Farrell Keeling's Blog

There's a saying by the president, Donald Trump, that practically flies out of the pages.

"Real power is, I don't even want to use the word, fear."
​
Though an airborne quality may certainly befit such words, however, perhaps they are deserving of less clean imagery; thick smog, oozing from the pages at hand, would seem more suited. Indeed, such is the nature of Bob Woodward's observations that alarm bells should be ringing in perpetuity in the background, as you delve deeper into the dragon's den. Of course, to those of us with the sense enough to understand what is deemed 'presidential behaviour', the shocking quality of Trump's first term in power will hardly come as a great surprise. What may come as a greater shock - hear me out here - is how Woodward's account of the White House's daily proceedings manages to humanise one of the most maligned political leaders of our generation.

Having furiously thumbed down a host of tweets previously, whilst practically frothing at the mouth with rage, I found myself embroiled in a conflict of sorts against my cognitive compulsion toward empathy. Though, before I take an unintended tumble into the pit of cancel culture, I feel I should state, for the record, my continuing, hm, 'disapproval' (to put it lightly), of Trump's presidency.

​Despite the initial suggestion of Trump's rule by iron fist, Woodward's detailing of the power struggles within the White House appear to paint a completely opposing picture - one of a temperamental teenager boasting of his superiority (not least of all about the ginormous proportions of his nuclear button).

​Trump may claim to rule by fear, yet, if Woodward's account is anything to go by, Trump's supposed dominance is little more than a fantasy permitted by a squalling child's imagination. The president's aides' efforts to protect Trump from his most disastrous whims by snatching documents from his desk - not to mention private outbursts of exasperation at his child-like ignorance - certainly resembles that of a parental role in this fantastical scene that whiffs of comedic orchestration.

Fear presents a White House with an often vacant throne - of a man somehow managing to live with delusions of grandeur whilst in the world's most prestigious public office. Woodward's litany of sources pull back the curtain to reveal that, actually, not a great deal has changed; the Establishment, in spite of Trump's grand claims, remain a notable faction within the White House, among stiff-backed generals and expletive-merry Cabinet members.

Resisting what one can imagine to be near insurmountable temptation to write in an incriminating fashion, Woodward offers you a more than generous peek into this political circus from underneath the pinstriped tent flaps, that will leave you just as baffled and mesmerised as one with a front-row ticket. Make up your own mind about him, he says. While this approach may leave some feeling a little short-changed, having expected a skewering of sorts, one cannot deny that the main attraction of this encyclopedic work lies in its lack of authorly instruction.

Take from the book what you will and don't be surprised if you feel more than unfettered rage.

Enjoy the show.

- Farrell

Lord of Chaos is Robert Jordan's sixth entry into the Wheel of Time series, following the events of The Fires of Heaven. 

"On the slopes of Shayol Ghul, the Myrddraal swords are forged, and the sky is not the sky of this world..." 
- Lord of Chaos

Before my return to Jordan's exquisitely expansive world, I had caught wind of some pretty despairing reviews of the later entries of The Wheel of Time. The gist seemed to be that, from the point of The Fires of Heaven (or The Shadow Rising, depending on who you listen to), the Wheel of Time starts to become less Trolloc-slaying fun and more cool, political intrigue with a dash of the occasional swordplay and world-bending magical feats. Such critique of Lord of Chaos is not - as much as it pains me to admit - entirely undeserved. Indeed, the novel reads as being less committed to narrative progression than its predecessors, and instead functioning as a point of connection between Acts. However, for those of us who appreciate fine description, there is still a great deal of beauty to be found in Jordan's prose to make up for any such deficiencies.

As with every Wheel of Time novel, as far as I remember, if the pacing was not to your liking throughout the main body of this commendably bulky work, you're in for one hell of a shock come the final thirty or so pages. Resisting the urge to be loose with the details, I could only compare the finale to the Wheel of Time's sixth instalment as being caught napping at the peak of the Verrückt only later to be shoved abruptly down the slide.

​- Farrell

​While I'm delighted to be back working on the Phoenix Saga, I can't help but feel that *Mysterious Project No.3*, as exciting as it was at the time, has been something of a palette cleanser.

Moving on to a new series was always going to be a challenge in itself, of course, even more so if you were as foolish enough, as I, to think you could detach yourself from your SIP (series/saga in progress, is that a thing?). Not to say that it isn't doable. Certainly, for the more experienced writers out there, a capacity for cold-blooded ruthlessness when it comes to switching between projects has often long-since been cultivated. Take Will Wight for instance, currently demonstrating such a feat with his The Elder Empire series... boy, is that guy just damn productive....
​*Stares wistfully into the great outdoors*

Anyway! I suppose I should talk about the somewhat less mysterious project I'm currently  bashing out - Book 3 of the Phoenix Saga.

