Get the Blood

So, in less than a month the novella Fixer will be released into the wild, for free at first. Anyone can read it! It’s THUNDERDOME!

It’s also supposed to be a way to introduce yourself to the universe and characters of We Are Not Good People before that novel comes out in October. As such, it’s a prequel, so despite having the same setting and the same main chaacters you don’t need to have read WANGP or Trickster in order to understand and enjoy Fixer. Clever, aren’t we?

I’ve been thinking about the magic system I devised for The Ustari Cycle. I’ve never been a fan of magic systems in books that have no consequences – stories where a “chosen one” is just born with some innate ability to cast spells, and where there are virtually no limitations to their capabilities. Power should require sacrifice, I’ve always thought, and that led to the logical conclusion: What if magic literally did require sacrifice? So in the world of The Ustari Cycle, to cast magic spells you need two things: A knowledge of the mystical Words that act as a grammar and vocabulary for expressing the intention of the magic, and blood, fresh and gushing from a wound. The more blood, the more powerful the spell.

The moment this came together I knew my main character would refuse to bleed anyone but himself. Bleeding someone else — possibly to death — to cast a spell is a pretty evil thing to do, after all, and only the worst sort of people would do that. So Lem Vonnegan, the main character an narrator of We Are Not Good People only bleeds himself, and as a result of years of casting spells is latticed with thousands of scars on his arms and elsewhere.

This got me to thinking about my own scars. I’ve had a relatively lucky life: No broken bones, no serious illnesses. Even I have a few scars, though. I’ll be writing the stories behind my various scars in the coming weeks – because every scar has a story.

First, the back of my head, which I can’t really get a photo of because I am not that clever and my hair covers it. I suffered two concussions and one penetrating wound in the same soft spot on my skull as a kid: One concussion was when I was wrestling my brother in the living room. My brother is clever and nerdy, but also possesses Hulk Strength, and he tossed me across the room when I was maybe eight or nine like I was a minor annoyance. I cracked my head against a chair, spent the next few days speaking French with an Italian accent, and then recovered.

Some time later my brother hit me in the back of the head with a rake – not one of those bendy leaf rakes, either, but an old-fashioned steel rake. So much blood. However, based on my own memories and other sources of evidence I likely deserved it, so let’s move on.

Finally, in Jersey City in the 1970s and 1980s when it got hot, they opened the fire hydrants and put sprinkler caps on them and all the kids in the neighborhood would run outside in their bathing suits and run around in the cold water. It was grand. At least, it was grand until I turned one day to find a red-headed kid who was approximately 600 pounds and 27 feet tall rushing at me. He knocked me down and my head hit the curb at about 3,000 MPH. One trip to the hospital later, and I was seeing visions of the future. All I remember about the hospital is that I was promised unlimited ice cream if I was brave, and I was fucking brave, but there was never any ice cream.

So today I have a scar on the back of my head that is revealed every time I get a haircut. The funny thing is, I started taking a real interest in books and writing not long after the second concussion. I’m not saying there’s a connection, but there’s gotta be a connection, right?

So, what’s your scar story? I’m actively looking for good ones. If you’ve got a longer story to tell, contact me and maybe we’ll post it here, or feel free to add it in the comments or on twitter at @jeffreysomers. And don’t forget the photos. The photo posted with this essay is actually a small scar under my eye from when I fell off a bike – but that story is to come.