely plausible this created too many variables and adversely influenced my perceptions of the decks.

Spiritual Task, Sevenfold Mystery

My first attempt employed Place's Sevenfold Mystery. I'd acquired it for reasons wholly unrelated to actually using it, much like my Hermetic and Azathoth decks. Despite that, I've had others tell me it's a solid performer for them, so I decided to give it a chance.

The spread is called Spiritual Tasks, but to be perfectly blunt here, I struggled to take the interpretation seriously because it felt like I was looking at a bunch of clip art. The vibrant colors and lack of clutter were nice, but the images just seemed to lack depth, development. I got no impression of emotional investment. It felt cold and harsh, quiescent and unresponsive. The reading itself seemed to skim the surface, pick out the blatantly obvious themes, and delve no deeper.

This deck strikes me as terribly simple. It's one I'll likely reserve for reading for others, which I do quite rarely. This bed was too hard.

Council of Thirteen, Fountain Tarot

The Fountain Tarot was my second attempt. Acquired at a steep discount on the whim of another reader's profound delight, it got stashed away as a collection piece (and no, I'm not a serious collector), without me even riffling through the deck.

I chose a spread called Council of Thirteen, and to focus it I asked, "what advice do my ancestors have to offer me?"

This deck is the spectrum opposite of the Sevenfold both in appearance and imagery content. It has a watercolor feel, very soft and pliant in a way that suggests it's capable of going deeper if you want to, that you're in control of how deep you dive. In attempting to interpret, however, I got distracted and lost in the softness of it and was entirely unable to focus on what message the cards were attempting to convey. Another fail. This bed was too soft.

Character profile, Book of Kaos

My last attempt netted me a startling result. The Book of Kaos is an indie created and printed deck, from an artist in Australia. It took me close to three months and a chain of emails just to get the deck to me. It was such an aggravation, in fact, that when the deck finally got to me I plunked it into my desk drawer with the rest of my "maybe I'll touch these in the next six months" decks and promptly forgot about it. Sort of. It kinda festered in the back of my mind, if I'm honest, and I didn't want that energy residue adversely influencing my relationship with the deck and the artwork, otherwise I may as well just pass it on to someone else.

Character profile spread, detail.

This spread is called a Character Profile, done for a fictional character by the name of Cirrus Marcson-Orsanna, who was highlighted in my International Tarot Day short story for Strength in June. While the character was one I'd been mulling over for some time, it wasn't one I'd given serious thought to fleshing out until he just imposed himself into a scene.

The interpretive imagery is fascinating. It is at once stark and detailed, in a way that encourages me to focus without losing me in the spectrum. The people are alive and expressive, unique individuals for the language in their stances and forms, beyond the idiosyncrasies of their attire or style.

Reading the spread offered me fascinating insight into a character whose motives and psyche I knew very little about beforehand. It was like being the psychologist in a therapy session with a new patient. Like the couch you've had forever that everyone falls asleep on, inevitably--this bed was just right.

It could just be that this was the correct combination of spread and deck. I'd suspect mindset played a role, but this collection of spreads was done over the course of a few weeks, not all in one day. The Book of Kaos is a deck I will certainly be pulling out and returning to more often than originally intended, now that formal introductions are out of the way.

To explore the other participating bloggers in this month's Tarot Rebels Blog Hop, please click the link below.

Tarot Conversations: Strength

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Sat, 08 Jul 2017 03:59:00 +0000

I'm thrilled to be taking part in the very first International Tarot Day Blog Hop.
For Strength, I've chosen to share an excerpt from my in-progress sequel to Fragile Bond, a military scifi featuring a sapient alien species of bipedal humanoid felines, and a population of humans traveling the stars.

XI, Strength. Wildwood (L) and Mary-el (R) tarot decks.

"I'm concerned, Zachary. Maybe this isn't such a great idea after all." Cirrus slowed to a halt, his words echoing in my head as his voice rumbled at so low a register it resonated through my breastbone. His whisper didn't bounce off the walls though, unlike the soft thump of our footsteps in perfect cadence.

I turned back to grab his arm and drag him in my wake, second thoughts be damned. My fingers slid along the fine white and black stripes of hair on his forearms, and I tightened my grip, finally catching hold of his wrist. "I refuse to let you back out of this at the last possible second. Commander Hakken has agreed to hear your petition. The least you should do is air it for them to hear."

I tugged, but Cirrus towered over me, flexed his arm, and resisted with depressingly little effort. His nostrils flared on a gusty sigh, and he shook his head. His round tufted ears twitched nervously. The ambient noise of voices rose sharply. Startled, his ears flattened against his skull and his lips curled back from his teeth, exposing fangs as long as my fingers.

"Cirrus." I drawled his name, expanding the syllables until they sounded more like a growl-purr of his native tongue. It distracted him and soothed his nerves, judging from the way his posture relaxed fractionally. "Your fathers will be terribly disappointed in you if you return home without even making an attempt."

It worked. Cirrus stared up at the ceiling, stretching his neck, and whined. The soft, downy white hairs lining the front of his neck and chest looked half rumpled from sleep still, a lack of self grooming likely due to stress. As much as he wanted this appointment to the Diaspora, he harbored a deep-seated aversion to strange humans.

I could hardly blame him, given the circumstances of his orphaning and subsequent adoption. "I know you want this. Just remember why."

Cirrus growled, and it shook my ribcage at such a close proximity. I squeezed his wrist encouragingly and released his arm, stepping back to give us both some space. He'd never thrown pheromones before and I strongly doubted he'd do it at me of all humans, but I'd sat through the safety briefings often enough to stay alert and vigilant, and maintain a healthy berth of distance. Cirrus's fathers were fastidious about it.

"I have not forgotten," the furr insisted, unsheathing his claws and combing them down his neck, stretching his chin up as he self-consciously groomed himself outside the door to the commander's office. "But I'm grateful for the reminder all the same."

"No problem," I muttered, diverting my gaze to the door with steely resolve. All the same, the column of his neck and bare expanse of his chest remained branded into my brain and teased along the edge of my periphery vision. "Just…remember that Commander Hakken isn't exactly a sympathizer. Don't take anything he says personally, okay?"

"You mean I can't take offense and rake his frail body into shreds? Yes, I'm aware. Father Marc reminded me of this before you arrived at the house earlier."

"I'm sorry I missed that speech," I laughed, suddenly nervous on his behalf. "I want nothing more than for this to work, I'm on your side okay? Don't forget that either."

Cirrus lowered his chin, claws grooming down the center of his chest, and gazed at me with steady, unblinking blue eyes like ice crystals. "I could hardly forget that, Zachary."

I grinned and rapped on the door to announce our presence.

"Enter," barked the commander from within, voice muffled through the buffered wall. The modular structures were originally designed for interstellar travel so the material possessed greater density and insulation than anything naturally occurring on Horace Deuce Niner.