Good news! I'm up to about 73 pages! Bad news: I've somehow only completed three chapters, which potentially suggests that this one could be mightily chunkier than Obsidian Crown. Which, I suppose, is a good thing... right?

If I was pressured for an estimate, I'd say this could be a 400+ pager, which would fit with the general increase from the last two books. Naturally, more pages, however, does mean greater pressure to ensure quality within each chapter, so it'll be an interesting challenge!

As I'm sure you've already surmised, this does mean my previous expectation of sending out a manuscript to betas by early 2020 (for my previous *mysterious project*) will have to be tweaked juuuuuuust a little bit. Realistically, taking into consideration my commitments to uni work (damn you, dissertation!), I feel we're probably looking at yet another Summer release for the third instalment of the Phoenix Saga.

Keep your eyes peeled, people, and thanks for bearing with me!

- Farrell

Welcome one and all, and an outrageously belated Happy New Year to you lovely people!

For those of you who haven't come across my guest appearance on Yakira Goldberg's blog (which you can catch here) I thought I'd cobble together a quick post to inform you all of a recent change of heart I've had in regard to my writing.

I'm still writing, by the way! I won't be hanging up the keyboard just yet.

I had been working since the Summer on a completely separate project, basically with the idea of seeing how quickly I could write a novel (extremely rough first draft, more like). Inevitably, however, life tends to get in the way of our goals and I was thrust once more into university life, and all the fun and joy that it entails. Not to say I'm not enjoying it, but, as one might expect, it has made writing more of a juggling exercise.

As such - and considering how much I've missed the Phoenix Saga - I've decided to focus all my attentions on the third book and the following instalments before I attempt such an ambitious move again.

Bring on the Phoenix.

So... I was wondering this morning about the practicalities of designing either a 'soft' or 'hard' magic system within a book.

Establishing strong characters and an equally compelling story line should, in my opinion, always be the first port of call for any genre. But magic systems are also the calling cards of Fantasy - they make the genre distinctive.

Harry Potter has wands and spells; the Mistborn Trilogy has a strict system of rules and limitations, requiring the consumption of metals for magic and for the 'magic user' to have been born able to use one or all of the metals; and then you have Tolkien's Lord of the Rings (LoTR), where the limitations and extent of magic are shrouded in mystery. I had an English Literature teacher who found the use of magic in books utterly abhorrent; he felt it undermined any clever writing and effectively allowed characters a get-out-of-jail-free card when things got a bit sticky.

Proponents of hard magic systems argue that by having a clearly designed magic system with a set of rules and limitations ensures a better functioning novel - characters can't cheat their way out of trouble and readers understand how the magic works.

Soft magic systems, as present in the likes of LoTR, work quite well in the sense that magic isn't used so much to get characters out of trouble but rather to project a sense of wonder about the world as you explore it.

Things get a little blurry between the two distinctions when you factor in how 'nebulous' or 'rational' a magic system in a particular book is.

A rational magic system will establish consistent laws that the characters have to follow when wielding magic. A nebulous magic system things are bit more... iffy; take, for instance, Gandalf. In LoTR we see brief flashes of awesome power but we don't really know the full extent of his powers, its limitations, how it works, etc, etc.

Brandon Sanderson (author of the Mistborn Trilogy) laid out a set of guidelines for the building of magic systems in Fantasy:

Sanderson's First Law: An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic in a satisfying way is directly proportional to how well the reader understands said magic.

Sanderson's Second Law: Weaknesses (also Limits and Costs) are more interesting than powers.

Sanderson's Third Law: Expand on what you have already, before you add something new. If you change one thing, you change the world.

Hope you enjoyed reading this!

​- Farrell

So, with Autumn officially upon us (at least for those us hailing from the Northern Hemisphere), let us bid goodbye to another thoroughly disappointing Summer (for those of us unlucky souls in the UK, that is).

Entering into a new season, the afterglow of having self-published Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown (available at an Amazon near you) has officially faded and I must cast an eye to completing my latest project, Mysterious Project Number 3. Which, for now, shall continue to go unnamed. Sorry!

Considering how the story is currently progressing, I'd say we're roughly 60% of the way through. Of course, as we near the New Year, we'll soon see just how bloody optimistic that statement was. Ideally however, I am hoping to be editing and sending the manuscript out to betas come early 2020! 

