The Upcoming Game of Thrones Graphic Novel

Hello Everyone,

Earlier today I received an email from Barnes & Noble announcing March 27th as the release date of Volume One of the forthcoming Graphic Novel adaptation of George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones.

Celebrated novelist Daniel Abraham (who has also adapted Martin's Fevre Dream) and illustrator Tommy Patterson bring Martin's epic fantasy series to life in this hardcover graphic novel in 240 full-color pages.  Below is an excerpt from the upcoming publication:

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king's justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran's life.

The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran's skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king's justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he'd seen all this before. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

Bran's father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.

There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. "Ice," that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man's hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.

His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifted the great sword high above his head.

Bran's bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. "Keep the pony well in hand," he whispered. "And don't look away. Father will know if you do."

Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.

His father took off the man's head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as summerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.

The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy's feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head,and kicked it away.

"Ass," Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. He put a hand on Bran's shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother.

"You did well," Jon told him solemnly. Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice.

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.

"The deserter died bravely," Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother's coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. "He had courage, at the least."

"No," Jon Snow said quietly. "It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark." Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.

Robb was not impressed. "The Others take his eyes," he swore. "He died well. Race you to the bridge?"

"Done," Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.

Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man's eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robb's laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.

That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them.

Then he was gone again.

Jory rode up beside them. "Trouble, my lord?"

"Beyond a doubt," his lord father said. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now." He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the rest came after.

They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.

The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him.

"Gods!" he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.

Jory's sword was already out. "Robb, get away from it!" he called as his horse reared under him.

>Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. "She can't hurt you," he said. "She's dead, Jory."

Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.

By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. "What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy was saying.

"A wolf," Robb told him.

"A freak," Greyjoy said. "Look at the size of it."

Bran's heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers' side.

Half-buried in blood stained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman's perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father's kennel.

"It's no freak," Jon said calmly. "That's a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind."

Theon Greyjoy said, "There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years."

"I see one now," Jon replied.

Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb's arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb's chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. "Go on,"Robb told him. "You can touch him."

Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, "Here you go." His half brother put a second pup into his arms. "There are five of them." Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.

"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."

"It is a sign," Jory said.

Father frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. "Do we know what killed her?"

"There's something in the throat," Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. "There, just under the jaw."

His father knelt and groped under the beast's head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.

His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. "I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," he said. His voice broke the spell.

"Maybe she didn't," Jory said. "I've heard tales . . . maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came."

"Born with the dead," another man put in. "Worse luck."

"No matter," said Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too."

Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.

"The sooner the better," Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword.

"Give the beast here, Bran."

The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood.

"No!" Bran cried out fiercely. "It's mine."

"It be a mercy to kill them," Hullen said.

Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. "Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation."

"No!" He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father.

"Lord Stark," Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. "There are five pups," he told Father. "Three male, two female."

"What of it, Jon?"

"You have five true born children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

Bran saw his father's face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.

Their father understood as well. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked softly.

"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father."

Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. "I will nurse him myself, Father," he promised. "I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that."

"Me too!" Bran echoed.

The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.

It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.

Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.

"What is it, Jon?" their lord father asked.

"Can't you hear it?"

Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.

"There," Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.

"Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others."

Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."

I have yet to read any of the five books in the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series but I plan to soon... especially after reading the above excerpt and seeing a couple of episodes of the hit series on HBO.

Until Next Time :)

P.S.  I just want to say Thank You to all my followers... please spread the word and keep the comments coming :)

The Importance of Music

Hello Everyone,

As I sit here in Pembroke, North Carolina--Home of Jeremiah's tribe, the Lumbee--preparing for an exciting night of music at The River People Music & Culture Festival, I am inspired to write a post about the importance of music not only in my life, but in my writing, as well.

Lumbee River

A lot of times, as I sit down to write, I turn on some relaxing Piano Music, some Soft Jazz, or maybe some inspiring sounds of the American Indian flute to clear my mind and focus my thoughts. I tend not to--or at least try not to--listen to any type of music with lyrics.  Being in Choirs and Vocal Ensembles all throughout my life, I often sing along with whatever is playing, which is very distracting when I'm trying to write.

Music is such an important part of my writing.  The type of music I am listening to can definitely be seen through my writing.  At least it's obvious to me when I am doing edits.  I frequently change the type of music I am listening to depending on what type of scene I am writing.  For instance, if I am writing a battle scene and listening to a ballad or a piano sonata, my battle scene will most definitely turn out dull.  So instead, I will change it to a march or perhaps a turbulent concerto.

Though I do highly suggest listening to music while you write--sometimes pure silence can be just as distracting as too much noise--it does come with precautions.  On occasion, as I already touched on above, I've noticed (while editing or just reviewing a section of text) that I chose the wrong type of music to listen to while writing.  While going through the edits for my latest manuscript I found some:  a majick duel which should have been vibrant and action-filled was instead lethargic and not as colorful as I had intended; or even reading through an argument scene that climaxed way too quickly, I then instantly remembered that the piece I was listening to while writing it did the same exact thing.

I have found a handful of artists particularly ideal to listen to while I write.  The following (in no defined order) have similar song styles that coincide with my mental focus--and so I recommend them to you to check out for yourself:

Karen Marie Garrett

Ann Sweeten

Yanni

Brian Crain

Yo-Yo Ma

James Horner

John Huling
R. Carlos Nakai

Sergei Rachmaninoff

Gustav Mahler

Rimsky-Korsakov

Jeff Johnson & Brian Dunning

There are many more that I listen to, of course, but those listed above are listened to most frequently.  In addition to these albums, I also listen to a lot of Internet Radio--specifically GotRadio - Piano Perfect.  To listen to it for yourself, click the link.

Keep Writing,

Description: Animals in Fiction & Animals in Life

Hello Everyone,

I apologize for the lack of posts over the last few days.  I started a new job, and they have had me scheduled every day since Wednesday--even a double on Monday.  I will try to keep my posts as regular as I can with my new job and schedule.

A few days ago, while scouring links on the internet and researching for my upcoming post, I decided to take a break and do a bit of research for my current manuscript, and while perusing through the resources in my library, I stumbled upon a book that I had not picked up in quite sometime.

The book, Elements of Fiction Writing: Description by Monica Wood, is an instruction guide on how to write better description; most of its information is straight-forward, and of course the old adage of "show don't tell" appears many times, but otherwise, it is definitely worth taking a look at--and possibly even picking up at your local bookstore.

On a side note, however, I stumbled across something within her book while thumbing through its pages, and I wasn't sure to what extent, if any, I agreed with her advice.  Chapter Eight in Monica's book deals with 'Special Description Problems' and the first of the four sections in the chapter talks about how to describe animals.

Below is the very excerpt from that section, with which I have many issues:

If you decide to include animals in your stories you are probably an animal lover.  If you are an animal lover you probably share quarters with the world's smartest dog, the world's prettiest cat, or the world's most talented parakeet.  Perhaps you talk to your animals as if they understand you.  And who knows, maybe they do.  Please remember, though, that what works in life doesn't always work in fiction.  Your eight-year-old Siamese might fetch your slippers, but a reader might not believe this of a fictional cat.  So, as you are booting up your computer or sharpening your pencil or looking for your lucky pen, remind yourself that animals are not furry people, no matter how much you adore them.

Plainly stated, she goes on to tell her readers to never describe their animal characters with humanesque qualities or characteristics.  To me, that is just complete hogwash!  Fantasy writer aside, I still believe animals possess a soul and conscience.  Every single pet I have owned has exhibited a personality of their very own--and very unique to them, particularly, not of their breed in general (as Monica tends to suggest).  Now I am not saying they were furry humans (though I've always treated my pets as members of my family), but I am saying that all of my pets have had very distinct personalities all their own.

Sébastien
{26 August 2003 - 26 October 2009}

Our Siamese cat, Sébastien, had quite the personality.  A personality that was very intelligent--self-aware and aware of everything else around him--and very much unlike any other cat I have owned (though they have also had very unique personalities).  To merely call him a cat--or label him as a typical Siamese--and not describe his personality would only do his memory and his life injustice. He was very vocal, often 'talking' to me and Jeremiah.  He knew to always ask before jumping up into our laps if either of us were sitting in the chair or on the sofa; he would let me know if his litterbox needed changing (with a disapproving glance and a nagging howl!); and he had a child-like curiosity, always watching, studying, and learning our every task.  He would even sit and watch TV!  Sébastien also could tell if either Jeremiah or I were upset or sad (it was rare, so it definitely wasn't learned behavior).  He would get up close to us, look straight into our eyes, and then lay (more of a plop, actually) his forehead against our necks just under our chins, as if he was attempting to comfort us with a hug.

When Sébastien was diagnosed with kidney failure and we saw his health fade from us, it was very difficult to watch.  I had to administer fluid injections daily via a catheter into the back of his neck (where there was little sensitivity); it killed me to do it, but the alternative was an even worse fate.  He knew it, too.  He knew that if he didn't get the injection, that he would feel like crap.  In no time at all, he learned to willingly jump onto the window sill to receive the injections (Jeremiah knew how much he enjoyed sitting in the window and looking into the backyard and suggested that it would be a serene spot for him) and patiently wait.  His liquid iron vitamins, on the other hand, I could never get him to take.  I guess, with those, he never saw their purpose or their benefits.

In the days before Sébastien's condition worsened to the point of no return and we were forced to euthanize him, he said goodbye to me--letting me know that he was in pain and ready to pass on.  I remember lying on the outdoor sofa on the deck (one of his favorite spots), and he jumped up near my face to be closer to me.  He looked into my eyes, like he would do if ever I were sad, and gave a soft mew.  I saw the tears in his eyes right before he plopped his forehead under my chin.  He stayed like that for quite sometime... until my own tears had subsided, and when he finally lifted his head, I knew it was his way of saying goodbye.

You can argue with me all you want that it was just normal animal behavior, and you can attempt to tell me that an animal can never have human qualities, but I think by casting a huge net of generalization over animals within fiction and saying that one should never describe them as furry humans is as broad as saying that one should never attribute animal qualities to humans.

Fantasy genre aside, do you think writers should describe animals (pets) with humanesque qualities?  Or do you, like Monica Wood, think that all animals are without human-like qualities and should never be equated to such?  I would love to read any and all of your comments on this topic.

Until next time,

P.S.  For those who are fans of the Paranormal:  On several occasions since Sébastien's death, both Jeremiah and I have felt him jump onto the bed and kneed the blanket with his paws before lying down--just as he always did in life, and we have both heard his meow many times--I have even, before finally gathering the nerve and emotional strength to throw out his litterbox (used, in the same state in which he had left it), heard his howl nagging me to clean it.