E.G. Radcliff's Blog

I have a strange relationship with Christmas.

That is, I don't think I ever liked it for the right reasons. When I was young and Santa Claus was very real, I cared not for the presents or the Christ child. I cared about Saint Nicolaus, and I cared about what he was.

It was very clear to me that Santa wasn't human. He was, however, sentient and benevolent and capable of impossible deeds. Every Christmas, I waited for hoof-taps on the roof not because I was excited for the loot that followed (though, of course, that had its influence), but because reindeer couldn't fly, and that meant that something was afoot that nobody could properly explain. The world, for a couple short weeks, acknowledged the presence of magic.

The fact is, I wanted magic more than anything. I looked at a blade of grass in summertime and saw not an arrangement of cells photosynthesizing with their chlorophyll alphas and betas, their beta-carotenoids, churning through the Calvin cycle, the light reactions, dark reactions, the formation of glucose. I couldn't. I saw an inexplicable being that took raw materials--soil, air, intangible energy--and sculpted it into something green, soft, and very real. I didn't see fireflies and think of chemical reactions and flash-pattern communications, but of insects transforming themselves to light. It was alchemy in the details; it was the magic that nobody talked about.

And my God, I believed.

But I grew up. I came to see that beauty in the science, the elegance and precision of it, just the way I understand the well-meaning tradition of Santa and am happy for the joy it brought me.

Still, I can't help—even so many years after a tearful elementary-school girl tore back the charade—to mourn the loss of the magic. I lived off of the proof that there was something beyond the world. I reveled in the unknown. I loved watching the grass wave under the sun and the fireflies wink in the blueberry bushes and wondering how.

I think there's still magic out there in some respects. I feel it by the ocean in the churn of the tides, by the shifting light of the moon. I believe that in order for our cells to keep dividing, for tectonic plates to grind over each other, for conifers to stretch to the burning, reacting Sun, for oceanic saline to fall at the poles and creep in currents to the tropics, there has to be something holding it together. The very explanations for the phenomena, perhaps, serve as my proof. Because it works. All of it—the cells, the continents, the pines, the salt—works. In the most complicated, precise, un-random, one-in-infinity-chance way, it works. Read a biology textbook. Read about DNA transcription, about how the very stuff that makes us us is expressed; it's hundreds of molecules, proteins, RNAs, working together. One invisible mistake in an unbelievable chain of inanimate elements has the ability to end it all. Then our own cells communicate with the trillions of other cells, sending minuscule signals across the vast expanse of our bodies. Then we in turn sing, dance, write, speak, and we communicate with each other: fighting, healing, loving, hating, learning. That can be my magic.

No, Santa doesn't creep down the chimney at night, but something beautiful and mysterious is at work in the world.

So I shall hold on to that.

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Sometimes, when getting to know one’s characters, it can be helpful to put them in situations in which they wouldn't ordinarily find themselves. It’s a fun way to determine which traits are inherent to the characters and which are a product of their environment: both are very important to who the character is, and so it can be very rewarding to get to know them on a deeper level.

It can also just lend a good time to a slow afternoon.

I decided to get inside the heads of the characters from The Coming of Áed--if they lived in the real world in 2022. Without further ado, let’s violate some private property and reveal what each person has in their bag:

Áed

Type of bag: satchel

Contents: At least two books. Notebook that’s almost full. A full set of pens and matching grip aids, but he only uses the two colors he likes best. Sunglasses. Phone always has the ringer on. Snacks, mostly for other people. He is the friend who has bandaids. A spare sweater. There is always one kinda worrying thing, like a big screwdriver or a paring knife.

Notes: phone screen . . . shattered.

Ronan

Type of bag: backpack

Contents: Absolutely no school supplies. Jolly ranchers, mostly green. Pocket knife. Another pocket knife but this one has a fun pliers tool. Tasteful baseball hat and sunglasses. Green apple bubble gum. Eye shadow, but no brushes. Leftover food. At least one stolen item. Over-ear headphones. Hairbrush. Anna Karenina, bookmarked three quarters of the way through with a 7/11 receipt for Swedish Fish and a single banana.

Notes: he is an electric scooter ride share hazard.

Éamon

Type of bag: leather knapsack.

Contents: Nonfiction literature. A half eaten pack of Twizzlers. Wallet that’s empty except for an ID, a library card, and an Amex Black Card. Any number of acorns. Car keys to a ‘69 Bronco. On the same ring, a key charm shaped like a shiny dinosaur, courtesy of Áed. Bottle of vanilla coffee. Bottle of cologne. Wire-rimmed reading glasses with a prescription that would startle most people. Advil.

