Long overdue, but I’ve created a “Published Work for Sale” page, which is linked from the sidebar to the right. At the moment that includes only the two novelettes I’ve self-published, but I’ll probably add links to some of the other work I’ve done that’s still in print. Also, as I release more work it will be added to that list. Links from there to the appropriate pages on Amazon. Hint, hint.
After a long delay, the first story in my “Human Destiny” setting is now available as an e-book on Amazon:
“Pilgrimage” is a 14700-word novelette, telling the story of how sixteen-year-old Aminata Ndoye first came to the attention of the alien interstellar empire that rules Earth. After Aminata is granted an unexpected degree of privilege by the imperial government, she is unsure as to whether to accept – unsure as to whether she can trust the aliens at all. She embarks on a journey of discovery, and what she learns may determine the path of her life . . . but first she has to survive the experience.
I first wrote “Pilgrimage” a couple of years ago, while taking an online seminar on the art of writing from diverse perspectives. The character of Aminata Ndoye had been in the back of my mind for a while – at the time, I had already written a novella about her and was shopping it around to markets – but I was inspired to write her “origin story” as an exercise for the seminar. Since then the story has seen quite a bit of revision, and I’ve decided to quit sitting on it and get it published.
Next up is the novella, which I hope to have available sometime next week, and then it’s on to a new story based on my world-building project from last month.
Pivoting from the project I worked on through most of June, I’ve decided to spend July getting some stories self-published. Specifically, the first two or three of the stories I’ve written in my “Human Destiny” universe.
This is a setting in which humanity is conquered in the mid-21st century by an interstellar empire called the Khedai Hegemony. The Hegemony then proceeds to govern Earth with a surprising degree of detached benevolence, providing peace, long life, prosperity, and more individual freedom than most humans have ever enjoyed under human rule. The cost, of course, is humanity’s control over its own fate.
Two hundred years later, and much to everyone’s surprise, the Hegemony opens the door to permit a few exceptional humans to serve as officers in the “interstellar service,” a starship fleet with combined roles of exploration, contact, and enforcement of law and policy. Kind of like Star Trek‘s Starfleet, if that was run by non-humans, and if it very much did not have a Prime Directive of non-interference.
One of the first humans to earn a commission in the interstellar service is Aminata Ndoye, a woman who grew up in what we would think of as Senegal. Eventually she reaches command rank in the service, many thousands of years before anyone expected a human to do so. From there she plays a part in establishing humanity’s long-term role in the galaxy: the human destiny.
Over the past couple of years, I’ve already written two stories about Aminata, and my work through June has given me a fair amount of inspiration for a third. So I’ve decided to stop sitting on these stories and start self-publishing them. Which means I need to be thinking about cover images. So, over this weekend, I broke out my favorite 3D-modeling tools and started putting together a cover image for the first story. That work isn’t finished, but I have a pretty good start, a head-shot of Aminata herself as a young woman, just starting out on her career.
Here she is:
This image fits a scene late in the story, in which Aminata dresses up very formally (including the hijab which Senegalese women rarely wear) before a visit to the local Hegemony governor, an encounter which sets her on the path that eventually leads her to the stars.
A bit more work and I should have a complete book cover. One more editing pass through the story itself, and I’ll transpose that into e-book format for publication. With any luck, that story will be up on Amazon by the end of this week.
One of the occasional pitfalls I see in genre writing is the awkward use of constructed vocabulary, usually in the production of names, sometimes in the development of bits of exotic dialogue. This is usually to suggest the living language of a fantastic culture. Unfortunately, many authors are careless about this and seem to come up with their constructed vocabulary at random, so we end up with “Qadgop the Mercotan” or something equally silly. (Five kudos to anyone who recognizes the source of that name, which did in fact appear in a piece of genre fiction. At least in that case the author was trying to be silly.)
The world-building challenge is to produce an actual constructed language from which names and bits of vocabulary can emerge organically. There’s something aesthetically pleasing about this when it’s well done. The human brain seems to recognize the internal logic of a well-constructed language, even if we’re not fluent in it. J. R. R. Tolkien, of course, was the past master at this, but a lot of other authors (and hobbyists) have had a crack at it over the years.