"Here goes nothing," Cirrus murmured as he followed in my wake as I entered the office. His breath was a warm breeze over my buzzed scalp, and a shudder ran down my spine.

I rolled my shoulders back and stiffened to attention before the commander's desk. "Sir. I've brought the liaison representative for your consideration and approval. This is Captain Cirrus Marcson."

Commander Hakken eased back from the narrow desk, sinking into the zero-G chair that squeaked faintly beneath his shifting weight. Fingers steepled, elbows on the armrests, those flinty eyes skimmed over me dismissively and honed in on the furr lurking a step off my left side. "I was led to believe you would be presenting me with a noncombatant, one capable of coexisting and cohabiting with humans in close quarters."

My gut swooped low in defeat. I swallowed a few times before I managed to form a response. "That is correct, sir."

"What you've brought me is no sentient species. That is a feral creature capable of rending every last one of us limb from limb. No fucking way will I condone its presence on a space-faring vessel. What possessed you to even formulate such an idea when I don't suffer them unsupervised in my presence here on a stable installation?"

I stared at Commander Hakken with equal parts disbelief and disdain, mounting horror pushing its way up my throat. "You can stand there and insult an entire species based on your twisted perception of their violent response to an invading force? Because they didn't welcome our presumptive presence with submission?"

"As you were, Sergeant. You're damn right I do. They made no effort to communicate."

"May I remind you, we made no such overtures either."

"A lapse in protocol."

"Which cost lives. The fault is entirely ours. Why would you attempt to lay the blame at their feet?"

Hakken motioned to the literal manifestation of said feet. Cirrus huffed and wiggled his unshod toes, claws safely sheathed. "Have you seen those claws? One slip and containment integrity would be ridiculously moot. Never mind sterilization processes. All the hairballs --"

"Commander," Cirrus finally growled, stepping forward to bump my shoulder with his arm. Hakken eased back again, chair protesting the swift movement. "Your objections are wholly ridiculous. I have studied your airlock cycling mechanisms and procedures at some length. My physiology presents no extreme parameters for your systems."

Hakken eyed me, arching a brow up their forehead. "I presume that wasn't just a bunch of random barks and snarls."

I exhaled slowly, doing my best not to sound as though I was actually sighing in exasperation. "Captain Marcson has predetermined his compatibility with our airlock systems and their cycling processes. No aspect of his physiology, be it his nails or his pelt, presents any measurable amount of undue hardship for existing system function parameters. You're being unreasonable."

"You're putting words in its mouth," Hakken accused, incredulous.

"I'm the one with the translation thorn embedded in my skull, commander. Not you." A certain amount of cultural transfer demanded paraphrasing. I'd learned that much rather swiftly in my time as understudy and assistant at the H29 Liaison Office. "Would you prefer the captain obtain a trim and a mani-pedi before receiving reasonable consideration for the onboard liaison position?"

"I have no intention of cutting off my dreads or braids," Marcson informed me rather bluntly. I glanced at him only to find him glaring at me in disdain and disapproval. "For you to even imply I would consider doing such a thing is highly offensive."

Hakken frowned, attention flicking between us to track our conversation. He didn't interject, waiting for me to translate for him, no doubt. Fuck him and his pretentious racism. I eyed Cirrus, whose pelt remained short and neat everywhere save on his scalp and neck, where it grew long enough to form dreads and braids decorated with meticulously carved clay beads.

"It's called sarcasm, Cirrus. I've no doubt your fathers would both have my ass in a sling if I ever suggested someone take a blade to your hair." At least he maintained the presence of mind not to bare his fangs at me again. Hakken would probably shit a brick if he pulled something like that while in the commander's presence.

"Enough, both of you," Commander Hakken intervened at last. "Sergeant Santino, you've made your point quite clearly. I'll take your recommendation of Captain Marcson for the liaison position under advisement. Dismissed."

I saluted and withdrew from the commander's office. Cirrus followed my lead, then strode down the hallway alongside me, a steady growl vibrating the air around us. He unsheathed his claws repeatedly, the same way I might clench my hands into a fist repeatedly to disburse tension. For Cirrus, however, it didn't do much judging from the steadily increasing decibels of his vocalizations.

"Rein it in, Cirrus." I smacked his arm in hopes of drawing his attention, but the furr only picked up his pace as though desperate to get out of the liaison facility. He slammed through the door and out into the vibrant midday sunlight, and kept going, straight toward the nearest tree. He sank his claws into its immense trunk and began shredding at the thick bark. He bared his fangs and his ears flattened against his head again. The roar erupting from him was so deep and low, I felt it in my bones more than heard it.

He could not do this here. Not right outside the liaison office. Not when he was supposed to be the picture of control and self restraint. I strode up and fisted his dreaded braids with both hands. I didn't yank or pull, just let him feel the weight of my touch. "Cirrus, stop."

His roar cut off in the next moment. His chest heaved as he pulled air into his lungs. His hands remained on the tree's trunk, but his claws sheathed. It was a good start. Impressive, actually, given the racist condescension the commander had just subjected him to.

"Should we go talk to your fathers about Hakkin's response?" I asked.

"I'd rather not involve them."

"I know that."

"They have enough to deal with."

"Yeah, they do," I conceded. I let the silence stretch out between us. Cirrus rolled his shoulders and straightened, releasing the innocent tree from his grip. "Maybe we should go see them anyway though. Captain Staille will want to know what Commander Hakken had to say."

Cirrus turned his gaping maw of fangs at me, and ran a tongue over one. "You're right about that. And he probably has one of his casseroles cooking, too, now that you mention it. I could eat."

"When can you not?" I laughed, walking past him toward the home his fathers shared on the far ridgeline overlooking the valley.

"I haven't encountered such an instance yet," Cirrus assured me.

I hope you all have been enjoying this very first International Tarot Day blog hop. Next stop, The Hermit: brought to you by Kimberly Tsan of Fable's Den. The previous post, The Chariot, is brought to you by Sandra Gedds of Firerose Tarot.

Tarot Conversations: All the Pleasure, None of the Guilt

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Mon, 19 Jun 2017 10:00:00 +0000

For the month of June, the Tarot Rebels Blog Hop subject is "Guilty Pleasures," but it occurred to me that regardless of how I try to twist the perspective, guilt is one thing that --for me at least -- doesn't enter into the equation anywhere.

So let's go with indulgences, maybe? Frivolities which serve no real logical or rational purpose. One could argue that there aren't many of these either, that the trappings in which we indulge are part of the atmosphere, the ambiance, the process that deepens our connection with the tools, tapping into our subconscious.

Mary-el tarot, blue silk scarf wrap.

In the course of the past six months or so, I starting focusing on how I house my decks. The reading cloths in which I fold my cards contribute to the sensory experience and immersion, creating a tactile trigger for the subconscious engagement. I doubt I'll ever grope velvet or silk with quite the same emotive response in the future; all of my decks have homes that incorporate one or the other, if not both.

