Joe Parrino, Writer

Musings on Life, Writing, and the Free Territory of Ascham

Fimbulwinter Query Letter

Hello AGENT,

INSERT PLEASANTRIES HERE. Fimbulwinter features Kori the
Berserker, Idunn the Valkyrie, and Birog the Druid, as they try to end the
Great Winter before Ragnarok swallows Ireland. My name is Joe, I am a published
neurodiverse author with a background in international relations,
and I have both OCD and ADHD. Fimbulwinter, an accessible
genre-blending young adult fantasy, is a standalone novel about surviving
the end of the world and finding love in adversity. It contains neurodiverse and
disabled characters in a brutal age and is steeped in Norse and Irish mythology.
Fimbulwinter is a loose retelling of the Irish myth of Ethniu and Cian. The
pitch attracted interest from Mythos & Ink Publishing during the December
2020 #PitMad.

THE NORTHMAN meets AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER at the end of the Viking Age in Ireland. Driven from the ashes of his winter home by dread necessity, Kori the Berserker stumbles into the arms of Idunn the Valkyrie, a child of two worlds, Norse and Irish. Together with Birog the Druid, an orange cat named Loki, and guided by the desperate and cunning god of magic and war, the trio must find the sacred sunstone of the Emerald Isle to bring an end to the Great
Winter before the world falls to Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods. Corrupted
Irish clans savage Viking mercenaries, tranquil Christian monks, and ancient
mysteries stand in their way, all under the fell influence of Balor of the Evil
Eye, an ancient monster once defeated by Cuchulainn and Queen Maibh.

In the grim darkness of the far future, I wrote two novellas, three audio
dramas, and numerous short stories for publication by Black Library, all of
which earned out and continue to earn modest royalties. I live and write in the
Mid-Atlantic with his family. A former Pinkerton analyst, I now
work for the U.S. Government and I have lived in four countries across three
continents. When not writing, I can be found skulking through the humid woods of
the region. Like the elusive Sasquatch, I enjoy reading, occasionally
traveling, and other assorted activities.

 

Cheers,

Joe Parrino

Fimbulwinter Writing Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6PWjuGAX5NpOv9k5GGdjvd?si=b321e8efc0924db3

Battling a Creature of the Night

The night was dark and humid. Fireflies left their grassy plains of respite, heading towards the stars to find love. The day had promised storms, but delivered only sweat. I was bound for the bedroom, where a portable AC unit delivered relief.

Uncommon activity from the cat drew me from the land of dreams. She was restless, bounding about the bed. I turned on the light to find a visitor within the room.

The creature flew circles around the ceiling, looking for escape. It failed and spun about in terror.

I stared, momentarily struck dumb. A bat had made its unlikely way inside, to find itself trapped around the artificial white of this apartment ceiling. Bereft of the stars to navigate, echolocation found only walls and the predatory prowl of a black domestic cat below. Desperately, it chirped. Lupo sought shelter beneath the bed.

Battle called. I needed a weapon for this deed. I found a broom.

I swung, not too hard. My goal was not to harm the poor bat, but to knock it down, so I could catch it and bring it back to where it belonged.

Once. Twice. Three times I struck, each time dazing the poor thing, or so I hoped.

Upon the third strike, it fell within arm’s reach. I caught it in a brown towel. Desperately, it chirped, chittered, and bit at the fabric. So small it was. It was brown and fuzzy, with leathery wings and bright white teeth. I tried to handle it gently, to keep from harming its delicate bones.

Shirtless, I dashed down the stairs of the apartment, into the sweltering embrace of the Maryland night. I let it loose, and off it flew. I took it for a good sign that it was relatively unharmed by the night’s battle.

The excitement ended and the night’s routine resumed. Soon, all thoughts of battle chased from my mind, replaced by the words of Roman conquest.

Ending Droughts, Stopping Fires

Last year, I supported a group of the most badass folks (among the most badass in history/existence) during the wildfire season in the mountains running along the U.S. West Coast. They provided security at wildfires, stopped folks from running through checkpoints, kept the peace, and spread calm with their steely demeanors. In between watching the weather feeds, reading the briefings, following the map updates, looking into cults, and doing my best to track the passage of time, I dug into state government and local university resources on preventing wildfires from happening in the first place. The main thing to do involved planting trees. A lot of them. A forest’s worth.

Red is bad; orange is also bad; yellow is still pretty bad. That’s a lot of bad. l U.S. Drought Monitor

Tonight, again in the throes of boredom, and worried in my capacity as a person who is alive in our increasingly catastrophic environment, I started to research droughts and how to end them. The answer: plant a shitload of trees. The map above shows areas of the U.S. currently experiencing drought as of July 14, 2022. That shows most of the country in some shade of devastating dry.

Trees capture water, drag it up from the ground with their roots. They make the atmosphere around them more humid. Clouds that pass over forests tend to dump their rain over said forest.

“Old Man Willow” l JRR Tolkien l The Tolkien Estate

My problem is that I’m just one guy who knows how to do research and sometimes convey that research into readable English. If the solution is to plant several thousand tons (probably a gross underestimate) of tree seeds, the only way to do that at scale is through aerial dispersal. I don’t know how to make that happen. But it needs to, desperately.

So, in the event my research proves useful to anyone, here it is. If my words are persuasive, and that’s a big if, tell someone else. Maybe it will reach someone who matters. Someone who can make a decision at scale. Or even plant some trees your own damn self.

Something Cool

This article on Kate Warne, the first U.S. female detective, showed up in Smithsonian Magazine, one of my favorite reads. The article, by Kellie B. Gormly, quotes my old boss, Brian McNary, from when I was a Pinkerton, on her importance and relevance. she thwarted a plot to assassinate Abraham Lincoln in the city near where I now live, Baltimore. They even used the only known image of her that I hunted down from the Chicago History Museum.

According to Brian, many Pinkertons had tried to find a picture or likeness of the elusive Warne, but to no avail. The project and task fell to me. In three years of searching, the person previously tasked with finding her failed.

I found her in three days, over the course of a weekend.

She was waiting in the archives of the Chicago History Museum. That is one of my favorite stories from those days as a Pinkerton agent, an analyst following in Warne’s footsteps. Later, I visited her grave and let her know that Pinkertons today still honor her.

Putting Out Fires

Things have gone quiet around here, again. My activity seems to come and go in flourishes. In truth, I have had little time to devote to writing. My focus has been on finding a job, before unemployment runs out, before the housing market collapses, before the world burns.

I have been working part-time, since March-ish, doing something that I consider wholly worthy. We are putting out fires, keeping things safe so that others can do their job. I’ve been places I never thought I would go and rushed into danger with some of the most competent people I have ever met. All come straight out of stories. I have passed beyond levels of discomfort and anxiety into another me. The future still terrifies me, but I see hope on the horizon. The world seems to be coming around to the peril we’ve found ourselves in.

Soon, I will get to go home. I hope, as the leaves change and the weather turns, that my home state is calling. Since the Other Guy (I shudder not to use a worse epithet) left office, since his supporters stormed a building I grew up around, my feet have been itching to go back, to assess the damage, to try to help, and to see old family and friends.

Progress Update

Present: I realized that one of these is long overdue. Loads of things have happened since last I posted on this here blog, some of which are world-shatteringly strange and personal, others are something I should take the time to humblebrag about.

I’ve nearly finished another novel. Fimbulwinter, the focus of the most recent drift of blogs, is nearly a completed zero draft. The bones are solid. It needs work, but what doesn’t? I continue to hone my craft, remember the old me, and vomit words onto the page in a slurry of mead and myth. In a week or two, I will be done with writing my third novel. I will put it to rest and dream of better words, stories, and characters. As the season turns here in the Northwest, I feel my writing powers awakening with the arrival of storms and shitty weather. My summer torpor falls away as the mist begins to rise.

Past: This Red Business continues to percolate and lately I have heard Pumpkin and Whissen Foss stir, ready to scurry all over the page again. I continue to issue forth queries into the waiting maws of agents with the stubborn hope that This Red Business will enter meatspace.

Future: Ahead of me, yawns the yawning void of empty space. I can feel a space opera calling. Notes I crafted for 40k, long dormant planets and peoples, awaken from cryo-sleep. I can even hear the bzzzzt, the thrum, and see the glow of a lightsaber or two. We’ll see where this one goes, but for now I have created a playlist for it. Listen below if the mood strikes as I trod back into the word mines.

https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/4U3P7Zn9ll3qC2nDWlNTtn

Consolidated Query Materials

In the event this proves helpful, I thought I would put together all the blog posts and pages I’ve been carefully assembling that touch on This Red Business.

Mission Statement: http://captainofchickens.com/mission-statement/

Query Letter, Bio, and Sample Pages: http://captainofchickens.com/this-red-business-query-letter-and-sample-pages/

Pitches: http://captainofchickens.com/pitches/

Synopsis: http://captainofchickens.com/this-red-business-synopsis/

Maps: http://captainofchickens.com/a-map-of-the-free-territory-of-ascham/

Writing Playlists: http://captainofchickens.com/musical-playlists/

Previously Published Works: http://captainofchickens.com/published-works/

Reference Materials: http://captainofchickens.com/incomplete-list-of-reference-materials/

The Scrappy-Doo Question

This Red Business started with a lot of strange, central questions, but one has stuck out to me as something that needs addressing, that needs to be set in stone where people can see it. It is the central question that led to Pumpkin the Badger, an actual, honest-to-the Ash-and-Birch, North American badger. What happens to Awakened animals? What happens to animals gifted, or cursed as Pumpkin occasionally sees it, with sentience through no fault of their own? How do they confront life with senses, emotions, and instincts that countermand higher processes of reasoning? Essentially, I began my manuscript by asking what happened to Scrappy-Doo after the series ended. On such questions, my hopes are borne. Pumpkin spent her 26-ish years on the as-yet-unnamed planet of my secondary world stumbling through these and more.

Some clarifications are in order: Pumpkin the Badger is not anthropomorphic, and no furry beyond the stripes the gods gifted her. My sole concession lay in giving her opposable thumbs so Pumpkin could work her six-shooter a little easier and I wouldn’t have to break my brain figuring out how badger paws could manipulate objects. She is short, unrefined, tattooed, gruff, kind, angry, scared, filled with grit and curse words, and as human on the inside as I could possibly make her. On the outside, she is all badger. This choice opened up possibilities when writing. It gave me all sorts of excuses to focus on sensory details, on split-second decisions, to mirror the ways that my ADHD both helps and hinders me. It gave me an excuse for Pumpkin to have that deep-seated sense of longing for her family, her sett, that my Italian-American upbringing left in me. Pumpkin has forged her family in the way that I am still forging mine. Through Pumpkin, I could engage all five senses. Her hearing is acute. Her sense of smell often drives her to distraction. Sometimes she can zero in visually on the most important, salient detail.

Pumpkin’s long years in the wilderness are like mine, a soul-searching that brought me back to where I started, to family and to community. I tried to go this alone before, to stubbornly ram my head through publishing until I became some sort of author and vanquished imposter’s syndrome. That got me nowhere, worse than nowhere. Pumpkin and I try to learn from our mistakes, to get better, to keep putting one foot or one paw in front of the other. So I’m trying to build my community now. Friends, family, acquaintances, idols. A constellation of support to sustain me in dark times. You, my dearest reader, are part of that constellation, shining just over there.

Other questions lurk throughout the manuscript, decision points that allowed me to twist and turn the typical fantasy tropes, to create a world where Pumpkin could exist, a world centered on the huldufolk, the helpful people who often go invisible, but are always there. I built a world centered on gnomes and dwarves because I could. This is a world of muskets, badgers, bigfoots, fairies, dragons, emotional stakes, gods, family, and the tall, tall trees of the Pacific Northwest. At its heart are human stories, where the choices of individual characters affect the world around them. This Red Business is a place where I could answer what happened to Scrappy-Doo after the show ended.

The Survival of Hoary Gods

In honor of today’s Freydayhood, I thought I would peel the curtain back on my current projects yet further and declaim to you, O Wise and Learned Reader, some thoughts and snippets I have come across that currently drive my words. Things have been decidedly heavy and grim around here of late and so I thought I might address a lighter topic: the survival of hoary gods.

ROLL CREDITS

Of late, I have been grappling with questions of faith and fate, of the wyrd and the weird (I couldn’t resist). In my readings and delvings into the mythology of the Norse and their forebears, I have come across some rather marvelous statements that have rocked me. At least one Norse god survived the Christian Conversion Period. This comes from an impeccable source, one of our main sources on Norse mythology, in fact. Snorri shares the secret that Freyja survived, was still being worshipped in his day in the High Middle Ages (fraught though that term may be, I can’t recall the more proper academic terminology at the moment).

If one survived, perhaps others did also. Who else made it? Njord? Demeter? Local gods of river and wood, hearth and home? The Genii Locii? Which of my ancestral deities survived the turmoil of that changing world between pagan and proper believer? The cultural Catholic part of me is troubled by this hope, but the part of me that is fascinated by world religion, the part of me that wanted one day to see the Hajj, to walk in Jerusalem, to wander Nepal, and Mongolia, is now obsessed with this notion. There are so many holes in our knowledge of the past. Myths that were never written. Works destroyed in some great burning or another, or even threads of silvery fate, woven starlight wending through humanity’s long, stumbling journey through our world.

If our knowledge of the myths is so incomplete, what else have we taken for granted? Might Odinn be a little more tricky, a little more sinister than even our oldest tales say? Perhaps Fenrir may have spared one life instead of claiming it, honoring an oath and solemn vow.

I’ve been calling this new manuscript Fimbulwinter as a working title, just so I have something to grasp on to prove the words are being made real. I know it is ill-fitting, just a placeholder really. This afternoon, a more fitting title occurred to me. Subject to change and the whims of the universe, and hopefully, the whims of publishers and agents, but I am beginning to think of this book as Justice and the Wolf.

What do you think, O Ye Wise?

The Marathon and Alternate Universes

I first off would like to offer my profound gratitude to the support offered to me earlier in the week when things seemed bleak and the world small. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I will do my best to honor.

Without further ado, a Blogging Post.

I started running a marathon in April. I had never really planned on it. I’m not sure what my plans were. According to the original timeline I set for my second novel, I should be either wrapping things up or, more likely, struggling through writing the damn thing. When I started the book, I gave myself 1-2 years to finish it.

At the end of March, the universe decided otherwise. Instead, I suddenly had less than a month, with a hell of an incentive to get the book done. I sometimes think about what that other novel would have been, how different it might be. I don’t think it would have the same break-neck pacing that came out of my 10-day Writing Frenzy in April. I don’t think I would have the same courage I have now to query in my quest to get it into print. Maybe it would have turned out longer than the 80,000 words it scraped into. I doubt much of the worldbuilding would be the same. Instead of setting my book in the Pacific Northwest, in a bid to write what I know, it would probably still be Edinburgh’s windy, wet streets.

In a weird way, I am profoundly grateful for my layoff. It crystallized my will and gave me the strength to crack through my inattention and finish something I dreamed of doing. The layoff pushed me so far out of my comfort zone and into a marathon that I never prepared for or ever desired to run. I am a different person because of that layoff. I have spent these months since shedding off the protective layer of corporate chitin. I channel the experiences I had into my words and my characters. I know how to research and hit deadlines, but I feel awake again. My eyes stare out afresh to the possibility of magic in the world. I am reading and consuming more books in the past few months than I have in years.

While I swallow my introvert’s trepidation and throttle my natural self-deprecation, I am now the champion of a book, of a set of characters, a found family trying to make sense of a chaotic world under desperate circumstances.

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