Thursday, March 8, 2018

Excerpt from V&V for International Women's day 2018!

Here's a quick, rough, unedited, 1,300 words from ye old work in progress! A piece of Scene 16, as experienced by Irdessa the Undying.

Dess (hates when you call her that) was inspired by the strong and fierce and badass women who've crossed my path and taught me life and put me in my place!

I know hopping into the midst of a story leaves questions unanswered so here's a quick cheat sheet for the sake of this scene:
"Good guys"- Irdessa the Undying, Torvald the Tactician, Bravensi the Batshit, Old Fent, Treyu, Kraus the Thirsty Bandit, Vim's Vanguard!
"Bad guys" - Captain's Second Mourt, an entire battalion of Promontory soldiers!

Fohrvylda - the country
Promontory - the capital
Vim -  the city under attack
Keswal - the arena

Orcanes - swimmy, bloodthirsty dogs that Promontory uses as mounts
Sprakes - large, intelligent, blue seabirds 

“What do you mean, they’ve come for the Vanguard?” Old Fent sounds even older, more tired.
“Look!” someone cries.
An orcane rider has breached the town square and lurks in his saddle, watching them silently. Captain’s Second Mourt. Just seeing his sunken eyes chills Irdessa’s blood. Rumors of his depravity, even if only partly true, paint a picture of a human she’d rather not know. The thunder of marching boots follows him, filling the square.
“Wha’s his name?” Kraus’ words are barely intelligible. “Prancer? Whatever happened…” He wobbles and pitches forward. Irdessa grasps at him. She manages to slow his descent enough to keep his face from slamming into the cobbles but can't prevent him from spilling into a sodden heap. Her hands come back slick and red.
“He’s going to bleed out,” Bravensi reports without a hint of concern. “As are all of us.”
“Get him inside!” Irdessa shouts at a couple of mercenaries gawping toward the black-clad Second Mourt. “He needs to be stitched up. Bravensi…”
The warrior is shaking her head gravely. “You have got to be kidding.”
“I need him. Please.”
“Not sure what good it’ll do if Promontory’s going to kill us all.” She scowls but follows the boys hauling Kraus into Cornerstone.
“Fent,” Irdessa says. “The armory seems to have been gutted to make room for whore dress-up parties. Please tell me there are weapons inside.”
Fent pulls his one-eyed gaze from the south and fixes Irdessa with it. “Enough to turn them back?” He shakes his head. “Not enough able bodies even if we had ‘em. That’s a battalion, girl. They outnumber us tenfold.”
“Just show me where the weapons are!” she says. “And I need all of you inside, now!”
Those of the surrounding mercenaries who don’t give her a confused look ignore her outright.
Fent sputters a laugh. “Irdessa, this town’s been damned since Andelsior was taken. Seems the piper’s arrived at last.”
The streets are emptying of stragglers, leaving only the sounds of marching boots and squealing orcanes. Mourt is hunched in his saddle, leaning to one side, peering out from under his hanging brow at Irdessa with dark amusement.
“Why?” Treyu asks, his stare on Mourt. “Why are they doing this?”
Old Fent tsks, shaking his head. “Was only a matter of time.”
“Who’s in command here?” Irdessa blurts.
“That’ll be me, I imagine,” Fent says, shifting his weight from one hip to the other.
It only makes sense. Fent worked alongside Dhovoi in the old days. He probably should have been calling the shots already. Then again, despite all his pragmatism, he’s bent with age, one-eyed, and nearly toothless.
“What will you do?” Irdessa demands.
Fent turns to her with all the urgency of a mortician. “Was strongly considering tucking my head between my knees and kissing my ass goodbye.”
 Treyu’s chest is heaving. “Dammit, Dhovoi,” he mutters to no one. Irdessa knows his tone all too well. Grief. And once you open your door to it…
“We can’t just give up!” Irdessa shouts at them both.
