C. Sharp's Blog

Mythology, like history, is created by the conquerors. Old oral traditions are translated by outsiders, distilled through the lens of usurpers and tourists, whose own beliefs often supplant or consume those of the original telling. The creation stories of predominantly Western European traditions—Greek, Norse, Irish, Basque, Bulgarian—but also Hindu, Native American, and elsewhere, all tell that the gods warred against the giants before the coming of humanity. But who and what were these giant “others” in our collective myth, and what service did they provide?

I don’t pretend to be a scholar on this subject, or any other for that matter, but those early mythic struggles between the older elemental forces of the giants and the newer civilizing influence of the gods have always fascinated me. I wanted to know more about those lost tribes of storied prehistory. It seems possible that the universal belief in giants derived from early peoples’ attempt to explain the oversized bones of dinosaurs and megafauna they encountered. The tales of the gods’ conquest over such beings were passed down by oral tradition, and cultivated in the group consciousness of growing communities across the world.


In the Greco-Roman tradition, the gods of Olympus fought against the titans and later the giants for control of the dangerous and chaotic wilderness. The giants were the personified elemental forces of nature’s destructive potential—volcanoes, tsunamis, blizzards, and earthquakes—they were heartless and unstoppable. The gods, made in our image or vice versa, were humanity’s proxies in the fight, and their ability to beat back the ferocity of the wild spoke of our potential to do the same.

The Norse myths mirror this struggle closely, but retained a little more of the wild edge and ambiguous delineations between the tribes. Even while the Aesir gods of Asgard claimed land and built their wall to keep out the giants, trolls, and other “monsters” from the untamed beyond, they interbred with the same giants, and accepted the native Vanir spirits into their pantheon. Moreover, the Norse cosmology spoke of a future apocalypse when the giants would return for a final battle against the gods—when the world of both would end, and history would reset for the next age.

I wanted to explore some of those inter-tribe relationships between giants, Aesir, and Vanir from Norse myth, but from a post-Ragnarok vantage—and from the angry perspective of those outcast monsters from the old tales. In re-exploring these myths, I found it most striking that many of the gods that I had grown up loving were often themselves despots, murderers, and rapists, and sometimes far more despicable than the “monsters” whose lands they stole in bloody conquest. It seems that in many instances, the giants, trolls, and elves of lore were semi-peaceful spirits of the earth and water that originally sought friendship with the gods who took such glee in their destruction.

When Gullveig came in greeting to the halls of Valhalla as representative of the Vanir tribe, Odin and his people, frightened by her magic and beguiling appearance, stabbed her with spears and burned her golden body three times as she continued to rise anew from the flames. This act sparked the Aesir/Vanir war that eventually ended in a stalemate, but that first greeting, and the attitude toward the “other” that it represented, would follow the Aesir until Ragnarok eventually came for them. I always saw Gullveig as the same spirit that became Angrboda, the Witch of the Iron Wood, who with Loki would sire the brood that would eventually become the doom of the gods. Her drive for vengeance is one of the most overlooked yet fundamental threads of the entire Norse myth cycle. Just as she was killed and reborn over and again before, I wonder if her ancient anger was ever fully snuffed out or sated.

The age of giants, gods, and the magic they trafficked in is gone, replaced by science, technology, and the press for human mastery of the natural world. But the importance of what the old elemental powers of the earth represented is perhaps more applicable today than ever. We have now entered a new epoch that scientists have dubbed the Anthropocene—the period during which human activity has become the dominant influence on climate and the environment, and regardless of your personal beliefs on the matter, the overwhelming majority of people who know what they’re talking about agree that things aren’t going well.

The giants, trolls, and dragons of yore offered a system of checks and balances on our expansion. They were there to delineate the boundaries of our human realm—the respect that our forbears held for the wild forces of life were vital to understanding our species’ place in the greater context. Without those personified monsters to fear, we’ve collectively forgotten to heed the chaotic underpinnings of our existence, too absorbed in human struggles to remember that the uncaring and unstoppable natural powers remain—still more potent than the science and belief we create to hold them at bay, and deserving of far greater respect amid our failing stewardship of the land.

The monsters are not gone from this world, but have only been slumbering—and they are beginning to wake again, hungry, angry, and ready to fight for what was stolen from them long ago. To borrow a term from the fine reviewer/writer Martin Cahill, “Asgardpunk” is the ferocious rebuttal to those old one-sided Norse tales. I see it as the movement and voice of the monsters as they charge again at the walls that Odin and his ilk built to divide us. They rage against the thoughtless mechanisms of power that ignore the destructive potential of nature at all of our peril.

The troll anti-hero, SLUD, in my wacky, weird little novel, Cold Counsel, is not the first, nor will he be the last, representative of the Asgardpunk movement. But he will carry the torch, or in this case, ax, while he can, and hack down every obstacle put in his way toward revenge for ancient wrongdoings. Though I believe that Ragnarok has passed, and the magic of our mythic history has all but been forgotten, traces of the old giants’ blood still flow in the veins of our stories. And unless we learn to rewrite the wrongs of our past indiscretions, I fear that the monsters will come again to teach us a lesson we are not ready to face.

*To read the article, see the pictures, and join the conversation at the original posting on Tor.com:http://www.tor.com/2017/03/07/asgardp...

