In the Dark Mind of B.R. Stateham

More odds and ends to consider

2012-02-24T12:21:00.000-06:00

If you haven't heard, J.L. Rowling has signed a deal with Little, Brown &Co. as her new publisher. She's about to come out with something new. Very hush hush. Won't reveal the title or a synopsis of the book. But it sounds like the release is imminent.

Goody! Looking forward to this. Yes, I read all the Harry Potter novels. Turns out that after you get past the first one (originally designed for a YA audience--basically for a bunch of seventh and eighth graders) the novels begin to get quite innovative and rather dark in nature. I really do believe Rowling took Fantasy in a whole new direction--came up with some original concepts when the story dealt with magic.

Rowling was original--yet not so original--in her writing. Original in that she painted a different portrait of magic and the fantasy world. Different in that she kept to the traditional rules of creating a highly sophisticated plot that required fully developed, three-dimensional, characters to occupy and interact with each other. THAT'S what made the Potter series marvelous to read! The characters.

But now NEW stuff is coming out! And I can't help but roll my hands in anticipation. A couple of years ago a rumor began circulating around that Rowling was spotted frequenting her old writing sites and doing some intensive writing. The rumors went on and said she was . . . perhaps . . . writing a crime story.

Oooooooh . . . ! Now wouldn't that be delicious! Adding 'crime' to her brand of 'magic' in a story!

And now this little tidbit. . . .

Ever heard of a website called Kickstarter.com? A web site to pitch ideas . . . on just about anything and everything . . . to potential would-be investors. Raising money for new projects to start up. From businesses to comic books.

In fact Publishers Weekly has a fascinating article about a comic book start up that raised 1.25 million dollars to get it up and running! This is, frankly, one of the Internets finest moments. Providing instant access to investors who would be willing/foolish/crazy/or visionary in funding just about anything that comes down the pike. Honestly, I think it's a fabulous idea! It by-passes the stodgy traditional gate-keepers in the financial markets and goes straight to the heart of the matter! An investor either likes the idea or he doesn't. There are no middle-men to contend with.

Hmmm. . . some friends and I are creating a graphic novel. Maybe, when the project is three/quarters complete, we ought to think about going this route.

2012-02-22T09:48:00.004-06:00

As promised, here's an update on the on-going cover design for the Smitty series of short-stories I'm writing. If you compare Smitty from my earlier blog the boy is dressed significantly different. More like what a lot of people envision.

There is going to be just one more modification to the figure. Somehow we've got to incorporate the idea of physical motion. Yes, it seems as if he is walking away. But he's too tidy. And you haven't seen the complete imagery I have in mind. Somewhere in the composition is going to be smear of blood. VERY bright red blood actually smeared in a downward angle, suggesting someone just ate a bullet and slowly slid down the face of a wall, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

I have an idea on how to accomplish this. We'll see how it goes.

And now a treat (I hope!)

I mentioned I'm writing a full Smitty novel tentatively called 'The Ripper' (title subject to change). And if you'll recall, I shared the rough draft of chapter one in the book recently. I want to share another chapter with you. Share it with a specific idea in mind. I think it's a scary, balls-grabbing chapter! But . . . . is it? I need feedback. And you're just the huckleberries who'll give me some.

Read it. Critique it. Make suggestions (maybe I'll accept, maybe not). Put your two cents in and let me know what you think. (remember, it is just the first draft. Words, ideas, concepts may change)

Yeah; it is important to me to hear your ideas . . .

Here's the set-up; the cops and Smitty are looking for a serial-killer who reminds the public of the bloody antics of London's Jack the Ripper. On a rainy night a call comes in from a truck driver that he's heard a woman screaming down by the docks. So cops go investigate. And here's where it starts to get spooky . .

Eight

The black and white cruiser smashed through the lakes and small seas of rain water filled streets like some kind of prehistoric ocean predator, sending red and blue eerie, almost surreal, beams of light through the pounding rain. The beams of colored light reflected off the dark windows of warehouses as the cruiser turned down a narrow alley of street and slid to a halt. Officers Joe Gallagher and a rookie by the name of Jerald Arthur came out of the car with flashlights in one hand and pulling from their holsters their department issued Glock 9 millimeter weapons with the other.

A truck driver called in a report that he heard screaming . . . a woman screaming hysterically . . . somewhere close by. The warehouse/wharf district was the killing grounds for the madman who was terrorizing the city with his grisly murders of prostitutes. So when the call came in dispatch was routing marked and unmarked cruisers to rendezvous there as fast as possible. Just so happened he and his rookie partner were the first to arrive.

"Stay close and watch our back! Got that?" he barked, aiming the beam of his flashlight into the face of the big black kid with the big, frightened eyes staring back at him.

"Got it, sarge."

Joe didn't like it. Didn't like not having his regular partner with him tonight. Didn't like the idea of being saddled with a rookie's first night out on the beat. But Artie had called in sick with another one of his migraine headaches and the lieutenant told him to stay home and take a couple of days off. Ten minutes later the louey informed him he was stuck with the rookie for the night. Bad enough it was raining with an electrical light show lighting up the skyline--always a combination that made people edgy in this town--but now this! A call that maybe The Ripper was working his grisly trade again and they were the first ones on the scene!

He almost grinned when he saw how frightened the big kid was. The kid's hand were shaking violently; the kid's flashlight beam dancing all over the place as it cut through the heavy rain and black night. The gun hand shaking so violently the gun looked like it was ready to drop out of his hand. Reaching out he used the hand holding his flashlight and pushed hard on the kid's big shoulders.

"Jerald! Get a grip on yourself. You've got to focus. You can't let fear cloud your judgment! Otherwise it could kill both of us! Understand?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, sarge. I understand," the big guy nodded.

"Good. So let's go."

In the distance they heard approaching sirens of other cruisers hurrying to this location. Just a few more minutes and the place would be crawling with cops. Just a few more minutes.

But that's when the scream.

Not just a scream. Something horrible. Something almost primordial. A woman's scream filled with all the emotions of someone being both terrified and terrorized at the same time. The sound hung in the rain . . . seem to reverberate off the brick walls of the warehouses around them.

"This way!" Joe yelled, heaving the beam of his flashlight toward the open door of an abandoned warehouse.

The two of them ran through the rain and dived into the black abyss of the doorway, the beams of their heavy flashlights cutting the night open like a sharpened scalpel. Cautiously they began moving through the darkness while the rain, and the lightning and thunder, continued to rattle the night outside.

"I dunno," Gallagher answered, shaking his head. "I thought I saw a shadow move in the doorway. Maybe I was seeing things. But to be on the safe side let's check this place out from top to bottom."

They both involuntarily ducked with an ear-splitting boom of thunder cracked open the night and physically rattled the building they momentarily occupied. Regaining their composure they began to systematically search the ground floor. Slowly. Methodically. Flashlights arcing back and fourth probing every dark hole and hidden crevice they found. Minutes slipped by and then Jerald, looking over his shoulder, saw the stabbing beams of more flashlights moving outside.

"Sarge, helps arrived."

"Good," Gallagher said, nodding and turning to aim his flashlight at the first figure to enter through the open door of the warehouse.

Two patrol officers came through the door with flashlights glaring and guns drawn. Both beams of light fell on Gallagher and the rookie at the same time.

"Derek! Peterson! Stick with us! We're going upstairs to check this place out," Gallagher yelled. "Heard a woman screaming just before you got here, so watch out! I think she's in here."

The two officers nodded and hurried over the broken, littered floor of the warehouse to join them. Gallagher nodded and then turned his flashlight toward the rack of stairs which led up into the darkness to the second floor. Ascending the steps in a tight gaggle of light and high strung nerves the four officers stepped out onto the creaking boards of the second floor of the warehouse and aimed their flashlights to the middle of the room.

All four beams landed onto the bloody mass of steaming flesh lying in the middle of the floor at the same time. A kill so fresh, bathed in the powerful light of four beams, blood was still spilling out of the ghastly cavity that once was a woman's vagina.

"Oh my gaw . . . . !" one of the officers yelped, turning suddenly to one side and retching violently at the same time.

"Jesus, sweet Jesus," the rookie whispered softly as he stared at the mound of bleeding flesh.

"Jerald!" Gallagher barked, throwing his flashlight beam over to his right and at the base of stairs which led up to the warehouse's third floor. "You stay here with Peterson and make sure nothing disturbs the body. Derek and me will go up to the third floor and check it out! And for chrissake, call for forensics and a meat wagon to get over here!"

The big kid could only nod silently as he stepped back to the still heaving Peterson, gripping his gun firmly in the process. Gallagher, playing his flashlight first across the rookie's face, and then checking out Peterson to see how sick he was, nodded and told the officer behind him to follow him. Moving to the first step of the stairs they aimed their flashlights up into the darkness and began ascending slowly.

Jerald watched his sergeant and the other officers disappear upstairs before turning his light toward the now somewhat recovered Officer Peterson. The man was standing up and using a kerchief to wipe his mouth clean as he turned toward the big man standing beside him. As he did his flashlight swept across the body.

"What the hell . . . ? " he murmured as he squinted his eyes and leaned forward to see better.

Jerald heard the officer's odd tone in his voice and turned his flashlight toward the body as well. The moment he did he saw it as well. The Devil. The Devil rising out of the corpse of the dead woman! A black form . . . no face . . . no hands . . . just a black form with a large blood stained blade of a butcher's knife gripped in one black fist came rising out of dead woman's carcass in a blur of motion and hurled itself straight at them! It moved so fast neither had time to lift their weapons and fire at the mirage before it struck!

Jerald felt something heavy and hard smack into his chest. A blow so powerful it made him stagger two or three steps back and drop both his gun and his flashlight at the same time. As he staggered back he heard the officer behind grunt in a surprised fashion. And then silence. But not completely silent. Bending down the rookie felt the floor beside him for both his weapon and his flashlight. He felt more than saw in the darkness Peterson still standing beside him. He also felt something wet . . . something hot . . . splattering across his cheeks and the back of his neck.

Finding gun and flashlight the rookie stood up and whipped the light around in all directions searching for the thing which had rushed them. Finding nothing near him he turned his light toward Peterson.

Peterson stood facing the rookie. Stood with both hands clutching his throat. Stood with his mouth moving as if he was trying to speak. Stood with eyes wide with astonishment. And blood. Blood pouring out of his mouth in great spurts. The hot liquid which had splattered Jerald's cheek and neck as he hunted for his gun and flashlight.

Jerald could not help himself. He started screaming. Screaming hysterically. Screaming . . .

A Few Odds and Ends for News

2012-02-20T14:32:00.002-06:00

Paul D. Brazill is at it again. Paul, a mild-mannered, tea drinking, croissant consuming writer (Ha! What the hell am I saying!?) is the creator of the Drunk On The Moon series featuring his PI-turned-Werewolf character, Roman Dalton.

The series is about to be re-issued . . . and ultimately expanded on . . . in the near future. And here is the new cover for the re-issue. Snazzy, huh! I think so.

For those of you may not know the series, Paul did something quite unique. He developed the character Roman Dalton and then he went out and invited a few of his writer friends to write stories, taking up Roman as the main character, and continue the series along. Each writer sketched Roman's personality a little bit differently. Making the series, and the character, far more interesting.

'Insatiable' was the title for my offering. Basically the story was about Roman being asked to solve a couple of bloody homicides a few days before his 'sickness' took over and converted him into a raving, blood thirsty killer. But he could feel the sickness coming on . . . and so the story was a painting of how a Werewolf tried to act normal even though he was beginning to look at everyone around him as a form of snack food.

Dark Valentine Press is bringing the series out sometime this summer. Roman, as Paul tells me, was born first in the pages of Dark Valentine Magazine--the ancestor to the current publishing house. When DOTM became available DVP jumped on it immediately.

Paul also said that he might open the portal up again invite writers to contribute again. Hope so. I would love to offer a little ditty that came to mind the other day.

Now, for something different . . .

Javier Caromona of Carmonaart.com and I are working on creating a book cover for the Smitty short-story series I'm writing. Thought I might share this rough draft of a rough, rough, rough draft of the potential image.

Javier is one half of Carmona Brothers of Madrid, Spain (the other half being Jesus). Brilliant artists. We've worked on a number of different projects for some of my writing. And now we're working on creating (hopefully!!) a kick-ass graphic novel. But that's down the road just a bit since we've just started . . .

But Smitty needed some kind of book cover for the short story series. Like I've mentioned before, there's something like twenty-eight short stories . . . . with more coming . . . so I wanted to create an image that would be spot-on visually describing what the stories would be about.

What you see here is just the first visualization of the final product. But notice the eyes. If you've read any of the stories you've noticed how I emphasis Smitty's black eyes. I think this brings that out nicely.

There are going to be changes. Smitty needs to be dressed in a business suit. Or at least a sport coat and slacks. But what struck me as fascinating is this on-going conversation Javier and I are having in trying to get the image right. Creativity at its best. Quite stimulating. And it brings up another point that's crossed my mind often. I think a writer who is trying to create a . . . if you will . . . a brand-name character . . . should seriously be involved in creating the artwork. Why not? Your character is going to be around for a long time if you're successful. Might has well make sure you can stand looking at the guy.

More Smitty imagery will be coming . . .

Uber agent Chip MacGregor

2012-02-17T07:40:00.001-06:00

The literary agent.

The person who knows the people who know how to convert a writer into an established, well known author. Yeah; THAT guy!

If you're serious into writing you have, in one fashion or another, had some form of dialogue between yourself and a lit agent. For most of us that form of communication has been either one sided and rather brief. As in, "While your writing shows promise, it currently isn't a format or genre we are working with at the moment."

(Come to think of it; that's kinda the same line a lot of publishers throw at us! Hmmm . . . )

Or, you've been one of the lucky ones and you found an agent willing to work with you. Congratulations!! You've already beat the odds heavily stacked against you!

Nevertheless, the life of an agent is fascinating to contemplate. I suspect a number of writers would, if they discovered they were not going to succeed in their chosen craft, seriously consider trying their hand at becoming an agent.

A writer-friend of mine (Les Edgerton) introduced me to uber agent, Chip MacGregor. Chip is a West Coast agent and let's just say he's BIG in the agenting business. Big in the Christian market. Big in the mystery/detective market. Lots of clients. Lots of contacts. Very knowledgeable in his trade. So how could I pass this up? How could I NOT ask for an interview!

Chip was very gracious in agreeing to this little conversation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

1. You've been a successful literary agent now for a number of years, so tell us; what first brought you into this field, and at what time in your career did you decide you wanted to create an agency of your own?

I more or less fell into agenting. I was working as a freelance writer and editor, and started doing research on my own books (after getting a terrible deal on my first contract). Pretty soon I become knowledgeable about contracts, so authors started asking me about contracts. Then I started exploring negotiations. Then I started developing good friendships with editors, and was soon introducing authors and editors. Eventually a literary agency came along and said, "Why don't we pay you to do all this?" Agenting was a very natural fit for me.

As for starting my own agency, I'd been at another agency for years, and was the senior literary agent there, when Time Warner Book Group came calling. They wanted me to come be a publisher for them, so I went, thinking I could really help shape in the industry. Instead, I became a corporate suit. I really felt like I wasn't doing any of the things I had been successful at for years -- working with authors, determining the best writers, talking writing careers, etc. Within two years the company was sold by Time-Warner to Hachette, and I was handed my walking papers. I knew immediately what I wanted to do, so six years ago I started my own agency. I'm very happy with that decision.

2. Your reputation was first set as an agent for Christian material. But surprisingly your agency is also at the top of the food chain when it comes to placing mystery/detective

material. Is there a dichotomy here or was there some form of natural progression to drew you there?

When I started my agency, religious fiction was the fastest-growing segment in all publishing. I was starting a new business, so... my mama didn't raise morons. If people were buying Christian fiction, I was going to focus hard on Christian fiction (a part of publishing I was already familiar with). I suppose if the market had been crazy about vampires and werewolves at the time, I'd have focused on those. (That boom came later.) But my favorite genre to read is the mystery/thriller, so over the years I've done a lot of business in the thriller market. I really enjoy suspense and true crime, and my true love is crime noir -- so representing more in that area is simply an expression of who I am and what I like.

3. Several writers have told me you are one of the few active literary agents who appears to have embraced the dawn of epublishing with open arms. What are you views on this upstart, but vibrant, form of publication?

