Twitter Versus Word

I've noticed an odd inverse relationship between my fiction writing output and my social media involvement.

When I'm really churning out fiction, my Tweets and blogs and FB updates dwindle to nothing, or nearly so. And when I'm writing at a crawl -- paragraphs a day, and not many of those -- I'm racking up tweets and FB posts and blog entries by the dozen.

Right now I'm on a writing roll, cranking out the last of the new Markhat novel in good solid bursts. I don't think I've been on Twitter since the middle of last week. I know I haven't blogged since last Sunday.

When I considered this just now, my first thought was 'Well, I was busy, with the real work.'

But was I?

I mean sure, I was busy. Busy writing, which is good, because if I don't get some new books out pretty quick people will forget who I am and I'll be starting from proverbial Square One when I do have a new title to sell.

But could it be I'm also harming myself as an author by neglecting the various social media?

I'm a bit envious of mid to late 20th century authors, who never had to ponder such questions. They wrote books. Maybe they did a few bookstore signings, and if they were lucky a few newspaper interviews.

Earnest Hemingway never had to look at a clock and decide whether to hit Twitter for an hour before supper or just keep on working on the new chapter.

No, I'm not comparing myself to Hemingway. For one thing, I don't have any cats. I also don't see any shotguns in my future. But my time to write is limited by unavoidable circumstance -- do I limit it even further just trying to maintain scant visibility in a sea of new titles and authors?

It's not that I don't enjoy hanging out on Twitter, understand. I do. I could do it all day, much in the same way I could play 'Skyrim' all day. But my internal auditor frowns at such pursuits because, he notes, "I'm not that young to begin with and I'm certainly not getting any younger."

So I feel guilty if I don't write. That's a good thing, one it's taken me years to construct.

Now I feel guilty, or at least a ghostly facsimile thereof, If I'm not blogging and tweeting. I'm not so sure as to the efficacy of this feeling. For all I know, it's my perpetually lazy subconscious trying to trick me into getting on Twitter and out of work. Because that's just the kind of sneaky crap my innermost self would love to pull.

So I've compromised. I'm blogging. Whining, really, but that counts.

BROWN RIVER QUEEN is very nearly done.  We're down to the climatic final scene, where everything comes to a rather violent head.  I think fans will find that Markhat outsmarts all his foes deftly this time around, with very little help from any supernatural allies.

See? Just writing the above, I had an idea concerning the final dust-up. It's just a tiny detail, but it will add something genuinely creepy to the business at hand. I'm off to add it.

See you all later!

BROWN RIVER QUEEN Update

The new Markhat novel is nearing completion!

How near?

I just finished an outline for the last three scenes. True, I don't normally do outlines, but there are a lot of things happening fast and the order and flow is crucial. I have to make sure Event A happens to Person B while Person C suffers Fate D as Band F plays Song H. And so on. One slip-up here means a lot of editing later, so I've got a timeline I'll be following from here on out.

I don't like putting a number or a date on these things, but we're looking at another 10K words or so. Even a writer as glacially slow as myself will be able to whip that out in a matter of a week or two.

So, for all you Markhat fans who've been waiting patiently to see what happens next, your wait is nearly over!

I will of course keep you posted, here and on Twitter (I'm @Frank_Tuttle there) and on Facebook (Frank Tuttle).

The climax to this one is a lot of fun. If by 'lot of fun' you include a few severed heads, the walking dead, and Mama Hog doing things with her cleaver that you won't see on The Food Network. But I think fans of the series will really enjoy this latest outing.

If you're not already a fan of the series, might I suggest trying it? Here are the Markhat books, in the order I suggest you read them in, with handy links.

Dead Man's Rain

The Mister Trophy

The Cadaver Client

Hold the Dark

The Banshee's Walk

The Broken Bell

If print books are what you want, Amazon has those too -- The Markhat Files contains all three of the first Markhat adventures (Dead Man's Rain, The Mister Trophy, and The Cadaver Client).  Hold the Dark and The Banshee's Walk are also available in print, and The Broken Bell hits print this September.

If epic YA fantasy with hints of steampunk and humor is more your taste, check out the first entry in my new YA series, All the Paths of Shadow.

I keep a better list of all my books here.

Okay, back to work for me!

