The spring Equinox newsletter launched today. This issue includes some of my favorite links from the last six months, an update on upcoming writing for this year, and a new "Speaking for All Christians Exactly Like Me" column, on Netflix's new series, Love Here's a preview:

The perfect example of Love's ethos comes during a scene in “The Date,” the fifth episode of the series, in which Mickey is talking to her friend Syd, a sort of older, post-addict mentor who shares cigarettes and wisdom with Mickey after she puts her son to sleep.7 “Oh my God,” Syd says. “If I have to read my kid The Giving Tree one more time I’m going to blow my brains out. I don’t even know why he likes it; it’s not fun. It’s depressing.” At first I was sort of annoyed by this line, mostly because I love The Giving Tree and don’t like to see it disparaged in public. But I realized after a little while that such a comment makes perfect sense in the Love universe. Outside of the Gospels, The Giving Tree might be the most famous American story ever written about self-sacrificial love. The Tree gives everything that it has for the good of the Boy that it loves, though it receives nothing in return. And this kind of act is complete poison to the characters of Love, a death that must be avoided at all costs.

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The story below was originally published a few years ago, when I was still in my phase of writing really weird stuff. (Okay, I've never left that phase.) It was subsequently put into a little ebook, taken offline, and then the ebook was discontinued as well. Recently someone from France asked for it, and since I don't know a lot of people in France, I figured I'd dig it up and maybe make some friends.

Often times when I’m writing, I’ll start out with one idea, only to find myself writing something completely different by the time I finish. This story was originally about a wedding between Han Solo and Princess Leia, then it morphed into a wedding between two extreme Game of Thrones fans, and then it turned into this. Whatever this is.

So Stephen King, Nicholas Sparks, and George R. R. Martin were sitting in a bar. Turns out they were really good friends.

“Guys, I’ve got a problem,” R. R. Martin said. “Everything I write these days is horribly violent and depressing. Blood flows, cities burn, people keep having sex with their family members. And I can’t stop killing off characters. And not boring, side characters that no one actually cares about. Main characters. I think I’m secretly depressed.”

Sparks put down his Zima and clapped R. R. Martin on the back. “Not to worry, buddy,” he said. “We’ll help you out, right Stephen?”

“Totally,” King said, ordering another bloody Mary. “We’re all storytellers, right? Let’s write a story together, something with a happy ending, something to cheer you up. How about a wedding scene?”

“Great idea!” Sparks said. “Okay, picture this. It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and everything is ready for the wedding of Noah and Allie. They had the rehearsal dinner the night before, and--”

“What kind of food did they have?” R. R. Martin asked.

“That’s not important,” Sparks said.

“If you’ve read my books, you’ll know how ridiculous I think that statement is,” R. R. Martin said, brushing onion ring crumbs out of his beard. “Was there a beheading or a poisoning at this feast?”

“It was a rehearsal dinner, not a feast, and no. There were no beheadings or poisonings, no dragons or white walkers, no one ate horse hearts and no one committed adultery, incestuous or otherwise.”

“But the dinner party did have an unwelcome guest in the form of a mysterious man in black,” King said.

“No, you guys are terrible at this,” Sparks said. “Look, the rehearsal dinner went really well and everybody had a good time. I mean, yes, Allie did specifically ask for a restricted menu and the restaurant let everybody order off the regular menu, which wouldn’t be a big deal, except Uncle Billy kept ordering expensive drinks, and fine, whatever, she was happy to pay for it, but if you’re going to order a drink you could at least finish it before you order the next one.”

“I’m bored with this already,” King said.

“Can you just tell me what they had for dinner? I really need to know,” R. R. Martin said.

“Fine, they had Chicken Kiev and roasted asparagus in lemon sauce.”

“And rat sausage,” Double-R Martin said.

“Can we move on? Okay, so it’s a sunny, beautiful day. Rows of white chairs line the green grass atop a cliff, overlooking a sapphire blue sea.”

“Is it in Maine?” King asked, practicing sinister faces in the reflection of his beer bottle. “Let’s make the wedding in Maine.”

“No, it’s somewhere far more romantic. Like...North Carolina.”

“What a surprise.”

“Shut it, King,” Sparks said. “So the guests begin to file in, taking their seats. The simple folk on the groom’s side contrast sharply with those on the bride’s, for Allie comes from a wealthy family of southern tobacco farmers and Noah is nothing but a common, insanely handsome shop boy whose deep blue eyes can pierce the soul of everyone but Anne, Allie’s cold and distant mother.”