* cough cough - if you'd like to be an official beta reader for mysterious project number 3 feel free to let me know in the comments, or better yet, just hit me up in the contact section - cough cough *

Well... I guess that's everything!

- Farrell

Howdy.

Well... I don't really have anything important to say, so how about I just throw in another scene from my current project without any accompanying context or explanation? Sound good? Great!

I'll just drop some text this time rather than a screenshot, as I think there were some difficulties in expanding the posted image. Enjoy! ‘Can you not make an exception here, Master Guinne?’ Twill said.

‘The fate of the Kingdoms lie in the balance,’ Anastasia added. Bord either didn’t notice – or pretended not to – the dark look Anastasia shot his way.

‘Not for anyone or anything,’ Guinne replied solemnly. ‘My vows are beyond the petty agreements of mankind. They cannot be broken.’

‘Well… that’s us buggered then,’ Twill remarked placidly.

‘Perhaps not,’ Bord said, nodding at the small orb dancing over Guinne’s open palm. ‘Were Hemlock’s men armed?’

‘One moment.’

The orb disappeared around the corner once more.

Guinne’s eyes squinted at something they could not see. ‘Swords and daggers,’ he said.

‘Crossbows? Bows? Darts?’ Bord rattled off the weapons one by one.

‘Not that I can see,’ Guinne said.

Bord nodded, deep in thought.

‘We can take them,’ Skive said confidently. ‘But if they call for help, we’re damned.’

‘Can you attract them here?’ Bord asked Guinne.

The man’s moustache bounced as he smiled. ‘That, I can.’

The orb began to grow within his palm until it resembled the size of a melon, at which point Guinne ushered it ahead with a wave of his hands.

They waited behind the corner patiently. Tommy hoped the ploy would work. He dreaded to think what Hemlock’s men might do to them if they caught wind of their escape.

Eventually, their patience was rewarded with the sound of boots scuffing the corridor’s flagstones and concerned voices filled the empty space.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘Bloody Mandrake’s playing with us again.’

‘That’s a new one on me.’

‘Couldn’t sleep for weeks after he made me think I was drowning in spiders.’

‘Spiders? You were lucky. The arsewipe had me believing I was–’

CRACK

Bord pounced with unnatural quickness, falling on the first black-garbed henchman and twisting his neck to an unnatural angle. He had his bulging arms wrapped around the second’s throat before the first body had hit the floor. The man squirmed, kicking and punching at the air like a new-born whilst his desperate breaths scratched awfully from his collapsing windpipe. With one last terrible rasp, his chin dropped, limbs swinging uselessly at his sides. It all happened so quickly, Tommy had had no time to look away.

Bord dropped the body to the floor and began searching for weapons. He tossed Anastasia and Twill the guards’ daggers, sliding a sword across the floor to Skive before settling on the last sword for himself. Tommy quietly hoped that the man wouldn’t have to use it.

- Farrell

P.S. be sure to sign up to the mailing list to be the first to know about upcoming book releases and deals, and receive a free short-story in the mix! Pretty awesome right?

Just a little update to announce that I have officially passed the 100 page mark on my third project (as I have so subtly ​brought to your attention below).

Feast your eyes on the horrifying majesty of my unedited first draft.  Well... would you look at that. Another sneak peek into the story as well... goodness... how careless of me!

Hit me with your thoughts people!

Greetings one and all!

Just thought I'd devote today's blog post to giving some insight into how I've gone about doing, or sort-of doing, shall we say, the less flashy side of writing: planning.

Now, as far as I'm concerned, there's no one right way to do this, though actually doing the planning itself in the first place is probably a bit of a must. That being said, the 'planning' that occurred for both of the Phoenix Saga books was rather haphazard, to say the least.

​If you're like me and struggle to note things down in a chronological fashion, then scribbling random scenes hastily in a notepad on the train to work is the one for you! My brain can be weird like that.

Ahhh, but I seem some of the more meticulous fiends amongst your ranks, who scoff at my feeble attempts. Perhaps I may yet sway you. Recently, for one of my prospective books, I've attempted *drumroll please* more traditional planning. That is to say, I've just grabbed a handful of little flashcards and planned each scene, as concisely as possible, one after the other. Its been a refreshing experience.

I've actually planned an entire book that way. I know! I hardly believe it either. But for which book you ask? Well, now that's a secret I'll have to keep to myself for now. Though, I can reveal that I'm almost a hundred pages into it, so I'm making steady progress!

Though I wouldn't say that it was absolutely necessary, personally, I find map-drawing quite helpful in terms of picturing how the story will go from A to B. I think that there's an actual technique that relates to this in terms of story-writing, though its name is currently eluding me. I know it has something to do with forests and drawing lines...

