Brandon Sanderson · Woodworking · Writing

Updates, Updates, Updates

First Update:

For those of you wondering, I won first place from the 2018 Placer County (June 18-21) for “Kaladin & Syl and the First Ideals”. It was Awesome!

Second Update:

Amazing Microfiction is on a short hiatus while I do some work on my Fantasy novel Reflections of Ruin. I have made made more progress in the last month than in the last three years thanks to a program called Aeon Timeline.

Third Update:

In conjunction with writing Reflections of Ruin, I have a side project that is directly related. So here is a sneak peek at what might show up in my novel…

Hand made, custom designed Aetheric Wands…


Daily Writing – September 2017

I tried this last month and people seemed to like it so I’m back with more selections from my Daily Writing Journal. These are meant to be short 50 word or more blurbs to get myself in the writing mood. There is no form or continuity to the blurbs, they are just random thoughts from my brain to the keyboard. Enjoy!


Blood pooled on the floor of the observation deck, collecting the droplets that fell from above. The body hung from the scaffling wrapped in a canvas tarp like a butterfly in a cocoon. The bottom of the tarp, where the body had shifted, was stained crimson.

One of the workmen had found the body after he had returned from lunch. Now the authorities were on their way, sirens blaring. More time for the murderer to escape. More time for the murderer revel in his victory.


Alan was pressed against the ship’s hull. Several of the ropes securing the cargo had become loose, sending wooden crates tumbling across the room. One of those crates had pinned Alan’s leg between one of the crates and the hull.

He felt a warm rush flood up his leg, a fire burning, spreading slowly though his body. His foot tingled and it felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.


If this was the best tavern in town, he should just give up now. There were over half a dozen nudgers prowling around the bar, some leaning against the stair’s railings, and others sat at tables trying to lure in the next mark. All he wanted was a drink.

One of then walked up to him and gave him wink and smile. This particular nudger, a woman in her thirties, though it was sometimes hard to tell. That line of work seemed to unnaturally age women, stealing their youth as well as their innocence. He always felt sorry for them, praying to the Almighty that he would protect them from the harm.


Olan jerked away from the guards grasp and stumbled down the hall. He hadn’t done anything wrong, it was that brat. That stupid little street urchin who rummaged through the garbage. What had he done now?

“Stop!” Called the Guard.

“I didn’t do anything! Go away!” Alan spouted as he loped down the old alleyway.

“We just want to talk to you!”

Talk! Ha! When did a copper ever just want to talk? They just wanted to blame him for something that urchin had done.

The guard stopped. He would come back eventually. Besides, he had the man’s coin purse that he’d dropped coming out of the pub. That little street urchin had found it and turned it in to him.


There was nothing grander than a view from atop the Dock-tower as the sun was rising. Corim watched as the sun stretched itself over the horizon, the sunlight causing the distant storm clouds reflecting it’s orange glow.

Far below him few noticed the sunrise. The Docks were full and there were plenty of airships waiting to take their turn unloading. Dockworkers, unloaded ships at an astounding rate. Corim Smiled. This was how life was supposed to be. Tradesmen and merchants buying and shipping their wares, and Corim collected the docking fees.


Light reflected off the cold grey of the gun barrel giving the snipers position away. A moment later a body fell from the roof of the warehouse, the corpse just missing a street vendor selling meat pies. There were screams as people noticed the body. Typical of these city folk.

He had found one assassin, but there were two more stalking. That could be just rumor but he didn’t think so…


Maro Lonewolf watched the crowd gather at the base of the oak tree, the one that the locals called The Hanging Tree. As one would expect, this tree had been a favorite of local lynch mobs since before Maro could remember. Today would be no different.

One of the homesteaders had caught a burglar whom had broken into his home and attacked his wife. The husband had found the man, pulled the him off of his wife, and had beaten him until he’d quit moving.


Skin Trade Cover , Facebook, and Other Thoughts

Well another weekend has come and gone. Tonight I head back to grindstone, but before I do, I thought I would catch you all up on a few points of interest.

I have been working on a new angle for my novel and an very pleased by it. I’ll talk more about this in a future post. Here is a small teaser, the temporary cover art for “Skin Trade” my current fantasy/mystery writing project.


