Tales of Malstria

The first two novels in my Tales of Malstria Series are now available. The novels take place in thoroughly researched historic settings, including England in the decades following the Norman Conquest and the Mediterranean in the time of Alexander the Great. Combining elements of fantasy, horror, and literary fiction, the series explores the adventures, loves, heroism, and misdeeds of complex characters changed by supernatural acts. Tales of Malstria's supernatural roots draw from the myths and folklore of various cultures.

Lose yourself awhile in another time and place. Cringe and laugh, love and hope for characters you like and hate in equal measure. Although part of a series, each book is written as a stand-alone novel.

If you're a fan of subtle psychological horror or fantasy with a gothic feel, check out The Taking. Three generations have passed since LeMerle carved out his realm during the Norman Conquest, and his atrocities have grown to legends. When the castle he built becomes her home, Amarys of Rensweald feels LeMerle's dark presence. The darkness haunting her tempts her, as well. Amarys struggles to make the right choices, but when love gnashes her, she craves revenge. How will she face the monster she is unleashing?

Like horror touched with edge-of-your-seat adventure and psychological tension? Then, Tangled is for you. A runaway in twelfth-century York, Quin builds a life from stolen trinkets and constant hope. His knack for survival keeps him alive after he's nabbed by Leoric of Rensweald, a nobleman with dangerous needs. When Quin falls in love with Leoric's ward Amarys, his precariously balanced life comes undone. Pulled into a quest for revenge, he must choose between saving himself or the one he loves.

For a synopsis and excerpts and to preview Gates the Hours Keep, the next book in the Tales of Malstria Series, visit TraciRobison.com.

Picture this

What do you notice first when you look at this photo? Setting? Character? Action?

Look at the image for a few minutes and let your mind wander. Then, look away and start writing whatever comes out on the page.

What grows from your first thought? A poem? A story? Did the result surprise you?

Light and artistry

San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome, 2010

At Challenging Perfection, Lila recently wrote about the use of light in both visual and literary art. As a beta reader, Lila notices details of light in a scene and has often brought up inconsistencies I missed when writing. Having a group of readers with unique skills and points of view has helped me become a better writer. For that, I thank them all.

We've spent the last month at writersvibe highlighting visual arts. If you visit our blog, you'll see my fellow writers are multi-talented to say the least.

My art of choice is photography. I love the process of capturing a moment and framing it. Choosing a focus. Changing an angle. Looking to the light.

I took the photo on the right at San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome. I visited the church to see paintings by Caravaggio, who has been my favorite painter since freshmen art history. His dramatic chiaroscuro is how I see the world, darkness making beauty of light.

Snowday vacation

"Snowmageddon" folks were calling the storm expected to hit the plains last Wednesday through Thursday night. For a week, grocery stores were jammed with people stocking up on supplies. I bought a big bag of dog food and two bottles of wine. The check-out guy considered my purchases, and smiled, saying, "You'll be good for a week."

Turns out, snowmageddon fell as flat as the Mayan apocalypse, but expecting tough driving conditions, schools and businesses had shut down Thursday morning. I ended up with a free day. Oh, I could have been productive, but that's against the basic nature of a snowday.

I spent the day reading for fun.

I finished an entire book,  The Bedlam Detective by Stephen Gallagher. It was the most enjoyable read I've had in a long time. I'm not going to analyze it today--only recommend it. If you enjoy mysteries, rich in character and setting, you will like this one.

Are we there yet?

If "there" means a published novel, then, no, we're not there yet. It's a long drive, rife with twists and intersections, but I'm moving forward. A full year has passed without an entry here. I suppose the emptiness of this blog is a testament to the fullness of my days. 

I've moved to an old house in a neighborhood with big, glorious trees. In truth, I love the shady street more than the house itself. When I was a kid, our house had huge picture windows, all looking out to a big yard filled with trees and shrubs. That's home. That's a haven. Nothing like the stripped-out subdivision where I lived for the last 12 years. I'm middle-aged and too impatient to wait a quarter century for a good shade tree. And so, the old house.

Old houses--I'm one of those suckers who has always fallen for them. Sure, sure, the floors squeak and the windows rattle and the basement looks like a perfect setting for a slasher film. Ah, that's just character. Right?

Now, when brushing your teeth before bed, you hear a faint "drip, drip, drip" coming from somewhere on the first floor and wander down to check the kitchen sink--only to find the kitchen ceiling sagging in a giant bubble . . . well, that's a lot less charming. In the past few months I've learned about electrical wiring, patching drywall, doing a decent skim coat on a lumpy wall, and more about home fixes than I supposed I would. And, I've enjoyed it.

But, dividing my time between tool time and write time,  I've slowed my progress and stalled out more than once. I hit a wall. I felt I'd never write another word and never have the ability to "fix" the stories I was revising. I didn't know if I even wanted to try anymore. I checked out books about writers' block and editing and creativity and read them in a panic in those free moments when I should simply have been putting words on paper. Any words. Anything at all. But, in every part of my life, I'd crashed into crazy fix-it mode. Everything needed tending. Everything at once.

Now I'm sitting in an office stripped of wallpaper with white plaster patches on the still-sticky walls. I hardly notice the mess around me. That's how it is when I'm writing. So, the paint cans wait. The balance that looks so much like chaos has returned.

I'm working on what will be the last revision of my first novel. Some more research on the occult in medieval Europe. A little rearranging in the middle of the novel--returning, in part, to the rough draft's storyline. It's almost there. 

A Cultural Collection to Inspire You

Last week I came upon a resource I'd like to share. If you're interested in anthropology, folklore, or music history, you'll want to take a look at this.

Folklorist and ethnomusicologist Alan Lomax began making field recordings of southern folklore and music in the 1930s. From the 1960s onward, he focused on comparative research in world music and dance.  As a result of his work, Lomax compiled an extensive collection of audio and video recordings and photographs that capture decades of folk culture in the U.S., England, Ireland, Italy, Scotland, Spain and the Caribbean. The Association for Cultural Equity, founded by Lomax in 1983, is custodian of Lomax's archive. On the ACE website you'll find a research center containing digitized items from Lomax's archive as well as teaching resources, which can be a source of inspiration for any lifelong learner. And, the great news is, the digital resources are growing. By the end of February about 17,000 tracks will be available online for free streaming.  I know I'll be stopping back.

Right now

Where have I been? Mostly, right where I am now--sitting at my desk having a staring match with the computer screen. Well, to be honest, there's been more reading and typing than simple staring. I'm swallowed up in revising Gates the Hours Keep.

The dogs are snoozing in my office. Sadie's stretched out by the closet, and Tali's curled up under my desk. I've opened the curtains to have a glimpse of bright blue sky, and except for the dormant brown lawns, January looks like April.  Sometime this afternoon, I'll slip outside and steal some sunshine for myself.

A warm winter should be welcome, but the first winter without my dad shouldn't be so extraordinary. I want dull skies and bitter, biting winds. I want a world of grays and browns, not sprouting columbines and cloudless blue. When I walk the dogs today, the sun will warm my face and I'll think what a rare gift such a  winter day is. On days like today I feel more alive. And, then I think of Dad. He would be out tinkering on broken-down machinery or sitting in the tavern praising the warmth but commenting on the dryness.

Days such as today are a gift I can't share with him. No happiness comes without my remembering he's not here. Yet, happiness comes. In friends' smiles and sunshine and smelly dog fur, it comes.

The one good snowfall we've had this winter was Tali's first. Watching her and Sadie play in the snow, I laughed and laughed. Here's a glimpse of that day. I hope it makes you smile.