I'm Looking at You, Italy

Let me start by stressing that I have no strong opinion either way concerning Amanda Knox, the American exchange student who was tried and convicted in Italy of murdering another college student.

Innocent?  Guilty?  I don't know.  I didn't follow the trial and barely noticed the verdict.  My own rule for traveling abroad is this -- don't lick the taxi seats.  Also, don't engage in drug-fueled romps with strangers and knives.

Those simple rules, plus my habit of always traveling under an assumed name after receiving extensive plastic surgery to alter my appearance, has always served me well.

But now I hear that the Italian police are suing Amanda Knox's parents for libel, after they reported mistreatment of their daughter by the cops.

Oh, so convicting their daughter wasn't enough, Italian police?  Now you've got to sue the mortified parents because they dared to insinuate you might have engaged in (gasp) mild police misconduct?

That's just not cool.  You got your verdict.  Justice was presumably served.

Suing Mom and Pop because they acted like parents just smacks of petty spite.

I hope the Knoxes tell you where to shove your libel suit.  Heck, Italian police, maybe you'd like to sue me for libel.  After all, I did just call each and every one of you a doorknob-sucking hacksaw snacker.  I also hinted that it takes six of you to count to four.  Too, your language sounds like a ferret sneezing.

Come and get me.

I'm in Rome right now, at the Hotel della Minerva, under the alias 'Samsonite M. Pennyfathing, Esq.'

I dare you.

Finally -- Anonymous Versus Westboro Baptist

The world is, regrettably, filled with people I don't like.

The offenders are plenty and varied.  People who text in movies.  People who drag jam-packed shopping carts into the 20-or-less line.  People who --

Well, most people, really.

So I'm not a people person.  But even the most touchy-feely huggy-huggy pro-people people must agree that the  members of Westboro Baptist Church are indeed the most repugnant examples of a truly subhuman species of lower primate -- and I wouldn't even give the Westboro bunch that high a rating.

For those of my readers across the water, the Westboro clan is composed of a senile old preacher and his mostly-inbred congregation of knuckle-walking morons.  Now, if this bunch of genetic mistakes kept to their own ragged hovels and only intruded into the lands of men long enough to raid garbage dumps or gaze longingly at dental offices, they'd not be the target of my ire.

But instead of quietly attracting flies in some damp corner of rural Kansas, the Westboro creatures spend their time trotting from funeral to funeral, where they disrupt the proceedings by yelling in their gutteral dialect and waving badly-made signs expressing condemnation of the dead -- right in the faces of the bereaved families.

Why they do this is a question best answered by a qualified clinical pathologist who specializes in severe mental disorders.  My own explanation is much simpler, and can be expressed by the equation 'inbreeding + innate stupidity + paranoid delusions = a bunch of complete wankers.'  Yes, there is a religious element to all this, but it's so juvenile and grotesque I won't burden you with a description of it.

They're just stupid hillbillies with an equally stupid agenda.

For years, they've been more or less tolerated, since they are after all the grimy underbelly of Free Speech.  Towns have gotten clever about granting them a space for their 'protest' and then making sure a few thousand actual humans show up and occupy that space before the Westboro primates can coax their aging minivans into town.

Motorcycle gangs and riders even meet the 'protesters.'  The bikers then park in front of the toothless Westboro troglodytes and rev their bikes to drown out their hoots and bellows.

When biker gangs note your activity and proclaim it unacceptable, man, you've really crossed a line.

Well, Westoboro has apparently crossed another line.

They have, reports indicate, provoked the wrath of Anonymous.

Anonymous is the shadowy group of elite hackers who have recently laid numerous high-profile corporate bullies to rest.  VISA, Mastercard, and at least one much-praised internet security company have all fallen prey to Anonymous lately -- and none of them had first cousins for parents.

According to a letter alleged to be from Anonymous, they've had enough of Westboro, and they've issued to them a warning -- crawl back into whatever damp hole you came from, or face the wrath of Anonymous.

The Westboro bunch can be counted on for one thing -- stupidity.  So they'll do the stupid thing, and call Anonymous out.

And then -- well, I'll start popping popcorn, because this will be hilarious.

It's one thing to wave signs at funerals, Westinbred.  But if you think your tinker-toy websites and your private info will remain even remotely intact if Anonymous sets their sights on you, well, you've got another thing coming.

And in my mind, it's a thing long overdue.

Go Anonymous -- FOR THE LULZ!

This Just In: New Markhat Novel Out in October 2011!

It's official -- The Bonnie Bell, a new Markhat novel, has been accepted by Samhain.  The tentative e-book release date is October of this year, with the print release a few months after that.