That enriching of the sensory spectrum of engagement for the reading experience is certainly an indulgence. Far from a necessity, it is simply my active means of heightening the immersion, of creating an intuitive trigger beyond the imagery of the cards and the information I've studied and stored in my brain. In an effort to expand that sensory engagement in a pattern of reinforcing behaviors, I created a witch hazel base blend of essential oils and herbs which I use exclusively for shadow work, as those sessions tend to last an hour or more and take place on days when I'm not required to engage in other activities before it wears off.

Green silk, black velvet: Trionfi della Luna.

What drives this? Well, it's an offshoot of a lesson I learned about writing techniques for audience engagement and reader immersion. The more senses incorporated into a descriptive sequence, the more engaged the reader becomes, the richer the experience is for them. Hit all five and you're likely to overwhelm them, but if the scene is one of significant emotional intensity, that might not be a bad thing, right? The same is true, after all, for our memories -- those associated with specific aromas or smells are more intense, more readily recalled when the odor is encountered in the future. The perfume of honeysuckle, the robust aroma of a field of fresh-cut alfalfa, clean linens dried on the clothes line in the summer sun.

I blame it partly on too many psychology courses, but understanding how my mind works certainly goes a long way to optimizing my own progress and performance, to controlling and programming how my intuitive subconscious engages, responds, or switches on and off. I'll admit I try to employ some of those same techniques while writing. It certainly doesn't hurt to be a consciously manipulative artist, after all.

Wildwood tarot, old blue silk scarf in a wooden box.

And anyway, what's the point in feeling guilty for a choice you've made, regardless of how self indulgent it may seem from someone else's perspective? Their opinions have nothing at all to do with you and everything to do with them. Guilt has no place in any of it, nor does regret. We each do the best we can with what we have, where we are. Nothing more is required. Nothing more can be done. Discover yourself. Know yourself. Use that knowledge to further your path to your goals and dreams, to the journey along your chosen spiritual path. And fuck what the naysayers think.

Click through the link below to visit the other blogs participating in June's hop.

Tarot Conversations: #ibelieveintarot

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Mon, 15 May 2017 21:13:00 +0000

Trionfi Della Luna, daily spread.

Belief systems are usually instilled foundationally from a very young age. Mine certainly were. It took me a great deal of time and willpower to buck them, to find something I wanted to believe in, to figure out just what I believed as opposed to what I'd been told to, programmed to, and brainwashed to believe.

These days, I like to think I have a solid foundational structure to what I believe, but there's a great deal overlaying that, and it's really subject to change with little to no notice whatsoever. I like to renovate. I like to try out new ideas and concepts before I disregard them entirely. Sometimes they're too similar to the constructs I razed in my twenties for me to even be remotely interested in them.

When it comes to tarot, for me it's about exploring my precognitive tendencies, my divinatory abilities, and opening up the creative outlets and process. I keep anything akin to religious derivative out of my interpretive symbolism, especially that of any modern structured religion.

I began with a JJSwiss Marseille deck, and though my tarot journey has led me along a scenic, pleasant path through a variety of other tarot systems, I find myself coming back again and again to the origin, as I see it. It is my beginning, my point of reference, my pole star.

Even if that deck was condescending as fuck-all and hated my guts, to start with. "You're not listening to what I'm saying so I'm not gonna fucking talk to you anymore," was the general attitude-vibe I got from it. Perhaps I simply picked up on my own insecurities. I've come a long way since those early readings, which I still have somewhere.

I believe that, like most things in life, you get out what you put into tarot. I put a great deal of effort into creating a foundation of understanding and knowledge upon which to build my own personal system of interpretive beliefs. We all read differently, thank fuck. Otherwise there wouldn't be so many gorgeous, vibrant decks to choose from. And the world would be a truly lackluster and boring place, and life would suck balls.

I believe tarot is what you make of it. It can be a channel for evil, if that's what you truly believe it is, and you believe evil is actually a thing (which I don't, haha). Or it can be a channel for positive spiritual growth, if that's how you choose to perceive it. Much as self-fulfilling prophecies, and so much of what comes and goes in our lives, perception is reality. For my first twenty years, I let others dictate what that reality entailed. For the past twenty, I've taken an active role in those parameters, and I like the cottage I've built as a result. It's quite spacious inside. Lots of room for new ideas, exploration, and learning new things. Quite certain there are entire universes hiding in the pantry under the stairs, and probably behind those other doors down the hall as well.

This post is part of the Tarot Rebels Blog Hop. See the other bloggers participating in May's discussion, #ibelieveintarot, by following the link below.

Tarot Conversations: Love-Hate-Loathe Entirely

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Sun, 23 Apr 2017 23:03:00 +0000

The Dark Arcana tarot playing cards.

Aprils' Tarot Rebels Blog Hop is about the Make Or Break cards in a deck.

The volatile relationships we have with archetypes are what shapes our intuitive responses to the imagery we experience in the tarot deck.
For me, there have always been a few cards that have the power to make me totally fall in love with a deck -- or completely kill any chance of me being able to work with it. They're also the archetypes I struggle with most in my personal life and spiritual journey.

The Emperor is the first. It's a card of Fire, of harsh rulership, of intellect and logical detachment. While those are theoretically aspects to which I relate well internally, it's the external that I have difficulty relating. And so the attitude, body language, and presentation of this dominant persona is crucial. It's like putting my finger against the thrumming pulse of the deck as it tightens its fist. This is its hard side, and if presented too traditionally or conventionally, I won't connect at all. The Dark Arcana Emperor looks like he's winking; he's not sitting on a throne, either, which I really enjoy. There's more emotional engagement, more active involvement, to his rulership.

The Strength card is the biggest touch-and-go for me, yet another Fire aspect. While the general rule of interpretation sets this card as an aspect of civility over brutality in the human nature, I've always seen something entirely different in this conventional imagery of a woman oppressing a lion -- that of man dominating nature, of dictators brainwashing the masses with propaganda, softening the minds to bend to their will in small baby steps. I see the mature elephant chained with the same chain they couldn't break as a child, who hasn't bothered to challenge the confines of their enslavement. I see the wild, untamed spirit, broken and bent and its beauty dulled.
This is always the first card I look to, before I acquire a deck. I look for a symbiotic Strength card, not of dominance or oppression, but of balance and interdependence, of coexisting in mutual respect.

And ah, last but not least, the Earth aspect of the Devil. The very title itself is steeped in the religious influence of tarot's history. Traditionally a Christianized bastardization of Lilith and Baphomet, it's intended to convey all that religion perceives as "evil" and "shunned" that seeks to lead us "astray" ... the weakness of the flesh. I dislike these renditions, and steer far away from them, but that is not to say I abhor Baphomet imagery in the decks when done with respect for the origins and intent of the differing religious/spiritual path. The Devil is a card of intellectual passions taken too far. To me it is the hobby or interest that grows to consume all your resources, be it time, money, or energy. It is the unhealthy imbalance of no longer being in control, but being controlled. The body and its urges override the intellect and self awareness. I love that the Dark Arcana depicts Baphomet, who teaches their followers to embrace and experience that which they fear and shun so that it no longer has power over them, in a relaxed pose as though overseeing, engaging their acolytes in a valuable teaching moment. The only flaw in the imagery is Baphomet's rendering as other than intersexual, which is slightly disappointing.

The energies of these three major arcana cards describes, for me, the nuances and flavor of any tarot deck. They alone can sway my intuitive response for or against an artist's work. They truly hold sway over whether or not I'll be able to engage with and relate to a deck.

Check out the other bloggers participating in this month's Tarot Rebels Blog Hop by following the link below.

Energy, Focus, & Positivity: As I Will, So I Make It Be

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Sat, 11 Mar 2017 14:02:00 +0000

Deviant Moon extras, taking a walk on the wild side.

This month's Tarot Rebels Blog Hop topic is about reading tarot card reversals, and why I choose not to employ reversals in my practice.

And yes, it is directly related to my philosophies of magic-working and pagan belief system.
Not that I adhere to a specific system of singular construction. I'm an eclectic, a spiritualist of indeterminate path. But the fact remains that I've spent much of my adult life hypersensitive to the energies of others. I adhere to the belief that attitude, outlook, intent, and focus have as much influence on events, choices, and those around us as the gravity holding us to terra firma. I expend a great deal of effort maintaining a deliberate focus on the positive aspects that can be found in any given situation, and the positive options and advantages that I can find for both myself and others.

I approach tarot reading with this same frame of mind. In such a perspective, there's no place for reversed cards implying blockage, lacks, or negativity. Instead, when I look at a spread I see the landscape of its entirety, and take into account the interplay of adjacent energies in interpretations. I see myriad potential forces at play, vortices ripe for manipulation toward positive momentums and outcomes.

Dreams of Gaia, daily reading.

In one sense, it's a bit like using "english" on a cue ball to set yourself up for the next shot. The backwards spin on the cue ball would make it travel the opposite direction from where you want it to go, initially. But it doesn't keep the ball from successfully impacting the desired target. Once that has happened, the momentum is "released" to influence the ball's speed and travel.

What might be seen then as negative energies, aren't viewed as such in my mind. I am simply aware of the potential, or the existence of the urge, and when the timing is optimal for entertaining those energies and letting them guide me, I release them to do so. This approach has a good bit to do with shadow work, self awareness and acceptance, and self actualization. In order to realize one's full potential, one must embrace all the aspects and urges of the self and recognize them. Weaknesses can become strengths if the situation and circumstances are correct. There is nothing bad or evil in any of us, those "demons" are just simply misunderstood. I don't require upside down cards in my tarot deck to recognize and acknowledge those shadow energies. That's what my shadow work is for... and even then, all the cards remain upright.

Check out the rest of the bloggers discussing this topic through the link below.

TRBP: Reading Reversals

Piaffe: The Movements

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Fri, 24 Feb 2017 18:53:00 +0000

The pirouette, or dancing in circles.

Capriole on the lines.

Forging Piaffe's world on the page for the reader is crucial to the immersion, suspension of disbelief. One of the greatest challenges for me as the writer fell in the realm of the insigni, specifically their warfare tactics and strategies.

Once upon a time, before tanks, mounted cavalry units were the single most intimidating force on the battlefield. A well trained steed could scatter infantry with a kick, and was a force to be reckoned with -- wielding hooves, teeth, and its greater weight against adversaries at its rider's behest.

Capriole under saddle in action.

The remnants of those techniques are preserved in the militaristic discipline with which horsemanship is taught to both equine and human pupils at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, Austria.

For those who aren't familiar with classical dressage, describing a horse's movements with terms more complex than jog or gallop may prove challenging. So when portraying a capriole, for instance, how exactly does one proceed? It is a rear, a leap, a kick, but to witness them performed in flawless transition is to realize the power and force behind the act, and realize that it is so much more.

Croupade

The Lipizzaners, as a breed and a legacy, are certainly a sight to behold. But when one takes into consideration the fact that each stallion only trains under one rider, and together that rider/horse team practices each and every day, and that these complex haute ecole movements demand musculature, physique, and intellect that few horses could dare attain in their lifetimes... suddenly their efforts and performance take on a new meaning, and the observer has a greater appreciation for what it takes to do that seemingly innocuous and quick leap-kick. It is not enough for the horse to understand what the rider wants and execute it, he must have the strength to do so with power and control, without hurting himself.

Courbette

Thus it is with the insigni. They are large and powerful, more so than a horse, and yet at the same time they cannot simply throw themselves into movements without proper athletic regimens and training, not without injuring themselves or endangering the wellbeing of those around them. It is the same with any professional athlete, it is the same with any military personnel. It is, after all, a running joke among enlisted ranks that the most dangerous individual on the battlefield, or the training field, is a lieutenant with a compass.

There is precious little media circulating on the internet that I can share that is actually the Spanish Riding School pupils. If you go looking, be wary of any shots that have the horses performing in show rings, or names that flaunt "Lipizzans" without mentioning the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, Austria. Look for the brown coats, the sideways hats, and the beige and white wall of the arena in Vienna.

Pesade under saddle in action.

Levade under saddle.

For ease of reference, I've included definitions of the various movements below. These are sourced from Wikipedia's article "Airs Above The Ground", but most classical dressage manuals will provide similar, if not identical, information. All sketched images are done by Ludwig Koch, and have been sourced from Lipizzaner: A Story of the Horses of Lipica, by Dr. Milan Dolenc, of which I own a copy (I took pictures of the sketches for you, using my mobile device).

The levade from the piaffe.

Pesade & Levade:

"The pesade and levade are the first airs taught to the High School horse, and it is from these that all other airs are taught. In the pesade, the horse raises its forehand off the ground and tucks the forelegs evenly, carrying all weight on the hindquarters, to form a 45 degree angle with the ground.

"The levade was first taught at the beginning of the 20th century, asking the horse to hold a position approximately 30-35 degrees from the ground. Unlike the pesade, which is more of a test of balance, the decreased angle makes the levade an extremely strenuous position to hold, and requires a greater effort from the horse."

the courbette and the croupade

Croupade & Courbette:

In the croupade, the horse jumps from a raised position of the forehand (levade) straight up into the air, keeps the hind legs tucked tightly under, and remains parallel to the ground. This movement is a prerequisite to more difficult movements, the first step.

"In the courbette, the horse raises its forehand off the ground, tucks up forelegs evenly, and then jumps forward, never allowing the forelegs to touch down, in a series of "hops"."

the ballotade

Ballatode:

In the ballatode, the horse's hind hooves are positioned so one can see its shoes if watching from behind, but the horse is not asked to kick out. When the horse demonstrates proficiency in the ballotade, the capriole is introduced.

