Saturday, 29 November 2014

Writer's Block

An author's worst nightmare. Inability to write. Fear of a blank page. Blind third eye. Incapacitated muse.
The writer's block. 

A writer who claims never to have enjoyed of this condition, is a liar. We all have to endure it, and find our own ways around the brick wall that sometimes sits in between us and the keyboard. I am no exception. 

How often does this happen? 

Before, rarely. Today, quite often. 


A few years ago, I had no obligations, no responsibilities, and no stress whatsoever. Back then, writing was easy. I'd wake up in the morning, open my eyes, all three of them, and look into a realm I'd never seen before. Words came easily, they were my friends, my companions. 
Now, as I struggle with running a business, writing has become much more difficult. Stress and deadlines, the mere pressure of having to make money, often robs me of my ability to look through the hole in the paper. 
Someone, I forget who, said that a woman can only write if she is completely happy. I thought they were wrong, but now I've changed my mind. 

What do you do to get over the barrier? 

I've found that writing by hand is the best way to tackle the obstacle. Nowadays, I most often write in the car when we're going shopping. I write during power-outs and in bars, but rarely in my office. In order to look through my third eye, I've found that I need to distance myself from the whole concept of - the life I'm stuck in. 
I miss how things used to be. I miss writing. I miss seeing people dance in front of me, at my will, by my hand. 
I am, after all, first and before all, a writer. 

A writer who can't write. A paradox in itself. 

Yes. And in every case, only one thing is in common. 
The reason for writer's block lies within the writer. The writer is the only one who can help break that wall. 
The writer. 
The thinker. 
The seer. 
Blinded by reasons unknown. 
No two cases are alike. Reasons for blockage have never been shared. They lie deep within the soul, buried next to unsolved feuds, secrets yet to see the light of day, truths yet to be admitted. 
A writer suffering is the only one who can solve the puzzle. 
Luckily, all writers are good at cracking riddles. 

Unfinished beginnings? 

We all know what that means. You wake up in the middle of the night to the call of a story. You write it out, nod off, and the next day, obligations come in the way. You ignore the call of the tale due to the pressure from our civilised society, and when you return to it, maybe months later, it is cold, dead, unwilling like a wife left too long without attention. 
Awakening it seems futile, so you leave it be. 
It is the syndrome of unfinished tales. A story, like love, needs attention in order to live. Turn your back on it, and it will die. 
A flower does not live without water. In our world, stories are flowers, and we the water. 

If I didn't have work to do, you'd get two new tales within a year. 

Heather Wielding

Friday, 21 November 2014


I cannot believe I haven't written a word about Dragons! It's one of my favourite stories, and sheds more light on the Sha-e-Fa- series. Let's take a closer look at it, shall we? 

Cover art? 

Dragons is special to me in many ways. It first came to me as an image. I saw a girl atop a high wall, standing there in torn clothes, holding four black dragons. The image haunted me for many years, and as the tale behind it finally began to unfold, I wanted the cover to portray exactly what I saw. 
Unable to draw it myself, I turned to Husband's younger sister, who is a very talented artist. I was vague about what I wanted, and somehow, she still saw the image in my mind, and made it come true. 
Mazu did two versions of the cover, one in charcoal and the other in oil paint, and gave them both to me. I am still amazed by both her talent, and the way she picked the picture out of my head. 
This is the first cover I've had professionally made, and I love it to bits. I hung the original charcoal-version above my desk so I can stare at it while I write, and the coloured version took its place in my bedroom. 


Lucy and Linda. Writer and artist. 
Mazu is the sister I wish I had, along with my own blood, of course. She is very much like me, and still nothing like me. I took the liberty of taking some of her and placing it in Linda. She is the crazy artist, the wild-fire, the one who takes the plunge and lives out every moment as she pleases. And I watch her, silent, clammy as the earth, and live through her, painting pictures with words like she paints with everything else. 
I have never written myself, as I truly am, before. In Dragons, I did. I am Lucy, and she, my sister-in-law, is Linda. 
In the tale, naturally, we are bent, seen through the eyes of the spell-master, but in my heart, I saw us. 
If you think you know us after reading Dragons, you are wrong. Most of the sisters comes from my third eye, only the essence of us remains in them. 

Violence on girls AGAIN? WTF? 

As a girl, I write out many of my nightmares when telling stories. Therefore, many of my books contain violence toward females. I strongly object to men smacking girls around, and wish to make my women strong. Unfortunately life, as well as stories, isn't a fairytale. Bad things happen to good people. 
I don't wish to encourage violence toward women. Instead, I want them to see that there's always a way out. Even if you have to walk through a mirror to find an escape. 


Edric is the high seer in the Temple of the Crystal Hall. Only it's not called that any more, not after the wars. I didn't intend for him to have such an ill fate, but that was beyond my control. I wanted to write him as a wise old man, but the spell-master decided differently. Edric met hardship that broke him in body, but not in spirit, and though he is lost to us, I will remember him with kind affection. 
He was a pain to write, mostly because I lived his agony by his side, through him. What he lost, rises from the depths of my deepest fears. 