The Bonnie Bell is an all-new Markhat adventure, not a novella or an anthology of shorts.  I'm really excited about Bonnie Bell.  The whole gang is back, including Mama Hog, Gertriss, Evis, and even Three-leg Cat.

And Darla, of course.  I'd say more about her role in the book but my patient and all-knowing editor threatened to bring out the thumbscrews if I blabbed any plot details early.  So I can't tell you that the name of the book derives from a Rannite wedding ceremony.  No.  That would be telling far too much, and I just won't do it.

So, if you've been wanting more Markhat, you won't need to wait very long.

If you're new to the series, okay, here's the deal.  Markhat, our hero, lives in a world where magic works.  Ogres and Trolls rub shoulders with ghosts and vampires.  Only they don't so much rub shoulders metaphorically as bash heads literally.  This isn't a Tolkienesque world of lyrical Elves and wise old dwarves.  Lyrical Elves wouldn't last their first night in Rannit, Markhat's home town.  And the wise dwarves, if they woke up at all, would wake up shaved, robbed, and doing ten years in the work gangs for vagrancy.

Markhat earns his living as a finder.  Finding became a profession when the Kingdom abruptly won the Troll War and disbanded the Army where they stood, which left half a million soldiers stranded across the Kingdom's vast lands, and their families wondering who lived and who died.

Enter Markhat, former soldier.  He started out finding uncles and fathers and sons for a fee.

Now what he finds is trouble.

Here are the Markhat titles, in some semblance of order:

1) The Cadaver Client
2) Dead Man's Rain
3) The Mister Trophy
(All these available in e-book format from Amazon, or in print all together in the anthology THE MARKHAT FILES)
4) Hold the Dark
(Also available in print as well as e-book format)
5) The Banshee's Walk
(e-book now, in print on June 7 2011)
6) Coming in October: The Bonnie Bell


Look down below this post, toward the bottom of your screen, and I've got links to all these set up already, for your shopping convenience.

I'm already at work on the next one (working title is Brown River Queen).

But for the moment, let me bask in the glory of another sale to Samhain.

<pause>

Oh yeah.  Feels good.

But now it's back to work!

8th Oxford Film Festival Roundup

I know, I know, the Film Festival ended Sunday and serious bloggers pounded out their entries while the films were still fresh in their memories.

Well, how many of those smug smart-asses had a parachuting accident Sunday afternoon, huh?  Or crashed their Formula 1 race car into a fuel storage facility?

Not bloody many.  So I feel well vindicated for my tardiness, which matters of national security prevent me from explaining in detail.

I mentioned a film called Pillow earlier, as being my favorite at the mid-way point of the festival.

Pillow kept its place, and as far as I'm concerned, it was the best film shown at the Festival.

Taking second and third places are Worst in Show and The Happy Poet.  


Before I talk about why I liked Pillow, Worst in Show, and The Happy Poet so much, let me talk about a few things I didn't like.  I'm not going to mention any names -- just some general trends and traits that ruined quite a few other films for me, this year.

I'm a horror movie buff.  I love being frightened by a movie, although that seldom happens.

But people -- if you're going to be scary, be freaking scary.  And to be scary, you're going to have to be a bit faster on your feet than I am.  If you're making a movie about a man who has obviously been attacked by a vampire, and who we all bloody well know is turning into a vampire, don't expect us to be surprised, shocked, or even mildly amused when the newly-minted vampire chows down on the psychologist he summoned to his home in the middle of the night.

Really.  I saw that coming 15 seconds into the movie.  When it happened, I was almost dozing.

And I know I promised not to name names, but I'm looking at you here, Happy Face. Decent production values.  Good acting.  It seemed, at least, to be going somewhere.

But that movie fooled me, by thinking it had a beginning, a middle, and an end.  It didn't.  People drove to the middle of nowhere and engaged in a bit of impromptu facial surgery.  Yes?  that's it?  It's over?

Mm-hmm.  Nice try.  So did we run out of money or lose the last ten pages of the script?

No matter.  I don't care.

So, for next year, let's try and scare Frank, okay?  Make him jump, just a little.

Keep him awake at the very least.

But back to the good stuff.

I think I described Pillow as 'deliciously cruel.'  And it was.  I did not see that ending coming.  Or the middle. Or the beginning.  I think that's why I'm so enamored with this little gem -- it was new.  This wasn't a rehash of an old Twilight Zone episode, or a weak adaptation of Faulkner.  This was written by somebody who has lived in the South more than long enough to know its stories, its people, its mythology.

And not just that.  They know how the South looks, how it feels, how it makes you sweat, how the sun can beat down on you long enough and hard enough to make the grim fantastic perfectly plausible.

Southern Gothic is a well-traveled road.  I've tried my hand at it myself (The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree).  Pillow takes you places Oh Brother Where Art Thou feared to tread, and it does it in a fraction of the time.

See Pillow.  


Worst in Show is a documentary about ugly dogs and the people who love them.  I'm a sucker for dogs -- ugly, pretty, big, small.  Of course, the real story behind Worst in Show is the people, who sometimes become the sort of obsessive monsters you normally see on Toddlers and Tiaras.  Not that I watch that.  Seriously, I'd rather watch American Idol, and that requires a gun to my head and a warning shot in the knee every time somebody cranks up an old Whitney Houston tune.

But Worst in Show was genuinely funny.  It's hard not to like the rare people who will champion ugliness without because they recognize beauty within.

Finally, The Happy Poet.  This was a full-length film, fiction, about a dude-speaking hipster who opens a vegetarian food stand in a park.  His home-made food is good.  His business sense is nonexistent -- and his delivery guy is using the stand as a cover for his own thriving weed trade.

The poor Happy Poet knows none of this, of course.  He thinks people are really into his eggless egg salad, because, dude, it's got, like, basil.

I won't spoil the ending for you, because it's sweet and funny.

I'd also be remiss if I failed to mention a funny little Western entitled The Hanging of Big Todd Wade. Half of Oxford had bit parts in it, and the gag was really funny.  I hope the gang submits it at other festivals, where I'm sure it would do very well.

That's my take on the 8th Annual Oxford Film Festival!  There's some amazing talent out there.  I had a blast watching the fruits of their labors, and I can't wait for next year!

Dispatches From the 8th Annual Oxford Film Festival

I was out past ten o'clock last night.  If you knew my habits, which are generally those of any 80-something retiree, you'd know that was news.

Oxford is holding its annual film festival this weekend.  We managed to catch several indie films, and while I don't have time to talk about them all, one does stand out.

It's a short called Pillow.  It contains less than a dozen words of dialog, all spoken by a character who never appears onscreen.  It's a twisted little tale -- devoted but dimwitted sons, monstrous mother, and a quest for a pillow as soft (literally) as an angel's wing, set in a nameless corner of the Depression-era South.  Deliciously cruel and inventive.

The documentary 'Mississippi Innocence' is easily the most powerful factual entry in the festival.  It's the heartbreaking true story of police and judicial incompetence in present-day Noxubee County, and the years-long struggle by the Innocence Project to set two blameless men free after they were railroaded by courts eager for a conviction, never mind the facts.

More later!  

The Unwriting Life

It is said that Tragedy is most often found on the heels of Triumph.

Nah.  I made that up, just now.  But it should be said, because in my experience it's true.

Take my triumphant completion of The Bonnie Bell, for instance.  I crowed about it in these very pages.  I even named a blog after the word count, which in retrospect wasn't a very smart thing to do, because that very word count came quickly back to haunt me.

The Bonnie Bell weighed in at a somewhat overfed 128,000 words.  Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with a novel being 128,000 words long.

Unless one's publisher has a firm 120,000 word upper length limit.

Oops.

So eight thousand words had to go.

I've known a few writers who would have balked at the very idea of cutting 8K out of a finished novel.  What of my vision, they would cry.  What of my artistic integrity?  What of my soul?

What of my bank account, quoth I.

I'm not one of those artsy guys.  If eight thousand words have to go, they have to go.

So I began the process I call unwriting.

Writing is easy.  You put words together so they bring the movie in your head to life.

Unwriting is harder.  You want to keep the scenes intact.  You want the flavor, the mood, the feeling of the words to remain intact.

But you've got to go into the text and make words disappear.  And you've got to do that without ruining the images and feelings they evoke.

It's like playing Jenga.  You've got a precarious, leaning tower of words.  Each word touches the others.  Removing even one is tricky.

Removing eight thousand is tricky indeed.

But that's what I get paid for.  And even my ego recognizes that if words I wrote can be removed without harming the work, then they should be removed, because they aren't vital.  And if they aren't vital, then they're just loafing around, and that's no way to write a novel.

So I'm unwriting.  Reading the thing aloud, listening for awkwardness.  Slashing when I hear it.  Tightening.  Tweaking.  Surgically removing dead tissue.

When I'm done, The Bonnie Bell will be leaner, meaner, faster, stronger.  And better. Much better.

It's back to the delete key for me.  I think it snowed earlier.  White cold stuff, that's snow, right?

No matter.  Back to unwriting!

Requiem

Like most writers, I've worked some unusual jobs.

Back in the 1980s -- yeah, I was of working age back then, but if any of you kids write in asking if I ever met Lincoln or what we did before radio, I'll drive to your house and smack you in the noggin -- I did shift work.  Graveyard shifts, mostly.

I met some fascinating people doing that.  There was Tom Yancy, who went on to become a Washington journalist.  Worked the White House Press Corps.  Tom commanded the quickest wit I've ever encountered, but he was kind soul and a hard worker.

We used to tune an AM radio to New Orleans radio talk shows while we burst and decollated all the computer-printed forms we generated during the night.  Most of the programs featured preachers -- not the cadaverous, monotonous lot we have around here, but flamboyant New Orleans late-night radio preachers to whom saving souls was a distant second in priority to selling their Hoodoo Bags and Magic Money Hands.

Those nights I spent running endless reams of paper through hungry bursters and listening to Tom critique charlatan hoodoo men were absolute comedy gold.  Of course, I didn't know that then.  I held it to be the worst sort of drudgery.  I was a man, you understand, bound for bigger and better things.

Fast forward a decade or two.

Tom passed a few years ago, far too soon.  He'd known he'd die young.  He even talked about dying, all those nights ago.  I wish he'd been wrong.

And today, I got the news that another of us is gone.  I won't say her name.  The incident which led to her death is all over the news, but they haven't released any names, and I won't either.

She was a nice person.  We all liked her.  And though she was very different from the rest of us misfits, she  laughed with us, worked with us, drank bad coffee and talked the night away with us.

The bursters are gone.  The AM radio too.  That whole room is silent now, and empty.

So, to the valiant members of the dreaded Third Shift, I lift my glass in salute.  Both of you left this world far too soon.

You will be missed.

Live From New York...

If you grew up in the US during the 70s, 80s, or 90s, then you're familiar with the TV show 'Saturday Night Live.'

Back in the day, SNL was the best thing on TV.  Akroyd.  Murray.  Murphy.  Belushi.  And the list of names goes on.

Yeah, the show today isn't what it was, although it does have its moments -- my favorite bits are usually the Andy Samburg digital shorts and the opening.  Hearing someone shout 'Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!' is something I've been hearing for lo these many years.  At the end of a long hard week, it's reassuring, on some primal level -- yeah, the world may be falling apart around me, but all that can wait.

It's time for SNL.

This Saturday's guest host was Dana Carvey, former cast member (86 thru 93, I think).  His characters are some of my favorites.  He did Church Chat, Hans and Franz, and of course, Garth from Wayne's World.

The Church Lady and Wayne's World, complete with a cameo by Mike Myers, were featured in Saturday's show.  I loved seeing the bits again -- until I realized just how many years have passed since they were fresh and new.

Can I really be that freaking old?

Surely there's been some mistake.

But while I check my records in a doomed attempt to establish my current age at 27, here's a link for you to enjoy.  It's my favorite Andy Samburg digital short.  Enjoy!

Andy Samburg's 'Gonna be a Great Day' video

Get Yours At Off Square Books

And now for a bit of shameless self-promotion!  My latest print book, THE MARKHAT FILES, has hit the shelves at Off Square Books in Oxford.  Here's a pick of the cover -- oh, and note that 2 copies of my other printed Markhat novel, HOLD THE DARK, are right beside it:

The Markhat Files

So, if you live in or near Oxford and you've been waiting for the book to hit the stands, they've hit! And remember, for each copy of THE MARKHAT FILES sold, an angel gets a puppy.  Or maybe it's a kitten.  Either way it's cute and fluffy and its got big trusting eyes and you feel a sudden irresistible compulsion to buy this book right now yes right now go go go...

So hit up Off Square Books and make a huge scene when you buy the book.  Really.  Run up to the shelf, grab the book with both hands, then scream "I have been looking for this book for ages AAAAAAAAGH here it is AAAAAGH MY LIFE IS COMPLETE!" before throwing wads of cash at the confused clerk and then charging out into traffic on the Square.  

Let's make this an event.

So, to recap -- THE MARKHAT FILES, Off Square Books, 662-236-2828, open 9:00 AM till 7:00 PM Monday through Thursday, 9:00 AM till 8:00 PM on Fridays and Saturdays, noon till five on Sundays, give me a call and I'll drive you myself if you'll buy a few books!

Snowmen in the Mist

If you live pretty much anywhere in the United States, here's your weather forecast, in a single image:

Sorry about that.  Those of you who have already endured seventeen feet of snow this winter are probably ready for a bit of sun -- but that isn't likely to emerge for some time now.

Here in Mississippi, all we're getting are winds and heavy rains, both howling down from a lead-grey sky.  I got a faceful of cold rain a while ago, driven by a gleeful gust that I suppose had been dying to slap someone since leaving Alberta.  I took the assault personally, and had words with the atmosphere. 

In non-weather news, I have decided to update my ancient version of Word at home before I'm too deep into the new novel.  Yes, I know, word is a product of Microsoft&Evil, Inc., but it's also the industry standard and unless one wants to pay for a WordPerfect to Word conversion and then re-write the whole thing because the conversion is flaky at best, one will use Word from the start and like it.

I want Word 2010.  Word 2007 is slightly cheaper, but not much, and I'll probably spring for the extra twenty bucks or so and get the latest and greatest.  I've looked at some of the new features in Word 2010, and it seems the biggest changes have been to add shadows and reflections to the various fonts.

Really.  Shadows and reflections.  Just what a weary-eyed editor wants to see -- squiggly Olde English characters, in light yellow, casting delicate shadows at their feet and dim reflections in the background.  Either one alone assures a quick sale.  Make a note of that, all you up and coming young writers...heh heh heh.

What I really get, though, is compatibility with everyone else.  My version is so old I have to use an actual pencil.  When I click HELP, a little old man eventually wanders up to the house and says "Eh?"  When I decide to save a file, I have to have a wax cylinder ready.

You get the picture.

I'm still working on the opening to Brown River Queen.  I'm taking it slow, having fun with it, letting the rest of the book plot itself out in my subconscious while I fiddle with the first paragraph.  You hear that, subconscious?  I want this thing plotted, paced, supplied with relevant subplots, and moving along a graceful story arc by the end of next week, or it's another marathon of old 'Love Boat' episodes for you, pal.

Oh, and if Microsoft is reading this, and I must assume that they are stroking a fat white cat and plotting world domination while reading this, you could generate some much-needed good karma by sending me a free copy of Word 2010 (the 64-bit edition, please).  

Chasing Chandler

"It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved, and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars."

Raymond Chandler, THE BIG SLEEP

Now that, gentle readers, is how you start a novel.

Anyone who reads that opening knows they're in for a ride.  I've read and re-read that opening passage a thousand times -- ten thousand times -- just trying to pick apart every last nuance of it.

Darn right I'll steal, but only from the best.

Every time I start a new book, I try my best to start it with an opening as powerful as Chandler's above.  I do this for two reasons -- one, because it hooks the reader and draws them in, as surely as flies to trout.  And two, because no editor alive could resist the siren song of Chandler's prose, and verily, this author needs a new pair of metaphorical shoes.

So now that I'm starting a new book, I've got another shot at matching Chandler's famous opening.

There's a lot of drudgery, tedium, and just plain hard work involved in writing.

But this is one of those moments that is pure magic.

Once upon a time...

Spooky Moon

A picture is said to be worth a thousand words.  I doubt this, since the only words that apply to many pictures are "Is that your thumb?" and "How long has your camera been broken?"

With that in mind, here is a picture.  I call it Spooky Moon, because A) it looked spooky when I took it, and B) it's the Moon.

Fig. 5a, re: the Moon

That's precisely the kind of Moon I always picture when I'm writing.  So, if you're reading something of mine and the Moon is mentioned, think big and ominous and, in the spirit of accuracy, also grainy and overexposed.

I do love a big fat harvest Moon, served up with a bit of chill in the air.  

But wait, you may ask.  With so much going on in the world, why are you posting old pics of dubious quality and ignoring the historic events unfolding in Egypt, for instance, and elsewhere?

You'd be right to ask that.  After all, my old blog was nearly all political.  

But this time around, the sad truth is that I just don't give a wet hang.  I'm not mad anymore.  I'm not appalled, or shocked, or outraged, or even mildly discombobulated.

I just don't care. 

So if Charles Manson is installed as Speaker of the House, or if a bag of Cheetos winds up on the UN Security Council, fine.  You won't hear me grousing about it.  Raise taxes to pay for public displays of ornamental taxidermy.  Establish a government commission to regulate gerunds.  Make it illegal to demonstrate left-handedness on a Tuesday.

Yawn.  

I've decided to defend myself with stout walls of military-grade apathy.  I shall erect a fortress of impenetrable uncarium.  My lack of concern to matters domestic and foreign will be not only visible from space, but also a navigation hazard due to its blazing, continuous intensity.

So, no more Dick Cheney jokes.  No more mixed references to American foreign policy and massive head injury.  Nevermore shall I cast scorn, corn, or Bjorn toward Washington or those that dwell within.

With that, I bid you all goodnight.  I hope a spooky Moon smiles down upon you.

Blast From the Past

The thing about the net is this -- it keeps everything.  Maybe it's an old photo of you in a schoolgirl outfit and a Richard Nixon mask with an aquarium full of ferrets balanced on your head (okay, maybe that's just me).  Maybe it's the complete record of an ill-advised flame war in which you were a combatant back in 1999.  Maybe it's that old high school yearbook picture someone on Facebook keeps reposting.

In my case, it's a short story I sold way back in 2004 to a webzine named Abyss&Apex.

The story is called The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree.  You can still read it, for free, seven years after it was posted.  Abyss&Apex is still going strong.

This is one of the few stories I set in the so-called real world.  It's about two white kids befriending a mysterious black man in 1970s Mississippi.  Yeah, there are ghosts.  Everything I write has ghosts.  A therapist should probably address that, someday.

I just re-read DD Dupree again today, mainly to see if something I wrote seven years ago would make me first cringe in horror and then hide under the desk in shame.  Surprisingly, it doesn't.  My writing has changed in the last seven years, but that's a pretty good story.

If you've gone and read the story, you might be interested to know that the character Wade Lee was based on a real man, who was really missing both legs and an arm.  He lost them the same way the Wade Lee in the story lost his -- they were torn off by a corn picker.  And the real Wade Lee lived in a tiny shack exactly like the one in the story.

The Browny Woods are based on a real place, too.  The real location has no name, but I could take you to it, and I think you too would feel the same creepy sense of  being watched, of being asked for something, that I always felt there.

The grease truck man?  Also based on a real person.  I worked at a deli as a kid, and we emptied spent fryer grease into a huge barrel behind the store.  It vanished, twice a month, in the dead of night, whisked away to parts and fates unknown.

So if you're bored and you've got a few minutes to kill, here's a blast from the past, entitled The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree.  Enjoy!

A Brief Blast of Summer

From the looks of things, we're all fairly sick of winter.

I am.  As much as I loathe the unrelenting heat and merciless humidity of a Mississippi summer, I'm ready to trade in cold rain and lingering snow for heat prostration and chiggers.

So, for anyone else ready to bid farewell to short dim days and long cold nights, here are a few reminders of what's in store for us, a few short months from now.

I call the image above 'The 4th of July.'  Mainly because I took it on the 4th, at the big fireworks show here in Oxford, right on the edge of campus.  I took this shot with a Pentax K1000 film camera, ASA 400 film, and I held the shutter open manually with a cable.  I got lucky and got the explosion, and got very lucky and caught the spectators too, in all their blurry glory.  Long live film, baby!

The next shot is from Cade's Cove in Tennessee.  Those are the Great Smokey Mountains in the background. That's grass in the foreground.  I guess.  If it's not on the salad bar, frankly I don't know much about it.

Finally, we have a glorious sunset, shot from my own backyard.  It was nice and warm that night.

Not a single snowflake anywhere in that sky!

Wait until about August.  I'll be blogging about how wretched the heat is, and posting pictures of last month's snow.  Such is human nature.

Lou Ann is with me now, just a few feet away.  She's on her back in the recliner, with all four feet stuck in the air.  Her tongue is hanging out of her mouth, and despite that somehow she's snoring.  

I think maybe she has the right idea about wintertime.

Just roll over and sleep right through it.

  

A Few Suggestions for Improvement

The Universe is crammed full of natural laws.  Electrons have to behave one way when they're being observed and another way when they're not.  Gravity is always busy.  You never see Magnetism loafing in the vacuum, playing pinochle with Weak Nuclear Forces while iron filings everywhere forget where to stand.

The Universe is an orderly place.  Writer Terry Pratchett summed it up beautifully, I think, when he described it as 'lots of rocks moving in big circles.'

Even so, I think there is plenty of room for a few additional natural laws.  Here are the ones I'd like to see implemented:

1) It should never EVER rain on people in wheelchairs.  Ever.  It's bad enough someone is in a wheelchair.  Raining on them is just rude.

2) People who text and drive should immediately be struck by powerful bolts of lightning.  Twice.

3) The smoking corpses left in the wake of Rule #2 above should be struck by lightning again, just to show everyone else that the Universe isn't screwing around this time.

4) When the lights go down in a theatre, the audience should, for the duration of the movie, lose the power of speech.  Seriously.  What motivates people to believe a roomful of strangers wants to hear their running commentary on a movie they neither made, starred in, nor even plan to watch?

5) We won't even discuss what happens to people who text during movies.  It's simply too gory and awful to contemplate.  Leopards are involved.  Leopards, and rabid bears.  Rabid bears with frickin' lasers.  And lightning.  Lots and lots of lightning.

That's it -- five simple natural laws.  None of them are nearly as complicated as quantum mechanics or even linear algebra.  They all revolve around lightning, and bears with lasers, all of which are more or less common items.  We're talking off-the-shelf components here, Universe.  Easy installation.  Low maintenance.  It's not like there's a big shortage of lightning, right?

But if I can only get one new law put into place, let's go with Number 1.

Now that wasn't so hard, was it?

Riverboats and Torsos

First of all, I have to design a riverboat.

And not just any riverboat.  The Brown River Queen, as she will be called, is to be an opulent gambling hall, complete with two casinos and numerous staterooms and three restaurants and even a stage for floor shows. 

So far, my real-world model is a craft named the J. M. White.  The White was enormous; she measured 320 feet long and 91 feet wide and her twin stacks rose 81 feet above the muddy Mississippi. 

She was a beautiful boat.  Chandeliers graced the main cabin.  She had 75 luxury cabins, and her pilot wheel was a whopping 12 feet in diameter.

And when she burned late one night in 1886, the flames consumed her entirely in less than 15 minutes.

My boat isn't going to burn.  The Queen will number, among her crew, several vampires, a couple of ogre bouncers, and half a dozen wand-wavers who mill around in the casinos spotting hexers and other magical cheats.  Oh, and there will be a murder, on the Queen's maiden voyage, no less...

But I can't kill anyone until I get the boat built in my head.  Which means drawings and maps of rooms and little scribbled notes about how long it would take Miscreant A to run from Stateroom 15 to Stateroom 27 if he was trying to carry a dismembered torso at the time.

And people wonder why writers always look distracted.  It's because we're imagining bags packed with dismembered torsos and trying to decide how much they'd weigh, and how fast we could run with them.

Yes, Brown River Queen is the working title of the new Markhat novel.   I'm taking everything that makes Rannit fun and throwing in a dash of old New Orleans, this time around.  There will be gumbo.  And perhaps even Voodoo.  Spun for compatibility with Markhat's rough and tumble world of magic, of course, but the basic flavors will all be there.

So it's back to my musty old reference books.  I need to immerse myself in all things riverboatish for a while, to get into the spirit of the thing.  It looks like that will be fun.

And by the way, an average adult human torso weighs about 105 pounds.  And no, you don't get to ask how I know...

127,419!

I'm in the very final stages of hammering the rough draft of The Bonnie Bell into shape for submission to the publisher.

The word count stands at 127,419 words.  I don't expect that to change significantly.

That makes The Bonnie Bell the longest piece I've ever written.

By contrast, Hold the Dark is around 60,000 words, and The Banshee's Walk is around 80,000.

Not too many years ago, I was having trouble churning out 4000 word short stories.  In fact, I'd probably have a rough time today, starting and ending something in less than five thousand of the little squiggly things.  Especially a fantasy short -- you've got to tell a good story and build a believable world, and a limit of five thousand words make doing both extremely difficult.

No, I prefer writing novels.  You've got more room, more time.  If you want to write in a minor character with a quirk just for some comic relief, that's fine -- you won't be looking later on to cut three hundred words just to make the piece fit inside some magazines hard-and-fast length limits.

The flip side to that freedom is of course the peril granted by the freedom itself.  The last thing you want to do is go off on so many tangents readers get lost in the action, and wind up glaring at the book in confusion (I'm looking at you, Gene Wolfe).

I think I've managed to walk that tightrope pretty well in Bonnie Bell.  Of course I won't know for sure until I get a yea or a nay from the kind folks at Samhain, but right now it feels good.

I'd love to talk specifics about the book itself, but of course I really shouldn't.  I will say this one ends in a manner unlike any of the others.  I hope that means readers will clamor for the next book, and not rise up in anger and storm my castle with torches and pitchforks, because A) the castle is a rental and B) my homeowner's policy specifically does NOT cover 'mobs, angry.'

I will give out a hint or two.  My favorite scene, I think, involves Markhat riding a war-horse right through the doors at Wherthmore.  And then there's the dinner scene at the fancy restaurant -- but alas, that's all you get.

So, very soon, The Bonnie Bell will be sent away for judgement, and the new book will begin.

But right now, I'm just looking at that word count and grinning like an idiot.

One hundred and twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and nineteen words.

With THE END stuck at the bottom.

Feels good.

The Wreck of the Toyota Corolla

It's been a rough few days.  Any story that starts out with the words 'And then there was the car wreck' probably isn't a cheery little tale.

In honor of our beloved Toyota, I offer up this tidbit of song -- weep as you sing it.




Sung to the tune of THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD:


The legend lives on from the Wendy's on down
of the red light they call the So Sue Me
The light, it is said, is right quick to turn red
When the students are texting and moody.


With a load of Subways -- not very much more
then the mighty Toyota weighed empty
That good car and true was a bone to be chewed
When the red light turned red, and turned early

The car was the pride, yes the Tuttle's main ride
Coming back with sandwiches laden
As Corollas will go it was faster than most
With insurance, full coverage, and paid in

The wind in the tires made a tattletale sound
And I waved at Larry in passing,
And every man knew, as the Tuttle did too,
T'was the students at him were laughing


The lunch hour came late and the hunger was great
When the deadly black Honda came speeding
The brakes, they were applied,
But t'were doomed to collide, when the fateful lunch hour came callin'

The policeman called in he had tow trucks comin' in
And the little Toyota was wounded
And later that same, the insurance man came
and said fellas, it's been good to cover ya

Does anyone know where the Blue Book value goes
When the impact turns your bumper to confetti
The bystanders all said I my face was really red
Came the wreck of the Toyota Corolla!