Friday Roundup

This has been one heck of a busy week.

Fletcher, our shall we say mature dog who was recently diagnosed with canine diabetes, is now on a new form of insulin. The old insulin simply stopped being very effective, and after a valiant attempt to find a dosage that worked, our vet suggested we try another type of insulin altogether.

Let me pause to give a shout-out to Dr. Ware Sullivan, of Oxford, Mississippi. He cares what happens to Fletcher. He and his staff don't just do their jobs, and stop there. No. They're genuinely and sincerely committed to treating their patients with everything they've got, and if Mr. Fletcher could say thanks out loud, he would. But I can, so I do. Thank you.

There is no canine-derived insulin. We're using human insulin to treat Mr. Fletcher, which makes the possibility of rejection by his doggy physiology a good possibility. It's common in these cases to switch insulins at least once, and that's what we're doing.

Fletcher endures the blood tests and vet visits and the days spent away from home with an easy, good-natured grace. I don't know how, but I believe he knows we're all working hard to help him, and he appreciates it and shows his appreciation by being a trooper.  Is it obvious my wife and I love dogs? Well, we do.

And there's been the usual hectic business of life. Today culminated in a long drive in a small pickup with no air conditioning, one large dog, a pizza, motorcycle gear, two backpacks, and two adult humans. But it was fun. We even made it there and back with the pizza intact.

Best of all, I've gotten some writing done! I'm really pleased with Brown River Queen, and I hope fans will be, too. Markhat's world gets deeper and older and more interesting every time I write about it, and I think that's a good sign.  I'm thinking I'll be sticking THE END on this one in the matter of a couple of weeks, at most.

Of course, I'll still need to edit it and then submit it. I wish I could say my fame had reached such lofty heights that a sale was not just certain but inevitable, but that isn't exactly he truth. Heck, it isn't even in the same building with the truth.

But it's a good book. I think it will sell.

I'm also writing a short how-to book, which I intend to use as a text when I teach a summer fiction writing course to a group of talented teenagers this June. That's been fun too. I'm going to give it away for free on my website during the course, so if you're at all interested, stay tuned. I'll provide links shortly.

And of course there's the upcoming podcast.  I've decided to name it BRACE FOR IMPACT. Because that sounds evocative and adventurous, and honestly, what could be more adventurous than a 48 year old fantasy author sitting behind a microphone and blathering for 20 minutes?

So I've been busy. Busy in a good way.

It's Friday night, and it's nearly eight o-clock, and that means only two things -- SUPERNATURAL, and FRINGE. Yeah, I dig the Winchesters. And Agent Dunham. Hey, even writers need to relax, right?

See you folks soon!

Live From the Dark Side of the Moon

I've also been fascinated by radio.

And gadgets. Radio and gadgets. And loudspeakers.

So that's radio, gadgets, and loudspeakers. Along with other things. But, for the sake of brevity, we'll stop there.

There's always been something inherently magical in the idea that a hairy man can sit in a tiny room somewhere and speak into a metallic contrivance and have his voice heard, if not all around the world, for hundreds of miles away. I can remember, as a kid and even as a young adult, listening to a lot of late-night radio. I spent most of the 80s working the graveyard shift, and in those ancient days of yore it was the radio, not the net, that kept us supplied with music and entertainment throughout the night.

And the DJs were the masters of the air. Rock 103 in Memphis was the closest genuine rock radio around, and many a night we busted a proverbial gut listening to the decidedly offbeat musings of the DJs. Ah, youth.

But this is the space-age a go-go 21st century, baby, and radio is something old folks talk about (see above). No, this is the Age of the Net. No more fiddling with antenna or tuners. Well, okay, some of us still do that, but we do it quietly, and in the privacy of our homes. At night. Wearing masks.

But I digress.

I still believe there's something unique about hearing another human voice. Too, to be perfectly honest, I've been told that podcasting (the new equivalent of a radio show) is a good way to promote one's books.

I have books. I like money.

It seems a natural fit.

And so, I have decided to embark upon a journey of creation. In addition to this blog, I will also soon begin publishing a twice-a-month audio-only podcast. Why audio only, you ask?

Have you seen me lately? Sure, back in the day, I was always being mistaken for George Clooney, so much so, in fact, that I actually starred in the sequel to 'Ocean's Eleven.' But time has not been kind, so it's an audio only podcast.

Now, when I decide to undertake a task, I do it right. I research the topic. I analyze other works in the field. I hurl abuse upon street mimes. Granted, that doesn't really help the process, but I hate those guys.

Researching and preparing for a podcast has been great fun because, as I mentioned, I love gadgets. Especially audio gadgets. I've got a bunch of loudspeakers that I designed and built, and they sound great, if I may say so.  And when my research immediately indicated that I'd need to get a decent microphone, I was ecstatic.

Sure, I could get by with a twenty-dollar WalMart special. It would allow me to record my voice.

And it would also sound like, to be blunt, crap. As do the microphones built into pretty much any piece of consumer electronics (and yes, that includes Macs, sorry).

That led to a bit of a problem, since I lost most of my fortune in the Great Dirigible Crash of 1911.  Happily, my research turned up a pro-grade mic I could actually afford.

I give you the Blue Snowball microphone!

It lists for a hundred bucks, which is a steal for the quality and specs. I got mine from Tiger Direct for a mere $69 plus shipping.

My Snowball arrived today, and here she is, in all her chrome-plated metal glory!

Yeah, I know, but I'm my own photographer too.

Now, was the Blue worth the money? Let's just see.

Click on the thingy below to hear an audio sample of my voice recorded by the mic in my Dell netbook. I'll wait right here.

Frank speaking into the built-in microphone.

It's intelligible speech. It does sound distant, and lacks any kind of tonal character.

But now try listening to the Blue, and hear the difference...

Frank on the Blue Snowball

Now that is a microphone.

I did notice a slight pop when I pronounced the P (say that really fast ten times), so I rummaged through my junk drawer and came up with a pop filter, shown below.

Yes, it's a piece of scrap felt sandwiched between the metal grille elements of an old air filter, supported by a length of flexible aluminum wire, a hose clamp, and a heavy metal thing from who knows where. But it works, as you can hear below:

Pop Filter Test

See all the fun I've had? I got to play with a gadget, build something, record audio clips, move them from netbook to PC using the Cloud, and mess around with Audacity, the free sound editing software I'll be using.

Oh, and yes, I actually wrote, too. Brown River Queen is coming to a close, people! And it's been one heck of a ride. 

I'll leave you with one last image. I found this while clearing up free space on my website -- it's a genuine, unretouched screen shot from June of 2009. It doesn't need any explanation -- just look at the names and the rank numbers.

That was a very good day.

Top of the world, Ma!

Get you some!

Tax Tips for Writers, 156th Edition, With Illustrations Throughout

Certain eldritch signs portend various significant turnings of the year. Birds fly south. Or maybe north. Frankly I don't spend much time outdoors with a compass charting the movements of waterfowl.

But even a dedicated indoorsman such as myself can observe the anguished faces on the street, and hear the plaintive cries of agony borne on the night wind (and no, I don't know from which direction the bloody wind is blowing, let's leave that to the meteorologists, shall we?).

Even I can see the chalk outlines left by those poor unfortunates who at last cried 'No more, enough!' before shuffling off their mortal coils by way of extreme over-tanning or a full-on single-sitting read of Snooki's 'A Shore Thing.'

And even I know what these grim signs portend -- tax time.

That's right, gentle readers, if you are a citizen of the US, it's that time of year when Uncle Sam takes you fondly by your ankles and shakes you until every last cent you've seen in the last year falls out of your pockets, because let's face it, war ain't cheap.

Now, if you've made any money off your writing in the last year, I'm here to help. Because if there's anything the US government holds dear, it's the idea that every American is free to earn a profit by the sweat of his brow and the set of his jaw. Equally sacred to the American governing psyche is the ideal that they get a slice of that sweet free enterprise pie.

The first thing writers need to know about filing their writing income is this -- FILE IT. That story you sold to Ominous Bathroom Squeaks and Eldritch Attic Squeals Monthly for 15 bucks? That pair of flash-fiction entries you pawned off on Public Transit Funnies, a Bus Station Free Magazine for three bucks and a coupon for $2.00 off any foot-long club at Subway?

Maybe you're thinking 'Hey, why bother reporting that, nobody knows about those!'

And how wrong you are, Grasshopper.

They know. Maybe it's the Carnivore communication surveillance system. Maybe the CIA has an Obscure Small Press Reporting Division. Maybe that mean-eyed old lady down the street is on the phone with the IRS every day, after she goes through your mail and steams open all the envelopes -- it doesn't matter how, but believe me, they know.

So, the first thing?

Report it.

Now if you've made any serious coin you've been sent a 1099-MISC from the publisher(s). You should keep up with these things. I used to put them in a folder and them lose the folder and then move to Mississippi and assume a new identity as Frank Tuttle when I realized I'd lost them all, but then I got married and she keeps important papers in a brilliant thing called a drawer. I'll bet you have some of these drawers  in your place too. Open them up and put stuff in them, it's an amazing time-saver compared to identity theft.

At the end of the year, you take all these 1099 forms, wipe the tears from your face, and enter them in the boxes according to the helpful prompts on the TurboTax software. When the crying diminishes to a bearable level, proceed.

Next, let's consider deductions. The word deductions comes from the Latin dede, which means 'not for,' and uction, which means 'you.' In tax parlance, deductions are money amounts which everyone but you can subtract from the taxes they owe.

For instance, I write on a PC. I built this PC myself, from components I purchased separately, for the sole purpose of writing.  Now, if I were anyone else, I could deduct the total cost of the machine from my taxes owed, since it's a business expense -- but since I am demonstrably me, this deduction does not apply, and, notes TurboTax, 'ha ha ha.'

See how that works? It truly simplifies filing.

Let's look at some other deductions which you, as a writer, cannot claim:

•  Home Office Deductions. Oh, you have an office, in which you write? Well, let's have a look. It can't be attached to your house. It can't house a TV or other casual entertainment device. It can't possibly, under any circumstances, be even remotely suited for any purpose other than writing, and it can't be very good at that. So you have a detached office which contains nothing but a chair, a desk, and a PC running nothing but Word? But it has a roof?  'Ha ha ha,' intones TurboTax. 'Trying to pull a fast one, are you? DENIED.'
• Office Expense Deductions.  You're a writer, and even the IRS grudgingly concedes that the act of writing might in some way involves putting down words on some medium, be it electronic or paper. Okay, this looks promising. You bought a printer to print out manuscripts. You pay for internet service because 1950 was 73 years ago. These seem to be legitimate deductions, so let's investigate further BUZZ HA HA HA NOT SO FAST, TAXPAYER! Those deductions are only valid in years  where acceptable total solar eclipses occur in northern Peru (see Schedule 117863-E, 'Solar Interruptions, South American Totality Table 167-75E, lines 46 through 78), and guess what pal, this ain't it.
• Other Deductions. Mitt Romney has a 376 page embossed-leather-bound acid-free paper book with gold-gilt edges filled with 'Other Deductions.' Are you Mitt Romney? Didn't think so. Move along.

Sadly, that about covers it. You've toiled over every word, you've poured over ever sentence, you've labored long into that good night trying to illuminate a single tiny facet of the flawed jewel that is the human condition.

Or, in other words, you've earned slightly more than minimum wage. 

Bon appetite, my friends!

And for the love of all that is holy, don't miss the filing deadline. 

Mangled Monday Horoscopes

Curious as to what the stars have in store for you next week?


Me neither. Given the obvious ill-will the stars display towards all things Tuttle, I'd just as soon be kept in the dark until the last possible moment, i.e., until I see the muzzle flash. But if you are of a metaphysical bent, and if you do have excellent life insurance, read on.


Me, I'll be down in the bunker, adjusting my Kevlar vest and tightening my flak helmet.


ARIES (March 21-April 20)

Okay, so you don't manage to land the plane successfully. But, on the bright side, next Tuesday's fiery crash into the oil refinery will result in more stringent fire-suppression codes for future petrochemical facilities.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)

Seriously, no one has been killed by a falling piano since 1929. Until you step outside next Thursday.

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)

Yeah, you'd think X-ray machines had fuses, or some way to prevent accidental massive output surges. Maybe they will, after your estate gets done suing General Electric (Medical Division). 

LEO (July 23 - August 22)
All things considered, your brief outburst on Wednesday isn't the worst set of last words ever spoken, despite what the 52% of the commenters on YouTube say.

VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)

On the bright side, they'll never figure out how your frozen body wound up in the Atlanta Aquarium wearing nothing but Abraham Lincoln's famous stovepipe hat.

LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)

Before Monday, there will be no recorded instances of fatal parrot attacks on humans. Even the stars are curious about this one -- just what do you say to that bird, to make it so angry?

SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)
See, what happens Friday at the petting zoo is why you should never tempt grumpy Fate by asking the (usually) rhetorical question 'At least it can't get any worse, right?' 

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)

If it's any consolation, hardly anyone could improvise a working emergency breathing apparatus out of an ice machine and an office supply closet. At least you go down fighting.

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
Turns out they aren't kidding about that pufferfish eat-at-your-own-risk warning. 

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)
Even the coroner will be aghast -- all that blood on the ceiling, from an exercise bike accident?

PISCES (February 20 - March 20)
Look at it this way -- how many people can claim it took two Hearses six hours to convey their remains to the cemetery? At least the radiation levels allowed mourners to watch the burial from a safe distance. 

Frank's Fantastic Free Friday Fiction Free-for-all, With TANTRUM.

Today I'm embarking upon a grand experiment in greed.

Oops. Did I say greed? I meant publishing. Specifically, I've entered a title into Amazon's KDP Select program.

For you, that means Passing the Narrows is free. That's right. Gratis. No charge. You click, and it's yours, delivered via the magic of Amazon, elves, and unicorn snorts.

"But Frank," you opine. "What do you get out of this?"

I rub my furry paws together in an overt display of unseemly glee. Because, dear reader, what I get out of it is exposure. So don't fret, because that might interfere with your clicking. Wouldn't want that, heavens no.

The magic of KDP Select is that I might get a thousand -- nay, ten thousand -- downloads in the next two days. And if people enjoy this freebie, well, they might be willing to part with the modest cost of my other works.

There is a catch, of sorts. Passing the Narrows is only free today (starting midnight March 30) and tomorrow (March 31). After that it resumes its normal price of forty-eleven dozen hundred gazillion dollars.

Okay, so it's free, and there's a link right above and another one right here. But some of you haven't clicked the links!  Why?  Reasons include:

• You hate Frank, and are only here looking for incriminating blog posts with which to line the walls of your makeshift lair.
• You bought Passing the Narrows already and you're beginning to think the guy with the makeshift lair has the right idea.
• You are a Tibetan yak, and your attempt to Google 'hairball relief' was hampered by your hooves.
• You aren't sure if you want to read anything about steamboats or the Civil War.

Okay, fair enough. I can't help numbers one through three above, but maybe I can nudge you fours into springing for something free. I did mention it's free, didn't I? I did? Good.

Passing the Narrows is the tale of a stubborn Mississippi riverboat captain and his downtrodden crew of Civil War survivors. Which probably sounds all too familiar, but hang on, this American Civil War was fought with spells and magics along with cannon and cavalry. 

Which makes it a sort of alternate history Southern fantasy. A darkish one, at that.  

Here's a taste of the opening, just to whet your appetite:

PASSING THE NARROWS

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."

Read the rest here! For free!

MidSouthCon 30 Roundup

MidSouthCon 30 has come and gone, and I'm pleased to say I was there for it.

I'm not going to post each and every photo I took, because A) that's what Pinterest is for and B) you've probably seen more photos of Stormtroopers than you actually need to see in a two lifetimes already. But I will post a few notables.

On the left is Dr. Ethan Siegel, who is a real live theoretical astrophysicist and part-time Spartan warrior. His Significant Other is on the right. He was a Guest of Honor at the con, and I had the pleasure of talking with him about dark matter and dark energy, which is not at all an unusual dinner conversation at an SF/F convention, regardless of how the diners are dressed. That's one of the things that make cons so exciting. The most fascinating people show up!

Fans of Dr. Who will recognize this costume immediately. For everyone else, she's a Weeping Angel. They only move when you look away or blink, and they only move when they're about to do horrible, awful things to you.  It's fun, watching them sneak up behind people and just stand there.

Storm Troopers!  Look, I've talked to a lot of these guys, and they're unfailingly helpful and polite. I know, I know, during the week they work for the Empire, but at the Cons they are a force for good.  And they're always happy to pose, and point their blasters right at you, but in this case it's all in fun.  It is all in fun, right guys? Right?

