"Come explore your dreams' creation; enter this world of imagination..."

I recently read an essay that outlined 70 mistakes you should avoid when writing a fantasy story. It was in the form of a test that, if answered properly, would tell you whether or not you should admit your novel is a rip off of Lord of the Rings and, therefore, abandon it. There are some interesting questions in it, too, along with some funny ones. Most were designed to tell whether you are writing a bunch of cliches patched together with cardboard characters, but I think you could get away with some 'mistakes' outlined in it and still come up with a convincing story.

And so, in a sense, Esmiralda was born.

She came to me grudgingly but insistently, first as a version of a male character I had conjured earlier, and later, as her concept came together, as a means of stringing together many different stories in different parts of the same world. My main gripe with most fantasy fiction is that it always seems to require at least three books that take you six years to get through to find out the end of the story. I always thought there was a market for smaller, localized struggles. They don't have to entail the end of the world, but perhaps the end of the world--figuratively, anyway--for a character or two that people care about. These conflicts could take place in the same world, but different parts of it. Maybe they're connected, maybe not. The common link between them would be Esmiralda, or people like her, who are given the task of recording them so that they are not lost to the vagaries of history.

Esmiralda, or Mira, as she'll be known by those close to her, is the fantasy equivalent of today's newspaper stringer; a freelance historian in search of a story to tell, a hero to document, a legend to immortalize. That she happens on a guy named Seymuhr is her misfortune. Seymuhr is one of those fantasy rules you shouldn't break. He is based on an old Dungeons & Dragons character, but don't hold that against him. This is not necessarily his story--it is Mira's as much as anyone's--and I am not entirely sure where I want to go with it. At first, I thought I would try to break as many other rules as I could, but then I imagined Mira's frank gaze; her eyebrows raised, arms crossed, foot tapping and wondered if she was telling me to quit selling my talents short with silly stories about space cats, goofy warriors and the like. So I wouldn't pay too much attention to the title (The Unlikely Hero) or the tagline ('The odd times and tragic end of Seymuhr Skullsquasher'). Those'll probably change.

Speaking of change, this concept is a bit of one for me, too. Usually I'll have a plot idea, or maybe even just an opening line, and I'll come up with a name and plug someone into it. I have none of that here; only a beginning sense of who Mira is and what drives her, and not much else. I will have to figure out who everyone is, where it all happens, and how to connect all the dots. I will practice things like dialogue, humor, action, suspense and description along the way. 

The picture (above) is of an attempt to keep things straight. It shows a as-yet-unnamed world where all of this takes place. Gradually, it'll be filled in and you may recognize some words and names of places--or variations of them. The map is pretty blank now. At the top right corner you'll see a mountain range, tentatively named The Spine, that borders a place called Azrok, where Seymuhr hails from. It's accessible only by a pass called Azrok's Heel. It is a brutal place. Azrok is named after the stern northern God whose name came to mind while walking 'Action Jack-son' recently, and seeing the way Jupiter and Venus have been prominent in the night sky: the fierce Eyes of Azrok, looking down on the land. I even composed a Warrior's Poem about them, which will make an appearance in the blog.

In the far left, you'll see a town tentatively named Dervish, where my current novel The Prankster's Reward takes place. There's a space next to that for a new panel because that'll eventually be filled, too. Dervish, by the way, is short for something, but I started the novel so long ago that I have forgotten what it was. A shortened version of a phrase that translated as either 'Wall of Wind' or 'Wall Against the Wind,' depending on your inflection.

In the meantime, feel free to check out, follow, share and comment on Mira's adventures. I hope it'll make for an interesting tale, a pleasant diversion. I look forward to your feedback.

"Let me take a long last look, before I say goodbye..."

There's nothing more humbling than a good plan quickly derailed.

So. Well, this is humbling.

My old house in Wayne sits empty in a stagnant market, an impending deadline looming large. My plan to sell it and move with my reputation—and credit—intact, something I once referred to as The Third Miracle, will most likely not come to pass.

It was a good plan, too, spurred by events in my life that were mostly beyond my control. I can't write about all of issues that led to this point because many of them are very personal and I need to protect those involved. But let me assure you that there was no deliberate attempt to skip out on a bad investment, take advantage of a weak housing market or to otherwise become part of the problem.

Let me tell you as much as I can of what happened, and let you be the judge.

I originally wrote about my need to move in an old post that I categorized under 'The Third Miracle.' Family issues trumped everything else. When the first two miracles fell in line—the new job, the new house—the plan was to keep up on the mortgage for the old house and pursue a short sale. I knew it would be difficult, bordering on traumatic, but I had an opportunity to earn some extra income through an online editing job that I could take care of at night.

