Showing posts with label A Winter's Enchantment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Winter's Enchantment. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 01, 2016

Appearances and Fate of the Gods News

Firstly: ALBACON!
I have a schedule -- and I look forward to seeing some of you there!
Friday:
  • I'll be taking part in a panel on Ways to Publish on 1pm during the Writer's Workshop and available to offer critiques at 4pm. (I'm also planning to attend the lunch on Friday, so you can catch me then, too!)
Saturday:
  • I'm signing at 4pm! Come see me! There will be Butts!
  • I'll have a full selection of Amalia Carosella AND Amalia Dillin books for sale through Flights of Fantasy Books and Games at the con, so if you don't have paperbacks yet, you can grab them there!
Sunday: 
  • 11am panel on Mythology in Science Fiction and Fantasy!

Second Best: Another Opportunity to Say Hello!
And if you won't be making it to ALBACON this year, I'll also be taking part in Local Author Day at Barnes and Noble in Colonie Center on Saturday, April 2, 2015 as Amalia Carosella. I'll be thrilled to sign anything you have by Amalia Dillin as well, but only Helen of Sparta will be available for sale at B&N.

If you already have a signed copy of HELEN, consider stopping in to pre-order BY HELEN'S HAND, coming May 10th! I'm hoping to have some bookmarks for BHH on hand, as well as bookmarks and magnets for HELEN and my Amalia Dillin books.


Lastly: Fate of the Gods
You might have noticed that my Fate of the Gods books are currently unavailable from your favorite vendor of choice -- but don't worry, they'll be back VERY shortly. Paperbacks will continue to be available via all the usual channels, but ebooks will be kindle only for the time being (though I hope not forever). I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause. Please hang in there while I get things sorted on my end during this hopefully brief time of transition!

And now I am back to the writing cave -- fingers crossed this manuscript doesn't actually kill me before I'm done. See you at Albacon or Local Author's Day!



Forged by Fate (Fate of the Gods, #1) Tempting Fate (Fate of the Gods, #1.5) Fate Forgotten (Fate of the Gods, #2) Taming Fate (Fate of the Gods, #2.5) Beyond Fate (Fate of the Gods, #3)
Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga, #1) Blood of the Queen (Orc Saga, #2) * Postcards from Asgard * Helen of Sparta By Helen's Hand
Buy Now:
Amazon | Barnes&Noble

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

15th Century Music to Celebrate TAMING FATE! Released Today!

Taming Fate is here! In paperback and ebook, and available for your reading pleasure -- and in case you missed the memo, I've got cover copy below, and! an excerpt!

But first, since this Fate of the Gods installment is set in the 1400s, I thought some 15th Century music might be in order to set the mood. A little taste of what Eve might have heard in church or at a banquet, or maybe even danced to with the Marquis DeLeon. (As an added bonus, there's a lot of great 15th Century art in the accompanying video -- to check out when you're not too busy binge reading Taming Fate to these fantastic tunes, of course.)



Taming Fate
Fate of the Gods: Book 2.5


For the first time in her many lives, Eve would rather be anywhere but home.

In 15th Century France, Eve would have burned as a witch if it hadn’t been for the too-timely arrival of the Marquis DeLeon to save her skin. But Eve didn’t ask to be rescued, and their hasty marriage is off to anything but a smooth start. As tensions in the town grow and plague threatens, Ryam DeLeon knows if he and Eve cannot find common ground, their first Christmas may be their last.

Previously published in the anthology A Winter’s Enchantment.


Chapter One (Excerpt)

The man who sat across the table was a stranger. Dark hair, dark eyes, his face so familiar, and yet so different. The Marquis DeLeon showed more affection to his dogs and his horses than he did to his wife. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried, Eve reminded herself. That he didn’t still try. But from the moment she had not thrown herself into his arms, weeping with gratitude and relief, he had been at a loss as to what to do with her, how to move forward.

Oh, they’d married, of course. And even consummated their vows, not that the Church had not been known to ignore such evidence when it suited them. Which was why the Marquis wished to have children, as quickly as possible.

And he believed simply by saying so, by announcing this desire to her, for the security of their marriage and her own personal safety, she would welcome him unreservedly to her bed. And why shouldn’t she? Weren’t children the entire point of her existence? Shouldn’t she wish to carry on her line, expand her family? She pressed her lips together to keep them from curling at the memory of his words. His entire attitude.

Arrogant, pig-headed, insufferable man. From someone else, she might have expected it, but from a DeLeon—from her husband, when he knew her for what she was, knew she was more than just Anessa, daughter of some minor nobleman from Avignon—it was all the more frustrating.

