Behind the Scenes Magic

Every novelist engages in worldbuilding.  Even if the novel is set in present-day New York, even if the novel is about investment bankers (eww), even if nothing even remotely paranormal, magical, or supernatural happens, the writer of the novel of investment bankers in modern-day New York is still worldbuilding.  They have to bring their New York to life.  They have to trick readers into believing the squiggles on the page are telling a story, one that happened just yesterday, in a place everyone knows something about.

It's not so different for me, when I write about Wistril's Castle Kauph or Markhat's rough-and-tumble town of Rannit.  I have to make the place at least seem to be alive.  If the reader doesn't believe he or she has been taken to a strange new place with new sights and new sounds and new smells, then I've failed, and worse I've wasted my reader's time.

I put a lot of work into my latest fantasy setting.  I'm talking of course about Mage Meralda's city Tirlin, which is the setting for my new book All the Paths of Shadow.

Of all the fantasy worlds I've put to paper, Tirlin would be the place I'd choose if I was told I was to be transported to one of my worlds.  Rannit, on the other hand, would be great fun, but only until the sun set.  I'm too old to run from hungry halfdead and, perhaps worse, only Rannit's rich have hot running water or fancy flush toilets.  Tirlin has both, and the streets are safe day and night, and since Meralda accidentally invented electric generators and electric lights, iPods and the Internet can't be far behind.

Since All the Paths of Shadow is a fantasy, magic is a big part of what makes Meralda's world tick.  So I spent a good bit of time trying to create a self-consistent magical system to go along with the new world.  I think I came up with something both fun and unique.

Latching mass, for instance.  Spells in Meralda's world need to be connected -- latched -- to something physical.  The larger and more powerful the spell, or the greater the number of spells, the more massive the latching mass needs to be.

Simple spells don't require much mass.  Meralda carries a copper tube in her bag to which an elementary radiant spellwork is latched.  She speaks a trigger word, and a beam of light shines from the tube.  It's a flashlight, but instead of dry cell batteries and an incandescent light bulb, you've got a bit of metal as latching mass with a radiant spellwork attached.

That automatically places limits on the nature of the spells and magic Meralda can use.  You can't level a city with a wand, for instance, because a foot or so of oak lacks the mass.  You'd need a monumental object for a monstrously powerful spell -- an ancient tower, for instance, something a thousand feet tall, made of solid granite.  Not that I'm hinting.  Just thinking out loud.

To me, that's the fun part of world building.  You set your own rules, and then you start the game, and see how they play out.

All the Paths of Shadow, in Kindle format.  Or, if you prefer mobi or epub, click here to hit the Cool Well Press site.

Either way, I hope the magic works for you, too.

Meet the Publisher

I've done a lot of blathering the last week or so about my new book.  I thank all of you who've stuck with me, and I bow down in profound gratitude to those who bought the book!

Today, though, I'd like to invite everyone to meet the publisher of All the Paths of Shadow, which is Cool Well Press.  Go ahead, click on their link and have a look around.  I'm not going anywhere.

The first thing you probably noticed is that Cool Well Press is offering all their e-books in various formats.  You can get epub.  Or Mobi.  Or, in a week or so, you can even get good old print.  So whether you rolll with a Kindle or a Nook or a Sony, Cool Well is there to hook you up.

Cool Well just released two other books as well as mine.  Check out The Trinity Pact by E. M. Shelton and Weirdo World by Cathy Seckman while you're there.

And of course Cool Well Press will soon announce the Win a Kindle contest, in which you, yes you, can win a free Kindle just because you're such a cool person.


I owe Cool Well Press a huge thanks for working so hard to make All the Paths of Shadow such a good-looking book.  And of course for the intense editing.  If there are typos in that book I will gnaw off my own feet, and that's a promise made on the internet which of course I will deny ever making if typos are in fact found.

So please check them out!  Oh, and if you're an author, be sure and click the Calls link.  They're planning several themed anthologies, and the pay is top-notch!

CONTEST! Epub and Mobi People Rejoice!

All the Paths of Shadow

I'm not sure half of my audience is old enough to remember 1970s-era car sales commercials, and that's too bad.  Not because the 1970s were that great, but the sight of some balding overweight car salesman dancing atop the hood of a '72 Impala truly captured the spirit of America.