As a youngster in the late seventies, I never would have guessed that 2017 would be a big year for trolls. Some of my earliest memories involve obsessing over the Moomins, cute trollish creatures from Scandinavia that looked like bipedal hippos. A couple years later my focus shifted to the book Gnomes, by Will Huygen, which depicts gnomes’ hidden struggles against monstrous trolls bent on capturing and eating them. These hirsute, grisly depictions of the enemy affected my dreams. Then, the Rankin & Bass illustrated edition of The Hobbit carried me deeper into fantasy; I wanted to be the characters in that world, fight against the same foes, or better yet, make friends with the trolls, goblins, and elves. I couldn’t get enough of Norse and Greek mythology, fascinated not as much by the famous exploits of the gods, but with the less defined stories of the giants, titans, and lesser monsters that had existed before the gods were even born.

What were these ancient elemental beings that were bound to the land only to fight and fall against the civilizing press of humanity? Why have they fascinated me, and so many others, since childhood and into adulthood? The world “troll” comes from Old Norse, and refers to an ill-defined class of supernatural beings from Norse and Scandinavian folklore. Some saw them as cognates of “giants” and “elves,” but over the centuries “trolls” have taken on an identity unto themselves—at times similar and/or related to both giants and elves, or perhaps even the result of shared blood between the two species.

Today, we have seen a resurgence of “trolls” in popular consciousness: as petty people that revel in sowing discord on the Internet; an animated movie voiced by some of our most adorable celebrities; Trollhunters is a hit Netflix show by one of our era’s fantasy masters, Guillermo del Toro; and Neil Gaiman has produced a fresh bestseller by returning to the Old Norse tales from whence the trolls first came.

I wonder if trolls don’t represent an important function in the subconscious of the present zeitgeist. The elemental powers of the giants that fought against the structured paradigm of civilization have died out and been forgotten. But as the climate changes due to humanity’s unchecked influence, and the natural world slips back toward a state of chaos, the old blood of the giants stirs again in the trolls—not passive and willing to fade quietly, like the elves and faeries, but angry, monstrous, and ready to fight back…

Here are five books about these mercurial creatures that have influenced me over the years, as relevant today as they ever were, and perhaps more so:



The Three Billy Goats Gruff by Peter Christen Asbjornsen & Jorgen Moe

First collected and published in the 1840s, this Norwegian folk tale is likely the origin of the relationship between trolls and bridges. The troll does not come across as particularly clever, and the moral boils down to eat the first goat you find and save room for seconds. (I want more from my trolls. The myths spoke of them as being great magicians and brilliant tacticians as often as they were represented for their brute strength and savage nature. Trolls can be complex.)



The Moomins by Tove Jansson

Though I do not have a solid recollection of these books and shows, I remember loving them at the time. These complicated hippo-like trolls were capable of emotional depth as they embarked on episodic adventures throughout a fairy and animal bedecked wilderness. The insightful tone of the loosely strung vignettes, both comforting and a little sinister, speaks effortlessly to childhood learning. The Moomin family displays nothing of the monstrous nature so often ascribed to troll kind, more concerned with philosophical thinking and self-assured action. (I love their thoughtfulness and belonging to the natural world, but I want my trolls to have earned a bit of their nightmarish reputation.)



Gnomes by Wil Huygen

This one filled some of my earliest fantasy needs. The hidden world of the gnomes, and the trolls that hunted them, seemed oddly plausible to me. There was at least a full year when I must have flipped through those pages every day. (Again, these trolls were fairly one-sided and dim-witted, but their base, earthen savagery stayed with me and felt right.)



The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

I almost skipped this one as it seemed too obvious—to be honest, it was the Rankin Bass cartoon version more than the book itself that so profoundly spoke to early me—but to omit it would be inauthentic to my trollish thinking. Three Stone trolls, Tom, Bert, and William Huggins, capture and discuss the eating of our fourteen heroes after a botched burglary attempt. These trolls are once again pretty dumb, but they make quick work of what are supposed to be an elite collection of dwarves who are only saved by the last minute cleverness of the Wandering Wizard. (The aforementioned savagery and greater fantasy world context for the trolls in this one showed me, and us all, the scope of what trolls, at their brutish best, could be. They had names, clothes, personalities, and a cave full of ancient booty. There was a treasure trove of unexplored myth there as well.)



Beowulf

My friends and I turned this one into a comedic movie for a ninth grade school project. Making it was some of the most fun I’ve ever had—we all got A’s. Though it’s a topic of much debate among those who debate such things, Grendel, Grendel’s Mother, and even the dragon can be viewed as trolls. Grendel coming to Heorot to destroy the hall because of the din made there is akin to the Scandinavian belief that early church construction and bell ringing was often met by troll attack. Grendel is the consummate troll in appearance and action, but his mother is just as iconic in her representation as a powerful shape-shifting trollhag capable of birthing monsters—just as Angrboda birthed Jormungand, Fenris Wolf, and Hel in Norse myths. (These vengeful and powerful beings laid further foundation for the trolls I sought to emulate.)



My trolls in Cold Counsel, SLUD and Agnes, are amalgams of the depictions in all these books, and many others. They are calculating and powerful, possessing of ancient wisdom and still hungry to learn, flawed and complex, yet sometimes base and simplistic at the same time. Equal parts dangerous and inviting, they are the watchers over dark dreams and bright nightmares. I wanted to uncover their histories and secrets; I hope you do too.


Click below for the originally published article (with pics & comments) at Tor.com

http://www.tor.com/2017/02/22/five-bo...

TQ: Welcome to The Qwillery. When and why did you start writing?

Chris: I have always thought of myself as a writer/story teller, even long before I did any actual writing. As far back as grade school—homemade role-playing games, stop motion movies, and elaborate imagined worlds with my friends were a constant.