Notes: librarians think he’s hot.

Ninian

Type of bag: backpack, but never on both shoulders at once.

Contents: Switchblade of illegal length. Grocery list. An apple turnover in a bakery bag that he bought for Áed. Two ticket stubs from the Royal Ballet. An untranslated copy of the Táin Bó Cúailnge. About eighteen loose bills in ones and a five. A very battered wallet that has no purpose except holding photos of Áed and Ronan. An Altoids tin containing a single Tylenol and a stick of mint gum.

Notes: the cashier at the local bodega has written about him in her blog and is convinced he’s in the Mafia.

Erin

Type of bag: fanny pack, cross-body

Contents: A Pop-Tart. Hand lotion that smells like cinnamon. Taser. Rubber bands. Headscarf. Sandstone good luck charm in the shape of a coyote from her mom. Old DS and accompanying Pokémon cartridge. Lighter. Miniature slingshot. Assorted tourist maps with the subways marked off. Black licorices in the outside pocket.

Notes: pigeons fear her. She’s caught one before.

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on major social media.

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...by a lifetime imaginer of worlds.

If you're looking for recommendations for books with remarkable world building, I have suggestions for you! These are books that have greatly influenced my own writing journey and that I have deeply loved. Enjoy!

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

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I have illustrated a cozy winter scene for my readers, with characters from my series The Coming of Áed--Éamon, Erin, Ronan and Áed himself. You might find copies of The Hidden King, The Last Prince and The Wild Court on the bookshelf, and of course my Sushi makes a guest appearance hanging out with Ronan.

To see high resolution versions of this scene and all the art from THE WILD COURT, as well as exclusive bonus material for the trilogy, click here to become a subscriber! There is always a bit of fun to be had.

Happy Holidays to all!

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

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I may earn a tiny commission from links in this post

Perhaps because I love to write and draw, I have become very fond of webcomics. Successfully combining visual art with writing is a talent I envy, and I find that the possibilities it opens for storytelling are very exciting.

For those who aren’t familiar, webcomics tend to work differently than books or even graphic novels. They usually update a number of pages on a set schedule, and often, the artist creates them as they release them, rather than finishing an entire work and releasing it. Some release large numbers of panels at once; others release only a few. Many are available for free online; others are available on apps like Webtoon.

I’ve prepared a short list of my favorite webcomics. They are exceptional for both their art and their stories. These are the ones I think about in anticipation of each update, and mull over after each release. If you look at any of my suggestions, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Shiloh, by Kit Trace/Kate Flynn

With some of the most mind-blowingly beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen in a webcomic, Shiloh follows a rookie officer and a band of criminals as they untangle the web of mystery and deceit which forms the foundations of the city Shiloh. Creatures, murder and a fair bit of gore keeps the tone gritty without spilling into excess, and I do not lie when I say these characters drew me in like few other stories ever have.

Available for free on Webtoon: https://www.webtoons.com/en/thriller/shiloh/list?title_no=1649

BUUZA!! by Shazleen Khan

Set in a fantasy Middle East, the beautiful art, excellent characters, and deep worldbuilding set this story apart from the rest. Political intrigue and a terrific romance subplot make it impossible to stop reading.

Available for free on Webtoon: https://www.webtoons.com/en/challenge/buuza/list?title_no=283871

Aurora by Red

Created by the brilliant co-host of the YouTube series ‘Overly Sarcastic Productions,’ Aurora is a gorgeously-executed fantasy adventure. The art is fast and playful, and the narrative weaves together everything I love about fantasy, complete with extraordinarily thorough worldbuilding and a motley cast of complex characters. Available for free online: https://comicaurora.com/

Soul to Call by Katherine Lang

A post-apocalyptic dystopia. The characters shine, and the development of said characters is truly masterful: trauma, love, and growth all mingle to create beautifully intense dynamics. With the addition of deep worldbuilding and lord, this comic reaches impressive heights.

Available for free online: https://soultocall.com/

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E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

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A writer reaches for something new to say about something very old.

She lives in the beautiful season in which everything dies.

Autumn smells like smoke and licorice, except that licorice is whole and warm, and autumn is made of edges sharp enough to cut your breath away. Autumn is damp rot trapped between tree roots, and it's wind that whirls leaves in eddies like a spirit’s passing. There’s nothing new to say about autumn, and yet every year, when the air tastes colder--which feels like hanging upside-down, radiating bronze and shimmering through the veins, as intoxicating as it is dreadful--she tries.