For The Curse of Steel, I’ve decided to build at least one constructed language, mostly for naming purposes. Since I tend to insist on doing things the hard way, I’m actually building an “ur-language” and producing my primary language by applying a consistent set of sound-changes. In the back of my mind, I have half a thought that I may need a second constructed language, one that feels related to the first, rather as (e.g.) Greek and Latin are both members of the Indo-European language family. If and when I go that far, I can generate words in the second language by applying a different set of sound-changes to the ur-language roots I’ve developed.
The past few days have been fairly productive in this area. I seem to have finally developed a work-flow that actually functions, without getting me snarled up in unnecessary details of semantics, grammar, or phonology. In particular, I decided to write some text in English and “translate” that, developing new vocabulary and bits of grammar as needed. At the moment, I have about sixty words of vocabulary, several rules of inflection and word morphology, and about a page of notes on semantic structure. Enough to produce an actual paragraph of text:
Esi degra tremárakai múr kresdan. Esi kráva degraka bendír. Augrinír tan esa nekám velka devam. Enkorír skátoi taino. Antekrír skátoi tainmuro, dún begrír tan múr bákha. Vóki degra velka kresdani, dún tarthámi da skátoi. Verti kráva ked saka kó márai. Asgáni skátokai kestan, dún verti dó an atrethen degra. Rethi kráva arekhton saka padír, dún verti sa múr skáto. Dághi kráva aspera rethen skátoka klávo; esi dó kresdághen, dún esi dó degraka danpreta.
A rough back-translation into English would read something like this:
Lion was a great warrior of the Mighty People. Raven was Lion’s daughter. One night they visited the Wolf-clan. Orcs attacked the hill-fort. The orcs broke into the stockade and threatened to do great harm. Lion summoned the Wolf warriors, and opposed the orcs. Raven slew many with her bow. A chieftain of the orcs came forth, and slew Lion in single combat. Raven fought to avenge her father, and slew the great orc. After the battle, Raven took the orc’s sword, as a spoil of war and as Lion’s weregild.
You’ll recognize that as a one-paragraph summary, in pseudo-epic style, of the first chapter of The Curse of Steel, posted a few days ago here.
A few notes:
The convention in this language is to tell stories in the present tense, which is how the untranslated passage is written. In English, of course, narrative is normally framed in past tense.
The language has a very strict verb-subject-object (VSO) sentence structure. VSO languages are uncommon, although not unheard of; notably, many of the Celtic languages use that structure. It seemed appropriate, since I have a sense that Kráva’s people resemble the ancient Celts in many respects. Using a very strict word order helps with the design, since strongly positional languages don’t need quite as elaborate a system of noun or verb inflections.
I’m using a system of word roots very similar to the reconstructed Proto-Indo-European vocabulary, although in most cases I’m deliberately selecting different roots. The result should be a language that sounds as if it would be at home in the Indo-European family, without actually bearing more than a superficial resemblance to any one IE language.
A few pieces of vocabulary I’m rather pleased with:
skáto “orc” is from a word root that means “to hate,” with a noun suffix that implies a “thing” rather than a living creature or human being. Essentially, a skáto is a “thing that hates,” and notably not a person that hates. Yes, Kráva’s people really don’t like orcs.
There’s a whole vocabulary around the word kresa “war,” including kresdan “warrior” (or literally “war-man”) and kresdághen (“plunder, spoils,” literally “war-taking”). Some cultures have a hundred words for snow, but I suspect Kráva’s people may have dozens of words for armed conflict.
arekht- literally means “to set straight,” but it also carries the meanings of “to make right,” “to carry out justice,” and “to avenge.” Which probably is another clue about this culture. Related to that is the word danpreta “man-price,” or more appropriately “weregild.”
Now that I’ve been able to produce one paragraph, I can probably develop more as needed, hanging more bits of vocabulary and syntax onto the partial framework I have. I think the next piece of this project will be to start assembling a map for the story, and coming up with names for terrain features and settlements. Not sure whether I’ll do that immediately, or get back to working on Architect of Worlds again . . .
One of my great weaknesses as a writer is that my mind has all the discipline of a butterfly. Flit, flit, now here, now there. I can decide to concentrate on Project A for a few days or weeks, until I reach a milestone . . . but then my brain settles on Project B, or Project C, or something else entirely, and refuses to do what I tell it to do. If I want to make progress on anything, it needs to be whatever is currently holding my attention.