Ewyn is Edric's servant. He has stood by Edric's side all his life, and has served him in all ways imaginable. Ewyn is not only a loyal servant, he is the only one Edric can trust, the only one he has ever loved. 
There is much pain and torment between them, but also much love. Where Edric brought to me tears of pain, Ewyn rewarded me with his kindness. He is one of the characters that creep into the tale and share different views on events. Where Edric's pain rose from my night-time terrors, Ewyn's kindness was born from the purity of my soul. 


The only dragon I have written about before this tale was Lindea. She was small, kind, and orange. These ones were quite different from her. They were black and fierce, chained predators. 
Starting the tale, I had only a vague recollection of whence they came from, but as the words formed a clearer picture, I was horrified of what they revealed. 
I couldn't tell the whole story of how these dragons came to be. Their origin must wait for volume four. 

But this is volume five! 

So it is. 
I don't decide the order stories are given to me. I write what the spell-master wishes me to write. 
Right now, it wants me to spend time with Rita and Belinda and a haunted house I just happen to live in. 
Well, after them, I fear Dragons may fly again.


Heather Wielding

Saturday, 1 November 2014


After a long deliberation, I have decided to publish a book written about two years ago. It is called Manflesh. Let's talk about it. 

Man...flesh? We hope you didn't! 

Oh, but I did. 
I blame this on Husband and his band which, sadly, sort of broke. It was called the BoneFleshDolls, and they played wicked cool jazz-inspired alternative metal. One of their songs dealt with devouring human flesh, and, after a long while of rocking with them, I started wondering... what would it be like to eat human flesh? Would it be much different from pork? Would you notice the difference if you didn't know what you were ingesting? 
I've always wondered what man-meat would taste like. If the opportunity of tasting human flesh came along, I would take it. 
Naturally, we must keep in mind that when venturing toward cannibalism, diseases are soon to follow. 

So you didn't do the obvious approach.  

When ingesting human flesh, a human is in danger of contracting an illness called Kuru, among other things. Indigenous tribes practicing cannibalism have that disease, and if we were to intake manflesh as a part of our daily diet, we would most likely develop that illness as well. The reason why I skipped that step is simple: it would have been sooooooo boring. It's been done so many times I can't count that far. I wanted to do something different, to really fuck around with the idea of unwillingly eating human flesh. 
It was fun. 

Hey, isn't this a sequel to the Mousetrap? 

Well, no. Not exactly. We do take a minor detour via a certain TV-game-show called the Mousetrap, and yes, we do take a brief look behind the scenes, but no, this isn't a sequel. It's a story on its own, with a little bit of the blood-scented cinnamon we've tasted before. 
And, naturally, we get to say Hi to Jeremy. Two of them, actually. 

What do you mean, two Jeremys? 

As you know, there's always a Jeremy in the Mousetrap. He is tall, white of hair, and he has an impeccable smile. As we all know, human beings aren't built to live forever. Game shows, however, are. Therefore, Jeremy must occasionally be replaced. In Manflesh, we get to see the changeover. Someone in the studio changes the reel at a cigarette burn, and nobody in the audience notices 
(a nice big dick) 
a thing. 

So once again, Manflesh? What is this Manflesh? 

Manflesh is a corporation specializing in meat products. A pretty basic consumer based company. But one must keep in mind that times are very different. The world has changed, and food is not easy to come by. Manflesh Co has risen to fill the need for meat, and the consumers greet it accordingly. 
The name gives the company away, but the consumers don't seem to notice. 
Or maybe they just don't care. 
Who knows. All I know is that Manflesh offers food, and the people eat. It's all very simple, the basic law of demand. 

You're sick, you know that? 

Yes, I know. All writers are a bit off in the head. We get a strange notion and feel the need to flaunt it. We're like kids who made their first poo-poo in the potty: look, Ma, I made an icky! 
Admit it, you love it. We're all funny that way: we see something ewwy and we just have to poke it a bit to see just how ewwy it really is. Come on, you've seen the rotten, maggot-infested mushroom in the forest and paused to push it around just to see the maggots squirming inside, haven't you? Don't lie, you have. Did it give you nightmares? Did it make you wake up in the middle of the night with a film of sweat covering your skin? 
If it didn't, did you hope it would have? 
SteveO once said something I really liked. I shall quote him now, though it won't be word-for-word. 
We read horror to learn not to be afraid of death. 
Stephen King is one of my favourites, as you may know by now. I have a book that contains several interviews with him between the years 1979 and 1987. I leaf through it occasionally, and find little things, halves of sentences, that make me feel I'm doing something right. 
Manflesh felt like that from beginning to end. It was born in six(ish) months, and, like the Mousetrap, was a ridiculously easy birth. 
I hope you enjoy it, you sick bastards <3

Heather Wielding