“Is Anne from Maine? Let’s make Anne from Maine,” King said.

“No, she’s from Tennessee,” R.R. Martin broke in. “The product of an incestuous relationship between--”

“No incest!” Sparks snapped. “She just wants the best for her daughter, that’s all. Financial stability is important to women.”

“Plus, she’s been suffering from a gypsy curse,” King said, cracking his pale knuckles. “If her daughter marries, the hair on her body will begin to grow uncontrollably. It will overwhelm her, growing too fast for her to cut it, until she slowly suffocates in her own auburn locks.”

“No, it’s just the financial stability thing,” Sparks said. “Jeepers, try to think of something beautiful for once in your life.”

“Okay, okay, I got this,” R. R. Martin said. “Let’s say there’s a...lighthouse nearby?”

“Yeah that’s good,” Sparks said, nodding encouragement.

“You know, there are a lot of lighthouses in Maine,” King said.

“Shut up, Steve. Go on, George.”

“It’s an older lighthouse,” R. R. Martin said. “Vintage and beautiful, its white stone worn rough and cracked by the ocean breeze. A young ring bearer stands next to the lighthouse, waiting for the wedding to start. He’s a perfectly healthy, nice kid whose parents are totally married and totally not related to each other.”

“This is the most boring story ever,” King said, getting up to leave.

“And they’re from Maine,” R. R. Martin added.

“Nice, I’m back in.”

“Bored, the boy begins to climb the lighthouse wall, his fingers and toes finding all the best grips and footholds.”

“Please tell me this isn’t going where I think it’s going,” Sparks said.

“Up he climbs,” R. R. Martin continued. “Higher and higher, to the very top of the tower, where he looks out over the sparkling blue water.”

“And then he comes down safely,” Sparks said. “Learning nothing sinister or depressing.”

“And then he finds a magic amulet hidden in the rock,” King suggested. “Which bears an ancient--”

“Don’t say it,” Sparks said.

“--gypsy curse, and--”

“You’re both wrong,” Martin interrupted. “He hears a strange noise coming from the lighthouse window. He circles around, fifty feet of empty air yawning beneath him. He reaches the window, and when he looks through it, he sees the bride and her brother--”

“Worshiping Satan and preparing for the summoning of a demon, for the bride is actually a gypsy!” King cried.

“No, actually they’re--”

“Crying on each other’s shoulder,” Sparks said. “Because they’ve just resolved decades of cold, distant feelings stemming from the brother’s poor treatment of Noah and his tacit regret over never having a brother of his own.”

“No!” R. R. Martin said. “They’re actually hatching a pair of beautiful dragons. They are perfectly healthy, nice young dragons whose parents are totally not related.”

“Well, this took a bit of turn into the fantastic,” Sparks asked.

“Like the stories you write are any more realistic?” King said.

“Touché,” Sparks said.

“And the dragons walk her down the aisle,” Martin continued. “And it’s a pleasant, lovely ceremony, and they kiss and everyone claps. Then they go to the reception, where there’s goat roasted with lemon and honey, and grape leaves stuffed with raisins, onions, mushrooms, and fiery dragon peppers, potted hare and honeyed chicken, with apple crisps and black cherries and sweet cream for dessert.”

“You know, George, I think you may be feeding your depression with food,” Sparks said.

“No kidding, Sparky,” King said “But how does it end?”

“Do they live happily ever after?” Sparks asked. “And die in bed together at a ripe old age after living a full and happy life?”

“Does Noah become an alcoholic?” King asked. “Or get hit by a van? Or start inexplicably writing himself into a beloved fantasy series?”

R. R. Martin shook his head. “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Give me another one to six years. I’m sure I’ll figure it out by then.”

The Nothing Sword is now available on Amazon.com in both print ($14.99) and eBook ($3.99) form.

• The Nothing Sword – eBook
• The Nothing Sword – Print

I hope you enjoy it. And a huge, gigantic, blue-whale size thank you to the following people for all their help.

To Marley Cox, for taking my terrible sketches of maps and making them beautiful.

To Jordan Cox, for the awesome cover art and interior design of The Nothing Sword, and for putting up with the thousand emails that I constantly send about them.

To Kamron Kissamis, for editing The Nothing Sword so well in such a short time.

To everyone on my reading team: Paul and Yvonne Meuth, Alan Lin, Phil and Katie Lopez, Lauren McPherson, Ben Miller, and Jordan and Marley Cox—for your help in making this book better, and for your encouragement and support of what is otherwise a rather lonely endeavor.