This young woman was later seen using that rifle to keep the hordes of eager fan-boys at bay. 

The lone Ghostbuster I saw Saturday had carried an amazing proton pack. I'm fairly sure it actually worked. 

Gotta love articulated wings!

Oh. this isn't from the Con. This is me, any Monday morning...

I think she was looking for a contact lens.

Now, lest you, gentle reader, decide cons are all leather and steampunk outfits, let me talk about the panels.

Panels consist of a row of editors or authors or publicists or agents or any combination thereof facing a room of festively-dressed fans, writers, and other parties. The experts impart knowledge. People like me sit in the audience and hope to soak up that critical mass of information that will send us skyrocketing from obscurity and onto the Jimmy Fallon Show.

I managed to hit several panels, and had a blast at each. But if I had to pick one panel to call my most valuable, it would be the Marketing panel.

Pictured are AP Stephens, Stephen Zimmer, Janine Spendlove, Mike Preston, and Peggy DeKay. Now, maybe you're thinking "Frank, why would you be interested in Marketing? You're a writer!"

Well, gentle reader, if you're not Stephen King, and I do not appear to be, marketing is a genuine concern in the whiz-bang electrified interweb-activated publishing landscape of the future which is, incidentally, today. 

It's market or die, baby. According to my Amazon rankings, it's mostly die. But we small fry authors have to keep swimming, regardless.

I learned a few things at this panel. Things I'll be implementing shortly. Be on the alert for a weekly podcast, hosted by me and my impenetrable Southern accent. (Side note: Anyone who has a Snowball Blue USB mic they don't want, get in touch. I maka you a deal, no?)

I met some great people at the con. The good Dr. Siegel is both brilliant and a gentleman. Janine Spendlove is both a Marine C-130 pilot and the author of a darned good book (War of the Seasons, Book 1: The Human). And publishing expert Peggy DeKay said my accent shouldn't be an impediment to creating a podcast!

My Con experience was capped off when my book All the Paths of Shadow was named the runner-up to the 2012 Darrell Award for a YA novel!

So that's my MidSouthCon 30 roundup. I enjoyed seeing my Con pals, and making new ones, and joining in the madness that is fandom, just for a bit.

Note: see more pics at my Pinterest account, here.

Frank's Handy Waterproof Guide to Twitter

Oh yeah. I tweet. I have tweeps. I can hashtag and @FF and RT with the best of them, baby.

I'm referring of course to Twitter, where I can be found as @Frank_Tuttle.  I know, it's not the most imaginative Twitter handle going, but as a self-aggrandizing hog for attention I couldn't imagine using anything for my handle but my name. I was deeply saddened to learn I couldn't specify a 45-point bold font, written in letters of animated fire and accompanied by swelling orchestral theme music. I also want that in real life, if any generous multidimensional beings are listening, hint hint.

The people who make up Twitter make it fun. And because the Universe delights in malicious symmetries, the people who make up Twitter also ruin it, at least briefly, several times a day.

With that in mind, here are a few things you probably shouldn't do on Twitter, if your goal is to avoid be loathed and reviled:

1) For the hideous tentacled love of Cthulhu, please stop tweeting ads for your book every 11.72 seconds. Especially if it's the same ad. We do remember these things, you know.  And hey, I get it, I'm a writer too. I want my books to sell. But causing people to mutter SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP from a fetal position while they scramble to find the UNFOLLOW button isn't going to sell any books or win any friends.

2) Do. Not. Tweet. Drunk. It might seem hilarious at the time, but that's because you're drunk. Everything seems funny when you've slammed down 19 warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beers -- climbing around on the roof, driving around on the roof, asking the Highway Patrol from your smoking wreck if they've got a spare bottle opener. But none of it is funny the next day, or to the people reading your tweets and shaking their heads in mild disgust. 

3) Don't tweet angry. I watched a full-on meltdown recently, by a writer upset that her sales numbers didn't budge during a promotion. Um, no. Be upset if you must, but do it the way the rest of us writers do it, by slamming down 19 warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beers and then NOT tweeting about it. Don't go online and castigate your followers for not buying the book they probably already bought. That's worse than badgering, which is coincidentally as bad as bearing or beavering. Avoid any activity that can be roughly equated to an attack by an infuriated mammal.