I don't have any Impalas to sell, and I'm not balding, thankyouverymuch, but I am about to engage in the very same sort of antics while I promote my new book.

So allow me to put on a too-tight yellow sports coat and a bright red hat.  Man, polyester really doesn't breathe, does it?

Camera ready.  Mikes on.

Three.

Two.

One.

Action!

Woooooo hooo!  They call me Crazy Frank and I must be crazy, because I'm about to give away ten copies of my new book for FREE, yes people, you heard me, I'm so crazy I'm giving it away!

Be among the first ten people to email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com with the words CRAZY FRANK'S FICTION GIVEAWAY in the subject line and I will email you one of the following:

1) An epub version of my new book, All the Paths of Shadow.  In epub format.  This baby comes fully loaded with cover, working Table of Contents, dedication, copyright notice, and one hundred and twenty thousand words of timeless Tuttle prose!  Works on any epub device.  Ask for epub in your email!

OR

2) The mobi version of my new book, All the Paths of Shadow.  In mobi format.  This baby comes fully loaded with cover, working Table of Contents, dedication, copyright notice, and one hundred and twenty thousand words of timeless Tuttle prose!  Works on any mobi device.  Ask for mobi  in your email!

It's so simple it's CRAZY!  Again, just email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com with the words CRAZY FRANK'S FICTION GIVEAWAY in the email subject line.  Inside your email, tell me which version you want, epub or mobi.  If you're among the first ten to enter, I'll email you the file of your choice, and you can have  All the Paths of Shadow for your very own, at no cost!

Why?

Because I'm crazy.  Also because I feel like showing some love to my Nook and Kobi and Sony toting pals.  Note that the Kindle doesn't read epub or mobi files.  So if you're a Kindler, sorry, this contest won't help you.  Unless of course (wink wink nudge nudge) you download a free epub or mobi reader program and read from your PC.  Just thinking out loud here.


So, all you Nookers, you Sony-ers, you Kobikins -- fire up that email now!

Remember, first ten get the free ebooks.  The next ten get a high-resolution JPEG image of me clipping my toenails.  It's not pretty, so hurry and enter!

Yes, another blog post about the book!

All the Paths of Shadow

Just in case anyone is on the fence about trying this Tuttle character's new YA book (and I don't blame you being suspicious of me), I thought I'd put out another sample today.

This was taken from near the start of the book. You've got three of the main characters having a meal and plotting; there aren't any spoilers, so read freely.

Remember, the whole thing is now available for your Kindle or Kindle-enabled device here!

Excerpt:

“But here we are, two old gaffers doddering on about roads and boats when we ought to be talking about the lovely young lady in our midst,” said Shingvere, as he handed Meralda another bottle of Nolbit’s. “So tell us about the Tower, Mage Meralda,” he said. “Seen the haunt, have you?”

Meralda groaned. “Please,” she said. “Not that. Anything but that.”

Fromarch, from his shadowed repose in his enormous Phendelit reclining chair, guffawed. “Oh, he’s always believed in haunts and the like,” he said. “Can’t blame him, really, given the standards of education in dear old Erya.”

Shingvere ignored the jibe. “’Tis true I spent a whole summer chasing the Tower shade,” he said. “Back in—oh, 1967, it was. Did you know that?”

Meralda blinked. “I didn’t,” she said. No more Nolbit’s, she decided. Her legs and arms were getting heavy, while her head seemed light and wobbly.

She sank back into Fromarch’s couch, pulled a small copper funnel from behind the small of her back, and relaxed again.

“Nobody does,” said Fromarch, after a sip of beer and a sigh. “Too bloody embarrassing. If the Exchequer found out we’d spent from the crown’s purse on a spook hunt, we’d have been put out on our heads, and rightly so.”

Meralda frowned. “Were you a part of this, Mage?” she asked.

“Reluctantly,” Fromarch growled. “I was to make sure our Eryan friend didn’t mistake flying squirrels for long-dead wizards.” Fromarch leaned forward, so that his short ring of thin white hair and pale cheekbones shone faintly in the dim, slanting rays of the setting sun streaming lazily through the window. “The ghost hunt, of course, was nonsense,” he began.

