Monday, December 4, 2017

Point of View in novel writing

Turner Hahn
The next Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novel will be different. Different in a couple of ways.To begin with, I'm going to write the next novel in a Third Person Multiple Point of View. And secondly, I'm going to introduce two detectives who happen to work on the same shift with Turner and Frank.

I'm experimenting.

In writing . . .writing fiction in particular . . . there is this ever-constant debate as to which POV tells the better story. Usually the debate revolves around First Person Singular (I shot the sonofabitch between the gonads just for the hell of it!)  and any one of the two or three versions of Third Person POV's (He shot the perpetrator between his rather dried up, shriveled canaries with great sense of emotional release.)

The last three Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novels I've written have been in the First Person POV. But I'm wondering if maybe . . . just maybe . . .a Third Person Multiple POV might make for a clearer, more interesting portrait of the two.

So far I am 100 pages into the fourth Turner/Frank novel using Third Person Multiple.The change of venue in looking at the story is different, even unique.The story itself is flowing along nicely (when I finally get the time to WRITE!!!) 

Oh.Sorry.That's one half of me who believes working for a living and paying the bills is as important as the other half in me . . . who thinks writing and telling stories is just as important (even if you don't have money to buy food and toilet paper and other such luxuries a person expects to have around.)

But I have, in this first 100 pages, made one conclusion. Naw. I'm not giving up writing in First Person Singular. The act of enticing the reader into the mind of the fictional character to participate in a voyage of discover cannot be achieved as effectively in any other format.

On the other hand, I don't mind writing in the Third Person voice, either. A different view. A different flavor. A wider take of the world around the characters.

Frank Morales
So there's that. The other thing, about more cops in the next novel, is something new. I'm populating Turner and Frank's world with more people who work alongside them. Maybe making the novel a more complete police-procedural ensemble in the process. 

Turner and Frank work the second-shift homicide desk. The squad room has other detectives assigned to different desks. It's time to bring them in. Time to get them to assist Turner and Frank and vice-versa. 

Just time to make the world more whole.

Monday, October 23, 2017

The return of Turner Hahn and Frank Morales

A Taste of Old Revenge
Oh boy!  Turner Hahn and Frank Morales are back in A Taste Of  Old Revenge.  Even better, take a look at the book cover.  Endeavour Press (a UK publisher) went all-out in coming up with a spiffy design.

What makes me really feel good about their return is this; Endeavour wants to run with the Turner/Frank series.  Not just the one, but more to come (they already have a short-story collection featuring Turner and Frank, plus another full-length novel waiting in the wings).  To say I am as happy as a tick on a coon dog, or as pleased as a pastry chef  swimming in a sea of chocolate syrup, would be understating it.

As for as this one goes, many of you are already familiar the story.

Turner and Frank are homicide detectives.  Not just ordinary, run-of-the-mill kind of flat feet.  These guys get dumped on.  The take the cases too difficult for others to handle.  And usually more than just one case at a time.  Murders happen in a big city.  And in some cities, they come in clusters.  So multiple cases thrown onto your desk, if you are a detective, is not uncommon.

In this one, one case involves a old dead man--a survivor of a Nazi concentration camp.  While investigating, the two run into the FBI, the Israeli Mossad, and a nasty little organization of ex-Nazis who called themselves Odessa.


The second case they're working on involves a kid gunned down viciously while working his part-time job in a local convenience store, AI computer programming, the theft of millions of dollars out of war torn Iraq.  And more.

No.  You shouldn't get bored reading this book.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Apparently, I know nothing about movies, Jon Snow

King Arthur. The Legend of the Sword.  Saw the trailers for this months ago and couldn't wait to see it.  A different take on the old King Arthur legend, we were told.  Fine.  I like some 'different' interpretations of old stories.

When it came out I hurried off and sat in the theater and watched ever second of it.  Loved it.  I mean . . . I really loved it. 

It had snappy dialogue.  Smart dialogue.  It had a riveting cast.  I thought Jude Law's performance as Vortigen, was absolutely marvelous.  Especially those scenes where he tortured himself killing those he loved, his wife and daughter, in order to acquire supernatural power in finding and destroying Arthur.  I mean, baby, to me, that was some set of chops when it came to acting!

And Charles Hunnam as the grown King Arthur.  He made Arthur human.  One smart, tough cookie.  A guy raised in the back streets of a mythological London who grew up to be a natural born leader.

And when he had to be mean, baby . . . he was extremely capable of knocking the teeth out of anyone.  Loved his interpretation of the King Arthur character.

So the movie had an excellent cast. It had excellent writers.  It had, I thought, a visionary directory who wanted to paint . . . and did in my opinion . . . a different look for the Arthur legend. It had academy-award winning cinematographers and academy-ward winning set designers.  It seemed to have all the tools and components for a stunning box-office success.