4) Don't tweet a mess of hashtags and abbreviations such as "@FF #mystrangerash will see #runningopensore with AABG #myhalitosis LOL HA SQUEE!" because I'm not C3PO and even if I was I wouldn't bother to translate that mess. One hashtag, *maybe* two, per tweet. And don't expect everyone to know that ACIMPOL is short for "Aircraft Control Interface Media Protocol Online Links," which I just made up and am justifiably quite proud of. 

5) Do check your spelling. Especially if tweeting from a smartphone with autocorrect, because tweets like 'I am  licking Stephen King's new groin' tend to make you temporarily famous for all the wrong reasons.

Follow these five easy rules, and you'll be a better tweeter and an all-around stand-up man or woman.

And then follow me!  There's a link to follow me on Twitter to your right. Or look me up -- @Frank_Tuttle.

John Carter, Fletcher Update, and a Plea for Help!

Good morning, gentle reader!  Sorry for the week-long absence. But it's been a very busy week, filled with syringes and dosages and lack of sleep and of course Tuesday's invasion of the bee men. I hate missing 'Survivor' because I have to build a death ray with old stereo parts, but some days are just that way.

Dog Fletcher continues to do very well. We're still trying to get the insulin dosage right -- we've gone from the initial seven units to nine units, and we'll test him again Thursday to see if that's the right dosage at last.

I saw John Carter this weekend, and despite the lukewarm reviews and box office take I had a blast with it. they took the 1911 version of Mars and ran with it, sticking close to the spirit of the original stories, and while that makes no sense at all from a realistic point of view it made for a fun movie.  There's even a nod, intentional or not, to NCIS, when Tars Tarkus gives John Carter a perfect Gibbs head-thump after Carter makes a particularly bone-headed mistake.

So forget the critics and see John Carter. It's a lot of fun.

Now, finally, I need your help!  Please go to http://www.bookspotcentral.com/2012/03/12/6th-annual-book-tournament-round-1-malazan-empire-bracket/ and vote for my book, ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW.

Please?  You don't have to register or sign in. It doesn't grab your email. I'm up against a big title, and every vote counts, so please, if not for me, for Helium, and Dejah Thoris!

Thanks!

Frank's Handy Survival Guide for Tuesdays, Civil Unrest, or Zombies

Have you stuck your head out the door lately?

If so, you may have noticed a few things. Economic catastrophe. Political turmoil. Weather right out of a 'Mad Max' movie trailer. And that's just the scene in my guest bathroom. I hear it's actually worse outside.

We can no longer pretend that the whole leaning tower of Tinkertoys that is Western civilization  is going to avoid collapse much longer. Various people have numerous theories on precisely what will spark the final conflagration -- some say it will come in the form of a global depression, some say conflict in the Middle East will touch off  World War Three, some say aliens will arrive with an appetite for man-flesh and our sweet, sweet bone marrow.

Me?

I'm going with zombies. That's right, I say preparations are best made against a full-blown zombie apocalypse. The recent zombie movie and TV craze is actually a sign of an ancient racial memory stirring slowly awake, preparing us, in fact, for what is to come.

Face it, all that clear plastic sheeting and duct tape you bought after 9/11 isn't going to do you much good when the zombie horde shuffles to your door. The police? The military? Your Neighborhood Watch?

Do you even watch the movies? The police and the army are the first ones to go, and the few who do survive do so by using you, Joe Citizen, as cannon fodder. No, gentle reader, you are very much on your own -- and that's where I come in.

Stick with me, and together we will emerge from the smoking wasteland as victorious warriors. Well, maybe you will emerge as a victorious warrior. I'm more a skulking stay-behind-cover type. Which is why I'm alive and you were just bitten by a festering, green-skinned librarian.

That was your first mistake, being seen.  Learn from it.

Here are more tips:

GUNS: When you hear the howl of an undead mob for the first time, you'll probably think to yourself 'I wish I had a really big gun.'  But if you look closely at the shambling horde, you'll see that quite a few of them had guns, big ones even, and despite that they're now jonesing for some delicious fresh spleen.  Guns, my friend, aren't the answer, because here is the question -- "How can I shoot a thousand zombies in the head before they surround and overtake me?"