**There is actually an error in PIAFFE, on pg 133 line 5 of the paperback or the bottom of page 62 in the PDF version, where "ballatode" should read "courbette" instead.**

the capriole

Capriole:

"In the capriole (meaning leap of a goat), the horse jumps from a raised position of the forehand (levade) straight up into the air, kicks out with the hind legs, and lands more or less on all four legs at the same time. It requires an enormously powerful horse to perform correctly, and is considered the most difficult of all the airs above the ground."

Piaffe: The Cast

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Thu, 23 Feb 2017 14:52:00 +0000

As promised, picspam! Sorted roughly by order of appearance (except for Traken down there at the bottom), here's the rest of the cast of characters in Piaffe. Some of them don't have much page time. Others have a much larger role than what is seen or claimed in this volume of the series.

I had fun exploring these first two, because Neolus and Erryn are two of my favorite supporting characters. We'll see more of them. Can I say that without it being spoilery? I really like them. Willoughby, who plays Neolus, is of Ojibway from Whitesand First Nation and Jamaican descent. Thuy is a Vietnamese model.

Also worth mentioning is that Jherrfaulken Torrente character about halfway down. He doesn't actually get page space, but he kind of steals it. And his presence and influence loom a bit. He never really had a face, until I stumbled on a photo shoot a while back, and then I couldn't see him as anyone else. I'm sure he won't mind. Everyone wants to be named after the biggest, baddest falcon, right? He does a fine job of making shaggy look chic.

Piaffe: The Sacred Groves

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Wed, 22 Feb 2017 13:45:00 +0000

The Sacred Manda Grove

It was in drafting a spiritual system for Piaffe's world that trees became a major player. I didn't want there to be religious structure, per se, but I did want to create a measure of spirituality in the form of respect for the planet and all its inhabitants. A sharing of resources and space.

Filtered Sunlight

Because their language system is heavily Latinus influenced, I opted to transform Gaia into Ommat, literally "all things are," from om mat, which means "mother of all." She began not so much a specific goddess entity as she is a communion with nature. The sacred groves were space set aside for rites in which the dead were returned to the earth, the final embrace.

I was in the throes of working these details back into the story, trolling the internet for images of what these groves might look like. How old were they? What kind of trees were mandas, beyond being old, dense, and dark? That was when my longtime friend Amara hit me up. She was working on a shiny, and she wasn't sure if the stones worked so well together. She was debating scrapping the combination entirely and beginning again. Artist to artist, I sympathized with her pain.

"Send me a pic of what it looks like," I told her. "I'll tell you if it works or not."

Piaffe: The Insigni

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Tue, 21 Feb 2017 17:07:00 +0000

Once upon a time, tanks could dance.

One of my favorite parts of creating the world in Piaffe revolved around the insigni. I'll admit that my inspiration was born in Vienna, Austria at the Spanish Riding School where, at the age of five, I had the pleasure of straddling the back of a Lipizzaner mare. She was huge. Enormous. Fluid.

Exploring the abilities of the mundane horse, the years of training required to perform complex maneuvers which the Spanish Riding School teaches, and extrapolating the possibilities of combining those with a sharp intellect and an aware mind, led to the evolution of the equine soldier.

Forging that image in the reader's mind was a bit of a challenge. I see their towering presence in my head, but how could I convey it? I could see them moving in my head, but how does one describe it?

Piaffe is loose in the world.

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Mon, 20 Feb 2017 17:39:00 +0000

I've been working on this story for longer than I'd like to admit. It's been written, rewritten, revised, thoroughly overhauled, and rewritten again after sitting for a good long while. If it were a bottle of whiskey or bourbon, it'd be worth a pretty penny at this point.

It's not... but I hope it kicks like one.
This fantasy world is one that's been with me for so long that I've had to include a glossary of terms to anchor readers because it becomes a struggle to remember, in the throes of writing, what is known and what has simply become ingrained in the fiber of my being and flows through my veins.

So I'd like to do a little post introducing you to this not-Earth, where Gaia is called Ommat, the All-Mother, the sacred trees have veins of crystal, and the humans aren't the only recognized sapient species that contributes to the foundation of society and culture.

Dreams unwind

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Tue, 07 Feb 2017 05:53:00 +0000

(L to R) Mary-el, Lumina, and Deviant Moon tarots.

Love's a state of mind. "This is the story of an old Welsh witch." Do you know that song?

In the society and time from which tarot originated (to our best estimations), arranged marriages were a norm. Marriage was a contract for political or financial gain. Lovers were an expense, a luxury, a potential weakness for exploitation, an opportunity to further one's interest, garner favor, and increase power.

The Lovers is a card associated with the element of air. I also associate this card with Gemini, the Twins, as well as Yin and Yang. I see it as an allusion to balances of power between myself and others, about power plays and relationships and connections, none of them necessarily romantic or sexual. This card speaks to me of othila and ehwaz, of group souls, and links between people -- the ancestral connection, the collective unconscious.

It's actually happening.

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Wed, 01 Feb 2017 21:08:00 +0000

It's official. You can now pre-order my next book. It's slotted for a release date of February 20th, and what's more, it'll be available in paperback as well as digital format for those of you who've expressed interest.
This is the first in a series, and while I'll try very hard not to be Robert Jordan or GRRM, I can't very well make any hard promises. Because as George recently said, years from now it won't be the wait for the next book that everyone talks about, but how good it is, and that's ultimately what I'm striving for. Not perfection per se (I realize it's an unreasonable and I'm working on that) but the best artistic effort that I'm capable of, given where I am right now.

It's a journey. Let's see where it takes us. It's (finally) one I want to share with all of you.

Keep an eye on my website, or better yet sign up for my newsletter, as I'll be sharing a free excerpt in the week before release.

Courage, young warrior.

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Fri, 13 Jan 2017 16:03:00 +0000

It takes bravery and courage to move forward through life. Over and through and under and around all the obstacles and resistance rising up to thwart us.

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important. - Theodore Roosevelt

Confronting fears and pushing forward despite them takes strength. I like to think the Fool isn't unaware of the cliff before them, or the precipice of unknown. Instead, they're choosing to focus on the possibilities, the positive, and the potential gain of flight. They've stopped second guessing. They've stopped doubting. They've stopped asking "what if" and decided to find out what they're capable of.

"The Fool's Journey" is often described as the parallel of "The Hero's Journey" which most avid readers would agree is a staple framework for the majority of literature out there, as well as movies. But as the calendar turns and offers an opportunity to "start fresh," I've found that what it's inspired in me is the strength to let go.