It flopped big time at the box-office.

Apparently it cost something like $175,000,000 to make the movie.  It earned, at the box-office, only $140,000,000,

And my question is;  How was this possible?

Critics have come forward and said the editing of the movie was terrible.  Somewhere in the middle of the film it broke down.  Where . . . I don't know.  I thought it flowed wonderfully.  Others have said the director's image of Arthur was all wrong.  It was against the traditional cannon of all the previous Arthur movies.  In other words, it didn't fit the accepted mold, or type-casting, an Arthur movie should be in.

I thought the idea for this movie was to do something different? Apparently not.

Okay, okay . . . I get it.  The critics said the movie was terrible.  And we peons should accept their more experienced, more considered, decrees as gospel.


I thought it was a very good movie.  So good I'm going out to by the DVD and watch it again.  If you didn't like it, that's fine with me.  I loved it.  And in the end, that's all that counts.

Cheers, baby!  We're human.  We're not supposed to be clones nodding in rhythm to the same drummer.  Some of us actually like bass guitars instead.

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Maurice is about to hit the scene . . .Yes, THAT Maurice

My god!  I'm actually writing another blog piece! What the Fajita??!!!  Call the Police!  Alert the news media!!  Jesus St. Marie, he's at it again!

Okay, okay . . . calm down.  Me writing another blog is right up there in importance as, say, the news headline; 'The Pope said another Mass in Latin on Sunday.  And wore glasses doing so.'

No big deal.

But it is in a way.  I've got something new coming out soon (July 24th, to be exact).  Near to the Knuckle is the publisher bringing the novella out and splashing it out in all the big namesakes where you can order it.  Actually, I'm excited about it.  I'd like to see this new creation really take off.  He's definitely a different kind of character for me.

His name is Maurice.

Maurice is . . . well . . . odd.   Nobody actually knows much about him.  Or where he came from.  Or how old he is.  Or how rich he is (although indirect evidence suggests he's loaded).  What they do know is that he is an excellent criminal lawyer.  A gifted detective.  Possibly a dabbler in the supernatural (maybe, if you believe the rumors, even a freakin' warlock).  And looks a bit like Buddha.

He loves the color of pink.  He's sartorial splendor in tailored suits fitting his somewhat slightly chubby body is impeccable.  He loves old cars, especially old American iron convertibles of the 50's and 60's (in pink, of course.)  And he sees ghosts.

In fact, he represents in court those who have recently departed.  Or those who are recently possessed.

He has two faithful employees working for him in his law firm.  One living.  One dead.

The one alive is Randall Cooke.  Randall is, shall we say, the catch-all and do-all when it comes to the daily grind of interviewing the living who are of a criminal nature and have no inclination to speak candidly.  His charm is that he's a tough as a piece of well worked leather.  As hard as a diamond drill bit.  And when he has to be, as mean as a Spartan on steroids.

The dead employee happens to be Randall's recently departed daughter, Tammy.  She's a tom-boy in her twenties.  A smart mouth.  Curious. Fearless.  She finds, interviews, and sometimes intervenes on behalf of Maurice's clients in the afterlife.

Investigating the living.  Investigating the afterlife.  With some kick ass Perry Mason-style court scenes thrown in for color.

Maurice is the beginning.  I'm hoping you're going to love these characters

Sunday, January 22, 2017

The Smitty novel is Done, Done, Done, Done!

It's done.  After about two years of sputtering around, I've finally finished the first full-length Smitty novel.  It's called Dark Retribution.  Comes in a tad over 83,000 words.  It is, in my opinion, a classic example of dark noir.  It is chocked-full of visual imagery which will send you down dark alleys and stumbling around in inky black warehouses filled with potential danger.

Smitty, my little friend, is a killing machine.  But, if you know the guy, he's selective in who he sends off to eternity.  But he's good at it.  Slowly over time I've been quietly converting the guy into a kind of amoral private detective.  Amoral in the sense he usually doesn't let society's standard laws to jump in and refrain him from metering out justice--his form of justice--to bad guys.

So.  The novel is done,  I like it.  I think the two or three fans who've read most of my Smitty short-stories are going to go bananas over it.  Now the question is . . . what do I do with it?

Oh, gosh . . . I gotta a confession to make.  The idea of hammering out inquiries to various lit agents and/or publishers to take a peek at it doesn't appeal to me at all.  But the idea of putting it out there myself isn't that much more appealing.

The question is this;  if you put it out there yourself, and have done something like this in the past, have you had in genuine success at it?  I mean. . . have actually made more than, say, a buck-two-ninty-five selling it yourself.  My suspicion is that no, you haven't.  I know I haven't.  My experience is, if you don't have the moolah to heavily advertise all across the reading spectrum, you're not going to be successful.

