I have a book I ordered off of...somewhere...a long time ago called the 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley. It has various exercises for increasing a writer's abilities. Usually, these involve some tweaking of particular tropes. I have thought that perhaps I can do one of these exercises a week, but relate it back to something Trithofar. I'm going to give it a try.
Exercise 1: The Reluctant I: Write a story from the first person in which you use the first person pronoun I only two times, while still keeping the I somehow important.
Stipulations: This says I cannot use the pronoun "I" but twice. It does not stipulate that I cannot use "my," "me," or "mine." I am assuming this is fair game. Furthermore, I don't know that I'll do a whole story, but a part of one. I have a desire to begin or work on my sequel to the Dust Finders, so here goes nothing.
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The k'toogs are overpriced, but it's not my money being spent on them. A little negotiations here or there with the right men, and now my client is satisfied that we are prepared to go on our little excursion back into the desert.
This time, he's a clever one, my client. He will not be easy to take any advantage of, if any advantage can be had at all. He has many contacts and connections around me already, and perhaps several others unseen. But one thing is certain, and that is that he does not know the wastes. He doesn't know about k'toogs or ek'lukas or anything at all about the dustfinders who go out there into the wastes, or the people who live along the edges like seagulls along a distant eastern shores. He doesn't know where and how to find water, or where to camp, or how to know when a storm is coming. He doesn't know any of these things. But I do.
Mostly, he sends his kinto-shah concubine or paramour or slave or whatever she is to him to do his business for him. She is called Si-Lua and unlike him, this client Kelvin who wears the stuffy, woolly overcoats and hats of distant Rothlar or New Marthin, she wears mostly Elven silks today. She stands beside one of the k'toogs and pets its rough hair. K'toogs aren't used to kinto-shah. They think of them like big rats, which makes them uncomfortable. A k'toog will raise a foot and smash a rat to paste, but it can't do that with a kinto-shah. And she doesn't care. She pets the great, grunting, desert beast all the more, her hand shying away only when the beast under it grunts or shudders its leathery skin.
As she walks up and down the line of wagons, her hand leaps and lights along the boxes as though it were a little hair-covered bird. She has the decency to cover her face, and she wears a bit of perfume from the region: Queen El'j'ga's spice, it's called. She doesn't hop the way some of them do, but takes long strides on her long legs, placing each step carefully. Her fur seems to be a light gray and cream color mixed, and her ears are pert things that stand atop her head attentively to everything. What this means is uncertain. With kinto-shah, their ears say a lot, or so it's been said.
She seems to approve of the caravan. She doesn't get in the way of my workers and security officers, but steps lightly and easily away when they come near. This Kelvin has hired a few of his own men to monitor the wagons as well. One of them is a big man, with darker skin than mine, who carries a big metal hammer with him like a child carries a favorite toy. Another is a shady fellow, who bears a crossbow and a constant scowl on his face. Kelvin himself has been more elusive than gold, but we had a meeting when he first came into town. Honestly, he frightens me. He is cold and direct, and negotiates like a man possessed by a devil. He insists upon going to Kultah, and he comes to me because he knows I've been there.
I recorded my father's memories down about when my original tribe and people perished out in the wastes. My father was an imbecile, but an honest and decent man. His memories were so vague and unclear. It is perhaps my recordings of him, and his deeds so long ago, during my youth when I lost my hand to an ek'luka's sharp, rock-breaking beak, that convinced Kelvin of my native naivete and innate stupidity. Publishing my father's story earned me a few clients, but no better respect, which can be quite advantageous. Onesides, like me, are often thought of as stupid, because they made a mistake once in their life. We take advantage of such assumptions.
Kelvin came here thinking to hire me as some native guide, only slightly better than the k'toogs themselves, to lead him on some profound treasure hunt out in the wastes. Maybe he thinks to reclaim the long-lost secrets of the ancient Terrilians. Probably, he thinks he can find Kultah Keep, the ancient Simmorian Stronghold and library, but keeps me along to be sure. He mentioned the keep only once in our negotiations, but with him that seemed much. He was tight-lipped to me about everything. It was like playing cards with him. You never really knew when he was intentionally revealing his cards or when he truly let something slip out. My book of my father's memories mentions Kultah, not the keep, but the region. Who knows if my father knew anything about where we were.
"Good day to you," she says politely to me. She saw me earlier standing in my offices. It is rude in my culture for women to start a conversation, though this was never really true out in the wastes. Or at least my father did not rebuke my mother for it. It is of little consequence to me.
"And to you. Do you approve of what you see?" My Morrigari is a bit too formal. It makes me seem sycophantic, but perhaps even this is to my advantage.
"It is sufficient. It seems to be not much here. This will take us vhere ve vish to go?" she says, her ratty lips getting in the way.
"When the ek'luka come trailing behind us, it will be plenty. You see, the ek'luka are scavengers, and so they will follow us. They are ugly, but they have wondrous good meat on them. Tough meat, which stays in your stomach a long time. One of them is enough to live on for days and days."
"Is that the reason for the box of garbage and refuse?" she asks me, indicating the box at the back of the caravan.
"Your mind is as sharp as your nose. Indeed it is. Have you sailed the seas much?"
"Only as much as my work requires, but yes?"
"Ever been with a fishing expedition before? They chum up the waters to get some of the bigger fish interested. It is the same here. We carry out some refuse from the city, what we can manage, and we toss it out. The ek'luka comes and eats it, and then we kill them. This keeps us from carrying so much food."
Her ears are even more alert than usual. They turn this way and that, like sails in a strong wind. She steps closer to me, embracing me with her perfume and her warm proximity. The kinto-shah is a beastial creature, covered in fur, and yet still warmer to the touch than a man or woman. Somehow, she is almost seductive in her ways, as though she learned how to at least interest a man not otherwise curious about the furry ones.
"Ju do realize that this is no ek'luka hunt. Ve do not go into ze desert to come vack quickly. Ny Naster is not a sfort fishernan. Ve are going deef into the deserts and ve may not return for months and months. Is that a froblem for ju?"
"Your master picked the very best with me, a dustfinder from way back. If you know what you are doing, you can live off the wastes for years and years."
"Ny naster also devands extreme secrecy in this voyage. Ju cannot tell anyvun vhere ve go, or vhat ve are looking for, or vhat ve have seen, even vhen ve return here."
"That would be exceedingly difficult without first having been told myself. The instructions from both of you have consistently been that we go west by southwest, to where my tribe was lost. When you wish to go into the wastes without knowing where you are going, you hire me, and so you have."
My hands reach for some of the ropes and tarps securing some of the cargo down on the backs of the flat wagons. It is an instinct.
"Do ju have maps of the deserts?"
"No one has a map of those wastes. It is like having a conversation with someone. You have to know what they can talk about, what they know, and then you know where they hide things. Dunes move like old men find a place to piss. Slowly, but they do get to where they are going. A few places out there don't wander, but not many."
"There is somefing else ju must know avout ny naster. He is a hard man. People vreak on him like glass on stone. Do not cross him. Do not second-guess him. Do not argue vith him. Do not fail him."
The way she said these things put a cold wind in my veins. Normally, my innate salesman arrogance, my pride in my work, shields me from such things, but this time, it was different. This time, it felt like the sand on the horizon, the first glimpses of a coming storm.
RESULTS: WOW! I am extremely happy with this exercise. Having to avoid using "I" constructions really improves the variety and construction of my sentences. Probably, I will attempt to avoid I constructions as much as possible in the future and had no idea how debilitating they were on my work.
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