This morning, a jay called six times outside of my window. It echoed; there’s something about the sound that makes the air feel so vast. Too big, in a good way. It hurt my chest, and I hadn’t even gotten up.

I don’t like wearing earbuds outside. It feels sacrilegious.

There really isn’t a way to describe crunching leaves under shiny rubber rain boots. Crackles? Susurrus? Definitely guilty, and I won’t stop doing it.

She works in a building with white floors and the sort of paneled ceiling that looks like popcorn. It smells like printer ink and poorly aged coffee, inexpensive and inoffensive cologne, and it sounds like keyboards and the pa-ding! of incoming emails.

The view from the window, offering a transparent slice of muted and muffled sky, still digs pointed, woody fingers under her ribs until she feels her heart beat too quickly when the sound of ochre leaves, twirling dry on their branches and flashing silver undersides to the sky, whispers through the glass barricade.

Fucking hell.

She leaves promptly at five.

Her backyard is a small and muddy square of beaten grass, the sod hardened by chill air and cold nights.

Dry grass crunches when she lies on her back.

Her blouse is white with little green flowers, and she hasn’t any coat; she feels dampness creep through her clothing, and the wind draws goosebumps from her bare arms. The breeze speaks of forgotten wilderness, that-which-once-was and that-which-always-has-been, of feral lands lost while the season still presses the survivors nearer to dying. It’s powerful, deserving of melodrama, yet the barest thing she will ever feel.

The sky presses down.

The expanse above unfurls wide over her, cloudless but white with humidity that doesn’t touch the ground.

It’s impossible not to try to describe it. It begs no analysis, demands that she take no effort at all. She knows that she will fail.

And she tries.

The centipedes in the leaf-pile are brown and glossy. Too glossy, really.

What if I said ‘they gleam like a new coat of car-wax, bright and eerily preposterous as if blessed by…’

No. I hate that.

There are shiny brown centipedes in the leaf-pile, and the wood-pile too. They and the mice move when you don’t expect them to; you can watch them, then get distracted by the way the breeze picked up only a few strands of your hair at once on that gust, and the insect or rodent is gone the next time you blink. Into the forest, probably. The tree trunks look so rough, all dry lichen and deep grooves. Feels good to touch, press right to the palm of your hand. I’d live in those crannies, if I was a centipede.

It doesn’t look like there are clouds, but the sky is still changing. It’s grayer than it used to be, over there, by the tree that’s just a silhouette at this time of evening.

God, I love it when the days get shorter. I love it so much that it hurts.

She lies in the grass until the sun starts to fall, and the cold properly sets in. The bugs haven’t died yet, and while they’re well on their way, a few stubborn mosquitos still seek lingering warmth at her ankles.

The trees whisper even after she goes inside.

The wind cuts against the brick of the house.

The darkness is quiet and wild.

Autumn drags itself slowly over the sky.

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A part-time pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

SUBSCRIBE for delivery to your inbox and other perks!

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What perils lurk on the other side of the Veil?

It's the seventh year of Áed's reign, and while Ronan, full of restless wanderlust, may dream of a world outside the protective walls of the palace—there is peace in The Gut. Meanwhile, the only thing bothering Éamon, Áed's closest councilor and friend, are his growing feelings for the King.

But can it last?

On a single festival night, the Gut explodes with fire and magic as faerie and human realms collide. Crossing the Veil with Eamon and Ronan, Áed is catapulted into an otherworldly battle between a manipulative queen and untamed courts vying for supremacy.

Sparking an alliance with the mysterious Bone mound, whose connection to Áed runs deeper than he can imagine, and with the queen's missing consort holding the key to life and death, Áed and his allies determine to unite the courts before it's too late.

Stranded in a realm as unfamiliar as it is dangerous, where magic is king and nothing is at it seems, three lives will be forever changed in this thrilling conclusion to The Coming of Áed.

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

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I know I’ve talked before about how neat research can be, but recently, I’ve hit on a rather specific vein, and since I find it so cool, I needed to share it. This will not be organized. It is an enthusiastic rant.In the past few weeks, I’ve been diving into the British Dark Ages--specifically, the period of Anglo-Saxon Britain.

To properly understand this time, there’s a good bit of important background information to lay out. In the simplest terms, Anglo-Saxon Britain is Britain as it existed after the Romans imperially annexed the indigenous Celts and then abandoned the island after a few centuries of culture-blending, during the immigration and settlement of the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes in the 500-600’s-ish, and before the Norman conquest in 1066 AD.