So . . . what the hell,  I'll figure something out.

But I thought I'd share this (again.)  A few opening paragraphs from chapter one.  Enjoy.


            Twisted to the breaking point.  Wound so tight he could barely keep his hands under control.  He sat in the booth of the small diner and directly across his partner he tried to act calm.  Tried to look normal.  Impossible.  Even when he lit his cigarette it was obvious.  The hand holding the cigarette lighter danced the flame around at the tip of the cigarette like he was beating a drum.  But flipping the old Zippo closed with a loud snap he slid the shaking hand into a pocket and sat back in the booth.  Eyes filled with worry, he turned and stared into the gloom of a foggy night.
            Knowing he was doing something wrong.  Knowing that, if caught, it would be the end of his career.  The end of everything.  Ten years.  Ten years as a cop.  Flushed down the tubes and forgotten.  If he was caught.  If. . .
            “Artie, you all right?  You feeling sick?”      
He blinked a couple of times, his partner’s voice bringing him out of his dull reverie of the night’s fog and forcing him to turn and look at the red nosed cop sitting in the booth opposite him.
            His partner for the last two years. . . an Irishman by the name of Joe Gallagher, sitting across from him lowered his cup of coffee and looked at him with eyes of concern.  All night long on their shift he had barely spoken three words.  But then the call came in to go out and check on the report of a body lying in the street down in front of Pier 86.  It was another victim.  Another butchered woman.  Number five for the maniac the papers had dubbed ‘The New Jack Ripper.’
            “I’m . . . fine, Joe.  Fine.  It’s just that, well . . . it’s the fifth prostitute killed.  The fifth one on our beat.  Cut to pieces like she was a piece of fine beef fresh from the slaughter house.  Jesus, what a mess.  And what a crowd we had to hold back.  I mean, people everywhere.  Reports and cameramen.  Everywhere.  Down to get a glimpse of the body.  Sick.  Just sick if you ask me.”
            His partner frowned, set the coffee cup on the table, and nodded.  Yeah.  It had been a bloody mess.  Always is when someone is eviscerated.   Just thinking about the gory mess the two of them had stumbled on made him shiver involuntarily. 
            “Listen, the shift’s over.  We can write our reports tomorrow.  Let me drop you off at your house.  Get some rest.  Drink a beer or two.  Try to forget about it.”
            “You go on home, Joe.  I’m supposed to go over to a friend’s house and drink a couple of beers with him.  I’ll just call a cab and wait for it here.”
            Gallagher’s brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he sat in the booth and looked at his partner.  Artie Jones was a good cop.  A very good cop.  Slightly bald, getting a little paunchy around the middle, always a smile on the man’s face.  Yeah, a good cop.  But one who thought too much.  Cared too much.  Maybe . . . maybe tried too hard in trying to make the world a better place.  Not that there was anything wrong in that.  The trying. The caring.  But sometimes it got to you.  Sometimes the meanness of humanity becomes overwhelming. 
            Sometimes, to be brutally honest, it was best to not care so much and just do the job needed to be done.  Better that than driving yourself into an early grave trying to save the souls of those who didn’t want to be saved.
            “All right.  But get some rest, Artie.  Jesus, but you look terrible.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”
            Artie nodded, waved a hand, and smiled as his partner slid out of the booth and walked to the diner’s entrance.  He turned and watched Joe unlock the door to the black and white patrol car and slide in.  It was almost one in the morning.  Dark.  The street lights glowing a dull orange yellow, filling the wind-swept street with an eerie feeling almost palpable.
            What if the sergeant found out?  The Louie?  What if someone sees him talking to him?    Hell!  Was he even going to meet him tonight?  I mean . . . come on!  He was a cop.  He was supposed to stay away for this guy unless he was arresting him for a crime committed.  But hell. His discreet phone call to the phone number Smitty advertised in the paper, done on a landline in an office building where no one knew him, asking for help, could get his ass fired if anyone found out.  Everyone knew Smitty.  Supposedly the very expensive security consultant/private detective who worked out of a small set of offices over on Brewer Street.  A one of a kind professional who hired out at top dollar, usually to large corporate clients who needed his kind of specialty. . . i.e., meaning industrial espionage . . .  yet he also worked for individuals.  Rich individuals, but not necessarily always rich individuals.  But there were the rumors as well.  Every cop in the city knew the rumors.  He was supposed to be the mob’s top hit man.  He was supposed to be invisible.  He wasn’t even really known by those who employed him, for chrissakes!  No two mobsters brought in for questioning ever described Smitty in the same fashion.  He was tall.  He was short.  He had shaggy brown hair.  He was a blond with a flat top crew cut.  He was heavy built.  He was a slim as a toothpick.  Whenever a victim of a contract killing was found there wasn’t a single piece of evidence linking Smitty to anything.  No video.  No witnesses.  No prints.  No residual evidence. 
            Crazy.  Just crazy.
            No one could pin anything illegal on this guy.  All anyone could say for sure was the guy was an absolute merciless killing machine.  He somehow could slip in, silence his victim, and slip out and no one would know until hours later.  And he had connections.  Knew everyone who was anyone to be known on the streets.  That was the deciding factor.  That was the single point for him to get this wild idea.  Ask Smitty for help.  The police department, the entire city, was baffled.  Scared.  Frozen in indecision.  This madman left no traces.  He left no evidence behind.  He left no DNA material behind. It was like . . . like he was a ghost who prayed upon those who practiced the oldest profession in the world.  No one knew why.
            So maybe it would take a ghost to find a ghost.  A killer to stop a killer.
            A shaking hand ran across his lips as he looked down at his coffee cup.  With the cigarette between his fingers he reached for the cup just as he heard the noise of an approaching car through the plate glass window beside him.  Lifting the cup Artie turned to look outside.
            He froze in mid motion.  Eyes almost popping out of his head with a mixture of surprise and horror.
            A cab–an old Ford Crown Victory–battered and abused, sitting parallel to the curb in front of the diner, its right rear door open.  Waiting.  Waiting for someone to get in.  The clatter of his cup slipping out of his fingers and bouncing on the table top made everyone in the diner turn and look at him.  Blinking a couple of times, color draining from his face, he stared at the taxi for a heartbeat or two and then turned to look at the eight or ten people sitting in the dinner.
            They were staring at him.  Faces puzzled. Or bemused.
            “Hey, buddy!” the guy behind the diner’s long counter said, holding a phone up to one ear and staring at him irritably.  “It’s the cabby outside.  He’s says the meter’s running.  So how about it?  You want him to take you someplace or not?”
            Artie Jones stared at the diner’s chief cook for a moment in shock and turned his head back to look out the window and at the waiting taxi.  He hadn’t called for a taxi.  The story he told his partner about going over to see a friend tonight in a taxi was just that.  A story.  So how . . . how . . . . how . . . ?
            “Hey, Mac!  Some time tonight, okay?  I got orders to complete.”
            Artie felt himself nodding.  Moving his hands and his body to slide out of the booth.  He felt himself walking down the length of the diner and out through the entrance into to the hot night.  Like an out of body experience he saw himself walking down the sidewalk toward the open door of the cab and folding himself up and sliding into the back seat.  He saw himself close the cab’s rear door–saw the cab accelerated away from the curb rapidly.
            Saw it all–experienced it all.  Yet couldn’t believe it.  Didn’t want to believe it.  It was so . . . so surreal.  So bizarre.
            The car accelerated hard down the street and then made a sudden right hand turn.  A block later it turned again sharply–and turned again straight into an alley.  The headlights went off as the car bounced and rolled down through the alley rapidly and came out on the opposite street.  The lights came back on and the car slowed down.
            In front of him all he saw as the back of the head and the upper shoulders of a man wearing a cabbie uniform.  Glancing down at the back rest directly in front of him he looked for the small plastic pocket which was supposed to show the cabbie’s license and photo.  There was no license.  No photo.  But there were eyes.  Cold black orbs staring at him.  Reflecting off the rear view mirror whenever a sliver of street light flashed past.
            Cold eyes.  Hard eyes.  The eyes of a killer.
            “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
            A surreal, almost rasping harsh whisper. Coming out of the darkness of the front seat.  Unnerving.  Making Artie involuntarily wince.
            “That’s what some people call me, Artie.  But I answer to a number of different names.”