I didn’t start writing prose in earnest until 2002, when a long brewing monster of a first novel started to spill out. That one took seven years, and was around 270,000 words of pent up, messy, story potential.


TQ: Are you a plotter, a pantser or a hybrid?

Chris: Definitely more of a pantser. I tend to have a general sense of what I want to do, and then sit down and start writing from the beginning until I get to the end before I go back to look at what I’ve actually done. It doesn’t always work out in my favor—but I’m still fond of the romanticized notion of being the conduit for my higher storytelling self.


TQ: What is the most challenging thing for you about writing?

Chris: After that first draft is done, I have historically struggled with going back and making the changes that are necessary to make it any good. So often, beta readers will offer notes that amount to “something not working” without insight as to what that something is. They are of course right, but I can become a petulant man-baby and argue the point in absence of clear direction.

I’m getting much better with this.


TQ: What has influenced / influences your writing? How does being a TV director influence or not your novel writing?

Chris: I was never a TV director, but did some extended time as an independent film/commercial/industrial-video producer. I was closely bound for much of my youth, and twenty years post college, to a crew of very fine filmmakers/writers who have continued on to establish themselves in that industry.

Screenwriting and filmmaking are as much of a drive for me as long-form novelization. I tend to think and write in cinematic terms – a little light on description, and long on plot movement and dialogue as a driver of action. I feel like it keeps the story moving and adds entertainment value, but may sometimes undercut a message, morale, or key insight that I want to bring out organically in my novel writing. I’m a slow build, sprinkled insight world builder, and get very turned off by what feels like forced data dumps in exposition and descriptions.

More generally, everything I read, watch, and listen to has and does influence my writing. I steal from everyone and everything.


TQ: Describe Cold Counsel in 140 characters or less.

Chris: A coming of age yarn about a boy, his aunt, and his ax against the backdrop of fading mythology and ancient anger in a post-Ragnarok world.


TQ: Tell us something about Cold Counsel that is not found in the book description.

Chris: My editor, the brilliant Jen Gunnels, described it as “Conan the Barbarian as written by Tolkien while on a cocaine and petroleum bender,” which may give a keener insight into the tone then what you’ll get on the cover.

The boy is the last troll to survive the genocide of his race, his aunt is the masked reincarnation of an ancient goddess consumed by anger, and the ax is a possessed relic from the storied age of giants.

There are no humans or easy heroes to hold to, but I hope you’ll find yourself rooting for a loveable band of bloodthirsty killers, and wishing for more at the story’s close.

It’s fast, furious fun for the whole family, if the family isn’t afraid of harsh language, brutal violence, and reveling in the fodder of nightmares.


TQ: What inspired you to write Cold Counsel? What appeals to you about writing Fantasy?

Chris: The protagonist, the troll, SLUD, was first summoned up through the rolling of dice for the Palladium Fantasy RPG in the seventh grade. I used to doodle his picture in my notebooks and write epic verse in his honor. I’d always thought to write his origin story some day, and started it on a whim with the notion to write a little, and sell it as a serialized novel… No takers.

But I was in an angry place at the time, and this angry story kept coming. I’d been disheartened by the underwhelming sales of my first published book, depressed by the direction some of my life choices had taken me, and penned inside by the brutal New England winter of 2014. SLUD’s story was the most fun I’d ever had writing. It was started as an exercise in speed and brevity, but metastasized into the book it is today.

For so many, I think fantasy/sci-fi is seen as less than real, and thereby frivolous. For me, rehashed stories about family dramas, or struggling with our own individual identities in the harsh face of adulthood is often tedious, boring, and overly simple.

Fantasy can and does deal with all of those same real struggles, but does so in a construct that takes us outside of our own microcosmic vantage—allowing us to better see and recognize the inherent truths of our mutual existence. Fantasy is not less than real, it’s hyper-real. At its best, there is more truth, for me, in a story about talking rabbits or space-exploring dolphins than another brilliantly insightful retelling of unresolved childhoods at a family dinner. I don’t need to read about that, I can live that for myself every Thanksgiving. Give me the fucking space dolphins and let me learn something new!


TQ: Cold Counsel is your adult debut novel. How different is it writing for an adult rather than YA audience?

Chris: Not much. I was perhaps a bit overly conscious of the “audience” in the writing of my first YA novel—about climate change, coming of age, and dragons. It’s geared toward older teens, but I tried to limit the bad language and some of the harder edges. But in reality, teens often have filthier mouths and harder edges than anybody. I’m finishing the sequel to that YA novel now, and I’ve let go of some of that initial pretense by design—and I think I have a stronger narrative/voice for it.

Cold Counsel is also a YA novel of sorts, in that SLUD, the troll, is a young adult trying to find his footing in an unknown world. All of the harsh language and carnage that surrounds him just happens to define the world he exists in, and if I did my job, his trollishness should not diminish his “human” thoughts, dreams, and disappointments along the way.


TQ: What sort of research did you do for Cold Counsel?

Chris: I have always been fascinated with world mythology. Joseph Campbell and Jung were staples of mine throughout college, and Norse mythology, which this book draws heavily from, is eternally fascinating. I can’t wait to read Neil Gaiman’s new take on the old myths.

But for this one, I was really focused on the vantage of the Vanir in the old Aesir/Vanir war, and of the struggles and death of the giants throughout those tales. I did some research into the mythology and cherry-picked the bits that fed into the narrative I wanted to tell. There are two old weapons that factor heavily into the story, an ax and a sword, and it’s the mythology around those two weapons, who made them, and what they represent that’ll guide where the story will go from here. That, and a deep delve into Gullveig and Angrboda, two/one ancillary figures from Norse mythology that I feel deserve a lot more attention.