For me, taking that step means making the decision to do a final editing pass on a story that's been with me since my teens, in what seems a thousand variations and iterations. It is a fragment of my magnum opus; the story is so large it will require more than a single book for the telling. I've sat on it for a couple years now, stalled and stagnated, unwilling to release it, the need for perfection and control too strong to overcome, the fear of finishing, of completion, paralyzing me.

So this is not so much some character in a story I'm telling who's embarking on some new journey of self discovery and enlightenment as it is the choice to face one's fears and push forward into the unknown regardless. This is more important to me than any misgivings I harbor, it means more than my flaws and my weaknesses. I will not let me keep this story from telling itself any longer. I have the next part of it to work on, and my death grip on this part will cripple me no more.

The energy of the Fool gives me courage to face my reflection in the mirror, look myself in the eye, and give a Lion's Roar.

--

This entry is part of the Tarot Rebels Alternative Tarot Blog Hop. January's topic revolved around The Fool. Click through the badge below for the full list of participating blog content.

Tarot Conversations: A Time & A Place

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Tue, 13 Dec 2016 01:58:00 +0000

(From L: Mary-el, Arcana, Lumina, Darkana, Wooden)

The Wheel of Fortune in the traditional tarot structure is customarily portrayed as a wheel construct or form. The cyclic nature of life, of seasons, the constancy of only one thing -- change -- is inherent in this card's meaning and interpretation.

For me personally, this card evokes a theme introduced early in life while still beneath the influence of religious upbringing. And despite the deviation of my spiritual path away from those teachings, I find that some truths are simply universal and cannot be claimed, contained, or constrained by any particular faith or path. In Hinduism, it is dharma, the principle of cosmic order. In the West, it is Ecclesiastes 3, written by Solomon, recognized as a king of Israel by both Muslims and Judeo-Christians.

There is a time and a place for everything, a season for everything under the sun.

The Wheel: Fortuna, the heartless and unbiased goddess of Luck and Chance. The Orbweaver, webspinner of Fate, Destiny, Synchronicity. I cannot force or push things to happen faster than they're meant to. Does that mean everything is preordained and I don't control anything? Of course not, but there is a rhythm, a natural cadence for the pace at which things occur. Embracing that and acting in synchronicity with the energies of my environment and those around me will cause things to happen with greater ease, with less effort and strain, with more positive outcomes. Sometimes I must bide my time and follow the path through the darkness, knowing it is not unending, knowing that the sun will return, just as the moon swells and fades, just as the tides surge and recede, just as the heart beats in my chest.

Accepting the natural order of life, working and moving in harmony with it instead of straining uselessly against it. Waiting for the chance to come around, that optimal moment, and recognizing it when it arrives, grasping the opportunity with both hands and making the most of it. This is what Fortuna is for me, this is what I see in the Wheel. It is a reminder to attune myself to nature, to ground myself back to the earth, to remember that we inevitably return to the earth from which we came.

This blogpost is part of the Tarot Rebels' Alternative Tarot Blog Hop. Click the link below to see the full list of participant blogs and content for this month's Wheel of Fortune theme.

Tarot Conversations: Remain Nameless

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Tue, 01 Nov 2016 00:08:00 +0000

(This blogpost is part of the Tarot Rebels' Alternative Tarot Blog Hop. This month's theme is "The Thirteenth Card." Click the icon for a full list of participating blogs and their related content.)

Call me when you need me,
Call me anything you want.
~Florence + The Machine, "Remain Nameless"

Most readers who've been following me for a while know who my writing mascot was.
A Blue Heeler and Australian Shepherd cross, he came into my life thirteen years ago as a bright-eyed two-month-old pup in a year when, fortuitously, my soul path card was The Fool. We parted ways earlier this past summer when his tumors finally got the best of him. My soul path card this year -- XIII.

The original Tarot de Marseille called this card L'Arcane sans nom, -- the Arcane with no name. Later iterations included the label LA MORT, yet naming the thing doesn't give us power over it. Or does it?

In the archetypes, XIII is a point of transition, where the focal point of the major arcana shifts from the individual path to the grander spiritual path where everything is bigger than the body, beyond the parameters of the individual, extending into higher awareness, the spiritual journey, the oneness of the individual with the universe as a whole, as a small piece of a grand tableau.

I like to think my friend, who walked with me a little while, has moved on to the next stage of their journey. And for all that we give one another names, whether we name our children or our animal friends, we can never know truly another's name. Names have power. Names influence how we perceive a thing, be it a concept, object, or individual. Names give us power. If we can identify and label a thing, it loses so much of its mystery, and thus its influence over us. Ignorance, after all, isn't a strength.

Is XIII about mortality or death of another kind? Either way, can we diffuse the power it has over us? Why do we grieve what ceases physically? The corporeal form doesn't truly identify us, only houses the essence of who we are. Energy cannot be destroyed, only transmuted. Thus XIII isn't a literal mortality but a figurative one. Slay the things that rule you, it says. Kill what holds sway over your soul, constrains your path. Separate the gross from the divine. Set yourself free.

We mourn the things we lose from our lives, even when they aren't fellow souls. Our jobs, our homes, our relationships. Change is painful, for some reason. It places us at the whims of the unknown, in the currents of chaos. In a visceral sense, it represents an increased risk, and for the earlier, more primal humans, such upheaval could spell disaster and doom. Yet for modern humans, this no longer holds truth.
In the same vein, freeing ourselves from the structures holding us captive is equally disruptive. Social expectations, cultural convention, archetypal roles, presumptive labels and stereotypes. These are the true characters in need of slaying, depicted in later iterations of L'Arcane sans nom. The king, the pope, the woman, the child. Overriding our programming takes strong will, determination, and perseverance.

Whether there's a skeleton with a scythe staring back at you from XIII, or the imagery of transition takes on another form, the message is the same. Let go of what no longer serves you. Clean out your closet; let go of the dead things, the pieces of the past, to which you cling.

Does all this give new meaning to the loss of my mascot? Not really. My friend has ascended and moved on. He is with me in spirit, as are the others who I hold close to my heart though they no longer walk with me. The synchronicity of what this year means for me personally has helped me come to terms with his departure, though. L'Arcane sans nom holds new and more personable meaning for me now.

The cards hold meanings unique to each of us, within the context of our experiences, our perspectives, and our mindsets. How far we've come, where we are, the path we walk, and where we're heading. I don't imagine XIII will hold the same colorful meaning in a few years' time, for only a year ago it certainly didn't have the connotation it does now. For where I now stand, this is what the landscape looks like for me. Once I have accepted the pain of change and moved forward, the scenery will alter, and even looking back won't offer the same view as I have in this moment.

Rebirth

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Sat, 29 Oct 2016 20:42:00 +0000

Is 2016 over yet?
It isn't!?.... Fine then.