I’ve learned to live with this.
At the moment, Project C appears to be a “gritty Iron Age fantasy” story, with a roughly Conanesque feel to it. The working title for the story is The Curse of Steel, and it’s probably going to end up as a novel. I have about 25 kilowords of a rough draft down now, although I didn’t get much work done on it throughout 2017.
The world-building is fairly straightforward. I’m doing some constructed-language work. I’m also running with the conceit that various generic fantasy races (counterparts to elves, dwarves, orcs, and so on) are actually derived from multiple hominid species evolving together on the same planet. For a while I was considering actually setting the story on an early-Holocene Earth (see this link for a map I cobbled together while I was working out the details) but I think I’ve set that idea by the wayside.
At the moment, butterfly-brain seems to be interested in pushing this project forward for a few days. Best to roll with that.
So, to pique your interest, here’s Chapter One of the draft novel.
Deep in the night, Krava sensed a presence. She snapped awake, one hand already gripping the knife beside her on the pallet. Then a familiar shape and scent put her at ease.
“What is it, father?” she murmured.
Degra grunted. “Some trouble outside. Arm yourself, and come.”
He withdrew. Now Krava could hear voices and movement, from elsewhere in the hall. Men and women of the Wolf-clan rose from sleep, seized their own weapons, moved toward the entrance in a confusion of bodies and dim firelight.
Then, from outside: shouts of sudden terror.
Krava rolled off the pallet, convinced now of the need to hurry. She pulled on trousers and jerkin of hardened leather, hung her blade at her side, strung her bow, and caught up her quiver full of arrows. She emerged from the cubicle old Duvelka had assigned her, and crossed to the entrance.
She emerged into firelight and chaos.
Whoever attacked Duvelka’s hill-fort had gained almost complete surprise. The Wolf-clan streamed out of their round-houses, into the open yard in the center of the enclosure, only to find the enemy already past the rampart and the gates. There had been no time to form a defensive line on the open ground. Already the foe ran as they pleased, cutting down anyone they found alone and unarmed. They hurled torches to set haystacks ablaze, and the thatched roofs of the round-houses.
Krava got a good look at the enemy, and felt a chill of fear in her gut. Not any of the Mighty People, not even any kind of foreigner she could recognize. Not human at all. They stood upright, two arms and two legs, they carried weapons, but their color! Fish-belly pale, corpse-from-the-river pale. They were stocky things, banded with muscle, with heavy jaws full of sharp carnivore teeth.
Almost without thought, she nocked an arrow, took aim, and shot one of the invaders through the throat.
Skatoi, she thought. How are they here? We’re at least a hundred and fifty leagues from the Black River.
A deep shout captured Krava’s attention. Degra stood firm in the center of the yard, bawling orders, gathering what few of the Wolf-clan had their wits about them. A burly young man stepped up beside him, then a tall woman with a spear. Order began to appear out of confusion.
Naturally, this attracted the attention of the skatoi. A hand of the creatures rushed forward, barking a harsh battle-cry in unison.
Krava glanced around, and saw a cart standing beside Duvelka’s hall. Quickly, she took three steps and vaulted up into the cart, to get a better vantage point from which to shoot.
Degra roared in wordless defiance, setting his feet and holding his shield high.
At the last moment, one of Krava’s arrows took one of the skatoi in the left eye, sending it shrieking to the ground. It seemed to blunt the enemy’s momentum. When they crashed into Degra’s position, he and his new shield-companions managed to hold their line.
More of Duvelka’s people entered the open yard, struggling toward the growing defensive line.
Krava aimed and fired, aimed and fired. There is a difference between speed and haste, said a memory, in her father’s voice. Even if you must fire quickly, make sure of every shot.
Degra twisted his iron blade in the guts of one of the enemy, then yanked it back out with a shout of triumph. The skatoi line began to waver.
Then it appeared. Bigger than any of the other foes, it wore a corselet of black iron rings, and a tall helm crowned with black feathers. Krava could see nothing of its face, except the red gleam of eyes, and the wicked points of its fangs. In its weapon-hand it brandished a great sword, unlike any Krava had ever seen, one that shimmered like fine silver in the firelight. It barked orders, and then charged the Wolf-clan line, right where Degra stood trading blows with another enemy.
“Father!”