            He felt a cold chill run down his spine.  He tried to swallow.  Tried a couple of times.  But he was so scared there was nothing to swallow.  He lifted a hand up to his face.  Almost.  But he stopped suddenly when the whisper exploded in the darkness.  Like a scalpel flashing out of the darkness. 
            “Make sure you keep you hands away from your gun, friend.  Away from any pockets.  Understand?”
            Artie hesitated, looked at his hands, and then back up at the rear-view mirror and nodded.
            “Good.  Now tell me. What does an honest cop like you want to talk to a man like me?”
            How was he going to do this?  How was he going to ask for help?  He was a cop, fer chrissakes.  Cops go after the bad guys.  Cops solves the murder cases.  Cops are the ones who are supposed to protect the public from madmen like . . . like this new Jack the Ripper.  Or from the likes like Smitty.
            “Well, you see . . . we’ve . . . we’ve got a problem.  There’s man we’re after.  Crazy, insane.  Actually, a fucking madman.  He’s going around killing women.  Prostitutes.  And we’ve got nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  He’s been killing for the last four months.  We know about as much now about this guy as we did when we found the first body.”
            The cab flew down empty streets.  Never staying on one street for more than two blocks.  Swift, hard turns right and left.  Mostly right hand turns.  A few left.  But in general Artie got the feeling they were traveling in one twisted, jagged, clockwise circle.  Somehow he knew that when this conversation was over he would he would not return to the diner.
            “So what is it you want me to do.”
            It wasn’t a question.  It wasn’t a statement.  It was decision time.  For Artie.  Say what had to be said, Artie.  Say it firmly and without hesitation.  And let the Angel of Death, as some people whispered this man actually was, decide if he would help or not.
            “We’ve got to take this guy off the streets.  We’ve got to stop him.  Stop him before he kills again.  So . . . so I’m asking you to help us.”
            Slivers of light exploding in the interior of the cab momentarily as they slid underneath a street light.  Explosions of light.  Followed by enveloping, inky darkness.  Surreal.  Down the empty streets the cab flew.  Streets walled in on both sides by long rows of old apartment buildings and brand new apartment complexes.  Sitting in the back seat of the cab Artie waited.  Waited for some kind of response to come out of the front seat.  Waited.  And waited.  Each passing second working like a carpenter’s file sliding across raw nerves.
            When the dark figure in front answered the man’s harsh whisper almost sent Artie screaming out of his seat.  But somehow, somehow, he controlled his urges and tried to react calmly.
            “Why would I want to help you, Artie.  You or the police.”
            He blinked a couple of times.  He opened his mouth to answer.  But nothing came out.  He realized he had no idea why this man would help him.  Why would a killer hunt a killer?  The only thing he could do was shrug his shoulders and shake his head in despair.
            “I can’t answer that,” he admitted and smiling weakly. “I don’t even know why I came down here.  Desperation I guess.  If my desk sergeant or the task force lieutenant found out I was in this cab with you I’d been suspended indefinitely.  Maybe even arrested.  Certainly fired.   But something tells me we’re not going to find this guy.  Not by our normal methods.  It’s like this guy isn’t human.  He makes no mistakes.  He disappears into the night.  Leaves nothing behind.  So I thought . . . I thought . . . you might be our best hope.  Our only hope to nab this guy.”
            Silence.  Again.
            The car rocking and swaying as it moved.  The flashing explosions of light.  The shadows of parked cars and SUVs whipping past them.  The rows upon rows of town homes and apartment buildings.  All of that painted in layers upon Artie’s hyper active conscience as the figure in front remained silent and drove.
            “How do you know I am not this madman?  You’ve heard the rumors.  You know what I sometimes do for a living.  That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?  So tell me, why not consider me as a prime suspect?”
            He shook his head no.  Silently. Vigorously.  The one thing Artie was sure of was this; the guy known as Smitty wasn’t a homicidal maniac.  He didn’t kill for some sickly thrill–some perverted pleasure.  Smitty was a professional.  A master at blending in and out of a crowd.  Of taking out his assignment with a cold efficiency a lot of his fellow police officers grudgingly admired.  And so far . . . so far as he knew . . . this dark eyed man had never killed an innocent victim.  Each of his kills had been someone from out of the crime world.  Someone who deservedly needed to die.
            “I know it’s not you.  I know this.  These murders don’t fit your MO.  They don’t make sense.  Your hits always make sense.  You hit someone for money.  But your targets are slime balls who need to be put down.  Uh . . no offense, by the way.  About the slime ball thing.”
            A flicker of a smile flashed across the dark eyed man’s thin lips.  But the eyes never blinked.  They kept moving. Watching.  Calculating.
            “What do I do with this man if I find him.  Do I kill him?  Do I hand him over to you?”
            “I dunno, Smitty.  I dunno,” he answered.
            Truthfully.  He didn’t know.
            If suddenly a street cop came walking into the precinct house with this guy cuffed what would he say?  How could he explain to everyone this miraculous nab when the entire detective division was completely stumped.   How could he explain this to his partner?  Joe would have a
thousand questions to ask.  Questions he couldn’t possible answer.  Not in a hundred years.  Not in a thousand years.
            “So you’re asking me to find this guy and take care of him.  You don’t necessarily want me to kill him. But you can’t bring him in.  And I can’t reveal myself to your bosses.  Interesting.  What we have here, Artie, is a conundrum.  A social intersection of impossibilities.  A most curious dilemma.”