I know I'm not alone in saying it, but it's been an extremely rough year. For all of us. I've struggled to find creative energy and inspiration for the greater part of this year. I've shown up, and I've been writing, but it's all been of a non-fiction nature. Tarot studies, shadow work. I haven't shirked my daily spreads, and sitting down to do that each morning, and the associated writing, is admittedly a huge part of what's kept me going long enough for the juices to start flowing again. The trigger point that tipped me back into writing earlier last week was an album that Aleks shared on Facebook -- the soundtrack from a video game, Mirror's Edge: Catalyst. Never mind that the character on the game cover looks suspiciously like a muse of mine, from a futuristic spec-fic I've been toying with, which will likely be my next-year project.

Image link takes you to the full soundtrack on Youtube.

The music in this game reminds me of Bladerunner, which of course makes me think of the Blue District, and lyche. So the urge to return to Black's rewrite has settled back upon my shoulders. Just in time for... a week's respite from the day job before the warzone of the holiday shopping season begins in earnest.

Having survived the apocalypse of holiday zombies, our hero continues their quest.

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 14:33:00 +0000

In which resolutions are not made.
(Because aren't they made to be broken or something?)

Last year, around this time, I made a decision to get to know my recently acquired tarot deck, the Mary-el, with daily card readings. It worked, and with every passing week and month, I fell more in love with Marie White's artistry as well as her positive interpretations and applications of traditional and conventional meanings and associations.

I guess one could claim it was a resolution. If so, it's gotta be the very first time I've followed through for the entire year, to the very end. Sure there were days when my interpretations were little more than a few sentences. And I think that, somewhere along the way, I actually missed a couple days here and there. It's the intent and follow through that matters. Even when I faltered, I didn't give up. Mostly because it was something I was doing for myself, something I was interested in and moderately passionate about, and at the same time I was bettering myself, walking a bit further along my own spiritual path to enlightenment.

It was easier, I'll admit, than making a resolution to write three hundred fifty words a day (the equivalent of a page). It required no coherence and very little forethought. The image and its meaning did the work for me, I just recorded my thoughts. And now? Now I make time for it in the mornings, even if I don't get to do a written entry, even if it means I'm a couple minutes late getting to the day job at ass o'clock.

The discipline is something I know about myself. The dedication, well, that is something I intend to apply to my writing this year. One page each evening, of fiction. It doesn't have to be the same project every day. It doesn't even have to be an existing project. Just a page a day, to let the waters flow, to stimulate that aspect of my brain, in a regular and predictable schedule.

[The rest of my ramblings, along with hi-res photos, under the cut.]

Those words lost in translation

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Wed, 03 Jun 2015 02:16:00 +0000

I wanted to preface this impromptu discussion born of a stream of tweets churned out on my Twitter feed. This is not about inexperienced writers snubbing their noses at any sort of editorial effort on their work. This is about knowing the rules and knowing when to break them, and breaking them in a specific sort of way as an artistic technique. Let us not confuse the two, for we have all of us read unedited stories published on Smashwords or Lulu or Amazon that made our brains bleed with the urge to claw out our eyes. This is about the presence of prose poetry in fiction as a writing technique, and about how much of it is damaged or lost in translation through the course of the editorial stage of the publishing process.
Prose poetry is a recognized form of art, in that it is a recognized form of poetry. Sadly, it is not wholly recognized as a form of prose. Or at least, it is not recognized as a form of fiction prose.

Had an interesting conversation about prose as poetic art & the preservation/destruction of those qualities through the editorial process.
— Rhi Etzweiler (@musefodder) June 2, 2015

I know it isn't just me, but I wonder how many authors out there experience this artistic struggle. #poeticprose
— Rhi Etzweiler (@musefodder) June 2, 2015

It was brought to my attention recently, rather energetically, that what I rule out and suppress as individual paranoia--isn't. #poeticprose
— Rhi Etzweiler (@musefodder) June 2, 2015

I also realize that not all writers, or readers, are so demanding of their prose. Many would claim that going to such lengths is excessive.
— Rhi Etzweiler (@musefodder) June 2, 2015

Alas, I'll admit freely: I don't write, nor do I sell, to the "many." I never have, I never will. Not my fiction, at any rate. #poeticprose
— Rhi Etzweiler (@musefodder) June 2, 2015

I know that I am not alone in this. I also know that I am not the only one who struggles with how to maintain some kind of precarious balance between the details of the art and the polish demanded by the editorial process of the publishing industry. We don't want to be accused of being Anne Rice, too good for her editor, churning out chaff. We just want to be true to our artistic vision, and it sometimes goes beyond simple plot structure, character development, and setting descriptions. It's in the language. It's in every word. Just as the painter considers each brush stroke with deliberation and precision.

I have never been a writer to churn out shallow fluff. And by no measure do I write fiction to pay my bills. I have a shoddy day job that I tolerate that does that. I write because I have demons in my head, voices that argue with one another while I'm distracted, whisper their life story just loud enough to echo through the stillness in those quiet moments when I find a bit of peace.
It's the best way to describe the process, at any rate. It's the most accurate means of putting into words something that cannot be described. Like a painter who stares at a blank canvas until the painting reveals itself, layer upon layer. Like the Renaissance sculptor, who claimed, I seem to recall, that the marble had the statue in it already, he just set it free.

Though far from being a master in my chosen artistic medium let alone a genius beyond my time, I am an artist all the same. And in that regard much of the process, and the struggles, translate. Including the censors. While the constraints imposed on me hardly compared to Michelangelo and his turbulent professional relationship with the Holy Roman Catholic Church, there are days when I can sympathize with what he, as an artist, experienced on a psychological level.

It's not that I made Lucifer too alluring.
But all the same, there are times when I found myself struggling with what was lost in translation from original draft to the final product that ends up in the reader's hands.
I'm reminded of a reader who once mentioned, perhaps flippantly or in passing, that they would enjoy my writing so much more if it resembled more strongly the content of my blog. It happened early enough on that I frowned, filed it away, and forgot about it.

Polished writing has its place. For some writers, or some stories, it is in the polishing that their story and the style of its telling truly come to shine.
Yet not every story is a diamond waiting to be cut just so to enhance its luster and depth. Some stories are most evocative when their writing is left raw, when the imagery and poetry of the writer's words and language and cadence remains unmarred.

When I began my foray into published writing, I had no clear defining labels for my style or technique. I just wrote the words, let the characters talk to the reader through my fingers, and worried about the rest of it...well, never, to be honest. Or so I thought.
The struggle I experienced through the editorial process was real. Very real. Excruciatingly. It resembled a ritual disembowelling. With every editorial restructuring of a sentence, through the course of every sentence in a paragraph, the tone and flavor of my prose shifted. And with every shift the artist in me screamed and flailed and struggled against the straightjacket, helpless and confined, terrified at the prospect of the impending lobotomy.

And it was all because I didn't understand, except on a visceral level, the value of my prose and the weight of my style. It was all because I trusted that polish held the most value. It was such a battle, though, because one cannot transform etched dinosaur bone into precious gemstones no matter how much elbow grease one applies. Instead of refining the prose, all that happened was the raw edges got worn away, smoothed over, the teeth blunted, the claws formed down into an immaculate manicure.