​If it twigs with anyone, be sure to let me know in the comments!

This may come as a surprise for you all to know that I have a three-year plan to dominate the known fantasy world (have at that Brandon Sanderson, where's your three-year plan you multi-million book selling, giant of epic fantasy?) Literally, I have it pinned up - stuck, more like, with blue-tack - on one of the doors of my wardrobe, leering down upon me as I sleep.

It may come as less of a surprise that I'm rather behind schedule! Rather naively on my part, I set myself the target of finishing the third book of the Phoenix Saga come the end of this year. It's probably not going to happen, but God loves a trier.

As it stands I'm currently delving into three projects, (of which Phoenix Saga #3 is a part), because why not? I might start keeping regular updates on the writing in the sidebar to keep you all informed. I'll have a think about it. That's not to say that it won't be possible for me to get at least a first draft finished before Christmas, though I can't promise it will be the third book! In a bid to increase my output however, I'm hoping to produce around two books coming into the following year. So that's something, right? Here's a snippet of one of my, as yet untitled, (and un-edited) upcoming works:

After what must have been well over nine hours on the road, (awkward stops for fuel included), Al finally pulled the car over to a stop.

The location couldn’t have been more perfect for his captors. An abandoned mansion, dangerously decrepit to the point of near collapse, sitting alone surrounded by acres of field.

Al got out of the car and shuddered, unsure whether it was more to do with the early morning cold or the derelict building lying in wait.

How strange that he should feel such a strongly conflicting feelings, as he treaded up the untamed field, his trouser legs becoming damp from the morning dew. Foreboding, for one; the mansion’s rows of shuttered windows leaking little else but the building’s stored shadows. Yet, he remained just as oddly curious as he had the last time he’d ascended the stone steps running up the wall to the platform that kept the house safe from the environment. Though, examining the sheer state of decay that had laid claim to the place made Al wonder for a moment whether the separation was really for the benefit of all that existed around it.

What lay inside were a thousand wonders not even a hundred lifetimes could fully appreciate. But this was not a house that invited you to explore them.

Go away, this house seemed to say. Its rows of black eyes glaring menacingly.

‘Why here of all places?’ Al heard Mandrake murmur. He had his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. Though, given how his head moved rapidly to-and-fro, searching for dangers, Al thought the grey-haired man had similar concerns as he.

A sharp nudge in the back, from the pommel of Nightshade’s sword, propelled Al up the stairs a little quicker.

‘Keep walking, wordsmith, wouldn’t want you to die of cold now.’

Glancing back at the scarred man, Al saw that his sword was indeed unsheathed. Though far less obvious than his associate, Al knew the dance of Nightshade’s eyes well enough to know the man was not overtly comfortable with his surroundings either.

The front of the house was in a state of utter disrepair. Paint was slowly peeling off from the walls either side of the entrance revealing a dusty layer of red brick. Two angels, their wings forming an arch over the doors, had been sculpted into the front. One of the heads had fallen off, a sharp crack scarring the angel’s hair. The angel’s face, taciturn in its sternness, sat facing the door, as if on the lookout for whatever dangers lurked inside.

A particular story occurred to Al as he looked at the angel’s head.

‘You know, in Islamic belief, it is not the Devil who guards Hell, but an angel,’ Al said. ‘An angel who never smiles, never laughs. He just stands amongst the flames, watching.’

An eerie silence hung thick enough to catch the two other men’s breath in their throats.

CRACK

Al jumped.

His eyes snapped to the angel’s head, now split in two, dust billowing up around Nightshade’s boot.

‘Never been one for angels,’ Nightshade growled. He pointed his sword at the double doors and nodded at Al. ‘Get moving, wordsmith.’

Even with knowing what lay inside, Al could not help the turn of his stomach as he stared down the pale doors barring his path.

He took a deep breath, then leaned against one of the doors with his shoulder and pushed.

Al could have sworn there must have been someone on the other side holding the door closed, given the loud protest it made in whines and squeaks. Eventually, it gave way, swinging wide and revealing naught but a pitch-black darkness that seemed unnatural when compared to the early morning sun creeping over the horizon. A chill seized Al’s spine as he stared into the unending depths of the house’s maw.

Don’t come in, it all but said.

The poke of Nightshade’s sword pommel against his back felt less sharp this time, as though the man wasn’t really sure if he wanted to enter the house after all.

Stay safe, Tommy, Al thought.
​
The broken angel’s head watched the two men follow him inside.