Villi Asgeirsson

Drafting ideas...

Writing

A Book and a Cover

by Leave a Comment

We shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but we do. If it looks bad, nobody will give it a chance. If the cover doesn’t say anything about the story, it leaves the potential reader confused. I have tried to have a professional designer create a cover for one of my novels. It didn’t work. I wasn’t happy with the results. Granted, it was a low budget job, but the problem was that they didn’t understand the project like I did. Perfectly understandable, as I wrote the thing. I’m sure big name authors have larger budgets, the designers probably read the manuscripts and have physical meetings with the author and publisher, but that isn’t realistic when you’re self-publishing.

So, I create my own.

When I designed the original cover for Under the Black Sand, I used stills from the short film that inspired the novel. I suppose it was part loyalty and part convience. I loved the actors, they did a great job and I wanted them to be… immortalised? On the cover? And they were the characters. I imagined them as I wrote the story. Also, the typeface is the same as the one I used in the film.

At the beginning of November, I put the finishing touches to Mont Noir and finalised the cover. As I was working on that, I opened the Blood and Rain design next to it. They do partially follow the same characters and I wanted them to have a visual connection. Since I was busy anyway, I opened the Black Sand cover. It didn’t work for me. I guess too much time has passed, the short film is decades in the past and I felt the cover didn’t do the story justice. Obviously, no slight on the actors, they are still awesome, but the story had grown beyond the short film. (If this thing ever gets filmed, they will still be my first choice.)

That’s when I got a designer to create a new one. As I mentioned, it didn’t work. I tried it myself. Grabbed a photo I’d shot in the Icelandic highlands last summer and worked with that. It received positive feedback, so I decided to republish the book.

The Under the Black Sand cover shows a desolate road in Iceland. You see a car and something that appears to be a ghost. The cover depicts a core scene in the book, shows where it all goes wrong. It is just one scene, but it reverberates throughout the story. The old cover crammed at least three scenes in and it was cluttered. This is more clean and hopefully does the story more justice.

As I was writing Blood and Rain, I experimented with different designs. It was always going to be red and black, the anarchist colours. Oh, I actually started with a 1950s style 5 cent paperback design, but it’s a 1930s story and I think most books back then were some kind of canvas designs. Back to red and black. I had a full body female silhouette with a gun, but it was too James Bond. Settled on a face. The diagonal line is the anarchist flag. The typeface from the 1950s design survived, as I used a kind of Film Noir type. The pattern coming out of her eye represents that even if she isn’t the protagonist, everything that happens radiates from her.

Blood and Rain

Mont Noir is just around the corner. It follows some of the same characters. Anarchism has been abandoned by most of them, at least in their daily life, so the red colour is gone. Instead, we have the blue of the Dutch skies and water. You see the plane and the danger. Interestingly, the typeface I chose for Blood and Rain is more pronounced here, as the title of the book uses it.

Lastly, and this is kind of a bonus feature, I published a book of poetry and odd bits in 2018. I had seven copies printed and have given away two of them. I will never have more printed and may or may not give more away. Some of the poetry are song lyrics I wrote while playing with the guitar. I never recorded any of them and they are forgotten, but the words remain. Silent songs, a book that nobody will read. A very personal work. Book of Silence. The cover represents this, as it is me, in relative darkness, facing away.

Book of Silence

Designing covers is something I love doing. As I’m working on a story, they are a great distraction when I don’t feel like writing but want to be close to the project. If I had a large budget, I would probably get someone more skilled to design them, but I would always be very involved.

Mont Noir, where are you?

by Leave a Comment

It’s hard to believe it’s finally – almost – here. My third novel!

I wasn’t going to write a sequel to any of my books, but life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. That’s also why it’s taken so long to get it out. The spark came in 2013, when I was visiting Belgium. On the border with France, I saw a sign, Mont Noir. What a cool name! I have to use that some time.