I have made a Facebook Page for Arcane Gearsmith and you can check it out for yourself by clicking the link here or in the sidebar. (This is still in flux so please be patient).

Also check out my previous post “Daily Writing – August 2017”, there are more than a few good ideas there. They are meant to be short 50 word or more blurbs. There is no context, no reference, just the random thoughts put on a page.

That’s it for now.

– Michael


Daily Writing – August 2017

One of the things we authors often forget to write about in our Blogs are the things the readers want. We tend to talk an awful lot about the art of writing and how we cope with different issues that commonly plague wordsmiths.

Well today I’m going to try something different. This Blog should satisfy both writers and readers. I started a Daily Writing Log a week or so ago and I am posting my results for all to read.

These are meant to be short 50 word or more blurbs. There is no context, no reference, just the random thoughts put on a page.


If the boredom didn’t get Alfred the frostbite would. It was sparking freezing. He had been assigned to this guard post nearly a month ago and in that time the weather had gone from damp and cold to freezing and miserable.

Alfred laughed. The regiment had given him summer supplies. Summer! The quartermaster was probably either drunk or cleaning out his stock and had just given him the most easily accessible supply packs. Summer his ass! It was sparking freezing!


Flames raced through the small window opening. The fire danced and moved to the currents of air, the flow of the wind, the trail of fuel for the fire. Greedily the flames leapt at the fresh source of life. Old dusty curtains, long dry and brittle, caught the sparks and within moments exploded into flame.

The old house was nothing but decaying wood and clay bricks, it would be enveloped by the fire, dined on by the hungry heat of the flames.


“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Darren scoffed. “You. You’re the problem! From the minute you got here all you’ve done is order us around. And we’re tired of it!”

Retu smiled. “Listen here dirtbag, I didn’t come down here, into this filth to be yelled at. I came to warn you of an attack. If you don’t want my help, fine.
You and your tunnel rats can die without me. I’ve got better things to do, like clipping my nose hair. Excuse me.” Retu turned walking back up the tunnel with out saying another word.


Gwen’s head felt like it was going to break open. She was unable to move, tied to the damp stone altar with thick leather cords that cut into her wrists and ankles. Her head was immobile as well, fastened to the altar by a braided leather mesh. It was similar to a horses bridal, but much more rigid. There was even a wooden bit jammed into her mouth to prevent her hurting herself.

The water dripped again, smacking her in the middle of the forehead. Gwen counted to herself: One. Two. Three. She reached a count of thirteen and was struck by another drop of water. Again the counting. Again the drop. Over and over. How long had it been. She had counted the dripping water thousands upon thousands of times. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her mouth dry as a desert.

Gwen was weak. She could feel it in her bones. She wouldn’t last much longer. Then, a peace came over her, like a wave of comfort and warmth. Her body relaxed, the tense muscles resting after the strain. She knew had done it. She had passed the test. She knew she had saved her people.


Enoch stood at the edge of the precipice, his life-force quickly fading away. His bare feet cold against the damp stone of the cliff. Streams of water rushed past his feet spraying jets of mist out into the abyss below.

They had told him not to look down. Trust the Elders. Jump. You will be safe.
Despite their assurances Enoch was terrified. Jump over the edge of the cliff? Where they mad? Why had he agreed to do this?

He looked over the edge. Blackness. The mist tumbled into the chasm and disappeared. If he fell that same darkness would consume him too. Panic rose in him, his body shaking in fear.

Then without provocation he remembered why he was here. With in moments he stopped shaking. His fear vanishing. Enoch closed his eyes and leapt into the abyss. He was at peace, floating through the air, knowing his mother would live with his sacrifice.


Hokar crouched on a high limb of a runewood tree watching the pack of Jakk Wolves far below him. He had spotted the creatures while he was hunting along the deep forest game trail that he had found a few days ago. The trail lead to a series of small ponds fed from an underground stream. The wolves were slowly coming in behind the other animals, the pack spreading out like fan to prevent escaping prey.
Hokar knew that this is how The Wilds were. There were predators and prey. And he knew that he should not interfere with the Circle, no matter how much he wanted to. He was a Protector of The Wilds, not it’s nursemaid.