            It was as if he was a giant balloon filled with helium and a kid came along with a big needle and stuck it in him.  All the energy, all the worry, the fears, the emotions, dissipated out of him and into the night like escaping helium out of the balloon.  Dropping his head in defeat he stared at his hands silently.  Blinking back tears of frustration.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Building anticipation

Book Two of the Decimus Julius Virilis novel.  Set in First Century Rome.  Actually, to be more precise, set in 9 A.D. in Dalmatia as Rome fights the last of the Dalmatian Wars.  Decimus, soon to retire from the legions, is third in command of a hastily thrown together legion serious undermanned yet sent off to fight anyway.

And all hell breaks out.

Setting up the novel at the very beginning with action and anticipation . . . that's what I like to do.  From out of chaos comes a deep mystery and even MORE  chaos.  For me, it's the perfect definition for a great story.

So here's the set up for this newest clipping of the novel I'm sharing with you today.  Decimus, being the third in command of the legion, is the one man in charge of training the entire legion to function properly.  A freshly organized legion of half raw recruits and half hardened veterans.  Late at night, deep in enemy territory, Decimus decides to inspect the legion's outer perimeter.  And that's when all Hell breaks loose.

Tell me what you think . . .


7 AD
The Fires of Hades


Whatever it was which made him pause and turn his head to look he would never be able to say.  But he did.  And it possible saved his life. He came to a halt on a slight rise of dirt, surrounded by his escorts, his mind intent on keeping his men ever alert.  The night was absolutely dark and oddly silent to the ear.  Not even a breath of cool mountain air stirred in the thick blackness.  In the darkness, just below the hill, the ground opened up into a wide space of a flat valley floor.  Meandering down the middle of the valley was a road which ran from Narona on the coastline deep into the Dalmatian interior.  On both sides of the valley were high, forest covered mountains.  Rugged forested mountains pockmarked with the burning pinpricks of hundreds of campfires of the enemy.
            Clearly visible.  A constellation of man-made fireflies easily visible in the cloying darkness of the moonless night.  Dalmatian rebels who, each one, had in their chests a burning hatred for anything Roman. 
            To his right the outer defenses of the legion’s camp, rows upon rows of wooden stakes driven into the soft dirt of the small hill. Beyond the stakes, a deep ditch with sloping sides encased the camp.  Work completed by every last member of the legion in a matter of a few hours.  Like all Roman camps, this one was an almost perfect square precisely mapped out and plotted by the legion’s attached engineers’ hours before the first of the legion’s cohorts came marching up the road.  All legionnaire camps were the same.  It didn’t matter if you soldiered in Mauritania in far off Africa, or slogged away in a unit a thousand leagues away in the cold and ice of distant Celtic Britain.  A Roman army camp was the same.  A legion would march for three-quarters of the daylight hours in a precisely ordered marching formation, a concisely ordered marching order all legions of the army adhered to since the days of the legendary Scipio Africanus, the Roman general who defeated Hannibal and ultimately destroyed Carthage almost four hundred years earlier. 
But, usually four hours before sunset, the legion would come out of its marching formation and build a fortified camp atop some piece of elevated terrain which gave the legion an unhindered 360 degree of visibility of its immediate environs.  It was the Roman way.  It was inviolate Roman tradition.  It was one of the many little pieces of the puzzle which made Roman Army invincible.
Each marching soldier not only carried his weapons with him, but a wooden stake, or a shovel, or a pick, as well.  Each man pitched in to build the camp.   It took about four hours to complete.  But by time it was done, every soldier in the camp knew exactly where his cohort resided and where his tent would be found.  And it was Decimus’ job to make sure the legion preformed to exact standards without exception.
But on this night he paused atop a small mound of freshly discarded dirt and turned to his left to look up the hill toward the legate’s tent.  The darkness in the direction toward the legate’s was not quite as dense thanks to the burning torches and campfires which littered the camp’s interior.  It was not a high hill the legion resided on.  Its slopes relatively gentle to traverse.  Decimus noticed the legate’s large tent on the summit of the hill, surrounded by soldiers from the general’s personal praetorian guards.  Rising above the general’s tent was the masthead which, atop it, displayed the legion’s cherished eagle, along with the many pennants of the legion itself and its eight cohorts underneath.  In the semi-darkness of the camp’s burning campfires he saw the main flap of the general’s tent open and a group of men exit the tent’s interior in mass.  In the twilight it looked like five army officers surrounding a large figure wearing a dark cape which covered his entire frame.  Light reflected off the polished armor of the Romans as they gathered around the dark figure for a moment or two before disappearing behind the legate’s large tent.
Decimus frowned.  From this distance, and with so little light illuminating the night it was hard to see the faces of the Roman officers.  But he was sure he had never seen any of the men before.  As to the heavy looking man in his black hooded cloak, his face never revealed itself.   But he moved like a soldier.  A hand lifted up to pull the hood of his cape around his face as he turned to walk away.  An act of deception, the Prefect thought to himself.  An act of intrigue.  But there was a confidence, almost an arrogance, in the way he straightened himself up and moved out of view surrounded by the five Roman officers.
An unexpected chill ran down the Prefect’s spine.  Half turning, his brown eyes fell onto the balding, white haired little man who was his servant, a sour faced old man who had served for years with him in one legion or another, and leaned closer to the older man to speak quietly into the man’s ear.
“Find out who those men were and when they arrived in camp.”
The small man with the balding head and darkly tanned face nodded in silence and turned to leave.  He moved through the small entourage of armor clad legionnaires who surrounded the Prefect, and then started up the incline of the hill toward the legate’s tent.