“Then what?” Fent spits. “If what you say is true, if they’re here to crush the Vanguard, then they won’t stop til it’s done. Especially not with that evil bastard Mourt at the lead.” Fent pauses long enough to spit noisily in the man’s direction. “And even if we can hold them off from within Cornerstone, who’s to say more aren’t coming? Who’s to say they’re not already on the way?” He rasps out a cruel laugh. “I knew this day would come. Best we can do is try and tear the wolf’s throat while it swallows us.”
Irdessa is speechless. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. But even more than that, she can’t believe none of the Vanguard is contesting Old Fent’s words. Were they always this flaccid?
Fear will kill you surely as a knife, Torvald whispers to Irdessa. Except once inside your skin, it won’t stop at just you.
Fent is right. That force will run through the Vanguard. And in the event of a standoff, here in the heart of Vim, the soldiers need only set a spark to the Vanguard’s tinderbox of a stronghold. 
What would Torvald do? is what her mind asks her. He’d let everyone die, to save one.
For some reason, the little girl who approached Irdessa at the pit comes to her mind. She’d recognized Irdessa, even if Irdessa did not recognize her, and said, “I knew you’d come back. That girl… she may be dead now, for all Irdessa knows.
No!” Irdessa doesn’t realize she’s yelled it until she finds herself under the stare of all the mercenaries. “I did not fall from Keswal and slog clear across Fohrvylda to watch my people die by the same hands that imprisoned me!” She points at Mourt. “The same ones that killed my father!
Her words tear across the square like loose sprakes, snuffing out the Vanguard’s mutterings the way a heavy door silences a storm.
I am Irdessa! Born into the raids of the Vanguard, bathed in the blood of Keswal. Sharpened in the school of the Tactician himself! And I did not come back here to die!
By the gods, she’s ignited a glimmer of optimism in some of their faces.
“But we’re outnumbered!” comes a protest.
“We are outnumbered!” she responds. “And I’ve watched less men than you hold off greater forces, in raw daylight, without the shelter of the Cornerstone, our home!” Not entirely true but they don't know that.
“They have orcanes,” someone yells.
“But do they have termites?” she yells back. “Orcanes can’t get at us once we bar the doors! We’ll fill their slippery backs with arrows until they turn savage against their riders!” 
Since spouting off disadvantages is so godsdamned popular, Irdessa decides to join in. “They’re also trained and equipped for war! Aren’t they?”
Those who watch her have the sense not to answer.
“I know all their tactics," she says. "All their secrets, all their weaknesses. We aren’t bound by rigid protocol. They are driven by fear of punishment. Fear of an undead, unloving, slavering barbarian on the far side of Fohrvylda. You are fighting for your fathers, your sisters, your children, your own asses!” She draws a breath as a couple of nervous titters ripple through the mercenaries. “And as long as even one of us breathes, Vim’s Vanguard still stands!
Irdessa’s last words shake her chest and tear her throat upon their exit. Hope, that elusive devil, has infected all the eyes upon her. There’s even fire to be seen in some. Old Fent himself has straightened his back and set his jaw.
“Get your asses into Cornerstone!” Fent barks. “Bar the windows! Fill buckets with water! And round up every weapon in the place!” The mercenaries comply and Fent turns a grisled smile to Irdessa. “That was heartfelt, girl. You’ve got a bit of Torvald in you. Maybe more than a little bit.”
If that was an innuendo, Irdessa wants no part it. The speech left her drained and trembling. Her heart hammers her ribs. Torvald never looked this winded after delivering hard news to hard scowls.
Promontory soldiers have reached the square at last. There are hundreds. The frontmost begin fanning out and readying the perimeter with bows, torches, and swords, all casting wary glances in her direction. Did they hear her words?
“What now?” Fent says.
Irdessa takes Fent by his elbow and helps him up the stairs into the stronghold. She reluctantly answers his question, in a voice so small only he can hear it. “I have no idea.”