TQ: Please tell us about Cold Counsel's cover.

Chris: The cover is by the amazing David Palumbo with the direction of the immensely talented Christine Foltzer. It pretty much speaks for itself: young SLUD with his cold ax against a mountain backdrop.

I think that Tor.com has been putting out some of the most exciting covers of late, and I’m thrilled to be in the mix.


TQ: In Cold Counsel who was the easiest character to write and why? The hardest and why?

Chris: My favorite character to write was Neither-Nor – a very hard to kill, misanthropic goblin from a wiped out clan, whose only reason to keep on living is to kill as many others as possible before his days are done. His ceaselessly negative, vitriolic spew was very cathartic to write, and I loved trying to make him oddly lovable despite it.

SLUD was in some ways the hardest to write, as I wanted him to be somewhat unknowable as he slowly builds toward a self-discovery that doesn’t even fully materialize in this novel. He’s the last of his race, and has led an entirely sheltered existence—equally innocent and calculating. Most of the insights to his character happen from outside perspectives, but I still wanted to make him likeable, and someone that the reader would want to follow along with.


TQ: Why have you chosen to include or not chosen to include social issues in Cold Counsel?

Chris: My YA series is heavy on social commentary and overt social discussion. Cold Counsel was in some ways both more personal and more overtly escapist. I definitively have a social message in Cold Counsel that will become more recognizable in the parts of the story that will follow, but I doubt that many readers would notice what that might be, and I’m okay with that.


TQ: Which question about Cold Counsel do you wish someone would ask? Ask it and answer it!

Chris: Holy crap! This is the book WE never knew WE wanted to read. Is there more to SLUD’s story?

Yes. Coming soon.


TQ: Give us one or two of your favorite non-spoilery quotes from Cold Counsel.

Chris:

Neither-Nor had a glassy look as he chugged the last few gulps of his own jug. He tossed the empty bottle in the snow, a little disappointed that it didn’t break. “Yer fuckin’ mad as a foamin’ weasel, ain’t ya?”
Slud thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “Yeah, may very well be.”

Greatness, legends, and the stories of a lost age were bullshit. Life was about will and luck, and the rare moments when the two coincided—the rest was just suffering, and the fleeting illusion that the suffering abated for a few stolen minutes here and there.


TQ: What's next?

Chris: I’m finishing up a beta-reader editorial round for the sequel to my YA dragon novel, and think it’s the best thing I’ve written yet—excited to get it out and earn a bigger audience for that increasingly epic series.

I’m currently writing a screenplay for an excellent producer/director that weaves contemporary politics with Lovecraftian horror—and I’m loving it.

I hope to be just getting started, and plan to have more SLUD, more dragons, and plenty of other things coming down the pipe as well.


TQ: Thank you for joining us at The Qwillery.

Chris: It was my pleasure. Thank you greatly for putting out such consistently good spec-fic content, and letting me spout off about my particular brand of nerdery.


And if you'd like to read over at the original post (complete with pictures, links, cool graphics):

http://qwillery.blogspot.com/2017/02/...

Charlie was fortunate enough to get the chance to sit down with Tor’s author Chris Sharp, and talk about his upcoming book, Cold Counsel. Below is the transcript of the interview in its entirety. Chris and Charlie discuss everything from the new book, to good and bad ‘writing days.’

Chris’ newest novel, COLD COUNSEL, is set to be published on February 21st, 2017, by Tor.com!

(CC) Before getting into the writing talk, tell me a little bit about yourself. Who is Chris Sharp?

(CS) A middle-aged dreamer with a propensity for long-winded storytelling, a fierce resistance to adulthood, and an optimist’s belief in magic—within the hardened shell of a pragmatic pessimist.

Grew up in the suburban wonderland of Alexandria, VA making home movies and playing RPGs with my friends. Did some college, moved to Brooklyn and worked in film and commercial production for 16 years—often with those same friends—while writing books at night.

Now I’m in MA, with a wife, kid, and cat; writing as much as I can and trying to get as many of these stories out of my craw in some form or another.

(CC) Sixteen years is a long time, was it difficult to leave the film and commercial production business behind and pursue writing?

(CS) Yes it was.

I had always worked toward and hoped to do both, and I still do. But now I’m coming at it with writing, rather than producing, as a primary focus.

The thing I’m currently writing is a screenplay.

(CC) Onto writing, why do you do it? What is it about the craft that not only brought you in, but keeps you coming back for more?

(CS) I’ve wanted to weave epic stories into the world since before Pre School. I think I’m only a somewhat more realized version of who I was at the age of five. The writing of long-winded books seemed the most natural and expedient way to focus/excise some of the stories I had brewing. The first thing I wrote to completion was a 270,000-word dark fantasy novel about schizophrenia, the slow death of myth, and Jungian archetypes of dream. It was all a bit much, but one day I hope to turn it into something swell. The writing of that was like my own self-taught MFA. Learned a lot, kicked the shit out of my ego, and caught the bug. Not sure if I’m any good at it yet, but can’t seem to stop. I hate reading the stuff that I’ve written, which may be part of the problem.

(CC) This book sounds epic. When do you plan to re-visit it, and what do you think has to be done to it?

(CS) It was certainly epic, but there were many things wrong with the execution. I need to go back to square one and re-produce the story in a streamlined, less autobiographical way from start to finish. Maybe even without looking at the original. There are certainly some salvageable and even some good segments, but a full reboot is needed across the board.

Not sure when I’ll delve back in. My wife and I have come to jokingly refer to that book as the Monster. We’ll see what happens. Some day the Monster will escape its cage, and in some ways, with Cold Counsel, it already has.

(CC) Since you’re not big on reading your own work, how terrible is the editing process?

(CS) I’m getting better at it—in less of a rush to get through it, and more forgiving of my sloppiness and screw-ups. I do tend to avoid reading my stuff once it’s out of my hands and published. I still find mistakes in my sentences that drive me crazy, and not being able to go back and fix them has been known to send me into a negativity spiral about the worth of the entire work. I get over it fairly quickly and keep working, but it’s not the best way to waste time.

I definitely prefer first drafting, but I’m starting to find some real enjoyment in the reworking and polishing stages as well, and there is no arguing against the necessity of drafts 2-infinity.

(CC) We all have good days and bad days, so tell me, what is a good ‘writing’ day, and what is a bad ‘writing’ day?

(CS) A good writing day is when I actually get a nice chunk of time to focus on writing—and don’t get sucked down the negativity vortex of our world’s current state. Just the simple act of focusing on writing is calming. I love first drafting; the cursor on the cusp of blankness is my happy place.

A bad writing day is when the brain won’t settle on the story at hand, or when I go over words that are supposed to be good, but aren’t, and I can’t figure out how to fix it.

(CC) If you had to pick, what three novels, would you say, have influenced you the most?

(CS) Watership Down by Richard Adams: I think it was the mythology of the rabbits that spoke to me most. It seemed so real to me, El-Ahrairah and the Black Rabbit of Inlay, and if the rabbits had mythology, then so did everything. That was a world I wanted to live in.

The Silmarillion by JRRT: I carried a picture of Bilbo Baggins that I’d cut out of the TV Guide from the Rankin Bass Cartoon in my Velcro wallet in Pre School. Used to play Frodo and Sam with my chums. But it was the blocky and elevated language of the Silmarillion that really blew my mind; so much history, detail, language, and depth—all in broad strokes. It’s like reading the bible of the elves, and just like with those rabbits, the mythology of it seemed real to me. For a fantasy construct to make me believe that felt powerful. That was what I wanted to do.

House of the Dreaming Door by Chris Sharp: This one, the aforementioned 270,000-word monster, was my attempt to emulate the works above. I failed. I’ll let that one speak for itself, when and if the time comes for its excavation.

(CC) I think that it’s great that you picked your first novel as one of the most influential. Do you think that all writers need to write that first book that doesn’t necessarily work to get it out of their system? Is writing that first novel more important or beneficial than the formal education?

(CS) I never had a formal writing education outside of English classes in high school and college, so I can’t say if just jumping in and doing it is more or less beneficial than an intensive program. There is plenty that I wish I’d learned prior to setting out, and a lot to be said for the structured, communal aspects of writing that you might get in an MFA program. I see writers who are skilled and motivated by creating and fostering a writer’s network around them, and I’m a little jealous of that. For me, such a network seems less helpful amid the varied stages of writing a story, but I think it’s invaluable for when you’re going out with work and hoping to get a foothold in the business.

But I do think that in the creative pursuits, whether its writing books, making movies, or anything else, there can be no substitute for throwing yourself into the mix and trying your hand at the thing you want to do.

While I was writing that first book, and now again with the benefit of hindsight, I loved the experience and value it as highly as anything I’ve done. But I’d be lying if I didn’t mention the handful of years in between then and now when the avalanche of rejection and my failure to make that attempted opus find an audience didn’t crush my soul and fill me with doubt.

Maybe a good short story or three is a better way to start out…

(CC) What are some of your other non-writing influences, and what have you picked up from them?

(CS) I borrow and steal from everything I read, watch, and experience. I love movies and television, and enjoy trying to write for screen as well. My book writing can sometimes get a little light on the description because of it, and my screenplays tend to be a little too wordy.

(CC) Now, tell me about the new book, what’s it about?

(CS) It’s a reimagining of Norse mythology in a post-Ragnarok world from the vantage of the angry losers of the ancient Vanir/Aesir war. It’s also a ferocious coming-of-age/revenge yarn about a boy, his aunt, and his ax against the backdrop of a dying dreamland. The boy is the last troll to survive the genocide of his race, his aunt is the masked reincarnation of an ancient goddess consumed by anger, and the ax is a possessed relic from the storied age of giants.

There are no humans or easy heroes to hold to, but you’ll find yourself rooting for a loveable band of bloodthirsty killers, and wishing for more at the story’s close.

It’s fast, furious fun for the whole family, if the family isn’t afraid of harsh language, brutal violence, and reveling in the fodder of nightmares.

(CC) Favorite bloodthirsty killer? Go.

(CS) My cat, Goblin. (R.I.P.)

(CC) Did the concept for Cold Counsel practically fall out of the sky, or did you have to do some digging?

(CS) The protagonist, the troll, SLUD, was first summoned up through the rolling of dice for the Palladium Fantasy RPG in the seventh grade. I used to doodle his picture in my notebooks and write epic verse in his honor. I’d always thought to write his origin story some day, and started it on a whim with the notion to write a little and sell it as a serialized novel… No takers.

But I was in an angry place at the time, and this angry story kept coming whether I was ready for it or not. I’d been disheartened by the underwhelming sales of my first published book, depressed by the direction some of my life choices had taken me, and penned inside by the brutal New England winter of 2014. SLUD’s story was the most fun I’d ever had writing. It was started as an exercise in speed and brevity, but metastasized into the book it is today.

(CC) Tell me about the process, did you do some major outlining and plotting prior to putting the pen to page, or did you just sit down and start writing? How do you usually work, was writing Cold Counsel any different?

(CS) I just sat down and started to write. That seems to be my usual approach, though I am certainly not afraid to do some note taking, plotting, and research type behavior throughout.

Cold Counsel came more easily than previous efforts. I had thought about SLUD for many years, and developed bits of the dark world he’d inhabit in the writing of my first book. It spewed out in a big bloody mess over the course of a few months, and hasn’t changed too much since.

(CC) SLUD’s story had been sitting with you for quite some time; why do you think that now was right time for you to get it right?

(CS) I didn’t, SLUD did.

(CC) What were some of the best/worst moments that you experienced while writing Cold Counsel?

(CS) The writing itself is always the best part. For me, a swollen sense of worth and expectation accompanies the typing of that final page, and all that comes after is a slow deflation back to reality.

(CC) After completing a draft (first, second, final) do you celebrate, or are you saddened that you’re one step closer to finishing and deflating?

(CS) I don’t really celebrate, but I think that’s a bad habit. You should celebrate every step; just make sure that you don’t get complacent and stop stepping. Writing can be an isolating existence. Little bits of self-acknowledgment along the way are healthy, and if you can get another to participate in that celebration it makes it seem all the more legitimate. If you are still hunting for an audience and starving for validation, the vacuum can get filled with confused echoes from yourself. Sounding boards of love are beneficial.

The best remedy for deflation is starting something else as quickly as possible.

All of us at The Brazen Bull thank Chris Sharp and Tor for the opportunity.

You’ve never fully lived until you’ve leapt across Brooklyn rooftops with a sword in your hand. In retrospect, midday beneath a hot summer sun, it was not my cleverest idea, but at the time it seemed like the only thing that made any sense. I was renting a top floor apartment with three of my best friends in the late nineties, a period both glorious and deeply dysfunctional—hence the thinking it fine for me to leap over the low walls between buildings with a Thai short sword. I guess I was going through my fantasy hero stage. For better and worse, I’m not sure it ever ended.

I’d bought the sword on the streets of Chiang-Mai while on a spoiled-kid trip to Thailand in high school—meant to teach me about the world as I learned the value of service working in a refugee camp. I learned all sorts of things, and got into all sorts of adventure along the way. Broke my collarbone playing musical chairs; made out for the first time on a beach in Ko Samet; chewed beetle-nut with a group of monks and town elders as they laughed at me; got my palm read by the most convincing psychic I’ve ever met. I had, until that point, spent much of my time in a distracted fantasy, focused on worlds within books, movies, myths, and RPGs. I think that trip, and specifically that sword, introduced me to the glorious potential of reality—but only part way.

Back home, I took the hand guard off the sword with a hacksaw, reinforced the wobbly hilt with green duct tape, and set to wielding it against my invisible foes. It was not sharp or well crafted, but the balance was just right and it was mine. That little blade and I became as one, except when it spun out of my grip to clatter across the floor or clipped an unintended inanimate object. By the time I’d made it to those Brooklyn rooftops, I was seven years deep into my fake training and ready to find my way to the world next door.

I’d made it across four buildings and had started to get cocky with my slash-and-stab routine before a concerned homeowner decided to see who was dancing about his roof like a moron. I have little doubt that if I’d been a person of color, the guy would have called the cops or worse when he found me leaping between his topiaries with the 19″ blade cutting my unseen foes with satisfying snicks.

As it was, the poor fellow freaked out pretty hard, ill prepared to face the crazed, four-eyed white boy that greeted him with sword in hand. There was an edge of panic in his voice as he began shouting. I promptly dropped the blade, put my hands in the air and started apologizing. I talked him down from calling the police and quickly slinked back the way I came with the blade dangling limply at my side. I like to believe that he thought I was pretty impressive with my moves before he’d interrupted, maybe even wondering, who was that guy as I retreated, but in a cool way.

I was not dissuaded. In fact, a cohesive blend of fantasy and reality, myth and the here-and-now, seemed like the answer to all of my big questions. One Halloween, a year after that, I dressed in a tattered rabbit costume and brought the blade into Prospect Park at night to look for monsters. I’d rigged a way to strap the wooden sheath handle down beneath my burnt and torn bunny suit, ready for an underhand draw. I crept through the woods and across fields just because I thought I could. Always half-cognizant that I was surely to be seen as the very monster I was hunting were anyone to notice. Luckily, nobody but the invisible goblins saw me that time, and they didn’t live to tell the tale.

On another mission, I spotted a car thief from my regular perch on the roof and stopped his nefarious deeds with the haunting words from above, “I see you, car thief”. That was the best I could do in the moment, but you know, heroism.

You should see the way the blade almost cuts through a tissue box. And a balloon, forget about it! I’ve learned the height and reach of every ceiling and wall I’ve lived between, and no roommate or the wife has ever commented on the nicks in the drywall I’ve left behind from my battles.

The scabbard has long since broken, and I tried and failed to give the blade a proper sharpness a few years back, but that trusty sword still rests against the wall within arms reach of my desk. I’m not saying it’s a magic sword, but I’m not saying it isn’t either. Every famed blade deserves a name. I named my sword Li’l Bastard after my dear dead cat and the cursed Porsche 550 Spyder that James Dean died in. I’m sure Freud would have plenty to say about all this.

Perhaps I believed in the fantasy a little too much, convinced that if I tried hard enough, trained right, and searched it out, that I would find real magic along the way, and that when I did, I would be ready to answer the call. I thought that maybe I was destined for grander things, other worlds calling to just me—places and beings that I could almost see and feel, but not. My understanding of the ratio of effort and expectation was always a bit light on the former and tipped to the ladder, and the slow comedown was filled with plenty of claws and self-evisceration as the years ticked by.

Somewhere along the way I settled a bit, stopped tilting at windmills quite so much, and figured maybe I should try to write instead of struggling to live a story that never quite came into focus. In time, that ratio balanced out and then finally tipped toward productivity. My thirties have come and gone, wife, kid, couldn’t afford to stay in Brooklyn and write—the cookie-cutter standard. I’m still not even sure if I’m a better fake sword fighter or writer, but the writing thing seems to make more sense these days. Lot of stuff I hope to get down on paper, many invisible enemies yet to kill…but I still like to keep my sword arm on the cusp of ready, you know, just in case.

I may not have become the super hero I probably am in an alternate universe, but my pre-arthritic carpel tunnel wrists can spin that little sword with deft cuts that would have wowed both the unsuspecting man and the idiot boy on that Brooklyn roof twenty years back.

I never found my battlefield to become the hero, but I suppose I’ve found a new way to slay the army of goblins and dragons in my mind. And I’m pretty sure my invisible foes are more scared of me than ever.

As published at Tor.com:
http://www.tor.com/2016/12/08/my-invi...

There is something so engaging about a blank word document. It invites and promises not to judge. Before anything is established and the rules are set, the unspoiled page is the ultimate symbol of possibility. Blank of drivel or filler, free of a meandering narrative that doesn’t know where it’s going, just moving along for the sake of movement itself. True, there is no genius on the page either—but the potential for genius has never been closer to grasp…

But this is not true when that blank page is the first page of a sequel. The blankness is an illusion, and all the baggage, rules, character struggles, and failures of the previous effort are there in the margins waiting to be dealt with. Writing sequels is hard, but hard writing is good writing, or at least that’s what I tell myself in this current state of my writing life. I am halfway through Book 2: The Five Claws, of The Tipping Point Prophecy series, and it is by far the hardest book I have yet tackled.

To date, I have written three and a half novels. The first was an almost 900 page epic fantasy novel that I wrote in a vacuum and thought was a work of seminal genius, only to later discover that it was, in fact, a rambling mess that couldn’t find a champion and now waits to be revived in a dark box… Learned a lot, picked myself up, try again. The second book was The Elementalists, which managed to fight its way to the light of day with the help of agents and publishers alike, and continues to battle its way out of obscurity to earn an audience. The third was a fast and mean dark-fantasy exercise that was a joy to write and will hopefully soon be a joy to read. Then there’s the fourth book…

Having a story to share and enough words to tell it has never been my problem. I have always thought in epic terms—multiple characters, high-stakes, changing perspectives and world building, blending of reality, myth, science, and magic. I seem to write big books in big stories that will take multiple titles to tell. Even that first 900 pager was just book one of a trilogy. But now, with Tipping Point Book 2: The Five Claws, I am finally putting my fingers to the test and expanding a world into fertile series territory.

Inspiration cannot be waited on and in my experience should rarely be trusted when it finally shows. The only way forward is “ass in chair,” though I’m not sure who I’m quoting with that one. I’ve written the first half of this book twice so far—once to get all the characters, events and radical shifts of the world onto the page, and a second time to make sense of all the moving pieces. Now I get to go ahead and write the second half of the book, and I’m thrilled at the look and feel of the blank page once more. But I already know that I’ll have to go back again to make those first 170 pages of material not just make sense, but sing at the same time. It’s been like pulling teeth and I still have a few teeth left to yank.

Certain chapters of that hefty chunk of book have been torturous to get through, (I’m glowering at you 10a, 11b and pretty much all of 12) but I bet that when this whole thing is done later this year, and I begin to share it with my beta readers, that those sections will stand out as some of the best I’ve written. Not because it came easy, or flowed the way some passages seem to as if I’m taking dictation from a cockier version of myself that rarely sticks around for long, but precisely because it sucked to get down on the page. All the hair wringing, hand biting, and pensive stares out the window forcing me to do better, write truer, and fight against the page to earn whatever audience these words will be lucky to one day receive.

The white of the page is meaningless, it’s finding the rhythm in all those little black letters that has the potential to make someone other than myself care. Most sequels are less good than the book that came before, and a lot of first books don’t deserve the sequels they’re given. I’d even say this is true for some of the best selling titles out there—those lucky few whose first book goes big because the fates aligned in your favor.

I’m not one of them, though I wanted to be, as we all do. Instead, this series will benefit from my ongoing battle for every reader I get. I will try my best, and I promise that this story will only get bigger, better, and bolder as it goes.

I promise to not talk down to you—you’re too smart for that. I won’t flinch away or gloss over the hard topics or challenging moments. Teens, adults, ancient dragons—all real characters with struggles and nuance. The world didn’t end fifty years ago with a new dystopian hierarchy conveniently reconstructed in its ashes—it’s ending now, around us, every day, and we are the only ones who can do anything about it.

I’ve gone over the tipping point, and before I hit the bottom of whatever is on the other side, I’m going to earn your eyeballs and drag you over with me. It should, at the very least, be a good ride down.