He took no more than ten steps before the explosion ripped through the night.  A roaring crescendo which shook the ground violently underneath his sandaled feet and lit up the night with the hellish light of a nightmare.  A blast of hot, foul smelling air threw Decimus, and everyone else standing at their posts, through the air as if he was nothing more than a child’s rag doll.  The roar of the explosion droned on and on even, as large chunks of soil and rock began raining out of the semi-lit skies.  Massive chunks of soil and rock hitting the ground with a thudding jolt, guaranteeing death and severe pain if some hapless legionnaire stood or laid splayed out on the ground underneath the raining fury.
The hot, multi-colored flames shooting up from the top of the hill roared and exploded like the hissing fury of a metal smith’s forge.  A forge only conceivable by the gods themselves.   Decimus, stunned and in pain, lifted himself up from the ground and staggered to one side as he faced the billowing inferno above him and stared at it in awe.  As he watched he sat the flames weakening, the roar of its fury lessening perceptibly, and then, with the blinking of an eye, suddenly ceasing altogether.  One moment Hades’s fires burned and screamed in its fury.  The next gone altogether, the night’s darkness suddenly enveloping one and all, the sudden silence slapping everyone across the cheek with a startling clarity almost as overwhelming as the explosion itself.
Reality flooded into Decimus’ mind as he turned and began bellowing out names with the hammer-like staccato force of only someone with twenty-four years of soldiering could possibly do.
“Menelaus! Romulus! Cassus! Brutus!  All centurions . . . to me! To me!  The rest of you bastards . . . off your asses, NOW!  Up! Up!  Get on your feet, or by the sweet graces of all that is holy, I’ll personally peel the hides off each and everyone one of you with a cat o’nine tales in the morning!”
Decimus roared. He strode from one point to the next on the outer perimeter cajoling, barking, kicking men up and off their ground and throwing them physically back to their assigned positions.  He organized small gathering of legionnaires to fight and subdue the innumerable small fires which had sprung up with the camp.  As he roared and terrified one and all, burly men dressed in the armor of centurions staggered or ran to join him.  In the eyes of each Decimus saw disbelief and terror filling their souls.  But he knew.  Knew this was no time for either emotion.
A catastrophe of Olympian proportions had struck the IXth Brundisi. But an even larger, more deadly, catastrophe was about to happen when dawn soon arrived if the legion was not prepared for it.
“Gnaeus!” the Prefect yelled over the shouting of his centurions taking over at last and rousing the men out of their stunned silence, “survey the camp.  Assess the damages and loss of men and report back to me as soon as possible.”
Decimus turned and stared up at where once the top of the hill had been.  Where the legate’s massive tent, the holy shrines of the legion’s namesakes, where the several tents of the officer’s would be found, all gone.  Not just destroyed.  But . . . gone!  Nothing remained.  Not a shred of cloth, or a piece of armor, or even a body part of one of the dead remained.  Now only a gaping hole twenty meters deep and ten meters in diameter, with an eye-watering aroma of bad eggs drifting up and out of the cavity and blowing gently away with the wind.
It did not take a genius to realize the harsh truth.  All of the legion’s officers, except for him, and most of what had been the 1st cohort, the legion’s most experienced troops, no longer existed.  The anger of an unknown god came down from Olympus and had destroyed one and all.  And in the process, possibly assuring the complete and total destruction of everyone who, at the moment, still lived on this cursed hill.  Dawn was but only two hours away, and with the first light of a new day, the hills above their position infested with Rome’s enemies would look down upon the middle of the valley and see what had been wrought in the middle of the night.
The enemy would come howling and screaming at them with blood lust in their eyes and the smell of victory upon them.  Thousands of them.  All sensing a great victory at hand if they but struck with overwhelming force before the sun lifted much higher than dawn’s light in the morning sky.  If the IXth was not prepared, if not their position was compressed and strengthened somehow, if the men were not ready to fight, all would be lost.  By noon every living soul on this hill would be dead.  Consigned to the eight levels of Hades for the rest of eternity.  A situation Decimus was grimly aware of, but determined to contest the issue to his last breath.
The thin, hardened old veteran of a dozen battles, turned to face the many faces of his junior officers staring up at him and hungrily waiting for orders, and began talking in a commanding, but calm, voice.
“I want the second cohort, Brutus, to take up position on the northern flank of the hill.  Pull back from your original position and deploy half way up the hillside and dig in.  Cassus, take the forth cohort, and deploy directly behind the first.  Draco, your sixth cohort will take the eastern slope.  The seventh will deploy directly behind you.  The west slope . . .”
A calm voice.  An assured, experienced commander.  And a plan.  A plan delivered concisely, with little fanfare, and direct.  Decimus’ gray eyes did not waver as he looked into the faces of each of his centurions.  Orders were given.  From an old soldier who had seen it all.  The Prefect in his quiet calm simply radiated self-confidence out to his men like some mystical lantern held up in the dead of night to light the way.  No one knew if the Prefect’s plan would work.  In some respects, most of the centurions didn’t care.  There was a plan.  There were orders given and expected to be carried out to the letter.  Someone was in charge.  Someone they knew and respected.
What more could a soldier ask for or expect?
            Only the gods knew what would happen once dawn filled the sky with light.
What remained of the night was filled with the movements of legionnaires repositioning themselves on the hill first, followed by the sounds of men digging into the soil, and hammers thumping loudly onto stout wooden stakes as they tore down the wooden stakes set earlier in the day and repositioned in their new defensive stance.