Krava ignored all the other skatoi, firing three arrows in rapid succession at the massive leader. One missed. The second was deflected by the creature’s helmet. The third struck its shield.
Degra finished his opponent, just a moment too late.
The creature arrived. Like lightning, its sword flickered out, getting past the guard of the spear-maiden to Degra’s left. She went down, clutching at her belly. Like thunder, its shield smashed down at the big man to Degra’s right. He fell, stunned or insensible, and did not move.
Degra stood alone. Krava couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell how he reacted to the enormous skato looming over him, or the wave of its followers just an instant behind. He braced himself, presenting his shield, as if the line around him hadn’t just been shattered.
The shining sword swept upward, then downward.
Degra shifted his weight, turning his shield to deflect the blade just enough. His own sword slashed at the creature, rebounding from its shield with a hollow boom.
The noise of the battle slowed, as Wolf-clan and skatoi on all sides turned to watch the duel of champions. Krava thought about trying to shoot her father’s opponent, but the two of them were too closely engaged, moving too quickly. She stood with an arrow to the string, ready to fire if any of the other monsters tried to intervene.
Degra and the skato circled slowly, each to the left, no longer pretending to command their shield-walls. They fenced with their shield-edges, their swords lashing out into momentary openings, neither of them making a successful cut for a time. Degra managed to get through once, opening a shallow gash across his opponent’s thigh. The skato responded with a snake’s-tongue cut that nearly took out Degra’s right eye. The next time Krava saw her father’s face, it streamed with blood.
The skato was well-armed, aggressive, big, and terribly strong. Degra was the veteran of a hundred battles, and all the People respected his courage . . . but he also had seen more than forty winters. He would never complain, but Krava knew that he had begun to slow down during regular drill.
Sky Father, be with him now.
Then the chant began. One of the Wolf-clan, then a few more, then all of them. Calling her father’s name. “De-gra, De-gra, De-gra . . .”
The skatoi broke into a frenzy of yelps and barks, brandishing their weapons. Their leader bared its fangs and emitted a long, rasping growl.
“What are you waiting for?” Degra demanded.
The big skato moved, a sudden rush, trying to overwhelm Degra through sheer mass. It launched a flurry of blows. Degra blocked them all with his shield, which was beginning to look rather battered . . . but for a moment, he was off-balance, his shield held too far to his left.
The skato got the edge of its own shield inside Degra’s, and pushed.
Degra stood exposed, nothing but his sword to protect him for a moment. He saw the next blow coming, and swept his blade up to meet his enemy’s, going for the bind-and-recover that would continue the fight.
The silver blade flashed as it met Degra’s sword, strength to strength.
With a scream of stressed metal, the defending weapon snapped in half. The point of the iron sword spun away, gleaming dully in the firelight.
As the monster followed through, Degra took a vicious cut, with nothing but his corselet to protect him. The iron links held, but the sheer impact of the blow fell across Degra’s shoulder, tearing ligaments and breaking bones. A snarl of pain and rage tore from his throat. He recoiled, staring in disbelief for an instant at the stump of his blade.
The skato stalked forward, grinning, pushing with its shield.
Degra moved stiffly now, in great pain, barely able to hold what remained of his sword. His shield-work somehow kept the enemy at bay for a moment longer. Yet with only a hand-span of edge left on his blade, he could no longer reach his foe.
Krava jumped down from the cart, running toward her father.
He won’t thank me for breaking the single combat, robbing him of his honor. At least he will be alive to disapprove.
Too late. The skato levered Degra’s shield aside once more, a powerful sword-thrust slamming home right behind. Whatever metal made up the blade, it somehow punched through Degra’s corselet. Degra sagged, dropping the remains of his own sword, and fell to his knees.
A twist of the monster’s wrist, a great sweep of the silver blade, and the sword pointed skyward, dripping with blood. The skato loomed over Degra as he slumped to lie on the ground. It roared in triumph.
All around, the Wolf-clan stared, losing heart. They prepared to run, or to exact a final desperate payment for their lives.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Krava’s last three arrows sprouted in the monster’s exposed torso, piercing its mail.
The skato didn’t seem mortally wounded. Perhaps it wore a leather jerkin under its own corselet, or it was protected by thick muscle. Still, its roar of triumph turned into a hiss of sudden, unexpected pain.