“Will you go riding today?” he asked politely, tossing a bit of bread to the dog at his feet. A lean hound, tall and fast and elegant. She’d watched the Marquis working with it, sending it running after balls and sticks and the occasional servant, equipped with some sort of lure.

“I ride every day,” she answered, just as polite. A servant placed a plate of cheese between them, on the table. The last of the breakfast offerings, and more than she would have had elsewhere after St. Martin’s day. “Thank you, Robert. You needn’t serve us further.”

Her husband sat up, his eyes narrowing at her dismissal of the servant. But of course he didn’t contradict her. He wouldn’t, for appearances. She was, after all, the lady of the manor as his wife. And his dislike of her methods would not stop her from employing them. Not as long as he treated her with the same consideration he showed a brood mare.

“Anessa,” he began, after the room had cleared of servants. “You cannot truly mean to go on this way. Not permitting the servants to do their work, taking so much upon yourself. It is all well and good to give them some small holiday during Christmastide, but—”

“Christmastide is nearly here,” she interrupted. “And the running of this manor is mine, as your wife.”

“And what do you intend for Christmas itself? That we return from the mass and make ourselves some cold plate? It’s hardly a fitting way to end forty days of fasting!”

“The servants and maids have fasted too, all this time, and why shouldn’t they have some relief from their burdens?” The cheese was soft enough to spread, but she missed the butter they’d given up as an extravagance. For a religion neither one of them believed in. “I’ll cook the Christmas feast myself. For all of us.”

The Marquis opened his mouth, then shut it with an audible snap, his jaw tight. “And I suppose you insist upon this? That your mind is made up? You’ll not attend the mass yourself, then, either, I suppose.”

“Not if it can be avoided.” It wasn’t as if Christmas day was anything more than the church’s attempt to appease the pagans who would have celebrated solstice, even after their conversion. Jesus hadn’t been born in winter, and she should know. It had been her body which had brought him to term and birthed him, so long ago.

“Had I known you were such a stubborn thing—”

“What, my lord?” she demanded, the last thread of control over her temper snapping. “You would have left me to the inquisitor’s justice? Let me burn alive? Had it come to that, I would have survived, and it would have served as proof enough of my innocence. I never asked you to come for me. I never asked for this marriage. For any of this!”

“Nor will you ever need to ask for our protection, the protection of your own family,” he said tightly. “Why you insist on punishing me for doing my duty to you, I cannot understand in the slightest.”

“If you did not wish to marry me, you need not have bothered. You might have let the whole of it be a farce and left me to my own devices. I would have drawn no attention to myself as your ward. I have no need for position or power, you must know that.”

“And yet I chose to give it to you, all the same. To give you the respect you deserve beneath my roof. Oh, how I have wronged you!”

“Don’t be snide, my lord Marquis. It does not suit such a noble name.”

“And the lady of the manor roasting venison for le Réveillon does?” he mocked. “Or avoiding Christ’s mass, for that matter? I cannot protect you if you will make no effort to keep appearances.”

And this was what her family had become? Slaves to the Church, slaves to the King, when she had given up her innocence in the Garden, at the dawn of Creation, to make them free. The Church was as bad as Adam, crushing its people beneath its heels, and she refused to fear it. No matter how many times the priests threatened to burn her as a witch.

“This is my family, my lands, if I cannot be true to myself here, where might I find any whisper of freedom?”

He dragged his fingers through his hair as if he wished to tear it from his head altogether. “I do not mean to tell you that you cannot be free,” he bit out. “Only that some sacrifices must be made to avoid further difficulties. Turning the manor upside down with these strange customs of yours serves nothing but to draw attention to yourself and me. And once the Church notices, if your escape here is realized and the inquisitors are sent once more, there is little I might do to stop them from doing you harm, my lady.”

“They were bought once,” she mumbled, looking away. He was right, of course. Priests talked, and the absence of the Marquis’ wife from the midnight mass was not something that would be overlooked for any excuse. If word reached Avignon, the inquisitors would come.

All the more reason why they never should have been married.

“I did not buy an inquisitor,” he said gently. “I bought only a lesser priest, and it cost me a goodly fortune. The repairs to the palace in Avignon will not come cheap, nor does his silence on the matter.”

“Repairs to the palace?” She stared. “You can’t be serious, surely. I thought it was only some small stipend…”

His lips pressed together, forming a grim line.

“You are serious.” It was hardly believable, the expense, and for what? To prevent the inconvenience of her trial, the trauma of the result?