It's true. I was self-publishing books of card tricks back in the days when everyone looked askance at "vanity publishers." And I'm smart enough to figure out that technology was clearly moving us toward e-books the way it had moved us toward cell phones (instead of pay phones), GPS devices (instead of maps), and remote controls on televisions (instead of walking across the room to change the channel). It's not just that I believe ebooks are the future -- it's that I believe publishing is in the throes of a complete upheaval. We're seeing new companies start up and old companies decline, and the entire process of selling, marketing, producing, and reading books is changing. Some of those new companies are going to be big; others will disappear by this time next year. I don't know anyone that really has a handle on it -- perhaps it's always difficult to describe the future when you're being carried along by the waves of change. We'll need a bit more time before the industry settles in.

That said, I believe we're in the Golden Age of publishing. There are more people who can read than ever before. There are more words being generated than ever before. There are more opportunities for writers than ever before. We should all be celebrating the fabulous opportunity given to all of us who works with words, instead of bitching and moaning about the loss of more jobs at Random House and the decline of paying magazine jobs. The money will come back -- it will just happen in different ways, rather than in ways it did in the 60's and 70's.

It's funny you'd say this, of course, since I've also been hammered by some people in the industry for "talking bad" about self-publishing. Some folks (people who don't bother with things like "reading all the way to the end" or "listening to those bothersome facts") have criticized me pretty hard for not being the Evangelist For All Self-Published Authors. Sure, I've self-published. I've been successful at it and made money. But I've also been critical of the self-appointed experts who make big promises about authors not needing publishers. Frankly, I think all the "every writer can make a million dollars by self-publishing" messages are utter rot. A few succeed. Most don't. Why? Because if history has proven anything to writers it's that "it is hard to make money at art." So for every William Young, who sells a bazillion copies of The Shack, there are hundreds of other crappy novels that don't make much at all. For every Jon Konrath, who sells a boatload of badly written horror-porn, there are hundreds of wannabe authors who can't understand why their badly written horror-porn isn't making them a fortune. So... yes. I've embraced ebooks. I just don't feel it's the automatic money machine some people seem to.

4. Now if you would, give us an assessment on the health and future prospects of traditional publication. Are the prophets accurate? Is the demise of the classical form of a good book soon to happen? Or do you see traditional publication hanging on for a while but slowly evaporating into nothingness over a long period of time?

I am bullish on publishing. I don't know that it will exist in the same form it does today, but I'm bullish on publishing. People WANT to read, and they want to read good stuff. And, ultimately, it is publishers who know how to provide that for them. All of those free books on Amazon have been loaded to millions of Kindle devices, but sooner or later the people who own the Kindles will start reading those books, realize how much crud they've acquired, and scale back their list to some good authors. It's why I continue to think the major publishers (who have been admittedly late to the party) will recognize the importance of ebooks, put their best marketing and editorial people onto the problems, and begin creating great products. They have the knowledge and skill to do a great job with ebooks, and to reach new markets, so I continue to believe that traditional publishers will wake up, seize control of the market, and do an excellent job of producing and selling digital content. In fact, it's already happening. That doesn't mean all those new ebook publishers will go away (they're going to rule some of the niches, and, from the look of things, they're going to force mass market lines out of business), but it means the traditional publishers are going to have to change and learn to do things in new ways. Again, we're already seeing this happen. That's why some of those huge-selling ebook authors have decided the next step in their careers is to sign with a traditional publisher -- somebody who knows how to sell books to the masses. And those same authors are going to recognize the assistance a good agent can offer -- to help build an author's career. So no, I don't see traditional publishing going away. Announcements of publishing's death are a bit premature.

5. The role of the literary agent, is it changing for the better or for the worse when it comes to dealing both in the epublishing format and with traditional publishing?

I don't put a value judgment on whether it's good or bad, but it's certainly changing. In fact, I'd say my job as an agent is considerably different today than it was 15 years ago when I started. A big chunk of my day now goes to discussions of marketing -- something that happened only occasionally when I started. But the core of what I do -- recognize great writing and offer career guidance to writers -- that remains stable, whether it is with authors doing ebooks at a startup like StoneGate Ink, or doing print books at Simon & Schuster.

6. An old question I'm sure you've been asked a million times before. But I'll ask it anyway----is there a difference between an East Coast Literary Agent and a West Coast Literary Agent? Is it easier or slightly more difficult for an agent based in California to have a book placed in an East Coast publishing house?

Yeah, I've heard this a million times... "How can you be a literary agent if you don't live in the 212?" Well... I've been doing this a long time. I represent some really good people If you look at the projects reported in Publishers Marketplace (admittedly not a perfect venue, since it's all self-reporting, but it's the closest thing we've got to a complete database of publishing deals), I think I've done more deals than any literary agent in the country over the past few years. All while living on the left coast.

Look, the business is still about finding great writers with good stories and strong platforms, then getting someone at a reputable publishing house to see the talent and want to bring the author to market. Are face-to-face meetings important? Sure they are -- it's why I'm in New York on a regular basis. But the fact is, most of what we do these days is really handled by phone or email, and I don't need to be in Manhattan to send an email. Whenever anybody asks me how I survive, I just bring up the number of deals we do... the facts tend to quiet the critics.

7. What is it about the mystery/detective genre that seems so attractive to you? And do you see this genre continue its currently popularity? Or is it going to eventually diminish as time goes by?

Well, the genre is attractive to me for the same reason it appeals to the millions of people who like cop shows and suspense movies -- it's entertaining, it engages the brain in a mystery, and it brings out primal responses in readers (fear, curiosity, the desire for justice, a love of redemption). One can argue that thrillers have been around ever since the caveman sat around the fire pit telling stories about hunting and the attendant dangers. It took on a new art form with Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens, and continues to be a popular theme with old and young alike. As for the future... I don't have the gift of prophecy. I don't see it fading like westerns have, but instead evolving into new and different directions. Romance, mystery, and religion -- aren't those the three things which mankind will always have an interest in? They all have an element of the unknown, and they all speak to our greatest needs to find love, understand our world, and know God. So yes, I guess I see the genre continuing.

8. How many more years do you see yourself working as both a literary agent and the head of your own agency? Do you see the agency growing in the near future? And finally, have you ever thought about retiring and starting up in a field completely removed from the publishing world?

I love what I do. I love who I work with -- Sandra Bishop has proven to be a great business partner, Amanda Luedeke is an up and coming talent, and Marie Prys and I have worked comfortably together for years. I love books. I love words and the power they bring. We've all been moved emotionally by a song we've heard, but few of us can say our lives were actually changed by music. Many of us love dance, but I don't know any people who would tell you their lives were never the same after they saw a ballet or learned to rhumba. Yet I can point to all sorts of people who would tell you their lives were never the same after they read a book. Words have the power to CHANGE us.

I've always thought it was fascinating that, when the guy who was closest to Jesus wanted to think of a way to sum up what he was like, Saint John referred to him as "the Word." I think that demonstrates the power of the written word. I mean, he could have said Jesus was "the song" or "the dance" or "the painting" or "the symphony." But, given the chance to describe the most important religious force in the history of the world, he said, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God."

So yeah, I see myself continuing to do this for a long time. Frankly, I love the authors I represent, and I want to keep working with them. And yes, we're growing. We're about to bring on another agent, and we're always finding new markets we want to get into. (We haven't done anything in the graphic novel or manga realms, and my son, who is 27, is really into those...) We're also bringing on a digital content specialist to help authors who want to self-publish their works. So I see us growing and expanding over the next few years as we find exactly the right people to work with the authors we represent.

As for what else I'd do...No plans to retire. At times I've thought about joining the Anglican priesthood (I'm not kidding), but simply haven't had the time to make that a priority. Of course, if Sports Illustrated ever comes calling, and needs a new guy who appeals to the middle-aged Scottish immigrant population for their annual swimsuit edition, I'm all over it.

Chapter One of A Smitty Novel

2012-02-13T13:15:00.000-06:00

Today I am going to share the rough draft of the Smitty novel I am writing. Tentatively it's called, 'The Ripper.' But the title doesn't thrill me any . . . so I'm probably going to change it as I approach finishing the novel in the not too near future.

Essentially the story revolves around a serial killer who kills women much like the legendary Jack The Ripper killed his victims back in Merry Olde England. The police are having a terrible time tracking the guy down. So someone decides to take matters in his own hand and ask a killer (Smitty) to hunt a killer.

What you will read is the rough, rough draft of the first chapter. Misspellings, boogers, and all. I thought I would share this because . . . sumbitch!! I thought this opening chapter kicks the aggregate ass! But that's my opinion.

Read it and then tell me if it's that good not.

One

Nerves.

Twisted to the breaking point. Wound so tight he could barely keep his hands under control. As 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 out into the gloom of a foggy night.

Nerves.

Fear.

Knowing he was doing something wrong–knowing that, if caught, it would be the end of his career. The end of everything. Twenty years. Twenty 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 five 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. And 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. And sure enough it was another victim. Another butchered woman. Number five for the maniac the papers had dubbed ‘The New Jack the Ripper.’

“I’m . . . fine, Joe. Fine. It’s just that, well . . . it’s the fifth prostitute killed. The third 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 mankind 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 arrest this guy if he ever crossed paths. And hell, his off hand inquiries–hesitant and awkward–he tried on to a few street bums he knew asking about his guy called Smitty might have fallen on deaf ears. No one knew who the hell this Smitty was. 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, fer chrissakes! No two mobsters brought in for questioning ever describe 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.

Crazy. Just crazy!

No one knew what this guy looked like. 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.

And 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, it’s 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. And then 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 harsh whisper. Coming out of the darkness of the front seat. Unnerving. Making Artie involuntarily wince.

“Smitty?”

“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. A madman, actually. He’s going around killing women. Prostitutes. And we’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’s been killing for the last four months. And 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 be back at 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.”

Silence.

Slivers of light exploding in the interior of the cab momentarily as they slid underneath a street light. Explosions of light. Followed enveloping, inky darkness. Surreal. Down the empty streets the cab flew. The street 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 my partner found out I was in this cab with you I’d been suspended indefinity. 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 know what I 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.

“This is what you’re going to do.”

The voice. Not so harsh. Still a whisper. But softer. Almost gentle.

Looking up Artie’s eyes flashed to the rear view mirror and saw the black eyes of the killer staring at him. A flicker of hope burst into his gut. And he waited. Waited to hear what Smitty had in mind.

“Tomorrow night at exactly a quarter to midnight you’ll leave everything the police have in a folder in the back seat of this cab. The cab will be parked on the corner of Fourth and Elmore. In front of a liquor store called Bud’s Light. You know where it’s at.”

Artie nodded. He knew the place well. Been there several times to buy a bottle or two of good wine on the way home from work.

“Everything, Artie. Forensics. Reports. Photos. Everything. Even the doodles the detectives scribble on the note pads. Can you do this for me?”

Yes. Absolutely.

“And do it by yourself, Artie. Don’t involve your partner in this. Don’t tell anyone else about our little meeting. Don’t make me start thinking this might be some kind of trap. Just a friendly warning. If I think you’re trying to screw me, Artie, I’ll come for you. And I’ll find you. Understand?”

Gulp. Yes, he understood. There would be no one else he’d talk to. There would be no traps. Smitty had nothing to worry about in that department.

Silence. A long stretch of terror filled silence.

And then the screeching of brakes and the car rapidly decelerating to a stop so suddenly he was almost thrown into the front seat. When his momentum threw him back into his seat he looked up and out of his door side window. And blinked a couple of times in amazement. His house. The small ranch house sat back deep from the street, a carpet of thick green grass between him and the house. The lights to the house were off. Except for the front porch light. The front porch light was always left on. His wife always left that on for him to see his way to the front door.

He threw the back door open and started to get out. But the whisper froze him in his seat.

“Remember what I said, Artie. About not making me worried. I know where you live. I know where your wife works. I know where you hide the spare key to the house. I know about the gun you keep under the mattress on your side of the bed. I know, Artie. I know everything about you.”

He barely had time to slam the back door closed before the cab took off down the street. Bright red tail lights lit up the night momentarily before disappearing around a street corner, leaving him standing almost in the middle of the street. He was shivering like a kid straight out of a cold shower. Shivering uncontrollable.

How the hell did he know about the gun underneath the mattress? About the spare key? How . . . . . ?

Jesus.

He was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life. Eyes staring into the void of the empty street in front of him he kept asking himself the same thing. Over and over. The same thing.

What the hell have I done? What the hell have I done? What the hell have I done?

An Interview With Les Edgerton

2012-02-10T08:49:00.002-06:00

Les Edgerton.

Ex-con. College professor. Raconteur. Irreverent. Damn good writer.

And rapidly becoming a good friend.

Met Les thru the internet social media circles. Got a note one day from him saying he really enjoyed my writing and included himself as a fan of mine.

Huh?

An established, well respected international writer like Les Edgerton is a fan of mine? Carumba! Turns out that we started talking to each other in various mediums---and discovered we are more alike in our writing habits and tastes. Wow. Now the old man and I (we're about the same age, come to think of it) are working on cementing our friendship even deeper

You need to know that Les is one hard edged, "not going to modify into sweetness the cruel world of crime", kind of writer. He tells it like he sees it. The guy is an ex-con. He knows from where he speaks about the inside ruminations of those who live on the other side of the tracks. His fiction, therefore, is darker than most. With no frills. But . . . more than you think . . with a kind of twisted dry sardonic humor to it.

How could I NOT interview this guy? So here it is. In living color. Enjoy.

1. To say the least, you have lived a colorful life. Was it a planned colorful life you endured? Or did it come in fits and spurts?

It was most definitely planned, B.R. When I was five or six I knew I was going to be a writer. My idea of what it took to be a writer then was the “Jack London school of writing,” where you had adventures and then wrote about them. My entire life has consisted of doing my level best to have experiences. And then, when I was in my sixties, I read something Flannery O’Connor said where she claimed that if a person has lived in the same small town and in the same house for 18 years, she has all the material she’ll ever need as a writer. Now I find out! Would have saved me a lot of trouble if I’d known that years ago…

Gumbo Ya Ya

2. Over the years you've written a number of books covering a surprising wide variety of subjects. From hairstyling to baseball to crime fiction. How did this polymath taste in slapping words onto paper come about?

I’ve just always had a lot of interests. How does one focus on one thing? I can’t. And, don’t want to. It’s hurt me, career-wise, as publishers and agents want their writers to create a “brand” and I have no interest at all in doing that, even though it would benefit me, money-wise. I like a lot of things and I love to write so that’s what I do—write about a lot of things. You have to control your own life and not let others do it for you. Especially not for as shallow a reason as “money.” Never been a huge goal of mine. If it would have been, I would have sold insurance or whatever. Actually, I did and was very good at it… but bored out of my skull. Walked away from a job that would have paid six figures a year which was good money in the seventies and a year later was homeless in Costa Mesa, sleeping on a garage floor and eating out of a Bob’s Big Boy dumpster. Really a cool time and I knew it at the time and look fondly back at it. If I’d stayed selling life insurance and fretting over my yard, I wouldn’t remember any of that, I’m pretty sure. Since I was a young boy, I realized that if things went okay, one day I’d end up in the ol’ nursing home with a blanket over my lap and all the money in the world wouldn’t matter. All I’d really have would be memories. Well, I have tons and tons of super memories. I also knew early on that one can only drive one car at a time and sleep in one bed in one house, so accumulating material things just never made much sense. At least to me.

3. When did the writing bug first bite you? And when, in your mind, did you finally come to the conclusion that you were indeed a successful writer?

When I read my first book on my own when I was five, I knew then that I was going to be a writer. Never considered anything else for a single minute. And, I was a successful writer from Day One. In grade school, I’d write these funny put-downs of bullies—teachers, parents and other kids—that got passed around and laughed at. My writing created an emotion in others and the feedback was instantaneous. That’s when I knew I was successful. That’s what writing is all about—affecting other people emotionally.

4. We've shared this conversation before; but it seems rather obvious that just about every writer out there wants to write crime fiction. So the question is quite simple; what makes a writer succeed, and fail, in writing this particular genre?

Well, some would say the market decides success and in some ways it does, but not as much to me as perhaps to others. I consider my writing successful when other writers whom I respect tell me my writing was good. If a writer only looks at how many books he’s sold, then I feel very sad about that person. He’s not a writer,imo—he’s a salesman who happens to sell books and not shoes. I have absolutely no ambition to sell a million books if the books are crap. I have acquaintances who do that and good for them, but it’s not how I’d define success as a writer. I’d much rather sell 10,000 copies to intelligent people who truly understand and appreciate writing ability. I’ve had good numbers for book sales in the past and that’s fine, but when I get the royalty statement and it’s good, while I of course like that, what really trips my trigger is when I read a review of one of my books by someone I respect who understands the book and notes its quality. I can’t remember what my last royalty statement was, but I sure remember the day I read reviews by Anthony Neil Smith, Ray Banks, Paul D.

Brazill, Allan Guthrie and several others who praised my work. I can still tell you where I was, what the weather was like, what time of day it was and what I was wearing when I read a review by Luca Veste or Tom Pluck (or you, B.R.!) or any of a number of quality writers. Wish I could name ‘em all, but alas, room doesn’t allow…

The Bitch

To further answer your question—what determines success or no—for myself when I’m reading another writer it’s simple. Did he transport me to the world he created? Did I believe that world? Was it interesting and compelling? I admit, I’m a tough sell. I see more than a few “pretenders” out there and I just don’t read any more of their work once I sense that in their writing. Here’s a “for-instance.” If I read a novel and I come across the word “shiv” I’m probably going to put that book down and never return. It’s just not a word actual outlaws use. It’s a term from fifties’ movies and bad pulp fiction. I can’t even imagine a guy ever using that word in the joint—he’d get laughed out of the rec room as a newbie to the outlaw game and somebody would probably pop his brown eye. (Doing so by threatening him with a shank, not a “shiv.”) This is clearly a guy who got his information from movies and other bad books. I don’t expect most crime writers to have experiential experience about the criminal life, but when the “research” is clearly only from reading bad books and watching crappy, melodramatic movies, it doesn’t work for me. A writer who creates protagonists who are cops and detectives usually works for verisimilitude—it’s pretty easy to do proper research for that side of the law—while often those who try to portray the criminal pov don’t have a clue. That said, there are some people who really do understand the criminal mind, including (but not limited to) writers like Elmore Leonard, Joe R. Lansdale, Anthony Neil Smith, Richard Stark (especially Mr. Stark), Ray Banks, Allan Guthrie, a new guy I just discovered—Jake Hinkson, George Pelecanos, Charles Willeford, Ed Lynskey, David Cranmer, Duane Swierczynski, Tom Franklin, Harry Crews, Nigel Bird, David Goodis, Bill Cameron, Don Winslow, Steve Hamilton and a few others I know I’m forgetting (sorry!). These are the guys who create criminal characters I can buy. Especially Richard Stark.

5. You have a number of novels published. Why don't you tell us about your latest offering and what will be the next tasty delight your fans will soon enjoy.

My latest release was a story collection titled GUMBO YA-YA, I’m very proud of. Just before that, my noir novel, THE BITCH, came out and I feel that my best book yet published. I’ve got some more waiting to be published that I think one of them is even better and may even be ground-breaking. We’ll see… Last year, I also published two other crime/noir novels—THE PERFECT CRIME and JUST LIKE THAT. I’m working on a new noir thriller called THE FIXER which is about a hit man who makes his hits all look like accidents. Been working on that one about seven years and I think it’s going to be a good one…

6. You now teach at the college level writing courses. So tell us, can a good writer be trained through, say, an MFA course? Or are the best of writers born as natural story tellers and are compelled to write?

I have an MFA in Writing from Vermont College and in the interests of truth in writing, have to say I learned very little about writing while there. It wasn’t the fault of the school or of my advisors who were all great people and terrific writers. I was already a good writer when I went there—already had four books published with two in the pipeline. What I did gain from my time there was a good reading list and a network that gained me entre to various publications. The biggest thing was it kind of validated me as a writer in my mind and that’s important. As far as training good writers via college classes, in a way, yes. There are certainly things a writer can learn in an MFA program—but it really depends on their advisors. There just are no “secrets” to be learned in programs or in workshops or in books—the thing about writing is that the “secrets” are in plain view on the pages of good books. Just look at what affects you in someone’s writing and figure out how they did it. It’s that simple. Someone did a study years ago, where they took a group of professional writers and looked at their educational backgrounds. They defined “professional” writers by the definition of professional—someone who made their entire living from writing. They discovered that about half had a college B.A. or higher… and half had a high school degree or less. Formal education has little to do with writing success, at least in my mind. I was writing publishable work while in junior high school. In fact, two of the stories in my story collection, MONDAY’S MEAL were written when I was 12 and 13 and the NY Times compared the work to Raymond Carver. I do think the best writers are naturals at it, but I also think a person can learn enough to write marketable books. I don’t think any program can train someone to write a book like THE STRANGER. A program can, on the other hand, train a writer to write a book like THE FIRM.

Also, “natural” is perhaps the wrong word. I think one is seen as a “natural” because he writes compelling, interesting stories and I’m not sure if anyone is “born” knowing how to do that. I do think that those considered naturals were avid readers at a very early age and have continued to read constantly all their lives. Those are the people who’ve taught themselves how to write, simply because they’re smarter than the average bear and have read much more than others. This is what makes a “natural” writer, I think. If that person had lived in another culture and didn’t learn to read until he or she was twenty, I don’t think they’d ever write at a level where people would call them a natural. I don’t think such a person could write THE STRANGER, but I’m pretty sure they could eventually write THE FIRM. And, make a lot of money…

7. In your writing classes (let's get down to the nuts and bolts of the thing) what do you emphasis to your students the three main ingredients which makes for a great novel. Or do you tackle that concept at all?

Never thought of novels in those terms, B.R., but that’s an interesting concept. And, I imagine, a viable one. I have two elements which I consider necessary for successful writing. Be interesting and be clear. Of the two, being interesting is the more important.

To be successful in the market with a novel (not necessarily the same thing as writing a good novel), I do think there are three things that contribute. One, write with a voice that people want to hear. That’s usually your own voice that hasn’t been ruined by paying too much attention to English classes. You can write the dullest story in the world if you write it with a voice that’s compelling. It’s like back in high school—we all know the guy who can tell a joke and no one laughs… and then, another guy comes in and tells the same joke and people are crying they’re laughing so hard. It’s delivery… or voice. Second, write a good story. That’s all novels are—stories. Third, write in the current accepted fashion. If you write a novel in the Victorian style, with long setups and loads of backstory in the beginning, you’re probably not going to get read. Doubtful you’ll even get published, unless you’re related to an editor or have incriminating information on them, or you own a press and they’ll publish you if you’ll publish them… which happens…

There are some other tricks and stratagems. I’d advise including at least five watercooler moments in the book. Same as movies. It’s what creates word-of-mouth and, in the final analysis, that’s what sells most books.

8. Your writing career has stretched across several decades and covered a lot of different subjects. What's out there in the writing world you haven't yet accomplished? And more importantly, do you think you still have the drive in you to go after those accolades?

I’d love to win some accolades. Or the lottery. I probably have a better chance at the lottery…However, there are some awards I don’t much covet, which may surprise you. For instance, I’d love to win an Edgar, but don’t much covet a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize. Mostly because those have become very political. If you’re a rabid liberal and write a book that blasts conservatives, you’ve got a shot at those things. That’s who’s on the committees to select them. Think of the folks Kurt Vonnegut was speaking of when he said, “Literature is in danger of disappearing up its own asshole.” Bingo… Besides, those folks haven’t gotten the word that “literary” fiction is over. Who reads it unless they have to? Or have some burning desire to impress some academic nimrod with their reading list? A Spinetingler Award means something to me. The Edgar, though, is my Holy Grail. I wish I lived in England or Scotland or Ireland or one of those countries—they have some awards I’d kill to win. Those guys are writing on the edge and are the real deal. They don’t play it safe and those are my kind of folks…

B.R. I realize some of my remarks may piss some folks off. Good! The older I get, the more honest I’m willing to be in public. Life’s too short to placate people. If one’s writing doesn’t irritate some folks, it’s not much good—same with interviews…

Thanks for having me on, guy!

The Book Reviewer Today

2012-02-08T09:48:00.000-06:00

Today's blog I thought would play the role of the book reviewer. Thought I'd look at some new stuff and some old stuff and throw my two cents into the mix. God knows I don't read nearly as much as I did in my youth. Call it old age; call it a lack of interest. Call it an intense sense of being disappointed at the reading material out there. I dunno. Whatever you call it, I don't read nearly as much as I used to because, frankly, I find it hard to find an author who writes well enough to capture--and maintain--my interest.

However, that doesn't mean I've given up the reading habit. I still crack open a book. I still look for outstanding writing. I remain optimistic.

First up on today's review is Daniel Silva's Portrait of a Spy. Frankly, if you haven't discovered the Gabriel Allon series, where the hell have you been? Allon is a Mossad (Israeli Intelligence) hit-man. Silva created a character that you both grow to appreciate . . . and dread . . . whenever the game is afoot. Allon's specialty is whacking terrorists. His team of trained agents go all over the world looking for the bad guys and taking them out. Usually very violently.

What makes the series excellent (there are I think, fourteen Allon novels) is this; it smacks of real life. Allon hides himself in Europe posing as a world-renown art restorer. So you get to dive into the world of rare art AND international intrigue. There are no fast cars, no incredible gadgets. But there is some nifty tricks you learn about the spy trade. Really nifty.

Comes highly recommended by me. I'd give it a 5 nine-millimeter rounds between the eyes for a rating.

Next up is The Bitch by Les Edgerton. Edgerton (whom I will be interviewing shortly) is one of those writers who takes American crime and doesn't try to paint it in any kind of nonsensical romantic patina. The novel is a hard edge look at 'The Bitch' the three-felonies-and-you're-out rule . . meaning you're behind bars for the rest of your life if you get caught.

The book is about an ex-con who has make choices. None which, he wants to make at all. Crime in all its unvarnished reality. From a writer who has done a little time himself behind bars. If you like to read harsh reality, this is the puppy for you.

This comes in as another 5 nine-millimeter rounds in the head rating. (My! Ain't I the gory one today!!)

Next on the list is an oldie but a goodie. Tony Hillerman's Coyote Waits. Hillerman, no longer with us, by the way, wrote about the tribal police on the Navajo reservation down in the four-corners area of New Mexico. That being said, what you are going to discover is a trip into Navajo mythology and culture.

The Navajo looks at the crime of murder with different eyes. Especially the reasons, or motives, why murder takes place at all. Out in the desert country of New Mexico and Arizona the night holds monsters and dreams which affect us all. Take for example, the coyote. In their mythology the coyote is a trickster---sometimes in a humorous fashion---but more times than not, in quite evil formulations. He is waiting in the dark for the foolish to find him And when he is found rarely does anything good happen.

Tony Hillerman wrote at least eighteen novels in this series featuring either/or, or both, his characters Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn. Both Navajo reservation sheriff officers. Make an effort to discover, or re-discover, these novels. You won't be disappointed.

I give this series not only the 5 nine-millimeter rounds, but the 9 mm Glock as well. Yes. They are that good.

There are more oldies out there I'd like to discuss. Maybe later. What I would like to find in some new writers to fall in love with. If you have a recommendation, feel free to offer up their names. I'll check'em out.

Imagination

2012-02-06T13:14:00.000-06:00

Imagination.

The 'What If Factor . . .'

An ingredient absolutely critical for a writer. Pictured here is the new cover for the Fantasy short-story series I want to write featuring a character of mine called Roland of the High Crags. Roland is a warrior, monk, and wizard. Living in a world of dark parallel universes connected by a continum called The Netherworld. Call it the After Life . . . call it an Alternate Dimension. Call it Hell or Hades, if you want to. But The Netherworld is where all immortal things exist. Including concepts like Good and Evil and Magic. And your Doppelgangers for a myriad of different universes.

Not just the simple Fantasy of formulaic repetition we seem to be stuck in these days in this genre. What I have in mind is something that could be both highly adventurous and extremely creepy/horrible at the same time.

That's imagination. Creating a world of complex values and sights and sounds and tastes never before encountered. Or . . at least . . . rarely encountered.

Yet in so many genres I love this talent seems to be stilted, if not severely curtailed altogether. It's as if writers today can't . . . or won't . . .allow their imaginations to soar. To visualize something extraordinary. Sure, sure . .. we get critics who will claim one author or another's vision as being brilliantly conceived. But . . . really? Have you really read something recently that just fired up and exploded your five senses into a whole no realm of possibilities?

The above image is the creation of Javier and Jesus Carmona. Two brothers living in and around Madrid, Spain. Not profession just yet. But their artist talent is right there with the best of them. Their visualizations of my words and descriptions are fantastic to experience. I specifically described to them what I wanted. We had an interesting back-and-forth discussion over details. And then the final product. Marvelous!

I hope I can get them to work on an image I have for another character of mine. The dark eye, cold hearted assassin named Smitty. If I can describe specifically the image I have in mind that these two can render in their art . . . the image will be absolutely stunning! And if it comes into reality, it will be a fabulous cover the continuation of the Call Me Smitty series I recently had going.

Imagination.

Find it. Mold it like clay in your mind. Don't be afraid to use it in your writing.

Eh, what the hell.

2012-02-04T13:13:00.000-06:00

Okay. What's next?

What do you do when your hopes for a writing career have been seriously rocked by unwanted news? Tons of effort, hours of work, thousands of words written to make a dream come true. And then Whammo!!

The bottom drops out and you find yourself in kind of literary free-falling vertigo.

Eh, what the hell.

It's not like I haven't been in this position before. Forty plus years of writing and hoping, submitting and rejecting . . . and then writing and hoping, and submitting and rejecting . . . well, you get the picture. Forty plus years of that and this situation becomes all too familiar to you.

Since, obviously, I'm not a 'Sensational New Writing Talent Freshly Discovered!' I guess I'll just pick myself up, dust off the dirt on my jeans and shirt, slap my dentures back in in the appropriate positions . . . .and write something!

Like I said; What the Hell!? I'm a writer. What the hell else am I supposed to do? I got a day-job (as menial as it is). I got a roof over my head. I got a wife, kids, and grand-kids who love me . . . . and put up with me and my dreams of being a successful in this gig. I got some friends out there in the writing world I can actually call genuine 'friends.' What else is needed to keep on dreaming and pushing and hoping and writing?

The imagination is still there. The urge to write is still there. And god knows all the characters I've created are still in my head screaming to get out. So . . . what the hell?

Take for example the thought that hit me in the midst of this last brouhaha. Why not, in a way, kinda 're-invent' a character of mine who seems to have developed a small (and I laugh at this . . . 'small' doesn't BEGIN to describe those who like this character ) fan base and rewrite the story that started the Smitty series?

The Smitty series started with a story about how an average Joe suddenly becomes a cold blooded killer. A professional hit-man who, strangely enough, still maintained a sense of justice in his cold heart. The original story was called 'Call Me Smitty.' But then this odd little 'crunch' explodes in my head (no, I didn't have a stroke, dammit!) Why not re-tool 'Call Me Smitty.' Title it, 'There is No Johnny--Just Call Me Smitty.'

Why not revamp the particulars which caused Johnny to turn into Smitty. Describe in detail a little more about the two people he loved the most turned on him. Keep some of the details and settings of the first story in place---but at the same time, change them enough to paint a more dramatic, darker . . . and definitely meaner . . . Smitty.

So okay. I'm writing that story as we speak . But Lo and Behold . . . !

Out of the blue skies come two unexpected queries. A writer friend of mine wants me to meet with his literary agent. Another writer-friend of mine (maybe one of the two Smitty fans) wants me to bundle some Smitty stories up and send'em to him . . . . and don't ask any questions just yet!

Hmmm . . . .

Is my luck changing? Is it going from, "You gotta be kidding me!!" to "Well, I'll be damn . . . !" Huh, you got me, brother. I'm just standing here scratching my very flat head and wondering the same thing.

But one thing seems obviously clear irregardless as to what ultimately comes down the pike. Networking with others of you ilk works. People who know people in your craft have a tendency to help you out. Not everyone, but a few; and no promises, mind you. But for every one door of opportunity that closes . . . its crystal clear other doors open. If you keep can recognize it when they come.

I gotta say, that's kinda nice. Friends helping friends. 'Hope someday that opportunity to help someone else is given to me. I owe a debt; I intend to repay.

I've said fairwell to Trestle Press

2012-02-02T11:57:00.002-06:00

It's done.

It's over. I've said my goodbyes.

I've said all along that when solid, incontrovertible proof was given to me that Trestle Press and I needed to part, I would do just exactly that. I also said that when, and if, we parted company I would let those who follow this blog, and my fellow writers, know up front and immediately that I've left Trestle Press.

And admit that I was wrong and they were right.

That proof came to me today.

Doesn't matter what the proof was. It was enough to convince me that a change had to be made. So I've asked Trestle Press to take down everything of mine they've published. I've scrubbed all references of Trestle Press from this blog site. I'll soon post this blog on Facebook and Google-Plus and other sites to admit my mistake.

And it tears me up. Tears me up not because I admit I'm wrong. Hell, ask my wife; I'm told on a daily basis I'm wrong. I don't mind the lumps and the finger-pointing that comes when I've screwed up. I did the screwing up . . . I'll take the blame. I'm thick headed enough to take the blame and live with it and survive.

That's Life, buddy. You may not have had the option of declining to sign up for this gig, but as long as you're alive, you have to take the lumps and the failures along with the successes and joys Life hands out to all of us.

What tears me up is the end of a dream. A dream not about money and success and fame. (I'm human . . . more or less. Sure, I'd like to have some of that stuff thrown my way. But I can live without it if I have to)

No . . . . .

What tears me up is that I'm involved in seeing a dream someone else so diligently tried to build start to possibly crumble into ruin. I know about dreams. About the emotions that goes with the dreams. About the bitter frustrations. The sense of loss when that dream almost . . . almost . . . becomes a reality and then is suddenly taken away from you. The creator of Trestle Press, for all that's been said about him, nevertheless was a man who had a real dream driving him on. He wanted to create publishing venue that gave an opportunity for dozens of unknown writers to get their material out and into the reading public.

A noble dream, if you ask me. And one I still appreciate deeply for being offered to me. That bad decisions, defined as intentional or unintentional (your choice) were made which almost assured the eventual firestorm that erupted, doesn't destroy the dream.

Like I said to a friend of mine earlier, I take my loyalties and my friendships seriously. I am also (this will come as a shocking surprise, eh?!) stubborn headed, cantankerous, quarrelsome, with a strong potion of 'I-Hate-To-Lose! There are times I'm hard to live with. And it's a given that I'm probably not going to go along with majority view of anything. And I absolutely hate . . . HATE . . . being put in a position of turning my back on a friend and walking away.

I've seen too many good people either destroyed or never given the opportunity to rise up and succeed in life. I've seen too many people accused of crimes committed out of mistaken assumptions and/or without cause whatsoever and watched their reputations, and in some cases their lives, destroyed in the process.

And I live every day with the guilt of being one of those who did not lift a hand to try and save them. Of all the wrongs that I have done . . . this is the one bitter pill hardest to swallow. And remember.

In good conscience I had to separate my relationship with Trestle Press. Had to. I'm not happy about it. I'm not happy with myself. I worry that a great wrong has been committed. Committed unnecessarily.

I guess we'll have to wait and see . . .

In Defense of Trestle Press

2012-02-01T16:26:00.002-06:00

Of late, a publisher I work with---Trestle Press---has been been sledding though some heavy snow. A brouhaha exploded recently about the use of copy righted artwork and whether the publisher had or had not the required permissions to use said artwork.

This issue generated instant fallout. A number of talented writers decided to remove their material from publication under the banner of Trestle Press and go their separate ways.

I respect their decisions. I applaud their commitment to not be a part of any perceived plagiarism. As a writer I know the feeling of seeing your work being bodily lifted out of its original context and used by someone else and under their name! As artists . . . as moral and ethical human beings . . . it seems to me we are morally bound to protect each other's artistic endeavors.

However . . .

The issues at hand that should be better explored before major decisions such as withdrawing from the enfolding arms of a publisher are these; were the images truly plagiarised. And were they done so maliciously.

The answer to the first question is unclear. One one hand the publisher says they he acquired the necessary permissions and/or paid the require fees to use such artwork. On the other hand is this shared view by a number of writers that surely an upstart of a company like Trestle Press could not possibly afford acquiring . . . or paying . . . the required permissions/fees.

A cogent assumption. But to date . . . only an assumption.

Trestle Press is a year old. It has dozens upon dozens of titles listed in just about every major ebook market that can be found. Their titles span the globe. The Call Me Smitty series I have, alone, has nine installments. The artwork used for these works covers the gamut of artistic creation. To my knowledge there has not been one rumble, not one 'official' accusation, not one demand to cease and desist, or even one letter from an irate lawyer and/or artist demanding their artwork to be removed.

Not one.

So the question has to be asked is this; is this issue a legitimate issue? Or is this a erroneously perceived issue brought on by a disgruntled outside source bent on achieving some kind of retaliation?

If evidence exists that proves wrongs committed has come to light, for god's sake share this information! As a writer and as an artist I too want to do the right thing! But on the other hand, if assumption and innuendo gave birth to this pie of acrimonious pickles, shame on all of us!

We have unceremoniously condemned a man, and a fragile start-up company, of wrongs he may be innocent of, and in the process, potentially mortally wounding the company's ability to survive.

As to the question as to whether this supposed wrong was maliciously intended, I am going to go out on a limb and categorically reject this altogether. Blame the decision . . . again, IF TRUE, on ineptness. Blame it on inexperience. Blame it on the fact that a fan of great story-telling with no intent of ever becoming a writer, wanted to create a vehicle to get gifted writers out into the markets.

But I for one, doubt any form of avarice or greed were ingredients in the decision making. There is no evidence to suggest this. None. In fact, there is more evidence to suggest just the opposite. Every writer working under the banner of Trestle Press has found an owner more than willing . . in fact, absolutely ecstatic, in complying with the creative wishes of each and every one of his authors.

He politely warned me not to use photos in a book trailer because of this very issue of plagiarism. That, for me, cements my opinions concerning intent. He was protecting my interests. Which interpreted, means he was cognizant of what the implications were in plagiarising artwork and thus was protecting himself as much as protecting me.

So why would he knowingly comment such a desperate act across a wide range of published works? He wouldn't.

This blizzard of words and accusations will blow over. It is my hopes Trestle Press survives and expands. Lessons have been learned. Actions have been taken to correct perceived problems. Let's now put this issue to bed and move on with our lives.

The Turner Hahn/Frank Morales Cases at OneTrueMedia.com

2012-01-31T14:39:00.001-06:00

Book trailer for Eleven From The South Side.

Make a video - it's fun, easy and free!
www.onetruemedia.com

Lamenting Souls

2012-01-29T10:58:00.000-06:00

I write other things besides noir/hardboiled. One of the 'other writes' is Dark Fantasy. Or, to be more precise, my interpretation of what Dark Fantasy should be.

Over the years I have read a little fantasy. Robert E. Howard (Conan, the Barbarian creator), Terry Goodkin. J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Paolini, J.K. Rowling . . . . others. And for the most part, with a couple of exceptions, I wasn't impressed. The fantasy most writers wrote were rehashes of the same plate of over-fried 'taters. Just warmed up again for another serving.

Fantasy, for me, has a deeper . . . darker . . . purpose to it. It's a venue to explore that part of the soul which delves into the unknowns of the human psyche and into things that go bump in the night. The inexplicable. The unknown---but not the unknown in the nuts and bolts kind of thinking found in, say, traditional Science Fiction. No. I'm talking about Evil. About the conscious and unconscious powers of the mind to tap into forces Science can't quite yet explain. 'Magic' may or may not be real; but the power of the human mind to believe in magic is quite real.

Therefore Dark Fantasy has, in my estimation, yet to be fully explored. And oh . . . what a journey of discovery could be possibly waiting for us!

I'm writing a fantasy series. And I'm about to use the same character and begin writing a short-story series. Thought I'd share a pre-series short story with you. Maybe you'll like it. Maybe not.

Hope you do.

Lamenting Souls

Evil burns in colors sullen, Pilgrim.

Aye, Fellow Traveler. In the eyes of a wizard Evil smolders in colors dark and menacing. All life shimmers and glows. Trees. Flowers. The animals of the forest. The denizens of the watery deep. Dragons. Man. All life shimmers a color and a hue unique to its own. Even Magic, Pilgrim. Magic glows in colors unique to the brand of magic used.

I am the one called Roland. Roland of the High Crags. I am a warrior monk of the Bretan Way. My magic is Bretan. Here, in the snow capped peaks of the High Kanris, I have taken vows to protect the weak and the innocent from those which would feed upon their souls. Evil of any kind. My vows are unbending. I cannot flinch. I can not withdraw from the fight. I fight the noble fight. The fight that Evil must be confronted. Must be constantly sought out and defeated.

For the true believer knows, Pilgrim. Evil can never be destroyed. Only constrained in heavy chains if resolutely confronted.

So began this adventure on one bright moon lit night as I rode the warm updrafts rising into the night hair from forest floors below us. I and my good companion, a Huygens-bred Great Wing who called himself Cedric.

A Great Wing, friend, is a giant hawk. A powerful bird of prey found only among the snow capped peaks of the High Kanris. A bird, this Cedric, a hundred and eighty hands high. Roughly fifteen feet tall when wings folded and standing on clawed talons. A fierce warrior. Fearless and bold. With wings strong enough to carry me long distances over forest floor or mountain peak in this rugged land I call home. A great warrior in his own right–a partner who has agreed to stay at my side in my fight against both the Dragon and against Evil.

On this lonely night as we rode the moon beams over a nameless valley, the jagged black peaks of mountains towering over us and capped by snow gleaming bright and brilliant on moonlight, we both heard the eerie voice rising up from below calling for us.

Help, masters! Help this weary soul! Save me and my kinfolk from our tormentors!

Oh, please, oh great wizard. We beseech thee!
The pleading voice of a ghost, Pilgrim.
Aye, the dead doth speak. The night filled with wandering souls. Lost souls. Tormented souls. Sad souls. For one reason or another souls who will not step into the Netherworld and swim in the warm waters of the River of Time. This voice rising up to us as we sailed silently over a valley floor of ancient forests was a tormented soul–a soul wishing to journey into the Netherworld. But one kept here in the Outer Worlds by supernatural forces stronger than it.

Roland of the High Crags: Evil Arises

Cedric, old friend, did not hesitate. With me strapped firmly in the saddle it dipped one mighty wing and circled above the forest floor, one great eye of his peering into the moon light night to find the source of this pleading lament. Eyeing something human eyes are incapable of seeing the great beast folded its wings and dived downward toward a small forest clearing.

With a powerful whoosh! of wings Cedric settled into the high grass of the small clearing. Folding his wings hesitantly it eyed the black forest encircling the clearing expecting some kind of trap to be sprung. Leaping from the saddle, the curved bronze hued blade of my ancient Dragon scimitar in hand, I too expected trouble. Moving away from my winged companion, the tall grass waving in the moonlight in my wake, sword in hand, I waited for our lamenting ghost to make its appearance.

She came, soon enough, floating across the tall grass in a meandering cloud of a million fireflies

Master! Master, oh! You heard me! You heard my pleas! Thanks be to the
to the gods.

Fireflies, millions of them, danced around us, rising and falling, in some kind of merry fugue. The Inner Eye within me, the third eye all wizards and those with magical powers possess and that gives them the power to see the auras of life, glowed with joy and relief. This Inner Eye of mine saw this ghostly entity was that of a child, a small child, a female long absent from the Outer Realms in physical form yet trapped in this world unable to move on.

"Calm yourself, child, and tell me why you speak of others and why you dwell in this valley still?"

I am called Rebecca, master. I and my kinfolk–parents, uncles, cousins, aunts and distant kin–settled in this valley many, many years hence. Far from others like us

we decided to build our homes here in peace, in solitude, in peace. But soon after my birth a great evil came to us. A great evil disguised as a human. One by one it began to take us. It stalked us all. Sank its bloody fangs into our souls and took our spirits from us. Even in death it holds us here, master. We cannot leave this valley. We cannot enter the Netherworld. We have been here

for a long, long time. So long some of us are beginning to fade into nothingness,master! Can you help us? Can you free us from our tormentor? Oh, please, master!

Please help us!

I felt the child’s pain. I felt the faint menace yet reaching out with its cold gripping and holding onto her soul. I knew what had to be done. Yet the perils I knew were great. Great for me. Even more so for the child’s soul and those of her kin.

"I can journey to your time, child. I can find this evil sorcery and I can challenge it. But it is powerful, this magic. I cannot guarantee I can defeat it. If it defeats me, child, it will grow far stronger. Perhaps strong enough to leave this valley which keeps it trapped within."

I will help you, master! I–we all–will help you find this dark magic and defeat

it! This we promise!

"Return to you kin, child. Tell them I travel into the past. Tell them to remain silent upon my appearance. The evil that holds you need not know of my coming until I am already arrived."

The fireflies, millions of them, reacted to my words. The swirled around us twice and then drifted away in a long weaving line in one direction of the dark forest pressing down upon us. Still gripping the ancient blade in my hand I turned and eyed my old friend.

"If we journey back to the child’s time and are caught forever there our souls will be consumed, old friend. We will never escape. You do not need to travel with me. Go you your way and I shall go mine."

For an answer the giant war bird bent its thick neck down and, using its long hooked beak gently, pushed me hard backward, making me stumble back through the high grass two or three steps. From his mind I felt a hot retort of anger for me for even suggestion such an idea.

Grinning, feeling Cedric’s anger in my mind, I nodded and reached up with a gloved hand and slapped the war bird’s great hook beaked fondly. True friend and warrior he was. Through thick and thin. We would ride together in this battle.

"Very well, Cedric. Prepare yourself. The journey will be swift but cold. Colder than the fiercest of any winter’s breath we ever endured together."

Stepping away from my feathered brother I lifted a gloved hand up over bowed head. Closing my eyes I began the process of focusing the Inner Eye. Into the Netherworld we had to enter together. Into that domain that was neither in the present nor in the past. Neither in the future nor in the minds of mortal man. But only after stepping into the Netherworld would Cedric and I be able to travel across the deep waters of the River of Time. Travel into the past. Into the far, far past.

First came the tingling, electrical charge of entering the Netherworld. A surge of wild exuberance–of overwhelming warmth and static electricity, sweeping across us. Stimulating very pore, ever nerve ending in our bodies with a sense of narcotic bliss. The smells–the sounds–the roar of the Netherworld almost overwhelmed our senses. But swiftly it swept past us–and then darkness engulfed us. Darkness yet the sensation of floating on calm waters of a wide river.

Indeed, the River of Time is a an endless river, Pilgrim. A deep, wide river that flows for eternity into the Past and for an eternity into the far Future. It never ends. It has no beginning. It goes on in both directions forever. Time limitless flows in this body of water. And it, like the Netherworld itself, is filled with souls passing across the dark waters, traveling in both directions at once.

But the calm waters began to get choppy. The smooth motion of riding in a boat changed to the hurling, undulating crash of a being tossed hither and yon in a ship riding the winds of a howling hurricane! Cold–cold far colder than the winds of the frigid northern glaciers–howled angrily in our ears. Buffeted and bruised we stood together enduring the journey. Winds howled. Screamed. Faintly carrying the voices of hundreds–thousands–millions of souls crying out to us we hurled past them.

And then . . . suddenly . . . . silence.

The smells of a high mountain valley. The soft touch of a mountain breeze playing across my cheeks. The smells of wild flowers and forests old in my nostrils. Opening my eyes I lifted my head and peered around me. Cedric stood exactly in the same place I saw him last. But, looking up at the stars I could see we had arrived. Arrived in this same valley as had recently being standing in. But in a far, far, more ancient time.

In the night wind I heard the faint echo of laughter and the sounds of a music. Sheathing the ancient blade I walked to my feathered friend and leapt into the saddle and strapped myself in. Cedric spread his wide, powerful wings and leapt high into the night sky. Wings strong and swift had us climbing swiftly into a starry, moon filled night. Banking sharply to the right it did not take us long to spy the small hamlet of simple log cabins setting beside a small river in a not too distant mountain clearing.

Life, Pilgrim. Remember I said Life glows with an aura all its own. Even ghosts have an aura. Life–in a different setting–yet living still. Unless, unless . . .

In the moonlight the cabins looked old and decrepit. The moon’s silver beams played across low roof lines and log walls. From chimneys columns of smoke lifted into the night sky while on the surface of the moving river, like glittering orbs of a thousand scintillating diamonds, moon beams played across its dark watery surface. Twice we circled the hamlet in silence, Cedric’s wings riding the night air like the master of the hunt he was. Pointing to a spot beside the river I said nothing. Nor had to. My old friend heard my thoughts. Twisting around quickly and folding his wings we dropped like a stone toward the river’s bank. Settling onto the river bank like avenging wraiths I leapt from my saddle and then patted the hardened yellow beak of the war bird gently.

"Stay alert, old friend. We hunt that which hunts us. Evil lurks in the night waiting to lunge at our throats."

One last slap on the Great Wing’s beak and I started walking down a well trodden path toward the one building in the hamlet which light filtered through windows and into the night. From this low slung, long building came the sounds of laughter and music. The laughter of adults mingled with the squeals of children. Aye, Pilgrim. On first blush the warmth of the light, the sound of music and much laughter emanating from within this old inn, should have warmed my heart. All seemed well. All seemed as it should. Yet the Inner Eye I possessed told me otherwise. I knew, Pilgrim. I knew Evil hoary and ancient nestled within. And it was waiting for me to step unsuspectingly into its elaborate trap.

Ducking my head to slip under the low roof line I opened the inn’s door and stepped into the brightly lit interior. Closing the rough wooden plank door behind me I gazed at those who gazed at me and nodded. Twenty souls sat around long tables on roughly hewn benches or stood leaning against a long bar which stretched the width of the building to my left. Farmers. Woodsmen. Children of all ages. Warriors wearing habiliments and weapons unfamiliar to me. Merchants in outrageously colorful apparel. All sat or stood silently and stared at me with frozen smiles pressed upon their lips.

Ghosts, Pilgrim.

Souls captured and consumed by the Evil which hid itself somewhere in this room. Captured long, long ago in a far away past and held in psychic servitude all these years in this valley of the damned. Ghosts who’s auras told me they screamed in silent agony yet danced at the whim of that which held them so tightly in his grip.

"Master, thank the gods!" Rebecca’s happy voice came to me as she ran with face smiling and eyes dancing in joy to me. "The terrible thing which had imprisoned us all these years has fled! Fled the moment he felt your presence about the hamlet as you and your giant bird circled in the night. Thank you, master! Thank you! We are free, finally free!"

Tiny little hands gripped my calloused, hardened hand and pressed it against her cheek for a moment and then turned and pulled me deeper into the room. Several of the ancient warriors from lands I knew not approached me with smiling faces and heartily pounded me on my back and expressed their gratitude. An old patriarch, with thick white beard and long white air falling to his wide shoulders, rose from one of the benches and walked to the bar. Pouring something black and strange into a large stone cut, smiling like the grateful head of a large family, he turned and offered me the cup.

"Drink, wizard. Drink! Tonight we will celebrate our release from hell’s grasp. Tomorrow we will journey into the Netherworld and swim in the warm waters of eternity. Drink, kind sir. Drink and let us hear you tell us how great of a wizard you are!"

Evil’s black heart pounded with rhythmic assuredness my ears. Encircling me were the smiling of the ghosts many–their auras twisting and squirming and screaming in silent horror as they knew what was to come next yet powerless to prevent it. Smiling sadly, staring down at the dark fluid that was neither wine nor water, I felt the pain of the many–and the arrogant confidence of the Evil One–and knew what I had to do.

With a flick of the wrist I tossed the black liquid from the cup. It arched away from me in a long graceful curve and eventually splashed onto the rough planked wooden floor of the inn. The moment it touched the flooring it began hissing its killing acid bite and burrowed deep into the ancient wood.

"Your tricks will not deceive me, Ancient One. I feel your presence here. I know you hold these souls in a grip of servitude. Enough with this subterfuge. Release those who have served you for so long and allow them to enter The Netherworld."

Like a black tidal wave of raw emotion I felt the presence of the Ancient One recoil from me, its ancient soul quivering with hot anger as it moved away. Most of the souls encircling me took a step back from me as well. But two–two warriors from ancient lands long forgotten–reacted differently. Rage and anger filled their faces as they unsheathed the straight blades of ancient weapons and leapt at me. Like magic Helshvingar was in my hand. Steel met flashing steel in deadly play and rang out like ancient chimes in a constant clang of a maleficent symphony.

Helshvingar.

The ancient Dragon scimitar I carried strapped to my side always. A curved blade of steel forged by the gods themselves. Steel. Yet not steel. Blue, like fine forged steel, it was not. No. This blade had a faint bronze hue to it that seemed to glow whenever released from its sheath. Down the length of the blade, on both sides, were some kind of old and forgotten script. No one knew what it said. But the blade’s name was of Dragon tongue. From an old, almost forgotten dialect.

Helshvingar.

The Killer of All Evil.

We fought, the three of us, in a fierce encounter of murderous intent. Our swords rain down in slashing blows met by counter strokes of equal fury. The din of battle, the dance of three warriors, moved across the floor of the ancient inn in a destructive soiree. Chairs were overturned. Tables were smashed and splintered. The two warriors of old–ancient yet not ancient–fought like madmen. In their eyes and on their faces were portraits of the rage and black murderous intent of the Ancient One himself. Deep, deep underneath the controlling grasp of the Ancient One I could feel the souls of the two men crying out in anguish. They were trapped. Helpless. They screamed in despair and pleaded for me to somehow release them from their bondage. Faintly–like voices heard in a breeze from far away–I heard their pleas.

Grimly I doubled my efforts to save them from their damned eternity.

Their swordplay was good for warriors ancient. I felt the Ancient One’s expertise in the way he forced his bonded slaves to fight. But they fought in a style of swordplay far more simple in structure than what a Bretan warrior-monk is taught. I noticed the rudimentary styles of both immediately and waited for the moment to strike. It came after the fifteenth stroke of the sword when one of the warriors lost his footing and stumbled to one side a half step. Like the strike of a viper’s bloody fangs Helshvingar slid in underneath the warrior’s blade and slashed across the warrior’s upper waist.

The moment Helshvingar’s magical blade touched the ghost’s torso a violent transformation took place. A cloud of black vapor blurred the image of the stricken warrior and hissed loudly up and away from the warrior. The clatter of the warrior’s ancient steel blade falling to the inn’s floor was masked as the scream of a thousand banshees filled our minds and souls with squeals of pain and anger. But the soul of the warrior–the soul of an honorable foe so long held in bondage– lifted above me glowing in the brilliance of bright white. As the newly released spirit lifted up and away from me, on the warrior’s face was the visage of a man suddenly freed from bondage and joyous in his new found freedom. The soul of the warrior rose rapidly, and just before it disappeared through the inn’s rough timbered ceiling above us, a hand waved at me–a gesture of gratitude from a soul who, for centuries, knew nothing but grief and torment and despair.

Waving farewell I smiled. And turned to face the entities who stood facing me in some lifeless facade of existence, lifting the curved, bronzed hued blade of Helshvingar up in the process.

"You cannot win this fight, Old One. This is the blade of the gods. Forged by the immortals to cut the bonds you hold over others. Forged to suck you into the blade itself and imprison you for the rest of eternity. As long as the blade and I act as one our combined magic will defeat you. Release those who you yet control, Old One. Release them and face the fate that is in store for you."

From the Ancient One I felt pain and disbelief. Never before in its long existence had something like this ever happened to him. For a moment or two I felt the black presence of the Evil One quivering in indecision. My Inner Eye saw the Ancient One’s black vapor filling the room recoiling, twisting, contracting. And then, in the blinking of an eye, it made a decision! Again the screams of a thousand banshees filled the inn with a noise that almost was beyond endurance. From the forms of the remaining souls yet in the inn clouds of black vapor lifted from them and congealed into the main vaporous body of the Ancient One.

With a thundering roar the Ancient One ripped open the inn’s roof and began ascending rapidly into the moonlit night. Fleeing from me and from the power of Helshvingar as rapidly as it could. Turning, throwing open the inn’s door, I ran for the black form of Cedric waiting for me at the river’s edge. The giant war bird had its beaked head lifted upward, screeching its war cry, as it watched the Ancient One flying away. With a bounding leap I hurled myself up into my old friend’s saddle. The moment I landed in the old leather Cedric spread its dark wings and bounded into to the air. So rapid was my old friend’s ascent into the night air I was almost hurled from the saddle itself. But somehow I strapped myself in still gripping Helshvingar in one hand.

The vaporous cloud of the Ancient One twisted and dove and climbed in its mindless haste to elude us. But riding the moonlit night’s air currents is the domain of a Great Wing. No entity–not even ancient horrors from the depth of The Netherworld itself–can dominate the skies like a Great Wing! For every move the Ancient One tried in his efforts to elude us Cedric had a counter. Through the night air we hurled recklessly!

But in the end–in the end–Cedric positioned himself over the long, snake-like vaporous body of the Ancient One. And I . . . I gripping with both hands the blade of Helshvingar . . leapt from saddle into the night air and into the depths of the vaporous cloud of this ancient evil itself.

A half hour later we returned to the long forgotten high mountain valley and settled gently into the tall grass on the spot where we first met the child Rebecca. Jumping from the saddle to stand beside my old friend we stood silently . . . expectantly . . .and waited.

She came again, the child Rebecca, in a cloud of a million beautifully bright fireflies. Drifting across the valley floor in a swarm of flickering light. As she approached we saw her take the ghostly form of a child. Each tiny firefly becoming an integral part of the child’s image as she approached and began to ascend into the night.

She said nothing to us. Yet as her ghostly image rose on the waves of moonbeams she lifted a hand up and waved goodbye. And in our souls we felt the wash of an overwhelming sense of freedom and longing drench us in tears of relief and gratitude.

　

Blogging with Joshua J. Mark

2012-01-27T10:28:00.001-06:00

Today I am sharing my blog with Joshua J. Mark. Josh is a fellow writer at Trestle Press and his speciality is writing YA material.

I offered blog space to any Trestle Press writer who wished to answer a simple question; What compelled you to write in the genre you write? So far Josh has been the only one to take up the challenge. I find his article interesting in that he says he didn't pick the genre he prefers to work in----it chose him.

Interesting.

But Josh isn't just into YA. Apparently he has an itch to write some hardboiled/noir. He has a short story out called A Joke. A bit of double-entendre there. Far from a joke . . . but a sketch of black noir if there ever was one.

You'll find the blog . . . and his short story . . . interesting reads. Give him a try. I think he's going to increase his writing output here shortly.

Green Ears and The Monster: How I Came To Be A Writer

I've always written stories, ever since I could write, but I can remember exactly when I knew I wanted to be a writer. I was eight years old that summer at camp and this one morning at assembly the head counselor announced he wanted us to submit stories, photos, essays, or poems for a camp magazine. It would be published to look like Boy's Life and everyone could take it home as a souvenir.

At the time I had this dog, a brown and white Basset hound named Milkbone, and I was always writing little stories and poems about adventures we'd have roaming around in the woods behind my house. I missed the dog, being at camp, so I decided I'd write a Milkbone story for the magazine where I'd just place him in the camp setting and tell some story about a day with him as though he came to visit.

When I wrote the story, however, it turned into something completely different. It was a story about a community of Basset hounds who lived in a green valley which looked much like the camp. They were very happy except that, every now and then, this monster from a neighboring valley would show up and eat a bunch of them. There was this one puppy with long, green ears who everyone made fun of. His ears were too long, first of all, and then, of course, they were green. As he got a little older, Green Ears discovered he could hear sounds from far off and could hear the monster coming from miles away. When he told the older dogs about his abilities they laughed at him even more - until they got eaten by the monster one night. After that, the survivors listened to Green Ears and, when he heard the monster coming, they all dug a huge pit and hid. The monster fell into the pit and died. Green Ears was elected king.

The story was pretty much a rip-off of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

I did not so much `select' to write in the genre of Paranormal YA as it selected me. I could not have known it when I wrote that story but, essentially, I've been writing that same story, in one form or another, ever since.

Most of my life I've spent in education as a Professor and so am constantly around younger people. I like dealing with younger characters in my stories because they are more open to experience and possibility than many older people are. The world is new to them and yet they often believe they have a fairly good handle on what's going on. I think that's all of us, however, no matter what our age. We always think we know more than we really do and make choices, sometimes very bad ones, based on this belief in our own rightness. Like the older Bassets in my long-ago story, we resist change and we declare `impossible' any new idea until we've no choice but to accept it. None of us, however, ever really know what's going on at any given moment. All we can do in life is the best we can do with the information we have. I think this fundamental aspect of the human condition is best reflected in younger characters who provide a reader with the opportunity to see, not only who they once were, but who they continue to be.

What Is A Fair Price

2012-01-25T11:16:00.001-06:00

The conundrum; what is a fair and competitive price for ebooks/short stories, both fiction and non-fiction?

The pay-off; have you noticed there has been a renaissance, the classic 'rebirth,' of the art medium called the short-story lately? And have you noticed the unbelievable surge in sales for ebook readers of all makes and models? I mean this last point hasn't seen just a modest rise in sales from month to month, or year to year. It literately has been explosive! Shocking! Millions are clamoring to buy an e-reader . . . and by extension . . . millions are eager to buy something to fill them up with and read!

The enjoyable past time of reading something . . . anything . . . has suddenly become both luxurious, and affordable, again. Because of new technology, and thus more affordable reading material to the masses, the hoary old man called the short-story suddenly has been infused with new blood.

And let met tell you, pilgrim . . . the number of talented short story writers out there waiting to be discovered is staggering to behold!

So back to the original question. What is a fair and competitive price for a short story? A novel? Even a textbook. A seminal question if you ask me. The reduction in the cost of buying something to read has fueled this renaissance in fiction. Especially the short story. On the other hand--make the price of buying something to read so insignificant and how does a publisher, and the writer, make a living?

Here's the perfect example; above is my Call Me Smitty; Fairwell, Brother. Number eight in the Call Me Smitty series. Like the other seven installments, this one was/is priced at ninety-nine cents. Three stories for ninety-nine cents. If you ask me, one hell of a buy! But (and if I have enough fingers and toes to count on) I figure out of the ninety-nine cents, and after publisher and ebook carrier get their cut of the deal, maybe . . . maybe I might get between twenty-five and thirty-five cents per. And I'm not complaining, mind you! Royalty payments for ebook writers are far higher and more lucrative that royalty payments given out to those who write in the traditional medium. So I'm not complaining.

However, you can see rather clearly, for me to earn a living selling short stories I'm gonna have to write a shit-pot load of short stories, or I've got to figure out a way to sell billions of'em per year.

Cut to the newest release in the series; Call Me Smitty; First Kill. (see right hand column, first selection) After the momentary sales effort goes off for this puppy is gonna be sold at $2.99. And that's okay by me. I think it should be. The three stories in this one makes the totality of the product far larger in word/page count than whats normally found in the first eight.

But is this really over pricing the product? Or under valuing the product? That's the puzzler. On one hand you don't want to as crazy as traditional publisher have done in the last 30 years in jacking up the price of a hardback book right out of the roof. On the other hand is the desire for, hell . . . people to make a living!

So what's the fair price for the material offered?

I suspect the prices are going to begin inching upward. There will be all kinds of reasons why it'll happen. There is no such thing as entropy. All things change. Even empty space isn't truly empty. Which means, I guess, the best we can do is hope the rise in price doesn't take us into a lunar orbit.

A low earth orbit will be just fine.

An Experiment of Mine

2012-01-22T11:52:00.000-06:00

This shouldn't come as a surprise to you but I write short stories. In 2011 I think I wrote, all told, about thirty three of'em. Some 'Smitty' stories. Some 'Turner Hahn/Frank Morales stories; some 'Roland of the High Crags' fantasy stories.

I think the stories are fairly decent. Some are, in my warped sense of evaluation, just damn good. I thought I'd share one of them with you today. Called, "I'll Take Care of It." It's a Smitty story . . . a bit experimental . . . which I thought captured the dark soul of Smitty perfectly. It can be found in volume five of Call Me Smitty series entitled, Call Me Smitty, Something Deadly. I think I should be very pleased with the way this story came out. What do you think?

Enjoy.

I'll Take Care Of It

In the dead of the night. An hour before dawn. The phone.

Suddenly demanding immediate attention.

Insisting.

“Yes,”

The voice is quiet. Measured. Unhurried. Almost a whisper. But there’s something in the voice—something dark and lurking. Something deadly. Something incredibly deadly.

“Listen, Smitty. You got to stop him. Now—tonight! Before it’s too late. Jesus Christ, this is crazy. Fucking crazy!”

“Stop who?”

“Vinny. He’s gone nuts. Ever since that cop arrested his brother and sent him up to prison. He’s gone off his rocker. Got just enough alcohol in him to go nuts. He’s gone. Said he’s gonna make that fucking cop pay. Make’em all pay for screwing his brother over. Stop him, Smitty. Stop him before it’s too late!”

“Where?”

“Cop lives on Melrose. That’s all I know. But Smitty . . . listen. Vince says he’s going to kill the cop’s family first. One by one and make the cop watch. Took a friggin axe with him. He’s gonna chop’em all to pieces, for chrissakes! I’m tellin’ya, Vince has flat gone off the deep end!”

Click. The phone went dead.

The night.

Cold. Moonless. Fog drifting in off the lowlands. Over empty city streets Smitty drove the car. Black leather gloves on his hands. Black eyes as dark as the ocean abyss. In the darkness of the Caddy Smitty makes no sound. Makes no effort to hurry. Yet the drive across town went by effortlessly. The six or more traffic lights clicking green every one the moment he entered the intersection.

Fate, brother. Fate.

The Angel of Death is Fate itself when he slips through the night looking for his prey.

The Caddy rolls to a quiet stop behind a large red GMC van sitting in front of 11159 Melrose Drive. The passenger side of the van is wide open—hanging from its hinges in the night after being angrily flung open. Rolling out of his car Smitty makes sure each black leather glove is on tightly as he walks around the car and steps up onto the sidewalk leading to the low slung, long ranch house. Eyeing the house Smitty circles around to the back yard—and finds a sliding glass door leading into the dining room wide open.

Darkness litters the interior of the house like a heavy blanket. But it is as if Smitty sees everything in the night as easily as he does in the daylight. Sliding in soundlessly he moves through the dining room—through the living room—turning to enter the long hall which will take him to the bedrooms of the sleeping family.

And pauses.

Ahead to his left he hears the half snoring, half wheezing of a man. Lying on the carpet in the middle of the bedroom door is a toy stuffed animal. Vinny is in one of the kid’s rooms. Axe in both hands. Standing over the bed of a sleeping six year old blond waif. A tiny angel with a thumb stuck securely between her lips. Vinny leers. Vinny licks his lips, grips the axe firmly, and begins to lift it up and over his head. Suffer they will, this cop. Suffer and grieve for sending his brother to prison.

The axe, high in the air, vibrates with pent up rage as he gathers all his strength for the blow. With all his might he starts to hurl the axe toward the child’s face, the mask of a grinning madman alit in Vinny’s eyes.

From behind—from out of the blackness itself—a gloved hand reaches out and grabs the right wrist holding the descending axe blade. A grip as strong as the jaws of a Great White Shark. The gloved hand twists to one side violently and the pulls backward. The pain, flooding through the mind of the madman, is enough to buckle his knees and make him want to scream out in the night. But a second gloved hand comes out from nowhere, claps around his mouth, and yanks him back and away from the child.

In the darkness of the hallway they struggle. Angel of Death and Madness struggle. Veins on their necks and foreheads bulge. Twisting, staggering back, every ounce of strength both can muster being used to counter the other’s hold. The seconds move slowly by. The short coughs of sudden breaths hurriedly taken the only sound the two struggling forms make.

But it ends. Ends with a sudden—definite—finality.

There is a sharp Crack! Like the sound of a thick tree branch suddenly being snapped in two. Instantly one of the black figures in the hallway goes limp and starts to collapse to the carpeted floor. But the second figure catches the falling body, bends down suddenly before standing up. Over his shoulders is the dead form of Vinny. Lifeless. Never to bother another soul. Turning, meaning to leave as silently as he came, Smitty stops in mid-stride and stares.

In the hall—for how long?—the dark form of a small child standing in the middle of the carpet and staring up into the night at the black forms in front of him. In one hand the child drags a small blanket behind him. In the other is a baby bottle stuck firmly to his lips. For several seconds child and the Angel of Death laden with his prize stare at each other. Neither sound does one make. It is Smitty who moves first. Stepping around the child, the corpse of Vinny over a shoulder, he makes his way down the hall, through the living room and to the open patio door waiting for him in the dining room. Behind him the child follows dragging his favorite blanket with him.

Closing the sliding glass door behind him Smitty takes two steps away from the house—pauses—and turns to look back at the child standing in the house peering out into the night. For several seconds each observes the other.

And then a light far into the house explodes into life.

“Chuckie! Chuckie! Are you sleep walking again?”

A woman’s voice. A mother’s voice. Filled with worry and love. Hurry she does to find the child standing beside the patio door staring out into the night. She bends down, folds child into loving arms, and stands up. As she do her eyes turn to stare out into the darkness of the back yard.

Nothing. Nothing.

Only darkness and the vague image of patio furniture and children’s toys littering the patio landing.

“Let’s put you back to bed, baby. There’s nothing out there, hon. No monster out there to bother you tonight.”

Sleep, child.

Sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Sleep, mother.

Sleep knowing Fate has been kind, this night, to you and yours.

For the Angel of Death never sleeps.

Meet two good friends of mine

2012-01-18T11:37:00.004-06:00

Serendipity.

Sometimes, by the sheerest of accidents, you stumble upon some people who become instant friends. That's what happened to me about three years ago (maybe four . . . I don't remember . . . I'm getting old, you know).

Anyway . . .

About three years ago I needed to find some artists would create a book cover for a fantasy novel I was writing. I combed the internet to find one and . . . here's where serendipity comes to play . . . I came across the names of Jesus and Javier Carmona. Two Spanish brothers who hail from Madrid, Spain.

They were not professional illustrators. But they were gifted artists. Really gifted artists. So I contacted them and . . . poof! The book cover for Roland of the High Crags: Evil Arises. And we went on to do at least two more covers. The second one for the Roland series and one for a pirate-detective character of mine named Geoffery Armitage Ffolkes.

And we became friends. Or, at least, from my perspective we became friends. Now we are working together again. The two asked me a few weeks ago to help THEM! They're hankering to illustrate/create a graphic novel and they asked me to write the story. And I, in a meager and mild voice replied;

"Whoopee!! Hell yes, boys! It's a done deal!!"

So I thought I would also interview the two. There's been a lot of interviews with writers (mostly) and a few publishers. But so far, none with artists. Until now. Non-professionals maybe; but they're artists. With remarkably the same emotions a writer has for his craft. Just goes to show you---no matter what medium an artist struggles in, the emotions are the same.

I think you'll find the interview interesting. I did. (I've decided to keep the interview in their original worlds. Jesus and Javier are worried about their English. They shouldn't be! What they should worry about is my Spanish!)

1. Jesus and Javier Carmona are brothers and accomplished artists. When and where did this artistic talent begin? Are both of you trained artists, or did your talents come naturally?
Javier: I remember I was sitting in a round table we had at our parents home. We were drawing there. I don't remember exactly what we where drawing but it should be something related with our toys that at that time were our main subject for our drawings.

Jesus: Yes, Maybe a little bit sooner than Javier were here in the world, I remember to be sited on the floor, just in front a blank paper grabbing a pen and drawing close to my grandmother. I don't remember neither the subject, but for sure whatever caught my child mind at that time, was a good issue to put on paper on my way.
Later when we were around 12-15 attended some painting courses with a talented artist of our town, Miguel Recuero. We have a fond memories of him and those days when we walk around a mile from our home to the place this artist founded his academy. We experimented there the feeling of painting with several traditional media, as charcoal, oils and some others, having different subjects to focus on. Anyway at that time, those paintings were about the reality realm.

And is art your primary source of a living?
Javier: Currently it's not. This is just a hobby, although I don't mind that it would be my main subject.
Jesus: Not to me neither, but it would be really nice. My main job is about technology, and I work for a big company. I'm happy doing what I do, but it would be nice art would be my main subject too.

2. When did this desire to illustrate book covers and do artwork for album covers come from? Did you always want to do this, or did someone suggest it to you?
It was 7 years ago, when reviewing both together the amount of drawings we accumulated over the years, we decided to show them in a web site. Most of them were related to imaginations and envisions we had during the years we play Role-playing Games. So, most of the drawings were about fantastic subjects and many of them about monsters, creatures, and warriors. Once we started the site, we thought that we had to attract people to watch them, cause otherwise that would be unfruitful. So we ended up in some fantasy forums and some fantasy book publishers contacted us. One of those we remember with special affection is Bill Corrie, owner of Hinterwelt Publishing. He was responsible of giving us a great opportunity for illustrating his fantasy series of an RPG based on Roman empire in an alternate history. We owe him that we wanted to give a next step into the world of book and album cover creation. So we got in our first book cover for and RPG book. Later, a couple of years, a music company got in contact with us, and we were commissioned our first DVD/CD cover (that was Molly Hatchet, "Flirtin with Disaster"). We made another additional 5 covers for them. We enjoyed a lot working on them, and was really a good experience too. And the Roland came to the scene...WE hope to see Roland at the tip of our pencils some other time, of course.

3. How do you see art and the written word fitting together? Do you think art can sell more books? Can art sell more music discs? Or can an established author, using your art, sell more art?
We consider that at a first glance to the book or disc selves in the book shop or music shop what can attract anyone close to the product you want to sell depending in its appearance. Later in a closer look at it, the potential buyer will try to get more information about that product he/she has in his/her hands. That's a first step very important that will happen only when a cover is really bright. Art is very important on that first contact. Later, maybe the words has to take to token. But both together should work in harmony and as good fellows to make the buyer to finally buy the product. so, yes, we consider that art or let's say a good design for a cover is really important.
And yes, we think our art can help an author sell more.... ;-)

4. How has the internet helped you in your artistic endeavors? The world is at your fingertips thanks to the internet, so have you had any success finding clients via the World Wide Web?
Absolutely, we have made most of our contacts through internet. Some of the best are still there thanks to internet. You are a good example of that. Locally, it's difficult at the moment to get commissions for fantasy artworks, mainly cause in Spain fantasy industry is not so powerful as it is at United states, France, or UK.

5. I'll be honest with you--the two of you asked me to help you do a graphic novel one night and I just about jumped out of my chair when I read that email! Very excited doing this project. So what made the two of you want to get into the graphic novel business? Was this some kind of natural progression for artists of your caliber to consider?
Oh !! Really? That's great!
We have considered cause we love how and what you write. And we thought on you as a perfect author to work with us on this experiment. We hope to fulfil together this project, but first of all enjoy and learn as much as possible. Cause as said by Buddha : "Happiness is not found at the end of the road, it is experienced along the way."
We think a graphic novel is a nice format to show our art in a wider way. Basically what we want is to express and show the world a project fully illustrated by us, let ourselves great freedom to create. That's our main goal.
Many, many thanks to come onboard with us Bryant.

6. Staying with the graphic novel questions, what do you foresee in the future in this endeavor? Do you want to stay in the graphic novel business or branch out into other areas?
As we commented in the previous answer we want to show what we are capable to create and imagine. So, maybe graphic novel will be just another step, but if we succeed... who knows. Anything related to create art, we simply love it.

7. Your favorite artists--who has inspired the two of you the most?

During our RPG years we loved the art of Larry Elmore and Jeff Easley. We let them to inspire us a lot during those years cause it was through their paintings we envision fantastics world. and we meet with fantasy in general. They unlock our minds to unknown imaginations. Later some others came to enrich that world we were already born: Keith Parkinson, Clyde Cadwell, Hildebrandt Brothers, Todd Lockwood & Brom. We owe most of them our always growing interes to improved and became better fantasy artist.

8. Artists are like writers in that, sooner or later, they have to develop their own 'style.' How does this come about for artists? Is it difficult? Or does it come naturally? And finally, what do you say to a young artist wanting to get into the business?
Javier: It's difficult cause it requieres lot of practice along your whole life. But at the same time, it's easy, cause as you like it, it come to you in a natural way.

Jesus: I'm agree with my brother. To me as he said it takes a whole life to define your style. But it's as any other person that walks over the world do along his/her own life. You define yourself just releasing you inner spirit. It's a work of finding you inside yourself, but in this case you are taking out and showing what you have. That's your style.

Javier: I don't find myself able to give advise cause I consider myself a young artist. But if someone is starting first of all is to be constant and never surrender. Although if that person loves art, never will let that interest disappear. From that point, try to showing all what creates in any media. Internet nowadays is one of the best.

Jesus: Me too. I need advise, more than giving them... hehehe. I'm not sure we are so accomplished artist as mentioned at the beginning of this interview, but at least to get closer you need to be exposed to the world. So for me that's a first step. There is no other way, cause you can be a very good painter, but if no more that your neightbougs and friends knows your art (although it's a good first step), you never can be an accomplished artist. Your art needs to be known by the world.

There you are. Two brothers with unbelievable artistic talent. And by the way . . . if you happen to be in the market looking for some illustrators . . . .

Find/talk to them here: http://www.carmonaart.com/

The Smitty Novellas

2012-01-16T09:34:00.002-06:00

A Dish Served Cold

A Dish Served Cold. The first Smitty novella. An attempt on my part to develop the character of the dark-eyed assassin a little more deeply. But more than that, I wanted to mix in a bit of spookiness--of the supernatural. Not make Smitty a supernatural character--but to suggest the idea that . . . sometimes . . . the soul of a human being projects a power into the supernatural which causes a whole string of events to happen, one after the other.

I've said this before and I'll say this again; writing the Smitty stories is fascinating. Creating a complex character who, on one hand, is about as cold blooded as a killer can get, yet on the other someone who is far deeper, and a more nuanced personality, than you would ever expect is both a real challenge and deeply satisfying at the same time.

I dunno. Maybe it is true. Maybe in all of us we have this inner most desire to be someone like Smitty. On one hand having seemingly no conscience when it comes ruthlessly taking out his opposition. Yet on the other hand someone who is quite willing to live by his own personal Code of Honor no matter what the odds are against him. Maybe the psychiatrists and sociologists are right; maybe we all are killers way down deep in the core or our souls and only a thin varnish of civilization keeps us from going ape-shit crazy.

Anyway . . .

So far I've written two novellas featuring Smitty. The other can be found in volume six of the series, Call Me Smitty Three Deadly Sins. I'm working my way up to finally cranking out a full length novel. Actually, I'm working on that now.

Three Deadly Sins

Brought all this up because Trestle Press has a deal going on. Until the 22nd of January you can Buy One, Get One free of anything any Trestle Press Writer has written. It's a good deal. For basically five bucks you could buy one of my, and then choose either one of the above Smitty selections to sweeten the reading pleasure. In the end you get one full novel, one novella, and a couple of short stories.

For five bucks.

Can't beat that with a stick, momma.

Personally, I would suggest you get my Death of a Young Lieutenant for your novel selection. If you like a little military history, a little art history, a damn good adventure, and a pleasing whodunit, you can't beat it for a good read.

But I do have other novels with Trestle press you could choose. Just go to Trestle Press or Amazon, or any other place the sells ebooks and type in my name. But make sure it is a Trestle Press outing. Otherwise you miss the deal.

I know . . . I know. I'm getting a little pushy on this shameless self-promotion thing. But that's what makes me so endearing, isn't it? My pushy . . . although charmingly sweet . . . personality?

Buy One, Get One Free

2012-01-14T12:36:00.000-06:00

Starting today and running thru the 22nd. Trestle Press is buy one get one free deal. Here's what they've got to say;

Starting today, Saturday January 14^th through Sunday, January 22, 2012, Trestle Press will be having a BUY ONE TITLE GET ONE TITLE FREE SALE !!

All of our titles are part of this sale, all of our authors will be participating in it, and all you have to do is when you purchase one of our stories send us the proof of purchase and we will be happy to send you the title of your choice that is of equal value.

You can email us in one of three ways; send the proof of purchase by email to one of the following:

-the authors of the titles you purchased and get your free titles directly from them.

-Trestle Press: trestlepress@gmail.com

-Giovanni Gelati:gelati.giovanni@gmail.com

We have a wealth of talented authors at Trestle Press and there are many great stories to discover and read. As the week goes on there will be a few surprises thrown into this sale, so please stay tuned to our website: www.trestlepresspublishing.com or your favorite authors’ websites or blogs.

Feel free to follow us at our website for all the upcoming news and events surrounding all of the Trestle Press authors as they create more Best-Selling novels, novellas, short stories and series for you to follow and enjoy.

We hope that you will join us and our authors as we make our journey and try to blaze a new trail in this wide open world of publishing. Without you all is for naught; for everything we do, we do for you the reader!

Have fun and happy reading!!

Now, let me be rude, crass, selfish, greedy . . . (fill in the adjective.) Here's what you COULD do! Buy the above book (Death of a Young Lieutenant). One of my full length novels. It's about an art thief in World War One stuck between a rock and a hard spot. He wants to steal a Renaissance masterpiece. And he's asked by his commanding officer to prove the innocence of a junior officer in the squadron.

Problem is, both the artwork AND any potential evidence to prove the young man is not a murderer lies behind enemy lines. That's the rock. The hard spot is--how do yo commit a felony of stealing a 400 year old piece of art, and at the same time, bring a murderer to justice WITHOUT getting caught with the former while doing the later?

Buy Lieutenant . . . . and then go ask for Three Deadly Sins. A 'Smitty' taste for your consumption. 'Sins' has one novella and two short stories featuring the dark-eyed assassin. So, for basically five bucks, you get one complete novel, a novella, and two short stories.

I think it's a heck of a deal. Of course you can mix and match any way you want. There are a number of really great writers in the Trestle Press studios, so you shouldn't be disappointed.

But . . . . . (grinning like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland).

What's Coming Up In The Near Future

2012-01-13T10:43:00.000-06:00

This is the new cover for the Call Me Smitty short-story series for 2012. Suggested to the boss it'd be great if we could design a cover for the series that lasts the entire year, creating new ones with each passing year.

He agreed. So we're gonna give it a shot. In 2011 I wrote . . . more or less . . . something like twenty-three short stories and two novellas for the series. I'm hoping to keep roughly that number going for 2012. But there's no two ways about it . . . it's a killer grind for any writer.

Throw in a couple more short-story series to write, plus one to three full length novels, and your plate becomes a little full with projects. Still. if I was organized, I could pull this off. Ah, but that's the problem. Being 'organized.'

But I do have two stories for the first issue (this would be issue no. 9 in the series) in 2012. Lots of people have said they would like to see a little background history on Smitty. Just how did he turn into the hit-man he became. So okay. Story number one for the new year is called First Kill. Told in a kind of flashback manner. With a kick in the pants ending. Per Smitty, of course.

In no. 9 two more stories follow after "First Kill." I like the three-story concept for this series. I think the reader is getting a pretty good deal for his buck.

Speaking about 2012 the second installment of the Hamm & Bean series will be out soon. I'm just finishing up the stories on that as we speak. Let me tell you, pilgrim; writing humor is a pain in the ass! What have to ask yourself, "What is funny?" Is funny for me the same as it is for you? If I write a verbal form of slap-stick comedy, will the reader to mentally visualize it?

What's coming up is called, "Hamm It Up Some, Bean!"
Marissa Hamm and Mike Bean investigate what looks like an ordinary, typical homicide that should be easy to solve. But nothing's easy for these two.

And just for the record, this series works best I think with two short stories back-to-back in one installment. Not only is humor hard to write. But I sometimes think humor should be sipped in short doses. Like medicine. Too much of a good thing dulls the effects.

That's it for now. Tomorrow, (Sat., January 14th) I'll have a little announcement to make. Something that might tickle your fancy.

A few questions for Robert W. Walker

2012-01-10T11:40:00.005-06:00

Success!!! Finally!!!! After two weeks of fighting with this blog I believe I am finally able to do the blog interview with Robert W. Walker.

For those of you who follow me on Facebook you know both Robert and myself. Not surprisingly, you know the two of us have some strong opinions over a wide range of subjects. Which is good, mind you. I like strong-willed people. I may not agree with them all the time. But I appreciate their strength and their abilities to voice them in a convincing manner.

What you may not know is Robert is an accomplished writer. He delves into creepy whodunits, action-adventure, and historical novels. All the genres I love to read. What's more, the guy is a writing machine. I think somewhere in this interview he says he's written something like 50 books. And counting.

Someone who is this prolific, and has been as successful in the crazy world of a writer, has to have something interesting to say. So I thought I'd interview him. Kinda pick his brains some. It turned out to be a good idea. I think you'll find the interview quite interesting.

1. I see you grew up in Chicago and witnessed Chicago crime up close and personal. How did these experiences wind up affecting you and your writing?

Profoundly, actually. As a replanted ‘seed’ from rural Mississippi to Chicago, how can this not affect a child, and so my three brothers and sisters, wound up taking care of one another a great deal as both parents had traveled to Chicago after WWII, dad being a vet, in search of work. We were destined to be apartment dwellers with the rent coming due every month, and we kids were very aware of the money problems. Many other families who’d moved into the cities during this huge influx did not stay, returning to their roots, but not us. A sense of rootlessness and separation from the larger family, and of course the country as opposed to the city was fostered. As there was often a lot of trauma at home, I found school a safe haven and learned to love learning for its own sake, particularly reading and writing at a young age. In fact, I can recall as early as 4^th grade wanting to know all I could about a certain topic I found fascinating in our history book, a mere footnote a teacher told me that was unimportant to our history as a people. I instinctively knew better, that the incident in Colonial America known as the Salem Witchcraft episode said a great deal about us. Today my book Children of Salem certainly is about the American character and forms of government and social ties.

2. Writing seems to be as important to you as breathing. When did the mild interest in the written word become an addiction? And do you remember the very first story you ever wrote and thought worthy enough of publication?

I was fascinated first as a reader. Read every story I could get hold of and was in the library all the time. I was always fascinated too with TV dramas at the time and in particular anything in the realm of the bizarre and unusual such as One Step Beyond, Science Fiction Theatre, and later on The Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, etc., but history also fascinated me. The colorful images in our textbooks sent my imagination on so many magic carpet rides, and we had an anthology of Magic Stories for English class in fifth or sixth grade that caught my imagination, and in Chicago each spring, we got to go on field trips to the Brookfield Zoo and the grandest museums Chicago had to offer. I took full advantage and as an adult have returned to these places many times over. I began writing in earnest around 7^th grade when a teacher had us all write a fictional story, and I had let it go and it was due the next day. I was watching a TV drama and decided to cheat by writing out the very story I had just watched. This would have been early 50s black and white story opening with a chase scene. I used the plot and gave the characters names and wrote it all in one sitting, no rewrite, no slaving over the thing. The response I got was so powerful from the teacher, who read it word for word to the class while I turned red, said to me that I had the gift to MOVE people with words. I never looked back. Instead, arrogant as I was, I went on to write the Sequel to Huckleberry Finn which I could not find in any library as Twain had not written it!

3. You turned out fifty books. That's a lot in anyone's career. What's the secret, the writing technique, which makes you so prolific (I'm REALLY curious to hear this answer since I might abscond with your method and use it myself).

I began to get into high numbers of books by writing series characters, which in essence makes the sequels so much faster and easier to produce since you already truly KNOW your main character and any tangential ones that hang on for the ride. Think of it in Star Trek terms, as we know WHO James T. Kirk is by end of first episode, so the following episode challenges Kirk on his principles, his bedrock character. If he acts before he thinks, then we write a story to show how deadly that kind of behavior can be; if he puts himself in peril ahead of his crew, this says something about him we challenge in a follow-up episode. Serial novels are episodic. Once I truly know who Inspector Alastair Ransom is by end of City for Ransom, I know where I want to take him in Shadows in the White City and then in City of the Absent. Same is true with Dr. Jessica Coran in the twelve books spawned on the back of the first, Killer Instinct. By now I have some kind of record as I have 8, count ‘em 8 Series Characters…characters who carry the weight of more than one book on their shoulders. I am ahead of most writers in this regard.

So if there is a key to writing more books in a shorter time period, in my view, it is in working with the same ensemble of characters and your main character returning, and you just have to come up with a worse to worst case scenario and a worse villain than the one who came before to challenge your medical examiner star or your vampire slayer like my Dr. Abe Stroud in my horror series called Bloodscreams or Det. Lucas Stonecoat in my Edge Series, or Rae Murphy Hiyakawa in my PSI Series.

Finally, I can recall (not the exact date) a time when I felt I had turned a corner in my skills as a writer, that nothing could distract me when focused and I could almost ‘channel’ the characters I was creating. This ‘channeling’ feeling comes of having fully realized characters. Almost ten years after the last Ransom title, I sat down and did Titanci 2012 – Curse of RMS Titanic and made Ransom the star hero in the 1912 storyline, and the 2012 hero I had never known before. With Ransom it was like riding a bike….and I did not even have to re-read my Ransom titles to know him intimately. Readers have said that I nailed him as if the books had simply followed in time behind one another.

4. Your favorite genre is . . . ? The one you find the most difficult to write? The one you've seen the most success in?

This is a tough question, like trying to answer, ‘Which of all your books is your favorite?’ They all are….like your children. However, I had a passion as a young author for historical both as a reader and a writer, and I have more recently returned to writing historical thrillers like Bismarck 2012 – Hitler’s Curse as a result of getting back to who I am – after having written both in horror and in mystery/suspense genres and a long stint with the medical examiner mystery category which I was doing BEFORE Silence of the Lambs and before Tess Gerritsen and before Patricia Cornwell, but I get a lot of flack for ‘ripping off’ Silence of the Lambs in particular….Anyhow with that aside, my favorite is historical thriller with occult or horrific twists. Children of Salem has been a life’s work, both Titanic and Bismarck have been a blast as well. I love taken an unanswerable question of history—what or who truly brought down the Bismarck, the Titanic, the Witches of Salem—and come up with what I call a Robert Bloch conclusion. Bloch is one of my writer heroes, a spiritual mentor alongside Mark Twain. Envision a scary Mark Twain as Bloch is best known for the film version of his Psycho, but he was a great writer of other tales as well.

5. Now a college professor teaching (surprise, surprise!) about writing, what is the one positive and the one negative factor you see in aspiring college students wanting to write the Next Great American Novel?

The positive is the energy and unique vision they can bring along with the passion for writing, typically having been borne of being great readers of fiction, typically. The negatives are not so apparent in great readers, despite their grades, but in those who actually don’t read or dislike it even, and/or find it a chore as they will likely have serious problems in writing clearly. Stephen King has a great line: “If you can’t make it sing, at least make it CLEAR.” I have far, far too many students who can do neither and feel they need no training in writing as if they were born with the right to inflict their bad writing on others. I see students who can be nothing other than a writer, can see the words fluttering inside their heads and hearts trying to get out, and I see students who think ‘How cool it’d be to be a writer’ and these fellows will very likely not ever publish anything of note or worth. One once told me anything can be a POEM….the word IT alone can be a poem; one once told me he only writes literature, while another of this ilk told me, his teacher, that he didn’t read and history had nothing to do with him. That is when the Jeopardy bell of shame rings in back of my head.

Another thing about the Great American Novel is the section in Jerome Stern’s book Making Shapely Fiction that discusses ‘No new story under the sun’ wherein he points out that every form of story is like a plug in the wall in any room – you disregard it and do not use it to your disadvantage or you plug into a genre to your great advantage.

6. Which trait, in your opinion, is the one factor that must be present in a writer if they are to be successful . . .Talent or Perseverance?

By all means Perseverance which in time can lead to talent. Talent – even if there was such a thing as being born with a silver pen or tongue does not necessarily get you to persevere or to get off the beam, to not procrastinate; whereas perseverance (which there may well be a gene for) can lead to growth as a writer or in other words talent. Talent is a dicey word. People use it too freely. Talent truly come of when persevering people have worked on their craft for years so that when ideas and sparks and opportunities arise, talent then may be applied since experience has been afoot for years. Every great overnight success or ‘talent’ has made it happen via years of working at his craft be it the flute, football, or writing.

7. What are you writing on now? And when will we see it out on the market?

I just finished Bismarck 2013 – Hitler’s Curse, and I placed it direct to Kindle books on my now crowded Kindle shelf. It can be had via Kindle and the free kindle app which allows almost any device with a screen on it to get the book. It is a companion piece but not a direct sequel to Titanic 2012 – Curse of RMS Titanic. It asks the question ‘What terrifies Adolf Hitler?’ and hopefully answers the question to the satisfaction of readers. Early readers have loved it, and I am hoping more will review it soon. Just previous to this I did a strictly horror monster mash called Bayou Wulf as the 4^th in my Dr. Abraham Stroud, vampire-slayer ala archeologist series which I dubbed BloodScreams. This is urban fantasy horror, a wild and fun romp. I like doing these as working with monsters is fun and a lot less stressful than working with serial killers or people in general for that matter! HA! Between books now and catching my breath, but I know many people want me to do a 13^th Instinct Series title to bring back Dr. Jessica Coran, and I am ‘percolating’ a challenge for her once more but have to pull her out of retirement kicking and screaming first.

8. Finally, a kid comes up to you and says s/het wants to be a writer. What sagacious words of wisdom do you give to the youthful wanna-be?

Hone your craft. Take a four-year degree in letters at a university or college if you can afford a writer’s program, and if not create your own four-year work program like I did. Get yourself to a time and place where you CAN just write for four years as if in a degree program and by writing that much for that long, you will have found your game and pace and you will hit the ground running when you do your next writing project. Those you discard early on, you will find yourself going back to after having become as skilled as you have after having persevered as long as you have. Another thing, every young writer should read Making Shapely Fiction by Jerome Stern, read David Morrell’s how-to on demystifying fiction writing, read Robyn Carr’s Tips for Writing Popular Fiction, and perhaps my own how-to to die for called DEAD on WRITING. And if you do, do the finger exercises in the book, the hands-on stuff straight out of my classroom.

Now I want to say thanks to my host for having me here, and more on me at my Amazon author’s page as well as my website at www.robertwalkerbooks.com

My Five Goals for 2012

2012-01-04T10:31:00.003-06:00

A friend of mine, Ben Sobieck, wrote his five goals for 2012 and asked all his writer friends to do the same.

Hmmm . . . .

Okay. Here's what I'm thinking;

1. Perseverance.
     If you're going to become a quote, 'success' unquote, in the writing game you'd better learn--and learn quickly--how to take the low punches, the failures, the disappointments that comes along in being a writer and continue on. God knows every writer is constantly standing behind an eight-ball waiting for that cue ball to come along and knock him down.

Somehow you've got to figure out a way to pick yourself up, reset the bones, and continue on. But not just 'carry on.' Not carry on with the dread that you're gonna get knocked down again. No. You gotta learn to carry on knowing with a positive vibration running through your soul. Fully convincing yourself YOU ARE going to succeed.

That's perseverance.

2. Develop a fan base.
     Hell, boys and girls. I write genre fiction. Noir, hard boiled, fantasy, and science-fiction. For the academic pundits of the world, none of these are considered 'literature.' (well, most academic pundits. The world view is changing somewhat).

That means if I am going to succeed I need to write good enough to develop an avid fan base. So . . . how do you do that, cupcake? How do you acquire a fan base? Simple. Write great stories! Appeal to as many readers as you can in any given genre.

Simple, huh? I said it was--so it must be simple. Yeah . . . right. If writing great stories were simple we'd see billions, instead of the steady hundreds of thousands, wannabe writers garnering instant success. You see that happening? Me neither.

So that leads to goal number three . . .

3. Honing your writing skill-sets down to a sharp edge.
    Everybody wants to be a writer. I mean EVERYBODY. What separates a wannabe writer from one that becomes successful? Is it talent? Does talent automatically lead to success?

In a word . . . . no.

Millions of people are more talented at writing than I am. Maybe billions. The writer who succeeds is the one who tells a compelling story. That means stringing words together in such a compact, clearly imagined sequence, it compels the reader to enter the writer's world . . . his story . . . and enjoy it to its fullest extent.

We ALL know great thinkers who write. Vastly talented slinger-of-words who throw intricate plot lines onto paper or a view screen, but who . . . for some reason . . . never acquire success. They're too wordy. Too complex. Too intellectual. Too cold in their words. No life in their visions.

The writer who succeeds is the writer who tells a compelling story in the least amount of words. Yet in those words they somehow activate all the five senses a reader possesses. A reader becomes immersed in the story. A thirst is both quenched and a new one is created! A thirst for the reader to find and read more of that writer who has so satisfied him earlier.

4. Don't listen to other people's rules.
     When it comes to an artistic endeavor, rules suck. Rules by others have a tendency to shut down creativity; to limit one's self in perhaps creating a masterpiece. So don't do it. Don't follow automatically someone else's rules. Make your rules that only work for you.