Friday, February 16, 2018

Research Record - from Octo 2017

If for no other reason than one day fifty years from now I'll be curious (despite being long dead, along with the internet and written language), allow me to present, for my viewing pleasure...

another research record.

Eesh, stop cheering so loudly. I can barely hear myself think.

''` ~ `''

[this is actually from October. Seems I hit Save rather than Publish. Let's remedy that RIGHT now, shall weh?]

Story in Progress:


Google Searches of note:

Sweet. 44 search results total and none in English. Claimed!

It technically means reduce BY one tenth, but the common acceptable use, and my preferred use is to reduce TO one tenth. If only there were an actual word for this...

Sounds fiery. It's not.

Only 2,110 results. Kind of high for me to hijack it. Maybe I'll change the spelling.

Bryce Dallas Howard
One time I found an image of her that perfectly embodied Syvea from Turesia. Her expression and pose painted a picture of frail innocence in a bloody, callous world.

What's a bloodstone?
I was curious

There are several pictures of Rihanna online that represent Magister Obsydia frighteningly well. Her eyes and mouth have no trouble projecting an emotion of lofty royalty. She appears as comfortable as she is commanding, and all with more than a little skin exposed. Did I mention she's hot.

What does a magpie sound like?
Because I was curious.

Are sharks in Irma?

Waterfall to the ocean
I needed imagery

Map of medieval Scandinavia
I needed more imagery

Does lettuce make you poop?

Define sanguine
Bloody, but less likely to be mistaken for a British "darn"

What fish did vikings eat?
Lots of better ways to learn this probably. But it worked.

Wikipedia Searches of note:

This can work for the story, but I've never liked the word itself...

I guess I could just say tuna and everyone would know what I was talking about

Looks gross and seems really complicated to prepare

Fourth Dimension
Gotta brush up on this sort of subject now and then

Sod House
Because that's what most of the homes in Fohrvylda are

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs
Research for a simulation I'd like to build one day

Ground sloth
Research for monstahs!

Research for monstahs!

Research for monstahs!

Quantum Computing
Another subject I need refreshers on now and then

List of Demons in Ars Goetia
Research for monstahs?

Research for monstahs!

I've always been fascinated in the sorts of a screaming plants that flourish in the blood, shit, and semen crusted soil beneath the gallows.

Research for monstahs!


See ya next time


Saturday, August 19, 2017

How a Writing Group saved Turesia* (and possibly Silexare)

*working title. I ain't sayin' its real title yet. 

Here's my two cents on writing groups and, please believe:  it    is      wordy.
I'm not covering finer points because I don't have the authority for that. Just gonna tell the tale of how I broke down and succumbed and how good a decision that was.

Uergatas, captured by Beastmaster Grimmet to battle in Keswal
concept art by Jason Tasi

I've been conceptualizing, dreaming of, and working on Turesia for... a long freaking time.

Before I published A Sawmill's Hope, at a point when I was pretty sick of looking at it, I became inflicted with another story. It was inspired by a whirlwind of ideas. The combat and rivalries of UFC fights. The unlimited lives of games like Super Mario Brothers. An archipelago nation in civil war that has been split such that the brutes are on one side and the magicians are on another. And, as is becoming usual for me, a tragic fairy tale.

I wrote a very rough draft for Turesia. It was about 60,000 words, roughly 180 pages, the length of a short novel. Then I stumbled upon Joe Abercrombie's The Blade Itself. It blew my mind. I proceeded to blaze through the First Law trilogy, getting an education on tight third-person point of view. With this knowledge (albeit in infant stage), I plopped my ass down to rewrite A Sawmill's Hope. Thirteen agent rejections and a Kickstarter later, ASH came to life.

During that year, Turesia lay dormant. Neglected. Stephen King has commented on the danger of letting a work in progress stagnate and he was right. I loved the potential in my draft. I loved the characters and setting and monsters. But when I came back to it, my draft was a mess. And igniting my passion for the story felt like trying to crank a chainsaw underwater.

Memories of how I imagined the story were vague at best. I had scattered notes and a wildly inconsistent draft. I tried starting it again and again, experimenting with different ideas and approaching the story from different angles and viewpoints. I tweaked scenes, characters, the magic system. I trashed every scene I wrote. Nothing worked.

I almost scrapped the story more than once. I questioned whether being a writer was even a thing I could do, considering how insurmountable the process had become.

Brandon Sanderson, the robot that types out a ten-pound cinder block of a novel every other Tuesday, has preached on the significance of writing groups. I'd been reluctant to the idea of writing groups. Among my more unrealistic (and laughably delusional) fears were:
Show my million-dollar ideas to strangers so they can snatch and run?
Take on the responsibility of educating plebeians to reach my lofty level of literary luminosity?

More realistically, if I can't make progress in the story with the time I have, committing to critiquing someone else's writing is the last thing I should do.

Turns out I was wrong. All the way.

One year ago today my coworker Ben and I sat down for lunch at the only Mexican restaurant in the town I work. We hashed out ideas and agreed to swap an excerpt, chapter, or scene (typically not to exceed 5k words) every Friday. We'd meet the following Friday with our own feedback on what we were given and a new scene to hand over. Or goal was to simply remark on to the other person's excerpt. Not really suggest fixes or improvements, just react. "I was confused here." or "I didn't buy this." or "This was hilarious." or "This bored me." That sort.

Well, it worked. Since August 19th, 2016 we've met every Friday minus maybe eight for holidays and vacations. I've written about 140,000 late-draft level words. While that may feel like a low rate, I rejoice in it. This pseudo-deadline has benefited my consistency in writing more than any passion or idea ever has. I have a 40 hour a week job that requires me to be on call after hours. I have a wife, and two sons that I want to spend all my spare time with. I'm a member of two bands that, together, keep me active on the bass.
[On a separate subject entirely, whenever a person tells me they want to write a book but don't have time, I'm learning polite ways to tell them: The obstacle is not your lack of time, it's your priorities. And I'll argue them to the ground on that point.]