And finally, and most importantly, to my wife Madelyn, for always being my first and most important reader, editor, party planner, and friend; for saying nice things about me to everyone so I don’t have to; and for countless meals, errands, chores, and hours spent taking care of our son and our lives so that I could write. God bless you, wife of mine, queen of my heart. I hope you like the book I wrote you.

Just two more days until The Nothing Sword, book two of The Nameless King trilogy is released. Here’s a couple sample chapters for those of you who want a preview.

Read Sample Chapters

You can find The Nothing Sword (both print and eBook) on Amazon.com starting December 10, 2015. Other retailers will follow.

Book Description

Rattle-tattle, shiver-shatter
        Hollow eyes and yellow rue.
Howler-fowler, cover-cower
        Nothing Sword is come for you!

—Children’s rhyme, Kor

It is nine years since the last Nightmare, and Cairn Meridia stands abandoned, its towers in ruins. Sent by the Living Tower, the remaining Meridian rebels struggle to survive among the hostile land outside their mountains, making enemies and allies in turn. Yet far to the south, Tjabo the Nameless, king of all Nora, moves in the shadows to snuff out the rebellion before it begins. For an ancient terror has returned—the Nothing Sword, pale and thin as evil itself, a weapon which strikes not at the body, but at the soul. Now the Meridians must put their faith in three unlikely thieves, who must travel deep into the heart of Tjabo's kingdom, and face the Nothing Sword head on.

Next Saturday, December 12, I'll be drawing winners for a few special edition hardcover versions of The Towers. The special editions will have the original cover art and some extra bonus material. Only seven of these will ever be made. If you want to win one, there are a three different ways to enter:

Sign up for my newsletter, The Equinox

I call this The Equinox because I only send it out twice a year, on the vernal and autumnal equinox. That’s basically mid-March and mid-September, but “vernal and autumnal equinox” just sounds cooler. In each issue, you can expect info on the stuff I’ve been writing, links to stuff I think you’ll like, and probably a poem or two. (Not by me. I actually want you to read it.)

• Sign up for my newsletter

Anyone who signs up before next Saturday will get one entry into the drawing. If you are already signed up for my newsletter, than you are already entered.

Come to the release party

The Nothing Sword book release party will be Saturday, December 12 at Fusion Brew coffee house in Normal, IL. Party starts at 6:00 PM, and all are welcome. We’ll have cake, hot beverages of various kinds, nice people, and good cheer. I’ll do a reading from The Nothing Sword starting at 7:30 PM. Anyone who signs in will get another chance to win a special edition book.

Donate to Home Sweet Home

We’ll also be collecting donations for Home Sweet Home Ministries during the release party. Home Sweet Home has been providing shelter and recovery services to homeless people in Bloomington-Normal for almost 100 years. Bring a donation, and you’ll get a third chance to win a book.

You can make donations in cash or check of any amount, or you can bring a donation of goods from the list below. We’ll be taking the donations to the ministry the following Monday.

• HSH Most Needed Items

So for those of you keeping track, you can get up to three entries into the book drawing: sign up, show up, or donate. Winners will be announced at the release party Saturday. No worries if you can’t make it. I’ll mail the books out later.

Questions?

Use the electronic relationship buttons to the right. I’ll answer when I can.

The Nothing Sword (Book Two of The Nameless King trilogy) will be released December 10, 2015. Here's a first look at the cover.

Special thanks to artist and designer Jordan Cox for this one. It looks awesome.

Book Description

Rattle-tattle, shiver-shatter
        Hollow eyes and yellow rue.
Howler-fowler, cover-cower
        Nothing Sword is come for you!

—Children’s rhyme, Kor

It is nine years since the last Nightmare, and Cairn Meridia stands abandoned, its towers in ruins. Sent by the Living Tower, the remaining Meridian rebels struggle to survive among the hostile land outside their mountains, making enemies and allies in turn. Yet far to the south, Tjabo the Nameless, king of all Nora, moves in the shadows to snuff out the rebellion before it begins. For an ancient terror has returned—the Nothing Sword, pale and thin as evil itself, a weapon which strikes not at the body, but at the soul. Now the Meridians must put their faith in three unlikely thieves, who must travel deep into the heart of Tjabo's kingdom, and face the Nothing Sword head on.

Dear Mother,

As you know, since my last letter our Father in heaven and the State of Illinois have graciously allowed me to become a father. It's quite impossible, of course, to really describe the experience. There's just too much going on at once, too much spit and milk and sleep and stress to get a handle on it.