Decimus, with the silent Gnaeus beside him, kept moving around the hill directing men here and there.  Even pitching in when a set of extra hands were needed to drive stakes into the ground or to throw up additional barricades of dirt in front of their positions.  No one complained.  No one slacked off.  Not with the Prefect beside them in the dirt and grime working as hard as they were.
And when the first gray shades of predawn began to lessen the darkness around them, everyone knew.  They were ready.  Ready for whatever might come.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Advertising . . . dammit!!

Soooo . . . . the problem, me buckoo;  How do you lift something you've written up into the Top 100 in sales?  How do you pluck your book title out of the vast quagmire of about 10,000 other titles published per month and shine that proverbial beam of light toward it so
everyone can see.

I think I have the answer . . . and you ain't gonna like it.


That's the answer.  As it's the usual answer for a lot of our hardships to get out of . . . Money.

But if you're a small-fry writer like I am, when we talk about anything over five-bucks, we're getting far too rich for our thin blood.  The air starts to get thinner;  we've get this rash that suddenly covers our posterior when we talk about something six-bucks are higher in cost.  Why . . . even buying a full meal for two at McDonalds may require a bank loan.  Which we don't want, thank you very much.

But the harsh truth is . . . you want to be a well known writer?  It's gonna cost you some advertising dough.  And probably more dough than you've got the bank account to pay for it.

What I find interesting is that most small time, middle-grade, and even large publishing houses won't put a plug  nickle down in advertising until you have some real STAR POWER behind your name. (with the exception, possibly, to those writers they've lavished huge signing bonuses onto to . . . you know, the ones that gets way above $100,000 or more.  Now they've got a vested interest in getting a return for their investment).

So, if you're just a GOOD writer, or maybe a GREAT writer waiting to be discovered, it falls upon your shoulders to cough up the coin to do your own advertising,  And there in is the rub . . .

'Cause, if you're like me, the number of struggling writers you know who have more than two nickles to rub together is about the same number of multi-million dollar Power Ball lotto winners you know.  Meaning . . . you don't know any, fella.

I have a new book out.  While the Emperor Slept. (it's over on the right hand column to check out if you want to).  The first of a series.  Features a 1st Century Roman detective/assassin who is intriguing to know.  Or at least, I think so.  The publisher who has it out is a great company.  I'm hoping we can work for years together churning out this series.  But for now, the advertising is on my shoulders.

So far I can say that the small . . . and I do mean small . . . amount of money I've spent on advertising has had a discernible reaction to the book's ranking.  I suspect more money, in this case, would mean a larger response.\

Didn't James Patterson do something like this in the beginning of his career?  Being an ex-advertising exec he went out and did an entire campaign blitz on a book of his, all own his own.  And it worked.  Worked so well his publisher made gobs of money and decided to do the advertising themselves.

It can be done.

And I'm thinking maybe $2,000 might be the tipping point.  Or, maybe more like $20,000.  Or maybe more.

Hell.  How the hell should I know?!  Remember, I'm the guy who has just two nickles in his pocket.  Well . . . a nickle and possibly five pennies.  Maybe.