After Blood and Rain was published, in 2017, I started thinking about the next project. What would it be? I’d fallen in love with Celestina, the fierce anarchist we got to know in Blood and Rain. No, not a sequel. Maybe a fantasy thing? I plotted a story where the peasants are fighting a war against the gods. Celestina was not amused.

Mont Noir. The name kept calling me. Okay, fine. I came across an article that explained how Wilhelm Canaris, the head of German Intelligence had phoned Anthony Eden, the British Foreign Minister, in early 1939, informing him that a German invasion of The Netherlands was imminent. The Dutch War Scare, and I found old newspaper articles that confirmed this happened. It was a lie, but Canaris wanted to scare the west into preparing for what was to come. He disliked the Nazi regime and hated how the west was in denial about the danger posed by Germany. And so I had my story. Celestina had to go to Amsterdam.

It’s been years in the making, not because I write slow, but because I write sporadically. Work is busy, the house needs to be cleaned and fixed, and I wrote a series of short stories last year. All this time, Mont Noir slowly developed.

Recently I had it read by a few proofreaders and they loved it. It’s time to release the beast into the wild.

Publication date has been chosen, 12 January 2023 it shall be. You can check the book page here.

Remix, remaster, re-edit?

by Leave a Comment

When is a work of art finished? Is it ever, or do we simply abandon it when we’ve had enough?

In early summer 2013, I completed my debut novel, Under the Black Sand. It was done. After years of work, from a short film to a screenplay to a different screenplay to a novel, to a different novel to yet a different novel, it was finally done. I checked spelling, grammar, designed a cover and published on Amazon.

An early review mentioned error. The horror! I went back to work, ironed out whatever I could find and re-published. I would never have to look at the story again. In 2019, I did revisit it, after I decided to translate it into Icelandic. I changed the structure a bit, one communicates differenty in another language. I shortened the chapters. The original novel had 80.000 words spread over 13 chapters, the Icelandic version was 92.000 words across 26 chapters.

That was it. No more. Never. I had written and published another novel by this time and it was firmly time to move on.

In October 2022, I was working on finishing my third novel. I design my own covers and as I was working on this, I opened the previous two. The Black Sand one and Blood and Rain. I was happy with Blood and Rain, but the first one I designed… it looked dated. I could probably do better.

I went to work, first replacing the main image, then tweaking the back cover… then removing an element. Before I knew it, I had a complete redesign. Nothing was left of the old. It looked new and fresh.

But the novel itself? Did that still hold up? I couldn’t just republish a new cover? I fired up the old project and started reading. Fixed a couple of things, removed two scenes I always felt slowed the story down and added an opening scene. Something that would take the reader by the hand, lead them into the story. Reading it, all these years later, it felt like I’d thrown them into the deep end. Keep reading and you’ll figure it out. Not so much now. At least, that’s the idea. It was still 80.000 words, but spread across 27 chapters.

As I finished the editing, I decided it was time to say goodbye to the one thing that had stayed unchanged since the short film days. The typeface. I replaced the old and trusted font on the cover, replaced it with soething more modern, something cleaner.

And that was it. A new book. It felt fresh and new. I could now show it to people again.

So when is a work finished? It never is. Sure, creating an outline and writing the first and second drafts is a great deal and everything is fluent. Subsequent revisions are a matter of diminishing returns. There comes a point where you think, any work I put into this from now on isn’t going to change a whole lot. Time to let it go.

I’m sure a painter or a musician would say the same thing.

Looking at it years later meant I was reading it almost like someone that hasn’t read it before. Some things I’d forgotten, some were, oh yeah. I remember that. But most importantly, I read it objectively, saw a few flaws and fixed them, saw the scenes that added nothing and were potentially tedious, and saw where a bit of extra info was needed.

That’s it. Under the Black Sand is done. I will never look at it again. I think.

The Performer – a short story

by Leave a Comment

The minutes felt like hours. He played with the lighter for a while, then realised he hadn’t rolled one yet. Never mind. The snow, in a straight line. As the gust blew, it got sucked up and accumulated in the clouds. Falling to the sky, it felt like a hurricane. And still, the seconds felt like minutes.