One of the blessings of being Eve was that she could not be killed. Not before her time. Not even by an inquisitor, invoking God. And even if by some miracle they managed it, she would be born again, live again for another life.

“Why, Ryam? It was hardly worth so much.”

“You are worth more, still,” he said. “Your safety is bound to my honor.”

“Ah,” she breathed. It all made so much more sense when he put it that way. He was sworn to protect her, and if he did not, he would be dishonored. Perhaps not in the eyes of any others but himself, his own family, but it did not matter. Any stain was too great. And in the end, it wasn’t about her at all.

“The estate can well afford it,” he went on. “I would not have you worry on that account. There is gold enough for three palaces, were it needed, I promise you. And better spent upon your safety than in any other pursuit.”

Better spent upon his honor. That was what he meant, whether he realized it or not.

Arrogant, insufferable, impossible man.

“Sadly, the fortune we’ve amassed is not near enough to buy Rome itself,” he was saying. “And even if they burn you and you survive, that will only bring you even more beneath her eye. You would have no peace, after. No peace until they had you crushed beneath their heel. Anything less only threatens them, and with all that has happened so recently—the popes and the renegades who claimed the title for themselves, the division of the Church in these last years—they can hardly risk another rallying cry. Surely you see that.”

Yes, she saw. She’d seen for some time that her very existence, were it known, threatened everything the fools had built. They pointed to their gospels and their letters, but she had lived it all. From the Garden, to the birth of Moses, to Jesus’ crucifixion. She knew the truth, and it had little to do with popes and palaces and midnight mass. But it would hardly have mattered if he had not insisted upon marrying her.

“You don’t believe any of it, and still you serve them.”

He stopped, hand half-way to his mouth with more bread, and met her eyes. He set the bread aside. “Unlike you, I will not survive if I am punished for heresy. And worse, I destroy the legacy you made for us. I am a Lion, my lady. Nothing matters more than that. If we ally ourselves with the powers of the land to ease our passage through time and maintain our heritage, at least we yet live.”

“Those powers are corrupt,” she said, lifting her chin. “And as long as you support them, you are painted with the same brush, stained by the same filth. If your honor is so dear to you, perhaps you ought to reconsider.”

His jaw worked, the muscles twitching beneath the skin as he struggled with his own self-control, and then he rose. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She watched him leave, but for some reason, it didn’t feel anything like victory.


Tuesday, June 10, 2014

TAMING FATE, now with Cover Art and Pre-orders!

As some of you may be aware, TAMING FATE is coming out on June 24th as a stand alone novella in ebook AND Paperback!! This means, of course, Cover Art, and I am happy to share it with you, today! First, a little refresher on the SUBJECT of Taming Fate (which is maybe one of my favorite didn't-make-it-into-the-books side stories, P.S.):

In 15th Century France, Eve would have burned as a witch if it hadn’t been for the too-timely arrival of the Marquis DeLeon to save her skin. But Eve didn’t ask to be rescued, and their hasty marriage is off to anything but a smooth start. As tensions in the town grow and plague threatens, Ryam DeLeon knows if he and Eve cannot find common ground, their first Christmas may be their last.


Previously published in the anthology A Winter’s Enchantment.

And the cherry on top about this release? You can pre-order it via World Weaver Press! Huzzah!! (And of course you can mark it to-read on goodreads, too!)

And tune in next week for some 15th century Fashion talk on the blog!

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Honor Among Orcs Giveaway

Earlier this week, I received a couple of early copies of HONOR AMONG ORCS, and I have to say, they do look mighty fine alongside my other titles! So fine, I had to take a picture.


As you can see, the paperback edition of HONOR AMONG ORCS retains the original art, while the e-edition's art got a little bit of a revamp, which you can see below. I have to admit that I LOVE the way the paperback came out, but I'm also really thrilled with the e-edition's art, too, and it's kind of fun to have distinct art for each! 

e-edition cover art

In celebration of receiving said print copies, I'm offering up one AUTOGRAPHED copy in a Goodreads Giveaway, going on now! I'll be throwing in some Fate of the Gods bookmarks and stickers for the winner, too. And in case you were in danger of forgetting -- HONOR AMONG ORCS releases April 1st! 