Besides, I couldn't just abandon it, the way so many people on my block had simply left their houses. I had only lived in Wayne for about eight years, but still considered it my hometown. I felt responsible for it. I moved there because of the school district, the neighborhood in general, the proximity to parks—there three within a few blocks. Those things hadn't changed. It was still a good house (during our relatively short time there, we replaced the roof, the furnace and the electrical system) in a good neighborhood. And I still love the town; it's one of the reasons I get so irritated at the actions of the government there.

I also didn't want the stigma of a foreclosure following me, so I thought a short sale would be my best option (when the city bought and sold the house next door to mine for $11,000, it certainly didn't improve my property values). I had several people tell me for months, even years, ahead of time that walking away from the house was the best thing to do, but hearing it, saying it and doing it are very different things. I waited as long as I could and, with great trepidation, missed my first mortgage payment in order to make the property eligible for the short sale process.

Then, life happened.

Repeated trips to the hospital in Ann Arbor—the one not affiliated with Oakwood Healthcare—ate up so much time that I "lost editing privileges" on my late night gig. In other words, I got fired. I suddenly realized that I couldn't make up that missed mortgage payment—or keep them up at all. I have kept up the utility payments (although the water bill is currently past due), although that hasn't helped that much. On a trip to Wayne City Hall an employee there—someone I had considered a friend, and had had plenty of conversations with during my newspaper days—told me I was "shitting in Wayne and leaving." Another, whom I also talked with frequently, just glared at me and didn't even approach the counter. Some people in Wayne still shake my hand, but they don’t look me in the eye when they do it.

And so the stigma of foreclosure is looming down on me, after all.

I guess my plan wasn't all that good to begin with. Good plans don't unravel so quickly or completely after one or two hiccups. Perhaps I was just too optimistic in thinking that someone would quickly swoop in and buy up what is not just a move-in ready house, but one that won't require any serious work for at least a decade.

There have been offers. It is still for sale at the bank-approved price—which is more than twice what the house next door sold for. But a grim deadline spelled out in the pre-foreclosure sale agreement is fast approaching: I need an offer on the house by the middle of next month or the bank will take it back.

There's not much I can do now, other than to hope within the next few weeks that someone realizes what a great find it is and puts in an offer that the bank accepts. I am not sure what I would have done differently (or could have, for that matter). I haven't exactly given up on The Third Miracle, but I admit it's unlikely. Even so, I am still blessed.

Sweet memories, flashing very quickly by...

Nostalgia nearly overwhelmed me the last time I walked into Northville Township Hall.

It was a few weeks ago now, and the meeting room was crowded with residents and officials. So crowded, in fact, that I couldn't see an empty seat. I found a spot near the back wall leaning against the window with the hard edge of a window sill digging into my, um, posterior.

The meeting room had been crowded before, of course, but that was usually when people showed up with something to gripe about. This was different; it was potentially good news on something that every township resident had a stake in: the development of the former Northville Psychiatric Hospital property.

Someone nudged my foot and I looked up, first in irritation and then with a pleasant sense of surprise. It was Shannon Price, a former lobbyist now running for Wayne County Commission.

"Hey, Spiels," he said. "Did you ever think we'd be here?"

I had to smile as I shook my head. No, I did not. I didn't think the unveiling of the concept plan for the property would be anything but a nightmare for the township. But now the property is safely under township control and about to begin the long transformation into a community park.

Price was a big part of that success. He worked closely with township officials on the millage campaign that set up the funding for the purchase of the land, as well as the campaign against a proposed annexation of the property to Livonia. I didn't think either effort had a chance of success. I'm glad I was wrong.

Curiosity drove me to the meeting last month. It was a bit of an epilogue for me, a footnote. It was the last big story I covered as a newspaper editor, one of the last times I pushed the return key on the final line of an editorial and thought: Good luck and godspeed. I hope that helps.

So yeah, I was curious to see what the planners came up with the for the sprawling 400-acre site. And I liked a lot of what they talked about: the trails that accentuated the natural topography; the open community gathering space and outdoor pavillion--The Great Lawn, as it was referred to. Other aspects, well, they'd be nice, but were they necessary? Ask any community official with a fancy center that includes a pool and other features and they would probably tell you they're fun to have, but can be a bit of a white elephant. And I think recent history has shown everyone just how difficult it is to ensure proper funding for such upscale community features no matter what was going on with the economy.

On the other hand, no matter what happens in life, we all need to take some time to walk in the woods or just reflect with nature--and if you can do that while hurtling through the trees on a mountain bike, so be it.

I share some concerns about the price to develop some aspects of the plan and the timeline involved. But I watched township officials grapple with similar issues before. They've always shown good common fiscal sense by not developing anything they couldn't take care of. I just look forward to the day that the buildings are torn down, the ghosts chased out and the park open for all to enjoy.