Guitar Update

As many of you know, I procured a Raven electric guitar last week with the intention of claiming my rightful place in the lofty pantheon of Rock and Roll.

Sure, I'd need to learn to play the thing first.  A minor detail.  Trivial, really.  And it's not like I was completely inexperienced.  I'd seen a guitar once before.  From a distance.  Through heavy foliage.  But I'd taken that chance to observe the wild guitar, in its natural habitat.  I watched the guitar feed, watched it use its trunk to spray cooling water on its back...

What?  A what?  An elephant?  Are you sure?

Hmmm.  Well, that explains a few things.

Anyway, I've been practicing.

Using the amazing free lessons available at Justinguitar.com, I've learned a few things about the art of playing a guitar.  Chief among these things is that I am completed unsuited physically to actually play the guitar.

First of all, there is the issue of my hands.  While I have two of them, which is considered the minimum number necessary for a guitarist, my hands are the exact wrong size.  Seriously, they're big huge Frankenstein's monster hands, which are well suited for use as bludgeons or shovels, but problematic when employed to strum and fret.  Observe my photo below, to see what I mean.

Fig. 1, Frank's Hands.

See?  On a side note, I cannot get a decent manicure in this town.  I walk in, and all the little Vietnamese ladies shriek and run.  Sigh.

I remain undeterred by my physical obstacles, though.  And things are easier after last night's session -- I unlearned one bad habit I didn't know I had, which was that I was pressing down far too hard on the strings with my fret-hand.

I thought that, to get the proper note, one had to bear down with all one's superhuman might on the hapless string.  I was really putting the pressure on.  Blood was spraying.  Bones were being ground down.  Children screamed.  Clowns nodded, knowingly.

Turns out only a gentle touch is required. Oh well.  Skin grafts are a lot cheaper than they once were anyway.

I'm still practicing the D this week.  Yeah, I know, your average lab monkey could probably master the D on a guitar in half an hour, but keep in mind this is me we're talking about.  I was 27 before I first walked upright.

   

I still have to mutter 'left, right, left, right' while I walk.  

Next week, I plan to move on to the next chord, which is I believe the A.  After that, I may risk the perilous task of following a D with an A, in the same sitting, as long as a team of chiropractors and mental health professionals is standing by.  And maybe a professional barbecue master too.  I find that any endeavor is improved by the presence of a professional barbecue master.

At that rate, let's see, carry the 1, add the Leap Year -- yes.  At that rate, I expect to perform my first full song, a Death Metal version of "Here Comes the Sun," by late 2022.

Okay, hopefully not that late.  But I'm not making any promises.

Oh, and in case anyone is keeping score, here's the practice amp I have picked out:

Line 6 amp  

It has a built-in tuner, and a setting labeled 'INSANE.'  I've always wanted a machine -- any machine-- with a setting of INSANE.  I don't even know what it does, people.  But whatever it is, it will be sweet.

The Old Blog's Sad Fate

Many of you have asked "Hey Frank, what happened to the old blog?"

And when I say many, I mean none.  But nevertheless, I shall 'splain.

The old blog was one I set up years ago.  It was a Wordpress blog, which meant it lived on my website and incorporated a database and had lots and lots of obscure php files in various directories on my site.

The fact that I managed to get the thing up and running is still considered a minor miracle by the Church.  I know precious little about SQL databases and php now, and I knew precisely nothing back then.

But I followed the instructions and the thing worked, for lo, these many years.

Until December 19, that is.  Something happened then.  I could no longer sign in to my Admin panel, couldn't create new posts, couldn't edit old ones.

I was busy during the holidays.  When I did get a chance, I went to the Wordpress tech forums, created an account, and along with a couple of other people experiencing the same problems, I asked for help.

Things went rather downhill from there.

I won't burden anyone with the details, but the fine folks at that particular forum (cough, wankers, cough) weren't particularly helpful.  After a couple of times of being insulted, I decided to just cut my losses and start over, using Blogger, which pretty much runs itself and doesn't require me to run a gauntlet of snarky script kiddies every time I need advice.

I'm sorry for the loss of the old blog.  There was some priceless stuff in there -- my fake interviews with Donald Rumsfeld, the Wells Fargo rant, my pictures of Bigfoot riding the Loch Ness Monster -- but I hope you'll all like this one just as well.

In other news, the editing of Bonnie Bell continues, as does my practicing of the D chord on the new guitar.  Which reminds me -- time for some practice!

Take care, all.