The thing is, when people move so much, you get some really interesting stuff happening.

For starters, religion.

Christianity had been imported to Britain by the Romans after Constantine, but there was still a healthy cultural stew of both Roman paganism and pre-Roman paganism blended in even after the Romans left. This period of sub-Roman Britain is known as the Age of Arthur because, if the legendary king was in fact real, the period of time between the fifth and sixth centuries would have been his era. In fact, Tintagel, a ruin on the western coast of Britain, was referenced by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the medieval period as Arthur’s birthplace. Interestingly, at the site, a relic was found carved with the name ‘Artognou’... while many are skeptical, there has been debate over whether or not this could be counted as evidence toward the existence of the legendary warrior king.

Anyhow.

Religion, of course, varied by region, since the highland areas of the island were much less culturally Roman during that period of occupation. Christianity made it to Ireland with Patrick and Palladius in the sixth century--notably different from Britain, since the Emerald Isle was never conquered by Roman influence. If Patrick’s own Confessio, along with the Life of Saint Patrick by the Irish monk Muirchú are to be believed, some pretty wild miracles had something to do with it. That flavor of spirituality is something we’re going to revisit later.

Now let’s take a pause, because a lot is happening at once. For starters, the mainland is having a Time. The Huns have already invaded, bringing with them central Asian culture, which left a distinct and materially evident mark on the high class all around the area that is now France and a large part of Western Europe (which was then an ever-shifting stew of peoples--Franks, Visigoths and other dudes, and before them, Gauls). But trade between the mainland and the British Isles has been evidenced for thousands of years (check out the Dover Bronze Age boat, it’s super cool), and that evolving culture, like all culture, was destined to blend, be adopted, and spread in its own adapted forms. So when peoples started moving into Britain after the Romans rolled out, they were bringing a culture that was distinctly unique from the culture that’s existed in Britain for centuries.

So now, kingdoms are rising.

The most powerful of these kingdoms is Kent. Remember, at this point Britain is not England. It’s Mercia, Hwicce, East Anglia, Deira, Northumbria, Bernicia… overall, there’s a lot happening. By the archaeological record, the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes settled on the eastern coast, and Kent, a largely Saxon place, became immensely developed. The Kentish laws, written in Old English (by which I mean the language that preceded Chaucer and Malory’s Middle English and Shakespeare’s Early Modern English--for an example, the original first line of the Kentish laws reads, “Þis syndon þa domas, þe Æðelbiht cyning asette on Augustinus dæge.”), is the first legal code that has been preserved in the English language. They set out complicated rules regarding injury, marriage, social order and the caste system thereof, the role of the king, and the role of religion. And this resource is fascinating. The Dark Ages, which lasted from the 400s AD to the Norman conquest in 1066 AD, are so named due to the obscurity that historians encounter when they attempt to study it. Precious little written matter has survived, and other than the odd archeological site turning up under highway construction, there’s a lot that researchers wish they knew. The Kentish laws are some of the clearest indicators of how society worked.

The religious aspect of them is also interesting. Æðelbiht (modernized as Æthelberht) was a Christian. And this marks the beginning of a truly incredible progression of events, as Christianity was instated, then rescinded, then reinstated--and has anyone been keeping an eye on Ireland? Because while Æthelberht was marrying a Frankish princess, a Christan woman named Bertha, but only converting himself after Pope Gregory sent a missionary movement (there are a lot of political moving parts to this conversion, it isn’t quite so simple but we’ll leave it at this for now), Irish Christianity was… vibing. After all, the Irish had been doing their own thing since Patrick, and after a few hundred years, had essentially evolved Irish Christianity into an independent sect. Which means that while Kent is making up its mind about Jesus, Irish Christianity--which has made its way to Iona, off the coast of Scotland--is reseeding Christianity into the island of Britain from the northwest.

Which means!!!

Shenanigans ensue.

Nobody can agree on the date of Easter.

It’s a problem.

And that, my friends, is where I will now leave off. I wish I could offer some kind of resolution for this absolutely riveting cliffhanger, but the truth is, this stuff takes a long time to get through. And this is the point in history that I have, at this moment, reached. There’s a lot ahead of me! I’m getting so many absolutely incredible ideas, and I’ll only get more as I go.

But you know what?

I’ll keep you updated.