Somehow, though, I expect I'll be describing it for the rest of my life, in various ways. Because really that's how I deal with love, if you didn't know. If I love someone (God or my wife or my son or myself or you or whoever), I write about them. I put them in essays and fairy tales. I throw a handful of dust up in the air and make a quick sketch of whatever invisible powerful thing it clings to for a few inspired moments. Then I throw the dust up again and again, in story after story, word after word, until I can sort of see, with all the sketches together, the rough shape of that love.

Which is all just a way of saying that I adore the little guy, and his stupid little face. Living with him has made me notice a lot of things, about him and myself and life in general. You can consider this the first few lines of the sketch. There will be more someday.

He doesn't poop, he shoots poop

What is it about babies that causes their poop to come out so forcefully? Is it just my kid? It's like the little guy has a small howitzer in his butt, designed to fire out poop at 1000 feet per second.

It's hilarious and annoying. Hilarious because it's super loud, and loud pooping remains funny to me at this stage of my life. Annoying because regular diapers are not made to withstand that kind of point blank explosive fire, and that leads to a lot of poopy clothes.

And heaven help you if your hand gets caught in the cross-fire while you're changing him. You might lose a finger.

I have to clean a lot of stuff

See above. He's also really good at waiting for the exact perfect second to start peeing whenever I change his diaper, usually after we've just washed the changing pad cover. It makes me really want one of those hospital beds with the tear-off paper sheets.

I don't know what the color yellow looks like, apparently

Two things you're supposed to keep an eye on with a newborn.

1. The kid's poop, which is supposed to be yellow. Supposedly the yellow color means the kid is getting enough to eat.

2. The kid's skin, which is not supposed to be yellow. Supposedly the yellow color means the poop is being stored in the kid's skin instead of properly exploding out of the colon cannon. Or something like that.

Either way, I have no confidence in myself to know if what I'm seeing is yellow or not. It all looks sort of orangish-yellowish-brownish-greenish-whitish to me, and his poop looks even weirder. The kid keeps getting fatter though, so I'm pretty sure everything checks out okay.

He's like a good painting

In the sense that I could basically just stare at him forever. It's really difficult to be bored when you have a baby. He messes with your sense of perception too. I remember the first time I got out of a really good art museum, looking up at the sky and feeling like it was painted on canvas. Staring at a baby for a long time does something similar, except everything looks enormous instead of painted. My wife's head has never looked so big. I swear that is not an insult.

He's bad at breathing

Really, really bad, to the point where you feel like you have to check to make sure he's alive every ten minutes. Either he's super quiet, and you can't hear him at all. Or he's super loud, and he sounds like he just finished a half-marathon with viral pneumonia.

He occasionally sounds like a tauntaun

Or he sounds like a tauntaun. If you don't know what that is, it's a giant, smelly ice creature from the planet Hoth which appears in Empire Strikes Back. Han Solo cuts one open and shoves Luke into its intestines to keep him warm. Anyway, my son sounds like one. Listen.

You really just have to hold him to be warm though.

Lights are most excellent

When he can focus his eyes at all (which isn't often), mostly he just stares at lights. The lamp, the window, that other lamp over there. Supposedly that's all babies can really see at this point, light and dark contrasts. I tried putting a headlamp on and shining it in his face on strobe setting to get him to look at me, but he just sort of blinked a lot and got upset.

Cold hands are the devil's work

He always screams and cries whenever I touch him with cold hands.

No wait, that's my wife. Forget that one.

He loves Lord of the Rings

How do I know? Because no matter how loudly he's crying or how upset he is, all I have to do is sing this song.

And he will stop and listen. More than anything, this is how I know he is my son.

Kissing a baby on the lips is hilarious

He just has no idea what to do with it. Sometimes he'll try to suck on your lip, and sometimes he'll burp on your face, and sometimes he'll get distracted by a lamp. Once I kissed him on the lips a bunch while he was screaming and crying, and he got so confused that he just gave up and fell asleep. Just like I do when I try to watch cricket.

You love me way more than I thought you did

I've always known that you loved me, of course, what with all the care and hugs and lessons and service and other parenting deeds. About a week in, I was sitting in the living room with the little chub laying on my chest, and my heart really, really hurt with how much love was in it. And then I sort of remembered how you must have felt the same way at some point, when your kids were born.

So really this letter is just to thank you for that, for loving me so much. I don't deserve it, and neither does my son. That's what makes it real love, I guess.

Your son,

Jordan

Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft.