Lou Ann on Today

After a hard day of watching me work outside, Lou Ann declares this Saturday done.

I concur.

Excerpt from All the Paths of Shadow

Today is September the 9th, which means the new book hits the stands in precisely eleven days.  The book, for those of you who have somehow managed to elude my non-stop yammering on the subject, is All the Paths of Shadow, which will be brought to you by the erudite and fascinating people at Cool Well Press.

Can you pre-order?  No, not yet.  

Will the book be available in electronic and print formats?  Yes.

Will reading the book cure male pattern baldness, halt the devaluation of the US dollar, or eliminate the need for costly, strong-smelling creams or ointments?  No, yes, and yes, respectively.

My readers will instantly recognize the name Markhat.  Some have asked if All the Paths of Shadow is a new Markhat novel.  No, it isn't.  Paths is set on a new world and features an all-new cast of characters.  You'll find Paths of Shadow to lie somewhere between Wistril's world and Markhat's.  But I think you'll enjoy it, just the same.

Finally, yes, All the Paths of Shadow is the first in a new series.  The sequel, entitled All the Turns of Light, is now underway. 

I'm putting an excerpt from All the Paths of Shadow below, in the hope of whetting your appetite for the release on the 20th.  And don't worry -- I'll be back well before then with all sorts of helpful links designed to make your purchase of the book as simple and as pleasant as possible, because I'm a helpful kind of guy.

Enjoy the excerpt!

From ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW:

Beyond the park and the oaks Tirlin itself rose up in a tidy profusion of red brick buildings and dark slate roofs and red-gold tree tops just touched by autumn. The towers and spires of the palace peeped through here and there, rising just barely above the banks and shops and offices that made up the heart of Tirlin.

Above it all, though, loomed the Tower, squat and black and brooding in the midst of the green and open park.

Meralda frowned, and looked away.

“Mistress,” said Mug, turning all twenty-nine of his eyes toward Meralda. “Talk. What’s wrong?”

“How many days remain until the Accords?” said Meralda, quietly.

“Twenty,” said Mug, with a small stirring of leaf tips. “Counting today, which I suppose I shouldn’t, since it’s nearly gone.”

Meralda sat on the edge of her battered kitchen chair. “So,” she said. “In nineteen days, Tirlin will be full of Alonyans and Vonats and Eryans and Phendelits, all gathered here to strut and brag and eat like pigs while making long speeches explaining why they broke every promise they made at the last Accord.”

Mug nodded by dipping his eye buds. “You left out carousing and spying and tavern wrecking,” said Mug. “What does that have to do with you?”

Meralda slapped her hands down on the table. “Nothing,” she said. “It should have nothing to do with me at all. The Accords are a political matter.”

“Or so you thought.”

Meralda shook her head. “So I thought.” She put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. Just for an instant, she heard her mother’s scolding voice. “Elbows off the table, young lady. We raise swine. We do not emulate their table manners.”

Meralda sighed and stared at the table top. “His Highness is to give the customary commencement speech on the eve of the Accords,” she said. “He plans to speak from a platform at the foot of the Tower. Carpenters are building covered stands in the park for the delegates.”

Mug shrugged with a tossing of fronds. “Sounds fine. I think Kings Ortell and Listbin did the same thing, way back when.” Mug lifted his three red eyes toward Meralda’s face. “It’s not the weather, is it? Surely even Yvin knows better than to take pokes at the climate just to make sure he has a sunny day for a speech.”

“He didn’t ask that,” said Meralda. “Yet.”

She stretched and yawned and thought again about caramel apples and fall carnivals. “Yesterday—” said Meralda, “Yesterday, the King was inspecting the stands being built in the park. He arrived at five of the clock, the same time his commencement speech is set for.”

“And?” said Mug.

“And,” said Meralda, “It suddenly dawned on our gifted monarch that the sun sets in the west and casts shadows toward the east.”

“Leaving His High Pompousness to make a speech in the shadow of the Tower,” said Mug, with dawning apprehension. “Which aggravated his royal sense of badly done melodrama.”

“And led him to instruct me to move the Tower’s shadow,” said Meralda. “Move it, or banish it, or fold it up and pack it away for an hour,” said Meralda, in a mocking baritone. “Roll up a shadow? Pack away the absence of light caused by a seven hundred year old wizard’s keep?” Meralda shoved back the chair and stood, hands spread before her. “What kind of an imbecile asks for a roll of packed up shadows?”

Mug cast his gaze toward the ceiling. “The kind with the scepter and the crown,” he said, quietly.

Meralda stood. She walked back to her open window and leaned on the sill.

“Was it a suggestion, a request, or a royal directive?” asked Mug.

“Is there a difference?” asked Meralda. “The king asked. Before the full court. I stood there and nodded and made vague assurances that I’d look into the matter.” Meralda sighed. “The Tower is—what? Nine hundred feet high? Almost two hundred wide? At five of the clock today, the tip of its afternoon shadow hit the park wall at the east entrance. That makes its shadow almost two thousand feet long and two hundred wide at the base.”

Mug ticked off figures on his leaf tips. “How big a bag will you need, after you roll it up?” he asked.

“Mug!” snapped Meralda. “Enough.”

“A thousand pardons, Oh Fiery-Eyed One,” said Mug, with a mock bow. “But could it be, mistress, that you are not exclusively angry with King Yvin?” A trio of bright blue eyes peeked up through Mug’s tangle of leaves. “Could it be that you are peeved at your own reluctance to describe to the king in lengthy detail just how asinine and vacuous his shadow-packing scheme truly is?”

Meralda glared. “I could get a cat,” she said. “A nice quiet cat.”

Mug lifted out of the bow. “Fur on the couch, a litter box to empty? I don’t see you with a cat,” said Mug.

“Keep talking,” she said. “We may all see things we didn’t expect.” Meralda shook her head, ran her fingers through the strands of long red-brown hair that had worked loose from the tight bun at the back of her head.

“I was going to add that you shouldn’t fault yourself for not browbeating the king before the full court,” said Mug. “I was going to say that even though your hero Tim the Horsehead spent his career berating and insulting kings he was always careful to do so in private.” Mug paused, waving his leaves. “I was going to suggest that you take a long hot bath and curl up on the couch with a cup of Vellish black tea and a book of Phendelit poetry, and that you see Yvin privately tomorrow and explain to him that you only just discovered that moving the Tower’s shadow would loose a plague of biting flies on Banker Street and devalue Tirlish currency abroad and cause the collapse of the aqueducts and, incidentally, make snakes grow in his beard. He’ll forget the whole shadow business and you can go back to your studies of spark wheels and lightning rods, interrupted only by occasional royal requests to shrink the royal bald spot.”

Meralda laughed. Mug turned his eyes away. “And you want a cat,” he said, airily. “Could a cat say that?”

“No one with lungs could say that, Mug,” she said. “You’re right. I should have a talk with Yvin.”

“Then why aren’t you making tea and drawing a bath?” said Mug.

Meralda sighed. “Because I’m changing clothes and going back to the laboratory,” she said. “There are things I need to look into, at least.”

Mug sighed. “Mistress,” he said. “Can it be done? Can the shadow be moved?”

“I don’t know, Mug,” she said. “Perhaps.”

Mug turned a tangle of green eyes toward her. “I don’t like this, mistress,” he said, no humor in his tone. “The Tower isn’t something to be trifled with.” Mug bunched all his eyes together in an instinctive signal of grave concern. “Leave it alone, if you can,” he said. “Please.”

Meralda frowned. “Why, Mug?” she said. “It’s just an old tower.”

Mug moved his eyes closer. “It was never just a tower,” he said. “Not seven hundred years ago, not yesterday, not now.” Mug’s leaves stirred, though no wind blew. “Why do you think the old kings tried for all those years to knock it down?” Mug paused and stilled his leaves. “Leave it alone, mistress. Tell Yvin to light a few gas lamps and leave the Tower be.”

Meralda stroked Mug’s topmost leaves. “Thank you, Mug,” she said.

“For what?” said Mug.

Meralda smiled. “For not being a cat,” she said.

Mug’s eyes exchanged glances. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I think.”

“Water?” asked Meralda.

“None, thanks,” said Mug. The dandyleaf plant sighed. “So you’re going to try this, despite my heartfelt plea.”

“I have to,” said Meralda. “I have to try. Not for the king, but for me.”

Mug grunted. “As long as it’s not a heroic effort for the glory of His Thick-headedness,” said Mug. “So what’s this idea of yours?”

Meralda bit her lip. She turned from Mug and began to pace slowly around the dining table.

“I see two ways to do this,” she said, frowning. “First, bend the sunlight around the Tower, so it casts no shadow at all.”

Mug frowned. “That would render the Tower invisible, wouldn’t it?” he said. “And a working invisibility spell? Weren’t you saying just a few days ago that such a thing was impossible? I believe you used the words ‘penny-novel nonsense’.”

“The spell would only redirect light striking the Tower from a certain angle,” said Meralda. “It wouldn’t be invisible. Just a bit fuzzy, from a single spot out in the park.”

“I see,” said Mug. “What’s your other idea?”

“Leave the shadow,” she said. “Just delay it a bit. An hour, perhaps. Maybe less.”

“Delay it? How, mistress, does one delay the setting of the sun?”

Meralda laughed. “I’ll leave the sun alone, thank you,” she said. “I’d merely borrow a bit of sunlight from one day and move it to the next.”

The edges of Mug’s leaves all curled slightly upward. “Let’s work with your original notion,” he said. “Moving sunlight from one day to the next. That sounds like the sort of story that ends with the Thaumaturge being brutally suntanned and the king giving his speech from beneath the cover of perpetual night.”

Meralda smiled. “Good night, Mug,” she said. “I’ll be late. Shall I move you to the sitting room window?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’ll stay right where I am. It’s a good place in which to worry oneself sick. Lots of room to drop leaves and shrivel.”

Meralda sighed. “It’s only a shadow, Mug,” she said. “And the Tower is just a tower. Stones and wood. Nothing more.”

Mug sniffed. “Certainly,” he said. “Nothing to all those old stories. Nothing at all.”

Meralda snatched up her cloak and stamped out of the kitchen. Mug listened to her wash her face, brush her teeth, and change her clothes. Then the living room door closed softly, and Mug was all alone.

All the Paths of Shadow

Maybe you missed my previous eleven thousand, four hundred and ninety-six previous mentions of this, but I have a new book coming out this month.  On September the 20th, to be precise.

The book is All the Paths of Shadow.  The publisher is Cool Well Press.  You'll be able to get All the Paths of Shadow in e-book format or on paper, as you please.  Get either.  Get both.  Just get it.

What is this book about, you ask?

It's about trust and friendship and loyalty and a really good egg roll.  There is magic.  There is Mug, who was great fun to write.  Mug has twenty-nine eyes and a profound fear of aphids, and even so he isn't the oddest character in the book.

You probably noticed that the graphic above employs the words 'young adult novel.'  And that's true, All the Paths of Shadow is a YA, in much the same way the Harry Potter books are YA.  I hope kids will love it, but that doesn't mean you should skip it just because I used the YA tag,  It's not a twee book filled with doodling dobbles and dobbling doodles.  It's a book about a very talented young person coming to grips with the kind of challenges we grumpy adults face every day.

With magic, of course.  And a light blend of steampunk, in the form of dirigibles and electric lights and walking engines trundling down the cobblestone streets.

And that's all I'll say tonight.  As you can probably guess, I'll be talking more about All the Paths of Shadow in the days leading up to the 20th.  So start saving those pennies, people!

There will soon be shopping to be done...



PS--
The cover was done by the brilliant Anne Cain -- check her out on DeviantArt!

Book Review: My Life as A White Trash Zombie by Diana Rowland

As I may have noted in passing a few thousand times before, I'm a fan of all things zombie.

Not all things zombie.  I should have said nearly all things zombie.  Because for every good zombie movie or good zombie book, there are half a dozen real stinkers just dying to sneak into your bookshelf or your Netflix queue.

Happily, the book My Life as A White Trash Zombie by Diana Rowland is firmly in the good zombie group.  I snarfed this one down in a mere two days, because I had to know what happened next.  Who turned heroine Angel into a zombie?  Why did they turn her?  And how is she going to obtain the ingredients for her strict new diet without (ahem) learning to embrace her inner Romero?

This is NOT your typical zombie novel.  There is no undead rising.  No one is trapped in a mall.  Not a single cliche shambles past.  Angel appears normal to everyone around her, as long as she feeds on human flesh every few days.  Working in a morgue allows her the chance to do so without the usual zombie marauding.  and since the author has actually worked in a morgue setting, the details make Angel's day-to-day life come alive, so to speak.

What truly stands out about White Trash Zombie is Angel's journey from living deadbeat to undead upright citizen.  Seeing someone die and then manage to turn their train-wreck of a life around was an inspired theme, and I applaud Diana Rowland for taking the road less traveled.

If you're a fan of zombie fiction, I'd rate My Life as A White Trash Zombie as a must-read.  Better than 'Breathers!'

Also available in print.

Enjoy!

Belated Movie Reviews

I've seen a few movies the last few weeks, but didn't get around to savaging  reviewing them until now.  So, in no particular order, here are my thoughts:

CONAN THE BARBARIAN

RATING:  Zero fractured skulls out of a possible 10.  No, in fact, this movie was so bad it owes me three fractured skulls.
Good points:  No one has since tried to make me watch it again.
Bad points: Everything between the opening title sequence and the credits.  This movie was so monumentally awful it spoiled movies playing nearby.  The acting careers of people who haven't been born yet are even now being destroyed just because they share initials with the poor unfortunates who appear in this film.  Even the font used in the credits is doomed.
Plot summary: Conan hits a lot of people, the end.
Compare to: Painful rectal inflammation, prolonged visits by religious zealots, poorly-maintained public restrooms.
Comments: I'm not even sure these people were aware they were making a movie.  Between the blurry, too-dark 3D photography and the deafening but largely incoherent soundtrack, I thought for a few awful moments I had somehow been sucked into the turbofan of an airborne 747.  Sadly, this was not the case, and I was forced to endure well over an hour of nonsensical grunts and random slo-mo sword-fights.  Oh, and the sneering.  Conan sneers a lot, which I suppose he was well within his rights to do, since I shelled out fourteen bucks for two tickets to this cinematic nightmare.  Buried somewhere in the muddle of jumping and rolling and slashing there was a pitiful scrap of a revenge-story plot, but, undernourished and ignored, it starved to death  halfway through the thing, leaving behind a series of disjointed and uninspired brawls that sent several members of the audience wandering away in open disgust. See it only if the gun being held to your head is bigger than a thirty-eight.  Take your chances with a head wound if it's anything smaller.



PRIEST


RATING: Eight screaming vampire heads out of ten.  Not quite perfect, but not far from it.
Good points: Takes the best elements from classic Westerns and combines them with a new twist on vampirism.  Stylish and imaginative.
Bad points: Minor plot quibbles.  For instance, if humanity waged a thousand years of war against the vampires and ultimately won, would we really set up vampire 'reservations,' even in the wastelands?  I don't think so.  I mean, why?  The vamps probably aren't going to sit around playing pinochle and peacefully reliving the good old days, are they now?
Compare to: High Plains Drifter, Pale Rider, Near Dark, Chuck Norris.  Not any Chuck Norris movie, just the Man himself.
Comments: This movie oozed style.  The world looks lived in -- well, not so much lived in as kicked around, wounded, and sent limping down a trash-choked alley.  The dialog is straight High Noon western, as is the look of the thing.  You've got dusty frontier towns and leather and sweaty, gun-totin' townsfolk.  Sure, they're riding jet-powered motorcycles instead of piebald mares, but the spirit of the Old West is very much alive here.  You've got your honest lawman, your flawed hero looking for redemption from a world that let him down, your black-hat villain with his big stomping boots and his villainous grin.  Look, just watch this one.  It's a good movie.



FRIGHT NIGHT (2011 Version)


RATING: Eight screaming vampire heads out of ten.  Again, not quite perfect, but a great movie anyway.
Good points:  Doesn't take itself too seriously.  David Tennant plays Peter Vincent.  Yes, that David Tennant, of Dr. Who fame.  Also, this movie is not 'Conan the Barbarian,' which in itself is a very good thing.
Bad points: Okay, you're a vampire who has survived for centuries by feeding on the blood of the living.  You've seen war.  You've seen pestilence.  You've seen hundreds if not thousands of attempts by humans to strike you down.  But have you never seen a ten dollar wristwatch?  No?  And it never once occurred to you that having some method of determining the time of the sunrise might be worth checking into?  No?  Well okay then.
Comments:  Yes, 1980s vampire killer Charlie Brewster gets a 21st-century reboot in the remake of the classic Fright Night.  This time around, Charlie makes his home in Las Vegas, which also seems inviting to his new next-door neighbor, who isn't the least bit interested in gambling.  Nosey Charlie soon knows too much, and fanged hilarity ensues.  My favorite character was Peter Vincent, who is a Vegas stage magician in this version of the story.  The movie is fairly faithful to the original, but about that I will say no more.  I won't call this a horror movie, because it never really went for the jugular, but it was a fun way to spend an afternoon, and I don't really ask much more than that from remakes of 80s flicks anyway.  Give it a look.  

E-signing e-books on e-ink e-readers.

The future has arrived.

It's not the future I expected or hoped for, because instead of bringing me flying cars and Mars colonies and teleport pads, the future just slouched in, looked around with bleary eyes, and started complaining about his lousy data service with AT&T.

I think we can pretty much forget flying cars.  Ever.  We'll be lucky if we don't all wind up walking through some Mad Max leather-n-rubble post-apocalypse ruinscape on our way to trade old cans of beans for dirty  water at Bartertown.

But one thing I can do, people, is finally sign all my e-books digitally so you can view the inscription and signature (and the book cover, rendered in stunning grey-scale e-ink) right there on your Amazon Kindle e-reader.

How, you ask, your heart racing in rapt anticipation?

You merely click your way to www.kindlegraph.com and click 'Request Kindlegraph' under the appropriate cover of my book.  The 'signed' page will be delivered to your Kindle via the dark magic of the Whispernet before you can say 'egregious self-promotion.'

Is that all there is to it, you ask, incredulous?

Heck no.  You also have to stick Kindlegraph's email address in your 'Manage My Kindle' page on your Amazon account, or your Kindle will refuse the email from Kindlegraph.  Doing that is easy, though -- it just takes a couple of clicks.  A how-to page is here.  Make sure you don't skip Step 5!

It's easy and fun.  So if you want me to inscribe your electrons, head on over.

We can do this while we wait for the Future to get some rest and shave and maybe get started on the Mars colonies.

Adventures in PC Migrations

I've been stuck in computer move mode for the last few days.  My faithful but aging Dell XPS entered his retirement, where he will serve as a backup machine and step back into the fray if, Cthulhu forbid, my shiny new homebuilt job has issues.

All my writing files were swapped over to the new machine first, of course.  Then photos, various programs, and of course music, which is still a work in progress.

But I've now got a sweet dual-monitor setup, which means I don't have to squint and lean any more.  And the new homebuilt rig has a quad-core processor so I can run as many things as I please, all at the same time.  I predict this will allow me to confuse subject/verb agreement 38% faster than ever before!

I have to say Windows 7 has been a pleasant surprise.  I haven't foamed at the mouth or punched the keyboard in rage a single time, which is quite different from the last time I moved a whole system from one hardware platform to another.

I've been asked why I don't work on a Mac.  Nothing against Macs, really, it's just that A) you can't get decent games for the things and B) I want to swap out my own parts and I don't even know where to buy a Mac motherboard, for instance.  Do Macs even have motherboards?  Or do they run on the captured dreams of unicorns and a single tiny gleam from Steve Jobs' eye?  Not sure, but I don't think NewEgg sells either.

So now that I'm all set up it's time to get back to work on the new Markhat novel.

Oh, one last note.  My fictional steamboat the Brown River Queen is based on a real steamboat, the American Queen.  Turns out the American Queen is being relocated to nearby Memphis, Tennessee, where after a year of renovations she will ply the muddy Mississippi as a cruise boat.  I plan to visit her, and see how close I got in describing the real thing.  Sure, the American Queen won't be stoked by ogres or be lit by magic, but otherwise they're much the same.

SyFy Channel Makes More Wise Decisions

Remember a show called Farscape?


Anybody else love Stargate Universe?


Well, if so, you can add Eureka to the list of good shows the SyFy Channel has canceled.

I'm pretty pissed about it, too.  Sure, the science on Eureka was often, um, well.  Wrong is such a harsh word.  But I didn't mind, because the show was funny and bright and able to wink at itself.  It had engaging characters, all well-written and masterfully portrayed.  It was entertaining, and I'm not the easiest guy to entertain.

And now it's gone, because some blubbering dunderhead at SyFy decided it was too expensive to produce.

I'm sure it was expensive.  Quality usually is.  And I wouldn't be so angry about the cancellation if I had any confidence that Eureka would be replaced by something other than a lame supernatural reality show or a half-assed reboot of some obscure 80s failure.

Or, Chthulhu forbid, more wrestling.  


This just in --

(AP)  An interview with SyFy Channel executives regarding the cancellation of 'Eureka' revealed that the network is moving toward a "drunker, more violent, criminally-insane demographic" which prefers shows centered around "wrestling, improbably large reptiles, and frequent appearances by semi-nude WWF celebrities liberally covered in body oil."


"We understand that some Eureka fans are upset, but frankly we don't give a crap," claimed one executive. "Have you seen my drink?"


"Isn't sci-fi supposed to be about giant snakes anyway?" asked another, as he fumbled with his bong. "Giant snakes and that Tiffany chick, right? Super."


The show destined to replace 'Eureka' in its Monday evening time slot, 'WrestlerSnake EXTREME," is already in production and will begin airing early next year.

London Burning

All my British friends are aghast at the violence sweeping parts of London tonight.  From what I see on Twitter, mobs are setting shops and homes aflame after looting them.  They're using Blackberry phones to coordinate their attacks, and I've also seen rumors that the rioters are targeting witnesses who tweet about it with Twitter's location feature.

The mob is composed of the ever-popular generic 'youth.'  The rioters call themselves protesters, angry over a police shooting.  Everyone else calls them looters, because anger over a police shooting is hard to equate with stripping the shelves of the nearest Best Buy before charging off to find a tennis shoe store.

The British police have thus far been over-run or reduced to standing around watching the flames.  Which might beg the question 'Why don't cops have guns?' but since I'm not British I suppose that's really none of my business.

I do wish all my British fans and friends safety and peace.  I hope you all emerge from this mess unscathed, unlooted, and un-arsoned.

These are difficult times.  I fear that before it starts getting better it's going to get a lot worse, for all of us.

Stay safe out there.

Google +, Boom or Bust?

I've spent about two weeks on Google+, which is of course Google's attempt to unseat Facebook as the most popular social networking site around (MySpace was last seen loitering, unkempt and alone, in a pawn shop parking lot on Detroit's notorious Eight Mile).

I like Google+.  I like the idea of sticking this person in one circle, and this other person in another, and knowing that people in my Work circle, for instance, won't see the endless stream of 'buy my book' begging I inflict upon my Fans circle.

There's also none of this adding friends business.  Facebook forces you to send potential 'friends' a friend request, which they must accept before any other communication commences.  With Google+, I just add any name I want to any circle I want (and you can create your own), and if that person gets tired of my inane ramblings they can quietly block me.  I'll never know it.  No muss, no fuss.

Google+ has just as many -- more, really -- bells and whistles as FB.  Better ones, too.  And you know what Google+ does not have?

Farmville.  Mafia Wars.  None of that.  I haven't been pestered by a single game app.  No one has encouraged me to 'Click here to see real pictures of Casey Anthony killing Osama bin Laden!'


I haven't seen a single poorly-worded exhortation that I repost some sophomoric bit of patriotic doubletalk or all-caps religious dogma.

Do I think Google+ will send Facebook packing anytime soon?

No.  But I do see a migration of some of FB's users to Google+.  A lot of people may find the relative lack of lame game apps and tee-hee joke reposts refreshing.

In fact, a mass migration of FB users to Google+ might be a bad thing, because it would inevitably bring Farmville and the like right along with it.

I still have a couple of Google+ invitations left.  Email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com if you'd like one.  If you're already on Google+, say hi to me there!  Just make sure you talk to me -- there's another Frank Tuttle there.  He's a photographer, and a good one.

I'm also trying to become more active on Twitter.  Look to the right of this blog post - somewhere over there you'll find a FOLLOW ME button.  Click it if you're interested!

Edits Away!

The final edits for The Broken Bell are done and away!

Which is good.  Final edits done, I've seen an absolutely stunning sneak peek of the book cover -- it's been a good weekend to be a writer.

Tonight, I'm going to eat some vanilla ice cream with chocolate on top.  Karen and I will watch Leverage and Falling Skies.

And tomorrow, I'll start another book.

Writing is work, make no mistake.  There were times I almost threw in the proverbial towel.  But days like this make all the work worthwhile.

For everyone who's bought a Markhat book, thanks!  I hope you've enjoyed reading them.  I got an email today in which the sender asked if I planned to keep writing Markhat books.

The answer to that is a resounding yes.

Take care, all, and look for The Broken Bell in December!

Sneak Peek at All the Paths of Shadow

All the Paths of Shadow is due out in September of this year.  You can't see me right now, but I'm throwing confetti and blowing into one of those New Year's Eve noisemaker things.  I believe announcements about book releases deserve a bit of celebration.


Now I am happy to direct you to the following link, which leads you to a peek at the cover!

All the Paths of Shadow is here, at Cool Well Press site.  The cover is by Anne Cain, the same brilliant artist who did several Markhat book covers (you can see them here and here and here).  I love the way she can capture the mood of the book with her covers, and the way she slips important items from the story into each.

Oh, and if anyone is wondering -- is that brooding rangy fellow in the trench coat and the hat in the Markhat covers me?

Why yes, yes it is.  And when I say yes I mean no, I am lying through my keyboard, because I could wear the best hat in the world and never look that could.  But that's the magic of fiction.

So go, check out the cover for All the Paths of Shadow, and the other books Coming Soon on the Cool Well Press site too.

Time to start saving those pennies!

Hummingbirds and Random Images

The image above is of a mimosa tree bloom.  We have a big mimosa tree in the backyard, and every summer those blooms call every hummingbird from a hundred miles around.

Watching dozens of hummingbirds dart and weave and twist and turn amid the branches of that mimosa tree makes standing out in the heat almost worthwhile.  There must be ten thousand fat lush blooms on that tree, but all the hummingbirds do is fight over the same two dozen blooms.

There's probably a moral or some deep cosmic truth buried in that statement.  Or maybe hummingbirds just like to fight.  It's hot and frankly I don't care to ponder the matter further, but I thought a few of you might enjoy the picture.  That subtle glow that seems to emanate from the bloom's heart?

That's either a glimpse of the very life-force that infuses all living things, or I took the photo with the F-stop set wrong.  You decide.

I sent the edits for All the Paths of Shadow off last week, so I've spent this weekend working on a short story for a horror anthology coming out later this year.

Honestly, I was a little worried that I'm no longer able to even write short stories.  As far as I can tell the last time I wrote an actual short was in 2004 or so, which in writer's years equals 2,752 fortnights, or 12,000 half-penny furlongs.

A long stretch, in other words.

But I'm happy to report that things are going quite well with the short piece, which is entitled The Knocking Man.  I'm halfway done, the story is appropriately creepy and spooky without being overtly gory, and I think no one is going to expect the ending (though by this point the reader will think they've got it figured out, though they don't).  So I'll get my first short piece in years out well before the deadline.  Hopefully it'll be good enough to make it into the anthology.

And then it's back to the novels!  Markhat and Darla are getting impatient.  They heard something about a trip down the Brown River on a luxurious gambling boat and they're eager to get underway.

Me too.

Progress Report

My part of the second round edits for All the Paths of Shadow is nearly done.  I'll be shipping it off in a day or two, much improved I hope.

I really like this book.  It's a complete departure from the Markhat series, but I think it has a charm all its own.  I hope readers agree, when it hits the stands later this year.

The target audience for All the Paths of Shadow is young adult, and believe me, that's a tough crowd.  I'll be competing with a wild variety of flashy electronics and social media for their attention.  I think I would have loved the book, as a kid, but then I was a pretty weird kid so my opinion is almost certainly worthless in this regard.

I tried to make my characters strong ones.  I think that's one aspect of the Harry Potter books that made the series such a commercial juggernaut.  Harry and Ron And Hermione are loyal and brave and true to each other.  Hermione is a wonderful female character, too -- she's smart, tough, and self-assured.  Contrast Hermione with Bella from Twilight, and I think you'll see what I mean.  Hermione will never let her self-worth be dependent on some dude, vampire or other.

I'm not directly comparing my book,  All the Paths of Shadow, to the Harry Potter series.  They are wildly different; mine has elements of steampunk, for instance, and my protagonist is 18 when the story begins.  I didn't set my book on Earth.  My magic is a lot more like electrical engineering.  Heck, at one point Meralda the heroine even does math as part of the magic.  She also invents the electric light shortly before the book begins.

So I guess I'm hoping geeks like me will flock to the book.  Ladies too.  I purposely put Meralda down in the middle of a grumpy, bearded Old Boy's Club setting so she could set out to prove she was as smart as any of them.

But I should shut up about Paths of Shadow now.  Readers will vote with their wallets when it's released, and no amount of blathering on my part will affect that event in the least.

In other news, my persistent post-pneumonia cough is nearly gone.  I can breathe again without sounding like a mortally wounded bagpipe.  I feel ready to take up the chainsaw again, and start whittling away at the storm debris still lingering in the back yard.  Maybe this weekend.

One final note -- if anyone out there is on Google+ and feels like adding me, I'd be very grateful.  I need to keep up with the latest things you crazy kids are doing on there here Interwebs.

So email me!  franktuttle@franktuttle.com

Thanks!

Passing the Narrows

People seemed to enjoy The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree (posted a link to the story a few blogs ago -- if you missed that one, click here to read the whole story, for free) so I'm going to post the first part of another Haunted South story in today's blog.

This one is called Passing the Narrows.  It was first published by Weird Tales in the spring of 2000, where it was later voted favorite in the issue.  It's one of my favorites too, because it's the closest thing I've ever written to a straight horror story.

Landing a sale to Weird Tales was a milestone for me.  That was no easy market.  Big names made regular appearances in those pages, Stephen King among them.  

I think I'd submitted one other piece to Weird Tales before putting Passing the Narrows in the mail.  That piece was The Mister Trophy, which they liked, but wouldn't run because it was too long.  I went on to sell The Mister Trophy twice, once to Adventures of Sword and Sorcery, and then again to Samhain Publishing as part of the Markhat series.

The editors at Weird Tales were sticklers for historical accuracy.  Even though Passing the Narrows is set in an alternate South where magic works, the folks at Weird Tales were insistent that every detail of the story was consistent with historical and geographic fact.

That insistence had me sweating.  I'd written the story after a cursory glance at a couple of maps and a brief remembrance of canoeing down in south Mississippi.  I'd looked up the names of a few famous Civil War generals and sprinkled them here and there.  

Painstaking research?

Um, no.  

Given the enthusiasm and knowledge of Civil War buffs, I was taking a huge risk with my casual attitude.  One wrong name.  A single misplaced river.  A battle put a few miles too far one way or another -- any of these mistakes could have seen me torn to whimpering little shreds in the letters section of Weird Tales magazine.

The editors knew that too, so they checked my fictional downriver route against maps.  They checked the names.  They made sure I had my riverboat references right.

I got lucky.  The story passed muster, and saw print, and I learned a valuable lesson about research, which is that blind dumb luck is a perfectly good substitute.  Once.  And I've used my free pass!

I'm pasting the first part of the story below.  If you like it, well, it's for sale here (about a buck) at Amazon, if you have a Kindle (or you have the free Kindle app on your PC or other device).  

Anyway, enjoy the excerpt!