A deep drone filled his mind. It was almost time. Feet stomping on the floor, hands clapping. His name drowning in the noise. His name being chanted by a mad crowd.

The leaves fell on the white paper, that looked like a snow covered ground, and he rolled it up. Put it in his mouth and grabbed the lighter. He didn’t notice the footsteps rushing back and forth in the hallway outside his door. The blizzard raged in his mind, and the smoke helped him calm down.

Thousands of people were calling his name, but he didn’t hear them.

He looked himself in the eyes in the large mirror, admired his own looks. He was older, but he still had it. Running his fingers through his hair, he felt grateful. At least I still have my hair, he thought to himself. He pulled a deep drag and leaned back in the chair. Looked at the ceiling. There was a hook. Why there would be a hook there was beyond him. Maybe they used it to haul things.

On the desk was a bowl of candies. All blue. It was a part of his rider, a bouquet of roses, a bottle of chardonnay and a single malt whisky, beers and a bowl of this candy. All blue. It started as a joke. Would they really put people to work sorting candies? It sounded ridiculous, but apparently they did. If the performer wanted blue candies, that’s what he got.

He looked up again. What a perfectly beautiful hook it was. Would be a shame to have it go unused.

There was a bottle of pills here somewhere. He searched his bag and found them. The drone of the masses sounded like a diabolic symphony as he emptied the bottle of pills into the candy bowl. The perfect blue was now sprinkled in white, like sea foam. He closed his eyes, filled his hand, and shovelled the blue and white into his mouth. Chewed and washed it down with the single malt.

The audience was still stomping and clapping, calling his name. It annoyed him slightly. What did they want from him? The same old songs he’d played for years on end? The same banter between the songs? I wrote this one after… blah, blah, blah. There was this girl I used to know, blah, blah. And then he would hit the chord on his guitar and they would go apeshit. Well into his fifties, he was singing songs about losing teenage girls, written when he was a teenager. What in the name of all that’s good was the point in all this? He still had his looks, mostly, but he was a caricature.

He removed his tie. Why he wore a suit every time was a mystery. He’d started doing it some years ago, probably thought it looked stylish. Grabbed a handful of candies mixed with the white pills. It was a delightful combination. The sweetness of the chocolate mixed with the bitter taste of the pills. The glass was empty.

The tie seemed to fit perfectly through the hook. Standing on the chair, he secured it. Tied the other end around his neck.

His name, the foot stomping and the clapping echoing in his mind. They were getting anxious. It was understandable. He was such fun on stage, telling funny stories, ripping into his old songs and making sure everyone was having the time of their lives.

Why am I so much fun on stage, yet here I feel perfectly miserable? What is this mask I’m wearing? He asked himself every night. Never did he get an answer. Why is it I need thousands of people to scream my name to feel satisfied? And then, why do I feel so empty?

Securing the tie to the hook, he stepped down from the chair. Filled his mouth with candy again. He was getting dizzy. The damn pills were all on top. He should have mixed the contents of the bowl when he poured them in. Too many pills, not enough candy.

He filled the glass again and downed it. Climbed back on the chair. Tied the tie around his neck. He felt how the chair was constantly threatening to roll away. Good wheels, they were. He stood there, dizzy, wondering what the hell he was doing. If he lost his balance and the chair rolled off…

They chanted his name.

A knock on the door and someone shouted, showtime!

This is the twenty-fifth installment in the Moments series

Jónsmessa – smásaga

by Leave a Comment

Jón gerði að útihúsunum, sá til þess að allt væri klárt fyrir nóttina, áður en hann fór til hvílu. Jónsmessunótt var að ganga í garð. Sólin myndi ekki setjast, en morgundagurinn yrði eins og hver annar. Verkin spurðu ekki að því hvaða dagur var, þau yrðu að vinnast og hann varð að vera úthvíldur. Enda var það öllum ljóst að það var slæm hugmynd að vaka á Jónsmessu. Ef kýrnar talandi gerðu mann ekki vitstola, yrðu álfkonurnar á vegi manns, með tilheyrandi freistingum. Nei. Jón færi til hvílu í kvöld, eins og öll önnur kvöld.

Sólin skein á kotið þar sem hann lokaði hurðinni og lagðist til hvílu. Úti glitraði lygnur sjórinn þar sem hann strauk svartan sandinn. Það eina sem raskaði spegilsléttu yfirborðinu var selur sem stakk hausnum upp fyrir yfirborðið og horfði til lands. Sandurinn vék fyrir grænu grasinu sem þakti undirlendið, og jökullinn, baðaður í kvöldsólinni, sameinaðist rauðglóandi himninum.

Fætur hennar snertu blautan sandinn og aldan lék sér við tærnar. Hún teygði úr sér, hendurnar yfir höfuðið, eins og hún væri að reyna að snerta himininn. Leyfði hlýrri kvöldsólinni að gæla við líkamann. Hún brosti, dró andann eins djúpt og hún gat og gekk upp sandinn. Grasið kitlaði fæturna, en það var allt í lagi. Það var ekki oft sem hún gat gengið hér. Einu sinni á ári.

Kotið birtist henni þegar hún kom upp á hólinn. Tvær kýr voru á beit, litu á hana, buðu gott kvöld. Spurðu hvað hún væri að gera hér. Bara í heimsókn, svaraði hún brosandi, og lét sér það engu skipta að kýrnar töluðu við hana. Annað eins hafði gerst.

Hljóðlega opnaði hún dyrnar og læddist inn. Það var dimmt og svalt inni í bænum. Hann lá sofandi, og hún smeygði sér upp í rekkjuna, naut hlýjunnar. Hann rumskaði, hreyfði sig lítillega þegar hún snerti andlit hans með kaldri hendinni. Hún snerti bringuna og strauk. Hann vaknaði og snéri sér að henni. Leit í djúp augun. Hann snerti ljósa og silkimjúka hárið.

‘Í dag er Jónsmessunótt,’ sagði hann. ‘Ertu álfkona?’

‘Nei, auðvitað ekki. Álfkonurnar eru allar uppteknar á vegamótum.’

‘Hver ertu,’ spurði hann.

Hún snerti varir hans létt með fingrinum og kyssti hann á ennið. Strauk á honum andlitið, lét fingurna renna niður hálsinn og niður á bringu. Bóndahjartað sló hratt. Óttinn og spennan börðust innra með honum. Hver var þessi gullfallega kona? Hvað vildi hún í hans rekkju? Hvaðan hafði hún komið? Hann reyndi að stilla sig, reyndi að standast freistinguna, en hann var einmana. Hún var fallegasta vera sem hann hafði nokkurn tíma séð. Hvort hún var mennsk eða ekki, gat hann ekki dæmt um, en það skipti hann litlu máli. Ef hún var mennsk, gat hann ekki látið þetta tækifæri frá sér fara. Hún gæti verið mennsk, og hún yrði þá vonandi konan hans.

Hún dró af honum klæðin og þau elskuðust. Miðnætursólin varpaði daufri birtu inn um norðurskjáinn og lýsti upp konuna, svo að hún líktist helst engli af holdi og blóði.

Það næsta sem hann mundi var fuglasöngurinn sem boðaði nýjan dag. Ef hægt var að tala um nýjan dag í landi þar sem sólin ekki settist um mitt sumar. Jón horfði í kringum sig, undrandi og hálf hræddur við það sem hafði gerst. Hvar var elskhugi hans? Hvar var fallegasta vera sem hann á allri ævinni hafði séð? Hann vildi ekki trúa að þetta hefði einungis verið draumur. Hann reis snöggt úr rekkju og horfði í kringum sig. Hvert hafði hún farið?