Every writer hammers out a set of guidelines . . . or rules if you want to be so persnickety . . . they follow when the write. It's like wearing clothes. You buy clothes to fit you. Not for some 450 lbs. Sumo wrestler living in Hawaii who sucks down 10,000 calories at each meal he sits down to.

You wear your clothes that fit you. Rules should do the same.

5. Publicity.
     These days, a write has to sell himself to the public. He has to. The market is literately bursting at the seams with other writers wanting to find that reading public. Somehow all of us have to find a way to separate ourselves from the crowd; to rise above the chaff and bask in our own bright light.

The only way to do that is to advertise yourself in just about every medium you can think of . And not be bashful about it. Where ever there's a spot where someone sits down and reads something, they should see your name. Your books. Your stories. Often. Repetitively. Ad Nauseum.

You've got to burn your name and your brand into the minds of anyone who could even be vaguely interested in reading your stuff. You never know who that could be. Surprisingly, for the dark hard boiled/noir I create, some of the nicest, most laid back quiet little mice in the world have told me they love the blood and guts I spew out!

So that means you cannot refrain from publicizing your name in venues you may believe will have no chance of ever creating a fan of your work. You just don't know.

Well, that's it. My five goals that . . . . oddly . . . . sounds more like rules. Forget it; they work for me.

So do your part, me hearties. Buy my 'stuff.' Become a fan. It'll be a two-way street; I'll do my damnedest to keep you a fan with my writing . . .

. . . and maybe you can help me pay my electric bill coming up at the end of this month.

A Buddy of mine, Aldo Calcagno

2011-12-30T14:39:00.004-06:00

Meet Aldo Calcagno. The head guru for his Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before The Dawn emags. Two emags that have been a kind of seminial birthing point for writers. The guy is an avid lover of books and short stories in general. But he has a real softie-spot when it comes to dark noir and calloused hard boiled.

Thus Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn.

If my limited memory serves me correctly it was to his Darkest Before The Dawn I sent one of my first Turner Hahn/Frank Morales short stories. Apparently he liked'em from the get-go. Everything I've submitted to him, so far, he's snapped up readily.

Let me make a confession here; it was Aldo and his DBTD website which suddenly infused my writing short stories with an energy, and acceptance, not seen before. Suddenly I began to find people enjoying my writing. Kinda changed my luck running into him. For that I'm very grateful.

Thought it would be good to interview him. Kinda tap into his mind and see how the man ticks. Out came some interesting stuff. Especially take mind to his ICE idea. I like the concept very much.

So here you go. Here's Aldo!

1. Busy working in the corporate world, what in blue blazes made you decide to enter the emag business?

A few years ago there were few markets or opportunities for writers to practice their craft online. The few places that I would visit were all starting to close down or decreased their publishing schedule from monthly to quarterly. even at that only a few writers were getting published.

So, I decided that since I loved reading and discovering all these new stories and writers that I would open up Powder Burn Flash (www.powderburnflash.com) to open a market for mystery/crime fiction stories under 1,000 words.

A year later, after several requests and submissions of longer material which didn't fit the flash fiction guidelines, I decided to open Darkest Before the Dawn (www.darkestbefore.net) for stories in any genre up to 10,000 words. To this day both of these sites receive 25 - 50 submissions per month.

All of this has been a labor of love over the past five years. I think in many ways it has helped with keeping my sanity from the pressure and demands of the day job. A kind of release and escape, which I hope has been beneficial to all the writers that I have been able to publish.

2. Darkness Before the Dawn has been one of those seminal emags which has seen quite a few talented writers contribute to it. DBTD looks for the longer stories to exhibit. So tell us, do prefer the long short story? Ones with perhaps more of a complex story line and plot? Or do you prefer the shorter pieces?

That is a great question. For me, as a reader, I read all the time, across genres and all types of written material. I guess that I don't have a preference. I would say on a monthly basis that I read a ton of flash, dozens of short stories, a few novella length works and about two to three novels a week. I'm able to do all of this as I'm a very fast reader. However, when I'm in the editing mode, that speed drops dramatically.

So. let me finally answer the question. Yes and No.

3. Writing dark noir and hard boiled. What is it about this genre which is so attractive to you. (I've had this impression for a long time--I hope I am right in this assessment.)

Yes, I like this area of writing particularly. I guess what attracts me to it is the what drives our inner thoughts to these dark edges and how we are able to regulate these thoughts and not act upon them. In all the material that I have read over the years I enjoy reading how these different authors dissect the minds of their characters and how they craft their stories. I find that this is one genre where I'm not bored as a reader.

In addition, I think the Mystery/Crime Fiction genre has allowed discussion and exploration of our society's ill. What I mean by this is that the genre has allowed writers to delve into what problems society is facing and via a good story explore those issues. In many ways I think many of these stories are doing just that.

4. What factors do you look for when a new story and writer comes up for consideration. Is there a formula you use to decide which goes into one of your emags and/or rejected?

First, I'm looking for a good story. I want to read about characters that I care about. If you combine both of these elements in your story, you're in. In the flash market this is a real challenge. You have to think and plot carefully to set up and resolve the story in less than 1,000 words.

As for rejections, I really try not to reject material. The number one pet peeve is not following the submission instructions. However, I try to give everyone their due. The majority of material is fairly well edited upon submission and I may only have a few suggestions or comments. Others, I will send back with notes and have them try again. My goal in both of these formats is help writers get better at their craft and to provide a forum to expose readers to material.

I think we are in an exciting time in regards to publishing. I think we need to keep in mind that technology has affected all aspects of our society and if you are unwilling to adapt to those changes then you may ended up fighting every new thing that comes down the pike. The new generation is highly screen driven and has a short attention span. They are constantly multi-tasking and I fear few of them are able or know how to relax outside of staring at a screen. I think this affects the book publishing world greatly.

On the other hand, what an exciting opportunity there is for all writers, agents, publishers and readers is emerging. The ability to write, publish and market your own material at a relatively low cost and within a very short timeline, is upon us. I believe that is good for the publishing world. Many new and talented writers are getting their material out there and making money at too.

I don't think the paper book is ever going to disappear, at least not in my life time.

As for the genres that I enjoy, well, let's say that they are alive and well. I'm excited to see the rebirth of the short story and the novella and look forward to some interesting experimentation with multi-media and writing in the future.

6. The vehicle known as the short story seems to have been, in a fashion, re-invented with the arrival of epublishing. Two questions; is this reinvention a good thing? And how does a talented writer lift themselves above the sea of mediocrity that invariably floods the open market that is today.

Yes, a very good thing. As I mentioned above, a multitude of today's readers are reading short stories. They seem to perfectly fitted to time constraints that are present and are great for the commuters in the world, lol.

Seriously, this under appreciated format is back with a vengeance and that is a good thing. The sheer number of anthologies that are being produced and sold verify this fact, not to mention the talent that come forward over the last year.

So, how do you rise to the top....practice and volume. The number of new markets looking for material is quickly growing as well as the number of sites or societies that are recognizing good material with awards. What I would like to see is a cross platform publishing of short stories and see magazine publishers reintroduce this format in their print journals. It seems to me that too many of the print journals are too literary in nature. My experience has been that readers like a variety of materials, so they will continue to peruse the internet and search for sites that meet their needs. So, getting bak to the question, find the market that you are interested in publishing your stories in, find a good editor and fine tune those submissions. Submit to many markets and get your name around. One thing that I always encourage writers to do is to take risks. Take risks in your writing to grow and don't be afraid to submit to a market, even if you think you're no ready. You are ready!

7. You mentioned once agents and other publishers have contacted you about one writer or another. Does this happen on a regular basis? Have you seen an increase in interest from the traditional publishing world contacting emag entrepreneurs?

It has been happening more and more with me. The exciting thing for me is seeing these talented authors being offered opportunities to be published in larger markets and/or book contracts. This is my personal goal for writers; to help make this happen. What I find interesting about this process is that these major publishing people ask me permission to contact the authors. I tell them the reason I insist on submissions to my two sites have a bio is so that anyone can contact the author. My guidelines state very clearly, that you as the author retain all writes to your material. Therefore, if you look around at a few emerging upcoming authors you will see their work previously published on one of my two site now being published by the big New York house. I couldn't be prouder of those authors.

8. What are your plans for in the near future for your publishing empire? Plan to go the traditional publishing route? Plan to create more emags?

Wow! I have an empire? lol. I would like to expand my efforts to assist more writers achieve their goals.

At some point I want to explore adding to my sites in the way of making material available via ereaders simultaneously when posting to the ezine. I know that Amazon can do via blogs, but I need to think through the amount of work and associated costs. My two sites are a labor of love and deeply grateful to Jason Andrews who maintains the server for both sites out of his shared love and interest in these endeavors.

I would also like to continue and expand my work with Seth Harwood (www.sethharwood.com) on CrimeWAV (www.crimewav.com). CrimeWAV is a podcast program of crime fiction. Over the years we have been successful in attracting and promoting work from upcoming authors to the New Times Bestselling authors like Michael Connelly. I think podcasts are a powerful tool for promoting writing and a great medium for storytelling.

One area of interest is putting together a society of e-published writer called ICE - International Community of E-Publishing. This would be an open society to help more authors with their craft and help vet the good material that is out there. I plan to explore and implement this idea in 2012 and anybody out there that would like to get in on the ground floor and assist with this is welcome.

Brit Grit Too Is A Kick In The Pants

2011-12-28T13:34:00.001-06:00

Brit Grit Too

Paul D. Brazill is at it again. A Brit who loves his dark noir. A writer who writes dark noir with a quirky, twisted flavor to it. This time around he went out and found 32 of his compatriots and undoubtedly whacked them up the side of their heads with a rubber hose. Dragging them, dazed and bloody, to some dark, dank, cramped closet he told them, probably, that if they wanted to get out alive they had to write a story for his newest anthology.

Or else.

Of course they complied. Gladly. So unleashed upon an unsuspecting world are 32 of the quirkiest, twisted, bloody, and sarcastically funny tales coming from the darker side of British society.

Brit Grit Too is an anthology of 32 up and coming British crime writers, including novelists Nick Quantrill, Richard Godwin and Gerard Brennan. It is published by Trestle Press.The proceeds of Brit Grit Too go to the charity Children 1^st http://www.children1st.org.uk/

The history of the anthology is as follows:

Last year, I contributed an essay to the programme of the NoirCon crime fiction convention, which is held in the USA every two years and celebrates dark crime fiction. The topic of the essay was the rise of hard-hitting, gritty British crime writers, such as Allan Guthrie, Tony Black, Charlie Williams and Ray Banks. The title of the essay was Brit Grit.

Earlier this year,Trestle Press published my first short story and flash fiction sampler and I decided to call it Brit Grit.

After realising that there were more and more British writers of gritty crime fiction out there, many of who were unpublished, I decided to try to put together an anthology of Brit Grit writers.

And here is the cast of BRIT GRIT TOO:

1. Two Fingers Of Noir by Alan Griffiths
2. Looking For Jamie by Iain Rowan
3. Stones In Me Pocket by Nigel Bird
4. The Catch And The Fall by Luke Block
5. A Long Time Coming by Paul Grzegorzek
6. Loose Ends by Gary Dobb
7. Graduation Day by Malcolm Holt
8. Cry Baby by Victoria Watson
9. The Savage World Of Men by Richard Godwin
10. Hard Boiled Poem (a mystery) by Alan Savage
11. A Dirty Job by Sue Harding
12. Squaring The Circle by Nick Quantrill
13. The Best Days Of My Life by Steven Porter
14. Hanging Stan by Jason Michel
15. The Wrong Place To Die by Nick Triplow
16. Coffin Boy by Nick Mott
17. Meat Is Murder by Colin Graham
18. Adult Education by Graham Smith
19. A Public Service by Col Bury
20. Hero by Pete Sortwell
21. Snapshots by Paul D Brazill
22. Smoked by Luca Veste
23. Geraldine by Andy Rivers
24. A Minimum Of Reason by Nick Boldock
25. Dope On A Rope by Darren Sant
26. A Speck Of Dust by David Barber
27. Hard Times by Ian Ayris
28. Never Ending by Fiona Johnson
29. Faces by Frank Duffy
30. The Plebitarian by Danny Hogan
31. King Edward by Gerard Brennan
32. Brit Grit by Charlie Wade

The BRIT GRIT mob is coming to kick down your door with hobnailed boots. Kitchen-sink noir; petty-thief-louts; lives of quiet desperation; sharp, blood-stained slices of life; booze-sodden brawls from the bottom of the barrel and comedy that's as black as it's bitter--this is BRIT GRIT !!!

About The Author:

Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool,England in 1962. He moved to London in 1991, where he worked as a Welfare Rights Worker. In 2001 he moved to Poland where he teaches English.

His blog You Would Say That, Wouldn’t You? can be found here:

http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

Paul’s Amazon Author Page can be found here

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Paul-D.-Brazill/e/B004D5CFYW/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Smitty's Latest Two at OneTrueMedia.com

2011-12-22T21:01:00.001-06:00

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THE problem in writing a series, bubba

2011-12-21T13:58:00.000-06:00

The Bourne Sanction

Admittedly, I'm a fan of the Jason Bourne character. A guy who is a trained assassin, apparently fluent in just about every major language in the world; incredibly lucky and one deadly, deadly, deadly dude!

For a person who loves to read action/adventure/intrigue, what's not to like about Jason Bourne?

The originator for Jason came from the mind of Robert Ludlum. A prolific author if there ever was one. Like so many other prolific writers, Ludlum came up with a formula to chuck out one book after the other in a machine gun-like rapidity. Amazingly, if you think about it, Ludlum found an audience. A very loyal audience who eagerly waited for his next book to come to the surface so they could snap it up.

It's kinda amazing to think about in that, like so many other writers who chuck out essentially the same kind of novel two or three (or more) times a year, the by-product of this proclivity is that all the books begin to blur. They begin to merge to the point--if you're one of those who have read them all--you can't really separate the plots of one from the other. They all sound the same.

But another problem is thrown into this scenario. Robert Ludlum dies and in comes Eric Van Lustbader to take over and continue the franchise. Lustbader himself is an accomplished action/adventure author with a pile of original titles all his own being consumed by an eager fan base. He comes in and it's as if nothing has changed at all. Lustbader's ability to morph into the writing style of Ludlum is amazing (although I realize there are those out there who would disagree with me).

The Bourne Deception

So Lustbader takes up the gauntlet and moves the Bourne character thru a series of adventures closely linked with each other. And herein is the problem I want to discuss about. The key--the central issue writers of a series face when they decide to write a character and make it a long running series is this; how do you fill in the background story for a reader who picks up a novel in the middle of the series and reads it first?

An especial problem with the Jason Bourne series. Lustbader has decided (rightly, I'm thinking) in creating multiple characters and deadly plot lines and stringing them through a series of novels. If a reader keeps up with the series it becomes only a mildly irritating adventure in trying to remember where one novel left off and the next novel takes up the thread.

But if you're new to the series and don't know the complexity of the series . . . . hmmmm. It becomes a little dicey. Soooo, as a writer who ponders this dilemma, what do you do to try and correct this? Do you write a lengthy Prelude at the beginning of the novel in an effort to get the reader caught up with the story line? Or do you integrate the past novels into the current read and somehow do it in a way that it doesn't come out preachy. Or chunky Or inept. Or . . . worse of all . . . just plain boring.

The Bourne Dominion

That's the problem, Pumpkin. One all writers face if they create a series. So, maybe the answer is to write each novel in the series as a stand-alone entity with very few, if any, references about the past. But then . . . you run into another problem. The die-hard fans who crave, insist, demand, howl for these very same references. Fans like this become literately a part of the family. All the characters, the twists in the plot lines, the nuances, become intrinsically important. To skip, or simplify, this is to create a different set of irritations.

So in effect you're basically screwed, brother. There's no good answer to this conundrum. Write your best story and hope for the best. Let the die hard friends grumble a bit. Write a good story and all will be forgiven. Remember, they're family; and family members stick together thru thick and thin.

The Beginning; Call Me Smitty at OneTrueMedia.com

2011-12-16T12:30:00.001-06:00

Trailer number two of the Call Me Smitty series.

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B.R. Stateham's Insatiable at OneTrueMedia.com

2011-12-14T16:55:00.001-06:00

The (hopefully) revised trailer for Drunk on the Moon Insatiable

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