                       Passing the Narrows

                         by Frank Tuttle

     The Yocona surged ahead, paddle-wheel churning, cylinders beating like some great, frightened heart.
     "Dark as Hell and twiced as hot," muttered Swain from the shadows behind the clerk's map-table.
     A ragged chorus of ayes answered.  The Captain checked his pocket watch; ten o'clock sharp.  Old Swain and his hourly announcements hadn't lost a minute in twenty years.
     The Captain snapped his pocket watch shut and peered out into the darkness.  There, to port, loomed a hulking mass of shadow twice the height of any around it -- Cleary's Oak, last marker before the riverboat landing at Float.  "We're an hour from Float, Mr. Barker.  Notify the deck crew we'll be putting in for the night."
     "Aye, Cap'n."
     "She won't like that," said Swain, whispering.  "Fit to be tied, she'll be.  Full of fire and steam."
     "Who, Swain?"
     "You know who.  The wand-waver.  The Yankee."
     "Go back to sleep."
     "I heard her talkin' while the boys were hauling me up the deck," said Swain, gesturing with the stump of his missing right arm.  "Said she was aimin' to make Vicksburg 'fore the moon came again.  Said she had orders, and papers, and -- "
     "I give the orders here, Swain.  Not any damn Yankee wand-wavers."
     Swain cackled.  The Yocona churned past Cleary's Oak, picking up speed as the Yazoo River turned narrow and straight. The Captain rang three bells, and the thump-thump-thump of the pistons slowed.
     The Yocona’s running lamps began to touch the trees on each bank of the Yazoo River.  Shadows whirled and twisted, caught mid-step in some secret dance before fleeing back into the impenetrable murk beyond the first rank of trees.  Some few seemed to run just ahead of the light, capering and tumbling like shards of a nightmare given flesh and let loose to roam.
     The shadows reminded the Captain of Gettysburg and Oxford and a hundred other haunted ruins left in the wake of the war. The Yazoo River was the only safe route through the countryside now, unless you were a sorcerer, a Yankee, or a fool.
     "Eyes ahead, boys," said the Captain, softly.  "They're only there if you look."
     The pilothouse door flew open and slammed like a rifle-shot. The Captain whirled, cursing.
     In the dim red glow of the pilothouse night-lamps, the Yankee in the doorway looked little more real than the shadows in the trees.  A long blue Union sorcerer's robe and hood concealed all but angry green eyes and long, pale hands.
     "Why are we stopping at Float?" said the sorceress.
     "Warned you," whispered Swain.
     The sorceress stepped forward and glared down at Swain. "You are the Captain of this vessel?"
     Swain guffawed.  "No ma'am," he said.  "I'm the clerk.  If you want a freight book marked or a Federal river-map copied I'll be happy to oblige."  Swain cocked his head.  "Tell the truth, now -- don't them robes get awful hot?"
     The sorceress turned, traded frowns with the Captain.
     "You gave the order to put ashore at Float?" she said.
     "I did," said the Captain.
     "You will rescind your order.  We will proceed on to Vicksburg.  Tonight.  With all possible speed."
     The Captain turned his back to the sorceress and listened to the paddle wheels for a time.  Far off in the night, he heard the shriek of another riverboat's steam-whistle.
     "Get off my bridge," said the Captain, staring out into the shadows.  "Get off, and stay off."
     "We go to Vicksburg."
     "Tomorrow.  First light.  Not before."
     The sorceress stepped forward.  "I am an official representative of the United States government," she said.  "I have Papers of Empowerment which authorize me to commandeer this vessel, if necessary.  Is it?"
     "Just like a Yankee," said Swain.  "Commandeerin' stern-wheelers without no notion of how to steer one.  How far you reckon you'd get before you found a sand-bar or a snag?"
     "Vicksburg," snapped the sorceress.
     "Hell," said Swain.  "In pieces, you might." Swain scooted himself sideways on his bench, grinning as he saw the sorceress look down at the stumps of his legs and then look quickly away.
     Another steam whistle rang out, and another.  "Hear that?" asked Swain.  "Two more boats puttin' in at Float.  Probably twenty there, maybe more, every one of 'em losin' time and money by stoppin' for the night."  Swain cackled.  "Ain't many things tighter than a Mississippi river-boat master's fist, wand-waver, and there's some that would steer for Hell itself if they thought the devil had a penny in his britches.  But not a one of 'em will pass the Yazoo Narrows without a moon, and that's a fact."
     "One will tonight," said the sorceress.  "Or he'll get off and watch me take his craft.  I don't care which." Papers rustled.  "This is a Presidential writ, Captain," she said.  "This craft and my cargo are going on to Vicksburg.  Tonight. Any further obstruction will be met with force.  Is that clear?"
     "Go to Hell," said the Captain, not turning.  "Go to Hell and take Lincoln with you."
     Paddle-wheels churned.  Tiny flickers of light played over the backs of the sorceress's hands.
     "We'll need half a hour at Float to unload the passengers and such of the crew that ain't eager to die, ma'am," said Swain. "Course, since Yer Mightyness is in a hurry, we could just throw the women an' babies off now."
     The sorceress let out her breath in a long weary sigh.  The glow at her fingers vanished.  "You may have half an hour at Float," she said.  "No more."
     The Captain was silent.  The sorceress turned and stepped through the open door and then turned again to fix the Captain's back with a glare.  "I will forget your insubordination if there are no further difficulties between us, Captain," she said.  "And I may have neglected to mention that you will be reimbursed for any losses you incur if passengers remain behind."  The Captain didn't stir.
     "The War is over," muttered the Sorceress.  "Why can't you people accept the peace?"
     "I reckon," said Swain, nodding toward the haunted night beyond the pilothouse, "because it ain't any too peaceful south of Memphis these days, yer Yankeeship."
     The door slammed.  The sorceress's heavy footfalls faded, buried under the Yocona’s steady throbbing.
     "Well, Captain," said Swain quietly, "Guess I just saved your ass from the Yankees.  Again."
     The Captain shook his head and lit a cigar.  Purple-grey smoke drifted wraithlike through the pilothouse.  "You believe the stories about the Narrows, Swain?"  asked the Captain. "Because if you do, you just sent us all to Hell."
     Swain pulled himself back into the darkness behind the map table.  "Bound for it anyway, ain't we?"  he said.  "This way, maybe we get to take a Yankee wand-waver with us."
     The Captain took a long draw of the cigar and watched the shadows tumble all the way to Float.

Click here to purchase Passing the Narrows!

Editors and Editing!

This latest round of editing on All the Paths of Shadow has taught me one thing.  Well, two things.  First of all, I need to pay more attention to Point-of-view (POV) shifts.  And second, I need to stop using the word 'gaggle' more than once a week.

It doesn't bother me to jump from one head to the next in a book.  Probably because I run through at least nine different personalities in my own head each and every day.  There's Work Frank, there's Hungry Frank and Grumpy Frank, there's Distracted Frank and Frank Who Is Listening To Pink Floyd In His Head And Who Can't Be Bothered With Anything Else Right Now.  Mainly the latter.  I like Pink Floyd.

But that's no way to write a book.  Pick a POV and stick with it, unless you have a good reason to switch, and just cracking a joke is not a good reason.

And repetition of words.  I'm bad about that.  Worse, I have trouble spotting the repetitions later, which means they slip past my own internal editor, who is apparently spending a lot of time with Frank Who Is Listening To Pink Floyd In His Head And Who Can't Be Bothered With Anything Else Right Now.

Which is why I'm lucky that my books aren't self-published.  Because if they were, I might never have spotted some serious issues with the prose and the structure.

Fortunately, I'm paired with some very accomplished editors (Beth at Samhain, Christine at Cool Well) who see what I don't or can't, and flag it for discussion.

I've read a lot of comments by self-pubbed authors who claim they're glad they don't have to submit their works to any sort of editorial process.  This gives them full creative freedom, they claim, and I suppose they have just that.

Maybe it works for them.  But I've come to realize that it most certainly does not work for me.

Markhat wouldn't have Darla, for instance, if Beth hadn't suggested that certain events in the original manuscript of Hold the Dark play out quite differently.  And Beth was right -- if I'd insisted on keeping the original chain of events, the whole series would be floundering right now.

We're still editing All the Paths of Shadow, and already it's much improved from the original because Christine has spotted several gaffes I'd have gleefully left intact.

It's not that I'm a sloppy writer.  I'm not.  But I'm human, and I make mistakes, and then later I tend to read what I meant to write, and not what's actually on the screen.

My point, if indeed I have one, is this -- the next time you read a really good book, say a quick word of thanks to the editor who helped bring it to life.  Even if the editor's name isn't on the cover, I assure you that they helped shape the book just as surely as the author.

I'm not against self-publishing, mind you.  I've self-pubbed a few of my own previously sold titles just for fun.  But when people ask me now why I don't just go straight to Kindle, I'll have a better answer than 'Uh, well, er, hmm.'

Two heads are indeed better than one, especially when one of the heads in question is mine!

Free Read!

Got a few minutes?

If so, ready your clicking finger for The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree.  I wrote and sold this back in 2004, when woolly mammoths still roamed and I weighed 170 pounds.  Or maybe I roamed and the mammoths were 170.  Look, it was a long time ago.

It's a free read, and it's a short story, so you don't need to set aside the whole afternoon.

What is The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree about?

It's set in my native Mississippi, in 1974.  I was 11 in '74.  Mississippi was a different world then, if one compares it to the present.  I've tried to make that clear in the story, and yes, I'm talking about race.

The character of Wade Lee is based on a black man I grew up knowing.  The rest?

Well, read it, and you decide.

Here's an excerpt, for anyone still on the fence:

Wade Lee lifted his wire-wrapped bundle.

"I call you out!" he shouted, in a voice that split the sky. He hurled his bundle into the fire, and the flames roared up and consumed it, as though it were soaked in kerosene. "I call you by yo' name! Come out!"

DD rose suddenly, jerked upright on as if by strings. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open and his right hand lifted sudden across his face as though to shield a blow.

The flames shot up then, blue and roaring and higher than I was tall. And when they fell, as they quickly did, dead gone Lucas Dupree stood two steps away, just on the other side of the knee-high bank of blue-edged fire.

Lucas Dupree stank. A wind rose up and the stench of him, of rotting flesh soaked in cheap whiskey, curled about us. He exhaled, wet and gurgling, and I gagged and nearly puked.

"I reckon it ain't natural, and I reckon it's gettin' worse," said the dead man, with a crooked, bloody grin. He tossed an empty Black Crow whiskey bottle into the fire, and the flames leaped up and took it. "You was right about that, boy," he said, to DD. "I ain't done with you yet."

Enjoy!  And have a good weekend.  I'm planning on catching the last Harry Potter movie at some point, will probably blog about that too.

The Secret Lives of Hoarders

Book Review: The Secret Lives of Hoarders


If you're like me (and for your sake, let's hope that is not the case), you have a few television shows you simply cannot miss.

One of mine is Hoarders, on A&E. Hoarders are people driven by compulsion to collect and keep items which vary from case to case but range from old newspapers to soiled adult diapers -- and worse.

Much, much worse.

We're not talking about a few odd shelves stuffed with bric-a-brac.  We're not talking about closets filled to overflowing with quilts or shoes or boxes.  No, an instance of full-blown hoarding usually involves a dwelling that is literally stuffed to the ceilings with the most bewildering variety of junk.  On Hoarders, I've seen mounds of coat-hangers surrounded by bags and bags of rotting groceries.  Sometimes the refuse is stacked and packed over such a long time that it compresses down into disgusting layers of trash-strata, whereby one can date the layers by identifying the flattened remains of cats squashed amid the bits of unrecognizable debris.

You think I made that up?  I didn't.  It's happened, more than once, and with more than a single carcass found in the same home.  Think about that for a moment, and ponder the intensity of stink required to mask the scent of multiple decaying cats.

That, my friends, is as good an introduction as any into the tragic world of the hoarder.

Enter Matt Paxton, cleaning specialist extraordinaire.  Matt is the owner of Clutter Cleaner, and he and his team will go where angels fear to tread and take a shovel to boot.  Tackling hoards and helping hoarders and their families is Matt's business, and his experiences as the founder of Clutter Cleaner and as cleaning expert on A&E's Hoarders made him uniquely suited to write the book on hoarders.

In fact, Matt did just that -- write the book on hoarders, I mean.  That book is The Secret Lives of Hoarders, and I give it five stars out of five.  Although stars are perhaps not the appropriate symbol here -- call it five tons of gooey refuse out of five tons.

Either way, it's a great book.

Author Matt Paxton is very effective on the show when dealing with hoarders and their often-dysfunctional families.  With them, Matt is firm yet compassionate, even-tempered, and dedicated to helping people who simply cannot help themselves.  All those qualities come across easily in the book, which never once descends into the sort of cruel mockery a lesser person (I'm looking at me) would be sorely tempted to include.

Matt's book introduces us to a number of more or less representative hoarders.  He gives us a background of each, the source of their hoarding behavior, and any family interactions that help or hinder.  Yes, Matt describes the hoarding behavior in the same sort of gut-wrenching detail featured on the TV show.  But that's not the emphasis of the book.

Instead, Matt and co-writer Phaedra Hise look past the mounds of rotting diapers and dehydrated cats and into the minds of the people who simply cannot throw anything away.  I'll never watch the show the same way again, because now I've seen an inkling of how desperately trapped hoarders truly are, and how they'll struggle with their compulsions every minute of every day for the rest of their lives.

It's tragic.  It's disgusting.  It's often irreparable.  But it's never boring.

Fans of the show will also enjoy Matt's candid revelations into his own past.  People who have never seen the show will too.

I'll end with a bit of honesty here.  I sometimes view celebrity book offerings with one part suspicion (and probably two parts jealousy).  Oh wow, he/she is on TV, and now they have a book out.  I'm sure it's good.

Forget that, though.  This is a good book, and it was published because it is a good book told in a wise voice about a fascinating topic.  The Secret Lives of Hoarders is an honest, unblinking look at what for some families is a dirty little secret.  Paxton deals with it all with compassion, wit, and an empathy born of a genuine desire to help those suffering from a mental illness that literally weighs them down with tons of garbage.

So check it out!  It's not hard to find.  Amazon has it in print and as a Kindle e-book.  You can buy the print version direct from Clutter Cleaners.  Barnes & Noble has it in print and Nook format.  I've put all the links below, so enjoy!