Slowly, deliberately, the monster reached to tear arrows out of its flesh. Blood from the wounds ran down its chest and belly, to drip on the ground. The last arrow it brought to its mouth, to lick the gore from the iron point. Then it cast the arrow aside, and brought its weapons back into guard position. It stared at Krava over the rim of its shield.
“A little girl,” it said in the trade-tongue, with an accent so thick Krava could barely understand it. “Tell me your name, little girl.”
“I am Krava,” she told it, proud of the fact that her voice didn’t shake, that it could cut through the crackle of the flames. She raised her own sword, and her archer’s buckler.
It snorted in contempt. “Raven, ah? I catch ravens, eat them, take their feathers for my hrâsk. Think I will eat you. Make a cup out of your skull.”
Krava smiled, concealing that she wanted very badly to flee wailing into the night. “Come and try,” she said.
It did, a howl-and-charge designed to turn a woman’s guts to water and her legs to rotten strings. The shining sword lashed out.
Krava was not there when it arrived.
The skato turned, attacked again.
Krava dodged and deflected the sword-blow to the side with her buckler. For just an instant, she sensed an opening, and lashed out with her own blade. Her edge laid open another shallow cut across her enemy’s thigh.
She twisted away from blows. She spun toward the creature’s shield-side. She made a long leap backward, leaving her foe off-balance. She deflected the silver blade, never taking its full force on her buckler or the strength of her own sword. Every now and then, she lashed out, forcing the skato to use its shield or take another small cut.
Before long, the monster was bleeding from a dozen minor wounds.
Krava was not as big as her father had been, not as strong, not as experienced in a hundred battles and cattle-raids. She preferred the bow to the brutality of the shield-wall.
Still. The People did not call her Krava the Swift for nothing.
There was no chanting, as there had been for her father. The Wolf-clan and the enemy watched in eerie silence. Watched as the big skato paused for a moment, staring at her, its fetid breath like a bellows.
“You dance,” it said. “Don’t win fight by dancing.”
“You bleed,” Krava responded. “That doesn’t win fights either.”
It moved slightly to its left, its feet shifting.
“Getting tired, monster?” Krava inquired. “That sword getting heavy in your hand?”
“Not yet,” it told her, and charged.
Krava had read its foot-work properly, but that charge was so fast, she still didn’t quite evade in time. She felt the creature’s weight slam into her shield-arm, and felt something give in her shoulder. She lost her balance, falling ungracefully on her arse, the skato looming close over her.
For an instant, she saw an opening. She didn’t take the time to think. She stabbed, with every remaining ounce of her strength.
Her sword point found its way under the skirt of the creature’s corselet, and ran up into its body. It screeched, one leg collapsing, and toppled over on top of her.
There was dead silence for a long moment. Then Krava emerged, shoving the creature’s dead weight to the side. She staggered to her feet and stood in the firelight, covered with her enemy’s blood, and stared wildly about her.
“Well, Wolf-clan?” she demanded. “They can be killed. Let’s get to work!”
A shout went up, and then the howling war-cry of Duvelka’s folk. Men and women surged out into the open yard, their courage restored, and fell upon the skatoi.
Krava did not join them. Suddenly she felt terribly weary, as if she had been fighting for hours. She did a quick inventory and found no open wounds, although her shield-arm snarled with pain and hung useless at her side.
Father.
Degra was still alive, barely, lying in a pool of his own blood with one hand pressed to the great rent in his corselet. Krava fell to her knees beside him. His eyes wandered for a moment, and then focused on her. His lips moved, but it was clear he couldn’t get enough breath into his voice.
“Don’t try to speak, Father.” Krava leaned close over him, to press her lips to his cold forehead. “Your enemy is dead.”
He nodded, his eyes sliding closed. His lips moved again, but even with her ear held very close, Krava could not make out the words. Then he breathed no more.
Krava knelt there for a minute, then two, listening to the sounds of battle. The Wolf-clan seemed to be pressing the last of the skatoi out of the open yard, out into the night. Whatever had driven the monsters to come so far and attack Duvelka’s people, they were paying a heavy price for it.
Not heavy enough.
She pushed herself to her feet, and staggered back the way she had come, back to where the big skato lay alone on the bloody ground. Standing over the creature, she picked up its weapon and examined it.
Beautiful. Straight and sharp. It will do.