Goodreads Book Giveaway

Honor Among Orcs by Amalia Dillin

Honor Among Orcs

by Amalia Dillin

Giveaway ends March 29, 2014.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win


Thursday, March 06, 2014

Inspiration of Mythic Proportions Part II (from Kristina Wojtaszek)

This is part two of a two part series from Kristina Wojtaszek, author of OPAL. Her novella is part of A Winter's Enchantment alongside mine, TAMING FATE. Part One is just one post ago, and discussed Hephaestus, the Tin Soldier, and Hans Christian Andersen, so be sure to check it out! --Amalia

2) Cronus wears a Big Bad Wolf suit

Charles Perrault wrote his fairy tales in defense of courtly society in France.  It was, in fact, his duty to glorify the king in his works.  A large motif in upper class French society was arranged marriage, which depended on the virginity of the young woman, who may have even been cloistered (kept as a nun) to ensure such purity.  All of Perrault's fairy tales ended with a moral, and despite the more modern retellings of Little Red, the original by Perrault was the story of a young woman of society, not that of a little girl.  She wore a red cap; red signifying the color of sin, and hers was a preordained fate believed to befall single women who were allowed to socialize with men.  Not only was her fate the destruction of her worth as a virgin, but death itself; that ultimate fate of sinners.  And that is where Perrault's story ends for Little Red and her grandmother, in death.

But the Brothers Grimm retold the tale with a much younger Little Red, and the sexual connotations pared down.  They also introduced a woodcutter into the tale, to save the grandmother and granddaughter from death.  The woodcutter was careful not to shoot the wolf, lest he injure those inside his belly.  Instead, he cut open the wolf's belly and the grandmother and Little Red leapt out, still alive.  The wolf, too, was still alive (my, what strong anesthetics you must have, Mr. Woodcutter) and in order to fool the wolf so that he wouldn't miss his meal, they filled his belly with stones.  But when the wolf woke, the stones were too heavy for him to run away with, and he fell down dead.

Tell me, why in the world would the woodcutter feel the need to put stones in the belly of the wolf, when he could simply have killed him?  Why try to trick the wolf first?  Was it out of some sinister want of revenge for the wolf's trickery?  Or, could the Brothers Grimm have had other tales in mind as they rewrote this unusual ending?

The image of the wolf's belly full of stones immediately came to mind when I read the story of Zeus's birth.  His father, the Titan Cronus, was determined to avoid the prophesy that foretold his own demise at the hands of one of his children  So he ate every one of his infants as soon as they were born; except his youngest, Zeus.  Zeus's mother hid her newborn (finally!) and fed Cronus a large stone wrapped in swaddling instead.  When Zeus grows up, he confronts his father and either gives him an herb to induce vomiting, or, in some versions, cuts his father's stomach open to free his siblings.

Sound familiar?  The Brothers Grimm weren't, in fact, out to collect tales for children, but were devoted to the study and collection of German folklore and mythology, including sagas about mythical heroes similar to the sagas of ancient Greece.  Although they later softened many of their tales, knowing how popular they were becoming with children, the Brothers Grimm had an initial goal of recording the stories of their Germanic culture before they faded from use, and using these stories to understand the history of their people.  I don't know if a myth similar to that of Cronus influenced their reshaping of the Little Red Riding Hood tale, but they must certainly have known of such a myth, and there is tremendous possibility here.  For my part, I can't help seeing the larger-than-life Cronus in a wolf suit, and the gleam of an all-knowing Zeus in the eyes of the woodcutter.


The analogies between fairy tales and their mythic ancestors are endless, even if they aren't all directly related.  It's a good lesson for any writer, as we find our own imaginings aren't entirely our own, but are often a conglomeration of our emotional lives and those stories that have influenced us more than we know.


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Kristina Wojtaszek grew up as a woodland sprite and mermaid, playing around the shores of Lake Michigan. At any given time she could be found with live snakes tangled in her hair and worn out shoes filled with sand. She earned a bachelor’s degree in Wildlife Management as an excuse to spend her days lost in the woods with a book in hand. She currently resides in the high desert country of Wyoming with her husband and two small children. She is fascinated by fairy tales and fantasy and her favorite haunts are libraries and cemeteries. 
Follow her @KristinaWojtasz  or on her blog, Twice Upon a Time.


And don't forget to grab a copy of OPAL, or our Anthology together, 

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Inspiration of Mythic Proportions Part I (from Kristina Wojtaszek)

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This is part one of a two part series from Kristina Wojtaszek, author of OPAL. Her novella is part of the winter romance anthology, A Winter's Enchantment, alongside my own contribution, TAMING FATE. Part two will be posting Thursday, March 6th! --Amalia



Nothing is written that hasn't been told before, or so it's said.  And when you begin reading the oldest fairy tales you can find, those firstborns sired by folkloric fathers and mythical mothers, you realize it must be true.  There is always something older, something that came before.  Even the gods and goddesses of myth have parents; even they have some unfathomable beginning.  So it shouldn't surprise us when we find a Beauty in the Beast in the story of Persephone and Hades, or that East of the Sun, West of the Moon is so like the tale of Cupid and Psyche.  Ever wondered if Pandora was really married to Bluebeard, or if Snow White's vain stepmother had any relation to Aphrodite?

As I began to reacquaint myself with Greek mythology, I kept finding scattered seeds of fairy tales within the fruit of their stories.  Even the infamous Hans Christian Andersen and Charles Perrault, who are celebrated as fathers of many well-known fairy tales, gained inspiration from older folklore.  But how much mythology did they know, and did it play any part in the creation of their fairy tales?  Here I explore two of their fairy tales that have quite striking mythological equivalents, which may or may not be coincidental.

1) Hephaestus pounds out a Steadfast Tin Soldier  

Biographer Jackie Wullschlager tells us that Hans Christian Andersen's Steadfast Tin Soldier “is the first tale he wrote which has neither a folk tale source nor a literary model, but comes straight out of his imagination…"  Now that I have begun reading Wullschlager's stunning biography of Andersen, I cannot help but see a bit of his own life story in this beloved tale of a little soldier who is pushed along on many a journey by fate, and who never quite fits in or finds an equal in love, but sacrifices himself wholly to his art, being ultimately steadfast in the vision of his future.  So I think the connection I've made between The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Greek god of metallurgy is really one of my own imagining.

Still, the resemblance is remarkable between the disfigured godling who is cast from his mother, Hera, at the sight of his ugly, twisted, and useless leg, and that of the tin soldier whose maker ran out of tin and left him with but a single leg to stand on.  Whether Hera exiled Hephaestus from Olympus due to his birth defect, or Zeus exiled him for coming between he and Hera (and his throwing Hephaestus down from Olympus caused his leg to become injured and lame), Hephaestus was the only exiled god to return to Olympus, where he worked (steadfastly!) hammering out the powerful weapons and armor of the gods.  He was an outcast who was literally cast out, just as the tin soldier was blown, or thrown, from his place out the window.  And Hephaestus journeyed to earth, just as the soldier journeyed through many realms, and yet both returned to serve; Hephaestus at work in his special place in Olympus, and the soldier at the side of his love, the little paper dancer, even as she fell into the fire.

Though it is doubtful that Hephaestus had any influence on the tale of the Steadfast Tin Soldier, his ability to create animistic statues, as those that guard the gates of Olympus, and his steady dedication to his work despite all that debilitated him, is very like Hans Christian Andersen himself, who was one of the first children's authors to give animation to toys and voices to everyday objects, in order to tell in some small way the greater story of his life.


Tune in Thursday for Part Two, Featuring Perrault, Little Red Riding Hood, and Cronus!

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Talking in Circles: Using North American Myths in “THE DEVIL IN MIDWINTER”

I'm happy to have Elise Forier Edie on the blog today, talking about her novella in our A WINTER'S ENCHANTMENT anthology -- as regular readers of the blog know, I am VERY fond of hearing about how other authors use and play with mythology in their work, and how myth has influenced their writing, and Elise was kind enough to provide a guest post on the topic, which for her novella, involved a heaping dose of North American Myth (something I'd really like to dig into more, personally, one of these days!)


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A long time ago, I supported my writing career by teaching English and Drama at a boarding school in Colorado.  The student body included a number of Native American youth, and one year the school hosted a faculty in-service training that focused on how, as classroom educators, we could better serve this population.

By then, I had already been to a lot of in-service trainings, and they were all pretty much the same.  They were usually taught by men, featured a Power Point presentation, with appropriate paper handouts, followed by (if we were lucky) some hands-on activities.

The workshop on teaching Native American students did not follow this tried-and-true model at all.  We sat in a circle.  Our female guest speaker laid out a dizzying array of objects, all over the room, in a lovely tableau—pieces of wood, leaves, bowls of blossoms, herbs, statues, fetishes, musical instruments, photographs, even costume pieces.  We sat in a circle while she burned sage to clear the air.  Then she stood up and started talking.  I remember she started by telling us about her family history, her grandparents and parents and her tribal relations.  And then she proceeded to continue telling stories for the next eight hours, with one break for lunch.  There were no handouts.  There were no bullet points.  There were no activities, except for a moment of prayer and singing and more sage burning at the end of the presentation.