Ben has finished enough short stories to be ready to publish a collection. His style is more science fiction / suspense, particularly near-future. Mine is gritty fantasy that takes place in Silexare. But since we're both readers at heart, there is no judgment or discrimination going on. We're able to see the potential in each others' works and enjoy the stories and scenes for what they are.

Before this becomes novel-length, here's some take away:

"Story Time" Pros:
-A deadline makes me write
-Ben's input is clever and useful
-Critiquing Ben's work bolsters my chops at critiquing my own
-Mexican food for lunch every Friday

"Story Time" Cons:
-I'll have to add these as they occur to me. The roughly $6 lunch bill every week is insignificant.

Hit me with your questions in the comments. I've blathered long enough.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Research Record - June 2017

'Hey, Dabid!'


'On what obscure subjects have you been self-educating lately, mein Dave?'

Oh praises be. I'm so relieved that you care. If not, this post would be an embarrassingly empty endeavor, wouldn't it?

'Not necessarily. I mean-'

Well, wouldn't it?




*David flips table, becomes a werewolf, scours groin with tongue*


Story in Progress:


Wikipedia Searches of note:

Not as useful a reference as the book I'm reading. (see below)

I just needed some specifics on Fohrvylda's most common trees.

Falconry Training and Technique
I'd love to sit down and kick it with a falconry pro. I have many questions on this subject, all because of the beastmaster's son, who trains sprakes. I found this site, which is pretty informative.

Ragnar Lodbrok Children
Wife and I have gotten into History Channel's The Vikings again and I was curious about the fate of Ragnar's kids.

Google Searches of note:

Harpy Eagle
Between this raptor and the osprey, I have enough reference and inspiration to create my precious sprakes. (Check out my sweet stash of sprake nudes)

Collective nouns for birds
Here's the website I ended up choosing as a reference. Enjoy.

What does hawk poop smell like?
I found no definitive answer. Still looking. If you're knowledgeable on this, or how osprey poop smells, please let me know in the comments.
:::EDIT: Holy hamster look what I just found:::

Can I use a hawk to track a person?
Found no definitive answer on this either. All I do know for sure is that if it is possible, raptors wouldn't rely heavily on their sense of smell to do it. So it would have to be visual or sound. Visual is what I'm leaning toward, since in Fohrvylda there is currently no way to record audio. Luckily, the person being tracked is quite famous, and her fans have created art in her likeness.

Fohrvylda's aviary is the beastmaster's son's favorite place to be. The only place he's understood. If only he had wings of his own.
The images of aviaries I've found online have not been as grand as Fohrvylda's. I wish I could draw...

Sophia Bush
Yes, the actor. This is one of the few things that has not changed since I started writing this story. The Sophia from One Tree Hill era (I don't follow the show) is an ideal visual representation of Irdessa the Undying. She's pretty, but not strikingly so. Good smile, good scowl, has dark wavy hair.

There's a cool phrase about cowards and fools that was incorrectly attributed to Thucydides. I love the phrase. It, in some variation, it could be considered a theme of Turesia. Shame it wasn't written by Thucy.

How to maintain leather
Just curious. I figure if two characters in leather armor hike through shallow ocean water all night they might need to do some maintenance on their gear in the AM.

Books Referenced: 

"Vikings: A history of the Norse people" by Martin J. Dougherty
It's pretty basic but has a lot of useful insight. Fohrvylda is not medieval Scandinavia but there are enough similarities to make this book helpful while I'm writing about food, locales, building methods, weapons, etc.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Into my process, March 2017

Here comes a bunch of drivel about writing. Consider yourself warned.


This little story of mine, known up until this point as Turesia but subject to change, is more complex than any story I've told. There are several indicators of this. One is that I'm at about three and a half years in and just now at the halfway point of the final draft. Then again, that could easily be evidence of life distractions, a lack of discipline, or any number of things. 

Today I'm writing about the most obvious indicator, to me, that this has become complicated.

The scene I wrote last week takes place in Fohrvylda, one of the islands in Turesia. Herein, we're being formally introduced to the five individuals that make up Vretos' court - the ones who hold the power in Fohrvylda. We're also learning a little more about the political hierarchy and setting of this nation. 