AMAZON:
Secret Lives of Hoarders in print

Secret Lives of Hoarders Kindle e-book

CLUTTER CLEANERS:
Clutter Cleaners website

Buy Secret Lives of Hoarders direct from Clutter Cleaners (Matt will even sign it for you!)

BARNES & NOBLE:
Print or Nook e-book

Memphis Animal Shelter or Hell on Earth: Toss Up of the Day

We have a wonderful animal shelter here in Oxford.  The staff is caring and professional, the facilities are clean and new, and the animals kept there are comfortable, clean, and well-fed.

Travel north about eighty miles to the sprawling metropolis of Memphis, Tennessee, and it's a completely different story.

The Memphis Animal Shelter (shortened hereafter to MAS or the more descriptive HELL) has long been a hotbed of cruelty, incompetence, and outright criminal activity.  Recent attempts at cleaning up the physical and procedural messes at the MAS have been somewhat less than successful.

Case in point -- the missing dog Kapone, and the arrest of a felonious animal control 'officer' who has a criminal rap sheet longer than that of most Memphis City Council members (and that alone is impressive).  And we're not talking petty crimes here -- there's burglary.  Robbery.  Fraud.  All manner of very grown-up mayhem, and yet this person was issued a uniform and put on the MAS payroll in keeping with the existing shelter policy of 'Uh, what?'

Here's what happened -- last week, two dogs belonging to Memphian Brooke Shoup escaped from their backyard and were picked up by an 'officer' with the MAS.  Yeah, I put 'officer' in little quotes.  As I mentioned before, the 'officer' in question has extensive experience with law enforcement, if you count being arrested over and over.  I have to wonder how she included so many convictions on her resume -- did she just claim 'extensive experience in entrepreneurial property re-assignment' and hope no one asked?

But I digress.  The two wandering dogs were picked up by the 'officer' and transported to the MAS.   But when owner Brooke Shoup came to MAS to claim her two dogs, only one dog was produced.

11 year old Kapone was gone.

Now, I imagine communicating the whole 'two dogs is more than one dog' concept to the MAS staff required several hours and the use of drawings, songs, and an appearance by the entire cast of Sesame Street.  But somehow owner Shoup managed to convey the missing dog idea to the MAS, and the search for Kapone began.

Began, and pretty much ended, right with the same 'officer' who claimed to have brought the two dogs into the MAS.  This 'officer' explained away Kapone's absence by claiming he wasn't absent.  This clever stratagem was not entirely without merit; the MAS itself admits that thousands of dogs go missing from its care every year.  Missing.  That's their word for it.  Theories abound on the cause of these canine vanishings.  Some point fingers at the elusive Memphis Bigfoot.  Others maintain the Shelter was built on the site of an ancient energy vortex.  Most of the staff at the MAS, if asked about this statistic, look quickly at the floor and suddenly remember pressing business elsewhere.

The 'officer' was arrested (again) today on two counts of animal cruelty, which is precisely the kind of accusation one demands in an animal control officer.  Poor Kapone, like so many other hapless pets who have the misfortune to enter the care of the MAS,  is still missing.

This next part is conjecture, but I think I know what happened to Kapone.  It is my opinion that he was sold, by someone (I can't imagine who, I really can't) employed by the MAS.  Sold  to a dogfighter, for use as a bait dog.

I imagine this very transaction takes place quite often at the MAS.

Which makes employing persons with extensive criminal records a -- oh, what is the phrase I'm looking for?

A very bad idea.


I feel sorry for poor Kapone the dog, who I fear met a sad and undeserved fate.  I feel sorry for his owner, Brooke Shoup.  I feel nothing but contempt for the 'officer,' who should never have been placed in a position of authority over any creature, great or small, and certainly shouldn't be allowed anywhere near MAS.

I doubt that any of this will bring about fundamental change at the MAS.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that our 'officer' is quietly reinstated at some point.  I hope I'm wrong on that last bit.  But I'd lay even money I'm not, because in some circles in Memphis, criminal activity is not only winked at but bought fruity little drinks with umbrellas in the glass and then taken out for dinner and dancing.

Kapone, rest in peace.  You did nothing wrong.  It's a terrible world where leaving your yard means you risk your life, especially at the hands of those who are being paid to protect you.

PS -- I hope the dog-fight trash who bought Kapone dies an agonizing, gruesome death from untreatable butt cancer.  And that goes for all the dog-fight trash everywhere, and frankly dying from rancid butt-tumors is far too good for the lot of you.

Blurb Blip Blues

It seems bookseller Barnes & Noble has some interesting ideas about what precisely comprises an effective online book description.

Personally, I like to see a short, entertaining blurb that simultaneously gives me a general idea what the book is about and just a taste of the book's style.  The right blurb gets you hooked right away, resulting in the subtle but happy click of the mouse on the BUY button, and the resultant unseemly cries of avarice assuaged from me.

The wrong blurb sends readers -- and worst of all their precious, precious money -- on to other titles.  This makes me weep, and the plaintive cries echo faintly up the slimy walls of my abandoned well and disturb passers-by.

So you can imagine my injured howls when I happened across this listing for my book Dead Man's Rain on the Barnes & Noble Nook book site.

Scroll down to the book description.

Now, if it mentions Markhat and Mama Hog and starts off with "Can a haunted man help the dead find peace?" you can stop reading now, because Barnes & Noble has fixed the mistake and all is well.


But right now, the description for Dead Man's Rain reads like this:


 "As a dark web of spells closes in, Magaith may be Sygtryg's only hope and she his only destiny. Magaith is resigned to fulfilling her father's command that she marry the King of Connacht, even though she harbors a secret love for her knight protector, Sygtryg,..."

Which isn't my book at all.  Frankly I think Magaith and the unfortunately-named Sygtryg could solve a lot of their problems by first eloping and then changing their names to Bess and Harold, but since I didn't write the book I don't get to make that call.

I wondered if perhaps the book that belonged to the blurb above had the description of Dead Man's Rain beneath its cover, so I employed the might of The Google. I found the book to which the blurb rightly belongs, but oddly enough it isn't available from Barnes & Noble at all.  I can only imagine that my fellow author would have been as eager to have my blurb removed from her book as vice versa -- nothing against her or her book, but finding the wrong blurb no matter how good it is attached to your book is somewhat akin to opening an envelope of pictures of your kid to discover the photo place has swapped heads with those of strangers.

And you didn't think I'd work a swapped heads reference into this one.  Ha.

No matter.  I emailed the always professional folks at Samhain Publishing, home of the Markhat series, and they're working with Barnes & Noble (i.e., poking B&N with pointy sticks) to get the blurb set right.

Hopefully,  this will result in a sudden skyrocketing sales ranking for Dead Man's Rain, and I can finally afford to get a mail-order ladder and emerge from this, my dank, cricket-covered lair.