She stood over the dead skato, raised the bright sword high, and then struck with all her might.
When the Wolf-clan’s warriors returned, they found a spear standing in the earth at Degra’s feet. Impaled on the blade, the skato’s head stared sightlessly into the darkness. A trophy to watch over Degra’s journey to the Otherworld.
Most of the past week, I’ve been spending on fan-fiction. I set myself a bit of a challenge for the next chapter I’ve been working on. I have a scene in mind in which my protagonist (a mage-Warden originally from the Dragon Age: Origins video game) is required to improvise some verse in honor of his beloved wife. So I decided to actually produce some verse.
As a poet, I make a pretty good carpenter, so it took me a surprisingly long time to come up with a sonnet I could live with. Here it is. I find it isn’t actually all that closely tied to the Dragon Age setting, aside from a single reference in the second quatrain. This piece should also appear in the next chapter of The Voice of Silence, as soon as I can get about a thousand more words down.
She walks along the margins of the night,
A creature wrought of secrets and desire,
With hair as dark as raven’s wings in flight,
Her golden eyes alight with reason’s fire.
In truth, she loves bright gold and precious stones,
The better for her beauty to adorn,
Yet Chantry’s power and might of kingly thrones
She never stoops to hold them but in scorn.
Still I know well the passions bright that burn
Within that guarded breast and wounded heart;
I count it all my fortune thus to earn
A husband’s welcome place in her regard.
Tho’ walk I now in winter’s bitter scope,
I trust, in her, to find the summer’s hope.
Okay, having finished a rewrite of the first chunk of the Architect of Worlds design sequence, I’m going to spend a few days working on other items on the to-do list.
In particular, I have one fan-fiction project under way (The Voice of Silence, a Dragon Age piece) that hasn’t been updated in over a month. Once I’ve put down two or three chapters on that, I’ll probably come back to Architect of Worlds and start on the next section of the design sequence.
I also want to get some work done on the “Human Destiny” setting. I have two stories of novelette and novella length in that setting, more or less finished and ready for a final coat of polish and self-publication. I want to flesh out the background for those a bit, and then get them out the door finally. That may generate some new world-building material to be posted here and at the Archive.
Finally, I have an original fantasy setting coalescing in the back of my mind, associated with what’s likely to turn into at least one complete novel. That’s third or fourth on the priority list, though.
Feels good to be writing on a regular basis once more.
In the fall of 2016, I was getting a bit discouraged over the lack of takeoff in my writing career. I had written a number of books for the tabletop gaming industry, I had published about a million words of successful fan-fiction, and I was getting a series of decent non-boilerplate rejection notes from mainstream publishers. I just didn’t seem to be able to get over that last potential-energy barrier to start seeing my work in print.
Then Tuesday, the eighth of November happened.
Suffice it to say that I was strongly motivated to withdraw from public engagement at that point. I shut down my blog, deleted my social-media accounts, and resolved to just concentrate on my family and my day job for a while. I even stopped writing entirely for several months.
Since then, some of the things I feared have come to pass, while others have not (at least not yet). Yet life seems to be going on, and I eventually found myself writing again.
Already, I had set up a new website for static content (Sharrukin’s Archive) although I never generated enough material to populate that. Unfortunately, by the time I thought about emerging from my cave again, the domain name I originally used for my online activity had been captured by a domain squatter. It was being used to advertise cars, I think. So, rather than negotiate with the squatter and possibly end up paying hundreds of dollars to get my domain back, I let the situation lie.
Then, early this year, on an impulse I checked the domain’s registration status. Apparently it had been permitted to lapse again, and would be available for recapture sometime early this year. So I watched, and when the domain was deleted from the Internet registries I grabbed it.
Sharrukin’s Palace is back in business.
My approach to writing has changed a bit over the past couple of years. I’m no longer trying to get short fiction published. Instead, I’m working on some large-scale world-building and developing a couple of full-length novels. When I have material ready, that will go to Amazon for self-publication.
Meanwhile, I plan to try to post some work here at least once a week: reviews of media I find interesting, essays and progress reports on my writing process, world-building material, short excerpts of stories destined for self-publication, and so on. Anything that seems worth preserving as a full-fledged article will also be copied over to the static Sharrukin’s Archive site.
You know the old saying: the devil laughs when we make plans. We’ll see how things go.