Buck Up, Boy; It Isn't Normandy (guest post by Dad)

The first time my grandfather said those words to me, I must have been about eight years old and had no idea what the heck he was talking about.

Normandy?

What? - a place where everybody was named Norman?  I didn't know.

Nor can I remember now what it was that was causing me to complain - okay, I was eight - whine. It must have seemed important, but then, at that age, everything is terrifically important, especially if it pokes at your young psyche in a negative way.

A couple of years later, I came to understand just what Normandy was all about. I studied the history of those horrifically lethal early morning hours of June 6, 1944, when a small stretch of Omaha Beach became the bloodiest piece of battlefield since Cannae.

And my grandfather's admonition came into sharp, clear perspective. He was right - I have never been subjected to the terrifying thump-thump-thump of a Krupp Arms 88mm that was aimed at me. I have never waded through pounding surf while strangers in bunkers on the clifftop above make every savage and desperate effort to end my life. I have never had to breath air that was more lead than air, while my friends and comrades are cut to pieces around me. I have never experienced the dark carnival of death.

No - whatever ailed me in those years of my youth - or anytime since - pales in comparison to that which far better men endured at Normandy.  My life has been, as they say, a piece of cake.

Nevertheless, every life's road has its share of bumps and potholes. Becoming an adult, or even an older adult like myself, does not negate the opportunities for life to disappoint and dismay, or even dispirit one's soul. The only thing that changes is the substance of the disappointments. And the quality, of course.

Lately, I have experienced a fairly long string of disappointments. I am a self-published author that has been recently, and accurately, described as obscure; only a few hundred people know of my work. The story I tell is an epic heroic fantasy, quite long. When finished it will contain more than 900,000 words, about 520,000 of which are now in print. It is one long book, told in five volumes. The problem for the reader is that none of the books are episodic; nothing is resolved at the end. The story is linear, so the ending of one book simply leads into the beginning of the next.

As a consequence, most readers of fantasy are reluctant to get involved, knowing they will have to wait for the next installment. And the wait between the first three, which are out, and books four and five has been unbearably long, not just for the readers who have taken an interest in my work, but for me as well.

It takes time and money to produce a book. For the past couple of years, my family has been rocked by one difficulty after another - difficulties that inevitably steal away time and money. But since family is of incomparable more value than a book, I have willingly set the book aside time after time, and gone to see to more important things.

I admit, however, that at times I have been disheartened and dismayed. Even dispirited.

Buck up, I tell myself, again and again and again. After all, like my grandfather said - it isn't Normandy.

No, it certainly isn't.

It's just a book.



Daniel Hylton is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.

Short post - fantasy, candy canes and No. 4

Many years ago as a young teenager, I spent a January and February in an old chair in my room sucking on leftover Christmas candy canes and reading The Lord of the Rings trilogy by Tolkien. My rabbit Freddy reclined on my lap, and if while engrossed in a particularly exciting part, I neglected to stroke his soft black fur, he turned his head and sank his sharp little teeth into the flesh of my hand. Peppermint sticks, black rabbits, and little gold rings with deceptive power are now forever linked in my brain.

That winter still comes back to mind each year, begging for me to scour the tree for any forgotten candy ornaments and renew my relationship with books. As a mother of four kids, I find it hard to keep that relationship going. I can either write sometimes or read novels sometimes, but not both. I do still lean against the walls in my home now and then, perusing a chunk of the newspaper before I give it, and all its sundry information, up to recycling. But its not the same as curling myself around a book, letting my house go to pot, and hearing my children whine, "Mama, are you done with that chapter yet? You promised to come outside."

"I'm almost done!" I'd call back to their sighs.

This year I haven't even begun. And what I really need right now to conjure up that old excitement in the story is Book 4 of Kelven's Riddle, but I can't have it. Or so I've been told.

I have great memories of nursing my younger two children and putting various responsibilities on hold while eagerly ingesting Kelven's Riddle in it various forms. As the daughter of the man who wrote them, I was trusted with the rougher drafts of the story. When Dad gave me a section of the first one, I was pregnant with my youngest girl and stayed up way too late, already exhausted, and read it. At that time he hadn't even given me the ending. I read it in its entirety later on. When Book 2, The Walking Flame, came out, I left the house to its own destructive devices and got up from my chair only to feed the children, grab a snack for myself or use the restroom. I would end up reading the last incredible chapter of that book over and over again as I wished and waited for the third book. Then at last! Book 3, The Sword of Heaven, was in my hands, and again my house was buried in the mess with no hope from me as I read and nursed my young son and tried to balance my baby and dad's manuscript on my lap. That time I was actually allowed to read the final chapters before the book was released on Amazon.

Throughout all these literary entrapments, my husband was patient and forbearing with my neglect of our home, but I suspect that was only because the books had been written by Dad. And after I had Book 3's manuscript in my hand and confided in him with a laugh that Dad had actually named a character after him, Matthew (who does not read for pleasure, only business) began the series, and miracles of miracles! Read the whole thing by nightlight in the evenings while waiting for our youngest girl to drift to sleep.

Now Dad tells me he'll give me Book 4 soon, but won't say exactly when. Still he teases me with the details of the story - with war scenes and devastation and forecasts of how the whole series will go down but no solid information. He tells me frankly that Book 4's ending will be more astounding than Book 2's, and I'm trying to imagine how. I'm puzzling over which of my favorite characters he might be inclined to kill off, and if it's Thaniel he dooms (Thaniel is a brave, proud and reserved being, the main character Aram's closest friend and a fellow warrior), I just might consider not speaking to Dad for a while. But I don't think he'd do that to me or any of his readers. I don't think he would.

But I don't know, do I? Because I don't have Book 4. Do I think that by writing this post, my dad will hurry to finish the manuscript and send it off to his youngest child with love? No, not really, but I wish he would. I still have one leftover candy cane, and no new book to enjoy with it.