Jón hljóp út úr kotinu, mundi að þetta var nóttin þar sem bændur veltu sér upp úr morgundögginni svo að draumar þeirra mættu rætast, og henti sér í blautt grasið. Eftir að hafa velt sér um í einhvern tíma, stóð hann upp og leit í kringum sig. Hvar var hún? Hann leit á kýrnar en þær töluðu ekki. Hvar er hún, spurði hann aftur. Kýrnar litu á hann, bitu í grasið og slengdu hausunum í átt að ströndinni. Hann tók til fótanna, hljóp eins hratt og þeir báru hann. Blautt grasið vék fyrir votum sandinum. Jón kastaði mæðinni og horfði niður eftir ströndinni.

Sólin var komin töluvert hátt á loft og geislar hennar glitruðu á sjávarfletinum. Jökullinn glóði eins og haugur úr gulli.

En hún var ekki hér.

Ástin hans var farin.

Þar sem hann sat í sandinum sá hann ekkert nema nokkra fugla á flugi og sel sem stakk hausnum upp úr sjónum og horfði á hann. Þau horfðust í augu eitt andartak, áður en selurinn hvarf undir yfirborðið.

Þessi saga var upphaflega gefin út 20. júní 2021 á ensku sem Summer Solstice, og er hluti af smásagnaflokknum Moments (Augnablik)

Summer Solstice – a short story

by Leave a Comment

Jón attended the outhouses, made sure everything was as it should be, before retiring to bed. It was Jónsmessa, the longest day of the year. The sun wouldn’t set, but tomorrow would bring more chores, and he needed the rest. The sun shone on his little cottage as he shut the door and lay his head on the pillow.

Outside, the rays of the low sun glistened on the calm waves as they gently stroked the black sand. A lone seal popped its head out of the water and looked up towards the shore. The sand gave way to the green grass of the lowlands, and the glacier reigned supreme in the distance.

Her feet touched the cool sand, and the waves tickled her toes. She stretched her arms towards the sky, letting the sun bathe her body, feeling the warmth on her skin. Taking a deep breath, she smiled and walked towards the green beyond the beach. The grass tickled, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t often she could walk here. Once a year.

The cottage appeared as she cleared a small hill. Two cows looked at her, offered her a good evening. Asked what she was doing here. Just visiting, she said and smiled.

She quietly opened the door to the cottage and got inside. It was dark and cool. He lay there sleeping, and she slipped into his bed, felt his warmth. He moved slightly as her chilly hand touched his face. As she stroked his chest, he woke up and turned towards her. He turned to face this strange lady. Her deep and dark eyes contrasted with her fair skin and blonde hair.

‘It is Jónsmessa,’ he said. ‘Are you an elf?’

‘No, of course not. The elves are busy at the crossroads.’

‘Who are you,’ he asked.

She put her finger on his lips and kissed him on the forehead. Let her hands feel his body. The farmer felt his heart race. Fear and excitement fought within him. Who was this beautiful woman? What was she doing in his bed? Where had she come from? He tried to restrain himself, but he was lonely. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and if this night would end up with him finding a wife, who was he to resist?

They undressed and made love, while the midnight sun shone through the northern window. It was magical.

The next thing he knew was the singing of the birds as they welcomed a new dawn. If you could call it that, in a land where the sun never sets in mid-summer. Jón looked around, confused. Where was his lover? The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen? Surely he hadn’t been dreaming? He jumped out of bed and looked desperately around. Where had she gone?

Jón quickly ran outside, remembered that it was the time of year where you roll naked in the morning dew to have your dreams come true, and promptly threw himself to the ground. After rolling for a while, he jumped back onto his feet and looked around. Where was she? Looking at the cows, they spoke no more. Where is she, he asked again? The cows looked at him, then swayed their heads towards the beach. He ran as fast as he could, feet wet from the damp grass. Out of breath, he ran onto the black sand and looked around.

The sun, already high in the sky, reflected on the calm sea. The glacier in the distance looked like a pile of gold.

But she wasn’t here.

His love gone.

Sitting on the sand, all he could see was a seal, popping her head out of the water, looking at him. A moment passed, then the head disappeared beneath the waves.

This is the twenty-fourth installment in the Moments series