The Elementalists

As a wanna-be-writer-type, I’ve never had a mentor, writer’s group, or guided workshop for how to steer my prose in more appropriate directions. Instead, I’ve put myself in the lonely and doubtful vacuum, vacillating between the delusional highs of endless possibility and the crushing lows of rejection and self-loathing. (Not the healthiest approach)

Having come from Park Slope, Brooklyn, where every third human in the coffee line has a published novel, and every other grossly overpriced adjacent brunch table to mine held overheard conversation about some novel in progress, moving to suburban/rural Massachusetts was a shift away from the literary mainstream. (There’s a bloated sentence)

Here, I knew no one, and though I found myself in a small town with a great deal of literary juju in it’s own right, the only name I’d regularly heard bandied about as a writing local of similar genre was someone with a very well known and seasoned career—light years ahead of me, with my one soon-to-be/now published YA book from a small publisher.

Nevertheless, his was the name that local librarians, book store owners, and neighbors kept throwing out as the guy to talk to. He was described universally as someone of great generosity, kindness and easy accessibility, despite the fame he had earned over many years of writing. This was not how most successful writers in NYC presented themselves, and such a concept seemed innately dubious to me because of it.

Still, I found myself emailing this individual out of the blue, trying to hit the tightrope balance of not coming across as too desperate, too sycophantic, or too ashamed to be bothering him with an unsolicited request for advice.

Here’s the thing, if I were someone who has spent decades working my ass off to gain fame and success in the arts, would I respond to an unsolicited enquiry for help among, no doubt, countless such requests per week? The answer is/was very probably no.

This individual, however, emailed me back. Then he emailed me back again and set a date to meet over coffee. There was a minor miscommunication over the day, and so I ended up crashing his quiet time a day early (way to go rookie!) Still, he gave me an hour of his day, with a free flowing and frank conversation about life, writing, the pitfalls of success and failure, and the simple struggles of getting through the week.

He was open, generous with his thoughts and feelings, and completely authentic in a way that so many successful folk in the arts fail to maintain. For a first-timer like me, it was refreshing and inspiring.

He had been having a shit day amid a shit week, but this did not deter him in the least from giving to a total stranger. This is a writer who has earned his success—and perhaps that’s the necessary ingredient. The life he sought was not handed over after his first novel or even his third, but he kept plugging away, learning to write for himself and not some dictates of the time or the perceived audience. That was how he finally found the big break. Writing something that hadn’t really been done before, tapping into a pocket of the collective consciousness that had yet to be defined. He defined it.

He probably doesn’t even know this, but this simple yet so generous use of one of his hours will help to define me as a writer. Not in what winds up on the page, but in how I will strive to conduct myself outside of it. Whether i ever find success or not, I will try to emulate his often exhausting, abused, and unrequited generosity to those who come seeking it. Not because it’s easy, or to bolster his ego, but because it’s right.

In a serendipitous turn, I was that very day contacted by a 22-year-old fellow who I’d recently met who wanted to talk with me about writing, movie making and the creative pursuits. As soon as I’m done typing this, I will respond to him, and regardless of what happens to any of us, hopefully these small gestures of goodness will build momentum and continue to make a little difference here and there.

Thank you unnamed writer. You are one of the good guys.

-c.s.

What is it about them that make us, young and old alike, fascinated with the concept, form, and imagining of dragons? Legends of dragon-like creatures have existed in almost every culture across the globe for thousands of years, and likely carried down via prehistoric oral tradition prior to that. They touch upon something at the core of our human psyche—equally as fascinating/terrifying/alluring to my five-year-old daughter as they are to me. They are the elements personified, apex predators, as well as the physical embodiment of magic, wisdom, and the unification of all animals in one perfected shape.

Dragons have been the stuff of dreams and nightmares for as long as humans have existed. The ancient Chinese held them in reverence at the pinnacle of the zodiac, as the keepers of knowledge, luck and even the teachers of our human language. The early Greek, Vedic, Jewish, Persian and Germanic peoples told tales of such monsters battling for supremacy with the gods. The old European mapmakers would use their monstrous visages to mark the unknown territories of seafaring charts. Dragons have always been the guardians of the liminal places in our world—the crossroads, the shadows, the deep wilderness or darkest caves—just as they now so rightly guard the fog-covered bridge between youth and adulthood today.

YA literature is the natural realm of these timeless beasts. Dragons are the gatekeepers to the future, as they’ve always been. When we are young, we believe in magic and endless possibility for our world and ourselves, but as we become adults we’re taught of more concrete things—responsibility, personal achievement, the competition for money, fame, love and security. Dragons are there at the in-between; the bridge we cross can lead anywhere, depending on how we face the guardian at the threshold.

Most will turn away or run ahead in fear, forget about the magic of youth and the infinite choices in our personal fantasies. For many, the dragon is destruction and failure, temptation and regret, but the image of the beast always remains, looming, waiting to remind us of what we’ve lost or are too afraid to acknowledge. Those unmarked paths we glimpsed as kids, and dared not go down, are still there guarded and waiting for us to be brave. The hidden magic is just as real now as it was when we were five, the dreams of our younger selves just as relevant in our quest for a better life as money and met goals. The dragons we’ve let hold us back are there to give us the wisdom we’ve long sought if we only let them be our teachers instead.

Why are dragons so prevalent in the literature of the young? Because whoever you are, and wherever you’re from, for thousands of years and thousands to come, dragons have always been there with you guarding or guiding to the places that you have wanted but feared to go—and you have always been the dragon.