,Research Sources :

Confessio--Patrick

The Life of Saint Patrick--Muirchú

The Ecclesiastical History of the English People--the Venerable Bede

On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain--Gildas

The Kentish laws--Æthelberht, Eadric and Hlothere, and Wihtred (there are a number of translations available, but I used the one by Frederick L. Attenborough)

Sub-Roman Britain: An Introduction--Christopher Snyder

The Anglo-Saxon World--Nicholas J. Higham and Martin J. Ryan

The expertise of one Paul J. E. Kershaw

If you’re really intrigued, go ahead and reach out to me--I have a lot more research material which didn’t make it into this post, but which is absolutely fascinating. I’d be more than happy to share!

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

SUBSCRIBE for delivery to your inbox and other perks!

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Recently, I fulfilled a dream of mine. I purchased a lute.

She’s a beautiful baby. Seven courses, lacewood and rosewood variegated back, gorgeous engraving on the pegbox and the rose. The sort of instrument that makes you happy just by looking at it.

Of course, this means that I can now fulfill another dream of mine: learning to play the lute.

She’s a tricky baby. But I can play a simple arrangement of Greensleeves, and Tumbalalaika (a touch ironic, that one is, since my lute is very much not a balalaika), and Nowhere Warm by Kate Havnevik. I cannot play any of these *well,* but given that I started learning a month ago, I’d say I’m proud of myself.

The truth is, holding my lute feels like holding a slice of history. My instrument was, of course, crafted recently, but lutes in general hail from an earlier age. Descending from the Arabic oud, lutes first appeared in Europe in the medieval age, where they evolved through the music styles of the Renaissance and Baroque periods. Lute music has been making a comeback recently, especially with the bardcore movement. Because people are phenomenal. And for every single one of these periods, I would argue that lute music is some of the sweetest-sounding music you’ll ever hear. If you don’t believe me, check out this video of the immensely-talented Daniel Estrem playing Greensleeves.

The truth is, I’m blogging about this just to share my excitement. I have the privilege to learn one of history’s most influential and most breathtaking instruments, and I cannot get over how thrilled I am.

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

SUBSCRIBE for delivery to your inbox and other perks!

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Say what you will about 2020--but it has been astronomically interesting.

I do, of course, mean that literally. From the NEOWISE comet attracting global attention this summer, to the Great Conjunction--the closest Jupiter and Saturn have appeared in the sky since 1623 AD--occurring on the winter solstice, the skies have been a good place to turn when the ground seems a bit too chaotic for anyone’s liking.

In fact, since the solstice is upon us now, I thought it would be a good time to talk about some wonderful Celtic winter rituals which would have been celebrated at this time of year millennia ago, and which have touched even our own modern traditions.

In Newgrange, Ireland, a five thousand and two hundred-year-old passage is currently experiencing a flow of sunlight. This sunlight began trickling in at daybreak, a mere sliver, but when the sun reaches its peak at around nine am, for seventeen whole minutes, the entire chamber of the ancient tomb-temple is flooded with illumination. There are many theories of why the Newgrange mound--and many other mounds and henges around the British Isles--may have been built this way, but all of them resonate with one fundamental reason: the year has now begun to lengthen again, and the sun has begun its return.

For a people reliant on the mercy of the seasons, the shortest day of the year held special significance. Celtic priests--druids--officiated several important rituals. Many of them are very familiar.

Mistletoe would be cut from oak trees, mistletoe whose fruit represented life. A fire would be started from the ashes of the previous year’s wood, and for twelve days, this Yule log burned to banish evil and darkness. Holly and ivy warded off dangerous spirits. Even the Christian practice of decorating a Christmas tree with colorful baubles originated from the Celtic tradition of hanging trees with ornaments representing celestial bodies, and offering sacrifices--gifts hung from the trees branches--to various gods and goddesses.

The ancient Celts had a rich culture, pervasive enough to survive waves of other peoples settling their land. Strong enough that it’s shaped western cultures even today, complex and fascinating and, overall, I would argue, breathtakingly beautiful.

So happy Yule, everybody. I hope you have a wonderful solstice.

E.G. RADCLIFF IS A PART-TIME pooka and native of the Unseelie Court. She collects acorns, glass beads, and pretty rocks, and the crows outside her house know her as She Who Has Bread. Her fantasy novels are crafted in the dead of night after offering sacrifices of almonds and red wine to the writing-block deities.

You can reach her by scrying bowl, carrier pigeon, or @egradcliff on social media.

SUBSCRIBE for delivery to your inbox and other perks!

#fantasyreads #fantasybooks

Photo credit Stephen Tafra on Unsplash