As anyone who's read my writing knows, that's not a quality of my prose. That is not me. I cut my nails to the quick to keep from gnawing on them, I chew the callouses from the sides of my thumbs. I have the hands of an excavator, unearthing those bones inch by inch to engrave my story in scrollwork and slashing runes.

I appreciate the learning experience that the editorial process provides. I have grown and matured as a writer thanks in some part to that. My style has not changed, but I have learned to hone that style, to sharpen my technique. Deep down, though, I question whether my true art has suffered to some degree as a result. I am still reteaching myself to trust my instincts, my intuition. After all, it's not paranoia if your suspicions prove true, is it? I try to stay true to honesty and seek the truth, always, but how does one identify truth if there is no definition, no label?

I had a reader recently inquire about the original unedited version of Black's story. They were curious to see how much had altered and what impact those alterations would have on the language and delivery of the story. Black's story has a strong voice and unique style to it, and the stream of conscious technique is inherently prose poetry. It was written to be raw, slightly disordered, misdirecting and even misleading in its meandering journey from front cover to back. It is, as a piece of art, not so much the destination but the vibrant quality of the path the reader walks, the evocative experience of each moment, saturating the reader and oftentimes submerging them.

It is no wonder then that some readers expressed feeling claustrophobic, closed in, constrained. And at the time, I still didn't get it, I still didn't understand. It didn't click. Looking back I wonder if they felt that way in part because that sector of the audience didn't connect with the artistic delivery, or was it in fact that the artistic delivery was incomplete or flawed as a direct result of the editorial process?

It has taken me a few years to come back around to a state of mind where I can approach that work of art again without the residual negativity overwhelming me. The prospect of revisiting it when the contract expires at the end of this year actually incites a spark of interest, fueled by these tidbits, these puzzle pieces, that are finally sliding into place. There are so many of them. The artist in me sobs, grief-stricken, as the shards of shattered marble and dust settle against my upturned palms.

I cannot undo what is done. But I can make it anew. I can make it what it wanted to be. I can forge it into what it should have been all along.

And I find myself wondering how many of us as writers and artists turn to self-publishing for this reason. To hold true to ourselves, to hold true to our artistic vision, to keep the teeth long and pointed, the claws edged razor sharp, to retain that raw edge. Sure, it might draw the reader's blood here and there, but damn it they'll feel the pain and their pulse quickens and they feel alive. Their blood stains the bone alongside mine, though. They aren't the first, they won't be the last. But the experience, oh the experience, if it's raw enough they'll keep coming back for more. Just like I do. My muses know it, and they laugh at me, and then fight over who gets to whisper their story next.

Walking a crooked mile

noreply@blogger.com (Rhi Etzweiler) — Sun, 08 Feb 2015 11:07:00 +0000

American Crow mobbing Red-tailed Hawk.
Source: http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/american_crow/id

While driving yesterday, I saw three large crows circling above a winter-bare tree. They took turns dive-bombing at a dark shape in the branches. They were persistent, calculating, and energetic. Thankfully traffic was sparse enough to let me slow down a good bit as I got closer.

That dark shape was a red-tailed hawk. It didn't seem terribly disturbed by the mobbing crows, but then, even bare the branches kept them from getting too close so it's possible they'd treed it out of the sky.
This time of year, with no nests or juveniles to protect, it's rather curious to see crows being hostile. Defending hunting territorial lines, perhaps. Or did the hawk steal their roadkill, maybe?
Or they were just being the intellectual assholes that's earned them notoriety in the avian world. All equally possible.
Strange omens. It hasn't been that rough a winter, really.

The message of the ravens-- paying attention to what I've learned, owning and truly embracing the knowledge, is a challenge for me at times. Embracing my strengths, and my weaknesses, and trusting what I know and what I am -- those things are difficult as a writer. I struggle a great deal, unable to just let the muses flow. My own struggle frustrates me. It's a bit of a vicious circle.

It reminds me of a video I saw, a time lapse of a dam being dismantled and the land reclaimed to the river, setting the water free. It was a slow, arduous process over years, redirecting and reshaping the land, removing the buildup of sediment that had accumulated in the original riverbed.

Tearing down the obstacles and obstructions in one's psyche isn't swiftly achieved. It has to be done over and over again, I've found, a retraining of psychological self-speak habits that have formed ruts.

The hawk represents the perspective often lost when one's focus become too deeply engaged. A caution to step back, remember the big picture, let the mind escape from the worry and anxiety.

The crows harassing the hawk... I've spent a great deal of effort as of late trying to hold true to those aspects of awareness and knowledge I've gleaned, trying to find ways to incorporate them into my life more fully. Creating broader grooves, new tracks through the woods.
Taking a break to enjoy the refreshing breeze against my skin (figurative, since wind chill factor is a thing, this time of year) and reinvigorate myself, renew and ground my energy, is probably the best reminder I've had for a while. Can't always be pushing, pushing, pushing. Gotta relax and recharge somewhere along the way, regain that perspective, remember what you're doing it for, what it's really all about, what the end goal is.

There's as many paths from point A to point B as there are people in the world.

It fascinates me, all the possible permutations that exist.
It's also quite enlightening to observe the expansion and evolution of my writerly abilities over time.
Scrivener is such a crutch when it comes to outlining; it's something I loathe doing unless I'm writing an academic research paper of some kind. Which, you know, tell me to write a thesis and I will absolutely crank out an outline. It's just an association thing, after so many years of higher education, I guess. I have this delineation between creative writing and academic writing, and though it sounds like an excuse, it's also a delineation between left and right brain engagement as well. Too much order stifles my creativity -- and turns my prose into post-grad level rambling that would have most readers of fictitious escapism throwing their Kindles against the wall.

So. No bulleted outlines, by all the gods old and new. NOPE.
Before recently, though, I'd not dared attempting to toss timelines out the window and write non-linearly. The thought of jumping around writing scenes out of order had me in a panic trying to imagine keeping track of what happened when, who knew what, etc. My brain? Doesn't care enough to keep up with things on good days, let alone over the course of however many months it takes to write a novel.
Scrivener to the rescue, it turns out. Using a loose structure of scenes nested in chapters, I've developed enough comfort with "outlining" that I can do the jumping around, and write what the muses throw at me, without losing track of what's planned for where, and who's done what.
Good thing, too, because Konaton seriously wanted some blood today. That's makes three times now that blood has a role in the story, all so neatly fleshed out you'd think I planned it that way. HA.
Fucking muses, I swear.

That puts Red's story over 50k. That scene doesn't quite wrap up the ending, but it comes close. There's still a good bit to flesh out in between a well, but at least now Konaton's given me a solid picture of what he's capable of doing, as well as what he's willing to do. Having that character awareness definitely helps.