Nefa sat on the mud brick roof, legs dangling care free over the side of her dwelling. This had been her family home for as long as she could remember. The narrow canyon walls were only a stones throw away. But the canyon was deceptive, like the coa snake, like her clan.

Lioc, the elder spirit had made this hidden valley for them. He had molded it from the land, shaping it with his will, and was given the blessing of the Mother Spirit. A gift to the Children of the Plains.

Nefa’s father, the clan elder had found this place. A place for his people to hide from the invaders, the thieves who plundered this land for their unseen King.


Jero watched as the Elder traced the ancient symbols onto the sand covered ground. The first was Loic, Spirit of Safety. Next came Niku, the Mother Spirit, Spirit of Healing. Finally the Elder drew the symbol of Korak, the Spirit of Justice, and of Revenge.

Jero looked up to meet the eyes of the Elder. There was a twinkle of amusement in them. How had he known?

The elder smiled back at Jero. The Elder pulled a small leather pouch of crystal dust and a slowly covered the symbols. The Elder nodded to Jero.

Jero closed his eyes and began singing the song of Renewal. The Elder waited for the song to begin again then joined his raspy voice to the song.


There was never enough time. The old man cursed looking over his shoulder. The crowd was coming closer. He had to escape.

The old man turned, stumbling down the dark alley and away from the angry masses. He moved with astonishing speed. The speed with which fear powered a man forward.


Sara reached out toward her sister, desperately flailing her arms to break her restraint. “No!”

“Hold her, damn you! Keep her back!”

A scream tore through the air like thunder. Her sister’s scream full of anguish and pain.

“What are you doing to her? Animals!” Sara began to sob, still helplessly trying to pull away from her tormentor.

Murmurs rippled through the small crowd of people that were around her sister. Another scream. The crowd suddenly quieted.

A cry pierced the night. A sweet high pitched thing, that meant only one thing.
Sara Smiled. Her baby niece had finally arrived.


Jena had to get away from this place. The stone walls, the stone floors, even the stone doors, disturbed her. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

There were dazzling tapestries to cover the damp walls, thick rich carpets to cover the cold floor, and and warm fires in stone hearths. None of these made her feel any better because she knew she could never leave.


Crafting World-Building Elements

I am getting back into the writing mindset. It has been a while since I have written any significant amount of fiction because of my last project the Elite Aetheric Wave Disruptor Rifle Mark – I and I am itching to get back to it. The Rifle was a form of research for my novels. One of the characters created the weapon, as I did, by hand. It took me over 100 hours over 5 months to complete but the insights I gain will eventually surface in my writing.

Concept drawings are another way of world-building for your stories. I use both pencil and paper, and an 12.9 iPad Pro with Apple Pencil, to create these images. Here are a couple images I made on the iPad Pro in a program called Procreate.

Visuals can often help to focus our descriptions and include details we often exclude in our writing. Did you notice the Dragon-born armor is a mix of Samurai and Ancient Greek armor? Did you notice the Acorn hull and leaves as part of the Mites’ armor? These are the types of details that can be forgotten in descriptions.

Once again these are just a couple of examples of Creating World-Building for your ideas, and certainly not the only examples of what you can do.



Realism, Research, and Writing

Welcome to the Arcane Gearsmith!

This blog is about the creation of things, both of physical objects and of the written word. One often influences the other.

For example in one of my stories a lone survivor of a religious order crafts a magically infused Quaterstaff. I, as the author, crafted my own physical version of that Quarterstaff. I spent weeks designing, sanding, woodburning, polishing, and sealing my own Quaterstaff all to understand my character better. One of the results is that I was able to get deeper into characters thoughts. I could relate to the character as he burned the symbols into the wood because I had done it myself. 

Familiarity can bring realism to your written work, and believability to your characters and stories. Creating the Quarterstaff was a form of research. 

I also research areas of interest related to my writing as well, as do many authors. I have listened to hundreds of hours of college level lectures on subjects such as The Industrial Revolution, Victorian England, The Rise and Fall of the British Empire, Daily Life in Ancient Civilizations, and many other topics, all of which help me to ground my writing in Realism.

So long for now. Keep tinkering and writing.