The following has already been established, although we've never met these guys -

Vretos is the ruler of Fohrvylda and he appears to be superhuman in that he doesn't notice taking an arrow to the shoulder, he can withstand a 60' fall onto packed earth, and he can wrestle a Uergata to the ground.
Beastmaster Grimmet tames orcanes and other beasts of burden and battle. He goes on excursions to find monsters to fight in Keswal. He's just presented one of the most spectacular fights Keswal has ever seen by pitting five Uergatas against fifty pirates.
General Garr has a big golden mustache.
Marshal Zandar is in command of all domestic forces, including archers in Keswal. Also, his vest is too tight.
Lanista Udiari owns a couple dozen convicts who fight in Keswal, including our heroes - Torvald and Irdessa, and that dirty scumbag Kraus.


(in order of appearance)
Beastmaster Grimmet (POV)
Lanista Udiari
Marshal Zandar
General Garr

Vretos' lodge, in the highest stronghold in Promontory, Fohrvylda

To be established
Motive for all present characters, and a particular inciting decision

So here's my prep work for scene four -
First I needed to get a picture of the scene. Did a little image shopping on Google.
inspiration for Promontory, Forhrylda. Except the cliff should be vertical and several hundred feet high
inspiration for Promontory, Fohrvylda. Also, there are more lumber-built buildings

inspiration for Vretos' lodge
inspiration for Vretos' lodge
(if you ever want to see my collection of inspiring web-based imagery that I usually forget about, check out my Pinterest

Obviously, none of the above images hits the nail on the head, as far as my vision for these locations, but they do give me ideas of what sights, sounds, and smells our characters will be experiencing. I had to fill in some blanks with (very rough) sketches. I do this pretty often.
Faithless Sea on the left, cliffs rising to Promontory (second attempt felt better)
Bottom right is rough idea of Vretos' table, except it's larger than that and there's no fire in the middle
Next I have to determine whose point of view to use. I actually wrote a lot of the scene from Lanista Udiari's POV, then scrapped it. He's more rational than Grimmet, and sort of came off as a stick in the mud in this scene. Besides, he has a POV scene coming soon enough. I wasn't going with General Garr because the scene isn't very dynamic for him. Same with Marshal Zandar, even though he's a cornered and kicked dog in this scene. Grimmet was fun to write. He's something of an overgrown child (so I can identify) and he's petty and snotty and obnoxious and jealous. No fun to be around, mucho fun to write.

I need to establish everyone's mindset during the scene. That's usually in the form of an Excel document.

Finally, I have a ton of notes compiled in a Word document, with quotes and descriptions and prose that are all necessary for the scene. Not going to attempt to display that here. Currently it's 35k words and a complete mess. I delete it in pieces as I apply it to the story. 

[[I have to give a shout out to a video I referenced. It is a 20 minute intro to the nuts and bolts of dictatorships, especially cruel ones, that I believe would help EVERY fiction author \ world-builder. It's called Rules for Rulers and it flavored some aspects of Fohrvylda's government.]]


At last, as of late last Thursday, the scene is written, and it's in the hands of my faithful alpha reader, Ben, the other half of my writing group. The current word count for it is 4,900. This Friday, at our local Mexican restaurant, he'll tell me what worked and (inevitably) what did not. 

I'm pretty damn thrilled about the scene. It involves heftier world-building than most scenes, but I have made every effort to temper that grind with some humor and suspense. I chuckle, because this might be the sort of scene a younger me would glaze over, picking out the important bits. But it's a scene that the more analytical me would, and does, marvel over. 

Anyway, that's a glimpse into what I mean when I say, "I'm working on Turesia now." And, if there was any question, I love it. Love every aspect of it. Wish this paid the bills. Soon enough.

We're all partial to our own stories but in this moment, and for the past eight months, I'm convinced that I'm writing one of the best fantasy stories I've ever read. 

Sunday, January 1, 2017

Research Record - Jan 1, 2017

Because I haven't written one in a while!

Just going to record a couple of seemingly unlikely destinations my research has taken me. I'm not suggesting you'll find this entertaining... More likely, 'hmm. That's interesting' at best.

Story in Progress:


Wikipedia pages of note:

Because I'm depressingly ignorant on the subject yet my story requires some knowledge.

This monster inspired the Orcanes of Turesia.

Pangur Ban
The movie Secret of Kells made me curious.

I wish there was a cooler name for pill bugs / rollypollies than pill bugs / rollypollies. The great beast is a variation of the sphaerotheriida.

The latest Jungle Book movie made me curious. (They're real! Just not house-sized, as depicted in the film.)

Google searches of note:

How did brachiosaurus support its own weight?
Under Earth's current atmospheric / gravitational conditions, it couldn't have.

Chicxulub crater
The above search opened a can of worms (as these things do).
Chicxulub crater was formed 66 millions years ago by an asteroid or comet some six miles wide. It's believed to be ground zero for the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event (wherein 75% of life on Earth became extinct, including dinosaurs.)

I love this word. I want to use it as a character's name and entire backstory.

Boat etymology
I was naming a town.

Sacrifice etymology
Still naming a town.

Define bleachers
Not a lot of words for this, ya know? Especially of the historic variety.

Do tigers climb trees?
Yes. They swim, too.

Pig iron
Not actually made of pigs.

To make a sword from the blood of your enemies
Spoiler: by the time you have enough blood of your enemies to make a sword, you probably won't have many enemies left to swing your new sword at.

I'm kind of infatuated with the concept of entropy. If you buy into heat death as a feasible ultimate fate of the universe, you'll know a) there's not a greater threat to existence than entropy and b) its incline is inevitable. A mancer whose field is entropy is, in a word, cynical.

Define Cortege
Among other things, this is an amazing song by Apocalyptica. I want to name a character this as well, based on that song.

This is how crickets make music. Some people say you can determine barometric specifics and thereby predict weather based on the pitch of crickets' stridulation. What people, you ask? Consonant monks of Ausgan.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

A new found respect for slow-ass authors.

Patrick Rothfuss
Fantasy Author
George RR Martin
Fantasy Author
David T List
Food Eater

I get emailed weekly from Goodreads updating me on new blog posts. I've considered sharing my thoughts on this before but hadn't. I guess today the planets are aligned. 

George RR Martin VS Brandon Sanderson!

Maybe you think you know where I'm going with this. Hear me out anyway because I might surprise you.

2011 was the year George published A Dance with Dragons, the latest novel in the Song of Ice and Fire series. Since then George has written a couple of novellas. The last thing he published is a collection of three previously published novellas in 2015.

When A Dance with Dragons was published, Sanderson had just released The Way of Kings, first of the Stormlight Archive. Since then he wrote and released the second entry in the series, Words of Radiance, in 2014. He recently finished book three and expects it to release in 2017. Aside from that he's written some 5-6 other novels and novellas.

Oh, I see. "HEADLINE: The author who writes SIX blog entries a week turns out no new content but the one who writes only TWO is super efficient."

No, that's not where I'm going with it. Although perhaps there's truth to be found in there...

You're about to bitch about George RR Martin's writing speed and how he blogs more than he writes.

I'm not. There was a point when I would have. When I see the above illustration, my gut response used to be - George, stop talking about everything except what people want to hear! Stop blogging so much and write the next novel. Look at Sanderson. Get his work ethic!

But the hard truth is, everything else aside,

I prefer to read George RR Martin over Brandon Sanderson. 

Sanderson has proclaimed himself a one-drafter, meaning his outline is so solid, he has such a great idea of where he's going with the story, that he can write it out, all 400k words, with no deviation to the plot.

Oh wow that's amazing! I can hardly get two characters to stop bickering long enough to fulfill their sex scene.

I know, right?
Except... his prose. Sanderson has also claimed to have "functional prose." This means he doesn't embellish the text or make it overly poetic but (and I am simplifying) he uses words as they are intended.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I find his books dull, no matter how efficiently he can churn them out. I am envious of his work ethic and happy for his success, considering how hard a worker he is. I'm glad there are people who love his work and I'm grateful he posts his creative writing lessons online for free (I've mentioned them before.)
But I need an unexpected turn of phrase that slaps my face. Witty prose that draws me elsewhere. Abrupt text that surprises me so much my inner critic is halted, if only for a moment.

As writers we each have our own goals and desires. I shouldn't compare Sanderson and Martin, but it happens. I shouldn't compare myself to other authors, as I so often do when I think about how long I've been working on Turesia. There is no timeline here. My first favorite author, the one who inspired me to create, was a slow-ass author. I mean, he had a good excuse, writing through the Great War and all that, but still.

I want my characters and world to outlive me. A good writer can hook you into reading about something you otherwise wouldn't, through magical manipulation of words. What's important to me is turning people onto the fantasy genre--and helping unlock the potential of those who already love fantasy--while building Silexare into a breathing, pulsing world.
If that takes me another draft or two, another year or two, then so be it.