“Aye, but people were seeing lights in the Wizard’s Flat,” said Shingvere, quickly. “Reliable people. Guardsmen. Reporters. Even,” he said, after a pause and a grin, “a noted Tirlish Thaumaturge.”

Meralda shook her head to clear it. “You?” she asked Fromarch, incredulous. “You saw something?”

Fromarch snorted. “I saw lights in the Wizard’s Flat,” he said. “Once. Just lights, nothing more. Could have been kids with a lantern.”

Meralda thought about the long, long climb to the Wizard’s Flat, and the locked door at the top.

“These were clever, determined children,” said Shingvere. “Aye, one might even say brilliant, since the Tower, that evening, was locked, sealed with wards, and under heavy guard by no fewer than two dozen watchmen.” Shingvere assumed a pose of mock concentration. “In fact, I recall someone, I’m not sure who, making a grand proclamation early that very evening that no human being could possibly enter the Tower, that night. Who was that, I wonder?”

Fromarch emptied his bottle and put it down with a thump. “Lights at a window do not prove the existence of haunts,” he said. “Neither did you, I recall, despite a whole three months of fussing about with magnetometers and radial thaumeters and that bloody heavy wide-band scrying mirror,” he added. “My back still aches, some days, from carrying that thing up and down those stairs while you pretended to fiddle with the holdstones.”

Shingvere held up his hand. “Aye. You’re correct,” he said. “I found nothing.” The little wizard fixed his eyes on Meralda’s. “Perhaps, though, I just wasn’t looking with the right pair of eyes.”

“Bah,” snorted Fromarch. He waved a finger at the Eryan. “We both know that the lights, if they weren’t reflections off the window glass, were nothing but a residual discharge from some old structural spell.”

Shingvere shrugged. Meralda remembered the laughter on the stair and shivered and took another cold draught of Fromarch’s beer.

“Bah,” said Fromarch again. “So how are you going to go about moving the Tower shadow, Thaumaturge?” he asked.

Meralda wiped her lips. “Directed refraction,” she said. Shingvere slapped his knee.

“Told you!” he crowed. Fromarch scowled.

“He thought you’d hang those spark lights of yours from scaffolds and aim them at the ground,” said Shingvere. “I told him they weren’t bright enough, and if they were they’d be too hot.”

Meralda nodded. “I’m working on cooler, brighter lights,” she said. “But that could take months. Months I won’t get, with Yvin wasting my time at every turn.”

“Spoken like a mage, lass!” said Shingvere. The Eryan donned a wicked smile. “Now you see why I spend so much time away from Erya and that blatherskite queen. She’d have me whiling away the hours as a magic carpet cleaner, you mark my words.”

Fromarch snorted. “So instead you come to Tirlin and chase ghosts,” he said, lifting his bottle. “Another college education, gone sadly to waste.”

Shingvere grinned. “Will you be latching your refraction spell to the Tower itself?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Meralda. “The focal volume will be just below the ceiling of the Wizard’s Flat.” She tilted her head. “If, that is, your ghosts won’t mind.”

Shingvere nodded gravely. “Oh, I don’t think they will,” he said. “But I’d ask them nicely first, all the same. No harm in being polite, is there?”

“No harm in being a soft-headed old fool, either,” muttered Fromarch. He leaned back into the shadows. “But do have a care latching spells to the Tower,” he said. “We had a devil of a time, way back when.”

“Aye,” Shingvere said. “The structural spellworks left a residual charge. New spells tend to unlatch, after a short time. Even old skinny there had trouble working around it.”

Fromarch began to snore. Shingvere yawned and rose from his settee, padding quickly across the dimly lit room toward Meralda. “Well,” he said, smiling. “Just like old times. Seems we young folks need to put the oldsters to bed.”

Shingvere offered his hand, and Meralda took it, and rose. “It’s good to have you two back,” she said, in a whisper. “I’ve been worried about him, since he retired. He used to come around, but lately...”

“He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re still working in his shadow,” replied Shingvere. “He’s really not such a bad old fellow, once you get to know him. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a bit of company here, now and then.”

Meralda nodded. I’ll make the time, she vowed. Yvin can deal with it in any way he pleases.

Shingvere grinned. “That’s my ’prentice,” he said. Fromarch began to mumble restlessly.

“I’ll see you at court, I’m sure,” said Shingvere. “Tomorrow. But for now, we should all get some sleep. News of the Hang will break tomorrow, and that will make for a very long day of hand-wringing and useless conjecture.”

Meralda groaned softly and rose. Shingvere took her hand, and the pair tip-toed, giggling and stumbling, through Fromarch’s darkened sitting room.

Meralda gathered her light cloak from the rack on the wall and stepped outside. Angis and his coach sat in the dim red glow of a gas lamp. Angis’ cabman’s hat slumped over his eyes, and his chest rose and fell in perfect time with Fromarch’s snores.

Shingvere laughed. “Looks like we’re the only ones left awake,” he said.

“Good night,” said Meralda, struggling to regain her composure. “It’s been a lovely evening.” She shook her head to clear it, letting the cool night air wash over her face.

Shingvere bowed. “Aye, lass, that it has,” he said. “Would that I were thirty years younger.”

Meralda returned his bow. “You’ve been an old bachelor all your life,” she said. “But I love you anyway, you rascal of an Eryan wand-waver.”

Then she darted for the cab. Shingvere laughed and bowed and watched her go. He waved once to Angis as the cabman snapped his reins. Then he turned back to the door and Fromarch’s lightless sitting room.

Inside, Fromarch stirred. “She gone?” he asked.

“Gone,” said Shingvere, settling into a chair and fumbling in the dark for his pipe pouch.

Fromarch muttered a word, and a light blazed, slow and gentle, from a point below the center of the ceiling.

“Thank you,” said Shingvere, filling the bowl of a blackened, ancient Phendelit wood pipe. “May I?”

“Please do,” said Fromarch. A flame appeared at Shingvere’s fingertip, and he lit his pipe with it.

“She’s in for a bad summer,” said Shingvere, after a moment of sucking at the pipe stem. “The Hang. The Tower. The Vonats.”

Fromarch nodded. “Vonats are sending that new wizard of theirs. Humindorus Nam. Mean piece of work.”

“So I hear,” said Shingvere. “Think the stories are true?”

Fromarch snorted. “Every other word, if that,” he said. Then he frowned. “Still. Met him once, years ago, outside Volot. Don’t ask what I was doing there.”

“I won’t,” said Shingvere. “Mainly because I’ve known for years, but go ahead.”

“Met him then,” said Fromarch, squinting back as if across the years. “Called himself just Dorus, then. Mad, he was. Twisted up inside. Didn’t figure he’d last long enough to be a danger to anybody but himself.”

Shingvere pulled his pipe from between his lips. “He’s still a danger to himself, I’ll wager,” he said. “Pity is, he might be a danger to Mage Ovis, too. We can always hope a manure cart runs over him first, but I don’t think that’s likely.”

Fromarch grunted. “She’s smarter than both of us put together,” he said, gruffly. “She can take care of herself. And Nam too, if need be.”

Shingvere nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said. “After all, it’s bad form for one wizard to interfere in the matters of another. She’d be furious, and rightly so.”

“Simply isn’t done,” said Fromarch, shaking his finger. “Breech of professional etiquette. Runs counter to everything we taught her.”

Shingvere wedged his pipe in the corner of his mouth and settled deeper into his chair. “Glad that’s settled, then,” he said. “So, which lot do you want to interfere with? The Vonat or the Hang?”

Fromarch dimmed the foxfire, conjured up a fresh-rolled Alon cigar, and broke into a sudden, awful grin.

More Reviews for ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW

After a brief but intense flurry of pleading, bribery, and two instances of outright coercion, All the Paths of Shadow is getting more reviews!

"The best book I've ever read!  Okay, I said it, when do I get the ten bucks?"  -- Co-worker Larry, who I've never met and do not know.

"Woof woof arf, woof." -- My dog Max, who once ate the book's rough draft.

"You wrote a book?  You?" -- Mrs. Stevens, my eighth-grade English teacher, via Ouija Board

"We have a dress code here, sir."  -- Some French dude in a tux.

Reviews Are Pouring In!

All the Paths of Shadow hasn't even been up on Amazon for a day yet, but already reviews are pouring in!

Here are a few of the latest:

"I was dead and buried before I read Frank Tuttle's All the Paths of Shadow.  But look at me now.  I've risen from the grave in order to seek out and devour living human flesh!  Loved the world-building and the humor.  Brains!"
-- Former Chicago resident Milford M. Barrons.

"Mr. Tuttle, do you know how fast you were going when I pulled you over?"
-- Mississippi Highway Patrol Sergeant H. Adams, Badge Number 334.

"Book?  What book?  Look, I'm here to see if you're ready to order."
-- Bryan, my server at Chili's, address unknown.

"About 13,500,000 results (0.17 seconds)."
-- Google.

"Please stop talking about that blasted book."
-- Everyone in my office.

So far I'm off to a great start!

Surprise! All the Paths of Shadow sees an early release!

Remember when I said the official release date for All the Paths of Shadow was next Tuesday, the 20th?

Surprise!  Cool Well Press got the Kindle e-book up early -- so if you're a Kindler, you don't have to wait.

The print version and other e-book versions will be up later.  But seeing All the Paths of Shadow up on Amazon is a blast.

So apply thy fingers to the clicky thing and sally forth for Paths of Shadow.  Download a sample.  Click the like button on the page.  Leave a comment in the discussion area at the bottom of the page.

Or, better still, buy a copy!  I think you'll love the book.  Try it and see.

Win a FREE Kindle!

Picture me, if you will, chortling with unseemly glee and rubbing my palms together ala Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.

Why?

Because a little bird tells me that Cool Well Press is going to be giving away a free Kindle e-reader to celebrate their release of certain books, one of which was written by me.

I like giveaways.  They're a good way to promote anything, and giving away the best-selling e-reader in connection with a book release is both classy and guaranteed to generate some interest in the publisher.

Which of course trickles down to interest in me, or more specifically, in my book.

Thus the chortling and the hand-rubbing.  It's not greed, precisely.  It's just that I want this book to be read by as many people as possible.  I've always wanted to put out a full-blown YA novel, and this is it.

The Young Adult field is pretty crowded right now.  Standing out is going to be tough.  Especially since there's not a single vampire, sparkly or otherwise, in All the Paths of Shadow. No Elves, either.  And not once does anyone utter the words 'Guards!  Seize them!'

But I look at these omissions as good things.  I wrote the kind of book I liked to read as a younger less grey-haired Frank.  People will either loathe it or love it, though I hope for the latter.

I'll post more details about the Kindle giveaway as they become available, so stop back around for updates. The giveaway will start in about a week.  Free Kindle?  I did mention FREE KINDLE?

Right.  Back soon with specifics!

Eight Days and Counting

The countdown to the release of All the Paths of Shadow stands at a mere 8 days!  Which is plenty of time to stare longingly at the image above while mumbling "I must have it, yesssss, must have the Precious!"


But remember to mumble well out of earshot of employers, spouses, or mental health professionals.  At least until after you've made the order.  We wouldn't want anything to impede the gears of commerce, now would we?

Sorry.  Look, a new book release is both a happy time and a terrifying time.  Happy because all the work is done.  No more writing.  No more re-writing.  No more editing.  We've all agreed that this is the best we can make the book, and we're putting our names on the line with it.

Releases are terrifying because there's simply no way to predict how well the book is going to do.  It is within the realm of possibility that All the Paths of Shadow will one day be known as the first book in the series that knocked Harry Potter down to size.

It is also possible (cynics will quickly point out this is the more likely scenario) that my shiny new book will sell fourteen copies before dropping quietly into literary oblivion.

Realistically, that is the fate of most new books.  I wasn't aware that 95 percent of all the new titles printed sell less than 500 copies.  I envy myself that bit of ignorance.

Now, there is a small, eternally optimistic part of my mind that's running around in circles and throwing celebratory confetti eight days before the release because it is sure, absolutely certain, that Paths of Shadow will quickly become beloved by an entire generation of readers.  Both Cool Well Press and I will overnight be showered in riches and fame, insists this small part of me.  Harry who?, it hastens to add.

I do like the sound of that scenario.

The best way to handle such anxiety, of course, is to simply push all such thoughts aside and get back to work.  Some would say a writer is only as good as his or her last book.

I say a writer is only as good as his or her next book.  It doesn't matter what I wrote last year or even yesterday.  Tomorrow is all that really counts.

So on that note, it's back to work.  But start saving those pennies anyway!

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!