See? The answer isn't "Gun." The answer is this -- run like the devil at first sight of them.

In fact, I find this is a perfectly valid survival strategy right now. I saw my banker at lunch, and when he saw me, I had two choices -- barricade myself inside an abandoned farmhouse, or run, run away, as fast as I could.  In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have run into traffic, but I'm here, and the cast doesn't itch that much.

So remember, he who turns and runs away lives to run another day. He who stops to fire his gun will give the zombies bloody fun. It's a nursery rhyme for the post-necrotic wasteland!

FRIENDS: Do any of your friends live inside heavily-fortified compounds filled with military-grade weapons and trained soldiers?

I didn't think so.  Here's another question -- how many of your friends could you call, right now, knowing they'd drop whatever they were doing to help you administer an emergency enema to a rodeo bull?

Yeah. Okay. So, Hallmark cards aside, your friends are neither A) the 82nd Airborne nor B) Chuck Norris. So don't waste a lot of time sitting around expecting them to come and rescue you, because odds are they'll show up all right, shambling and drooling with the rest. So be prepared to be alone, just as you were in high school. You can always fill your bunker with store mannequins later, which will pass for chic after the fall of civilization anyway.

If you do join forces with other survivors, do so only based on how handy they are with a machete and how quickly they can pick a lock or hot-wire an Impala.  In fact, you should start collecting such associations right now, because Craigslist and Match Dot Com will be among the first websites to vanish, leaving you with little opportunity to quickly make new friends.  I'd suggest hanging out in biker bars as a good start. Protip: Never play Cindy Lauper songs on the jukebox. Bikers will cut you for that.

LEATHER PANTS: I know, I know, half the people in post-apocalypse movies run around in black leather. Take it from me, though, tight black leather pants are NOT the garment of choice for running and scavenging in the New Wastes. Cotton or denim is the way to go, because it breathes, and that's not only important but vital when baths are as far apart as Leap Years. Sure, the world may have ended, but nobody, not even the zombies, need the kind of funk constantly-worn leather britches exude.

SHELTER: First, do not attempt to establish a base in the mall. Mainly because it's cliche, and who wants to have their Cause of Death listed in the Akashic Records as 'Death by Cliche?' But also because it's stupid.

All that glass? All those doors? A nice big parking lot for the zombies to gather?

Ditto for hospitals and big-box bulk sales stores.

Instead, look for a pawn shop. See how the glass is armored? See how the doors are reinforced? If you're lucky, you'll find a place with roll-down steel shutters and iron bars on the doors.  If you're unlucky, the owner and his pals are already in there, and they just opened fire on you, because they didn't read my bit about guns.

Find one that's empty, though, have your ex-con pal (who is probably named Little Jimmy or Poptart or something equally humorous) pick the lock. Once inside, wait out the worst of the zombie uprising while working on your golf swing. Because that is the ultimate anti-zombie weapon -- a good solid driver with a big titanium head. Quiet, efficient, and it never needs reloading. And there isn't a pawn shop anywhere in the Universe without a set of clubs on display somewhere. You can find a battered set of mis-matched golf clubs in pawn shops on worlds that don't have golf, bipeds, air, or grass. And even then, the set is always overpriced.  It is one of the Great Mysteries of creation.

TRANSPORTATION: Your first instinct will probably be to snatch up that huge black Hummer just sitting there empty at the corner.

Don't do it, because if you do some other guy is going to find the Hummer sitting there empty where you left it as the zombies dragged you out of it.  It's bigger than a Prius, sure -- but when you may need to run down an entire gated community at once, you need one thing, and that is mass.

Instead, find yourself a garbage truck. Oh, wait, you're being picky?  You don't like the smell, Princess? Well then find a nice lime-green two-seater Fiat and have fun being party snacks.

Because a garbage truck has what you need, and has it in spades. Mass. Huge thick tires. Lots and lots of torque. A diesel engine. And even a good safe place to store supplies and even ferry your nefarious band of miscreants around, as long as you keep your hands off the COMPACT NOW lever.

Okay, since this is the apocalypse, go ahead and paint the thing up with teeth and flames and devil eyes.

Oh, and a garbage truck in full sail is one of the few things that will make the biker gangs think twice about relieving you of your supplies. In the eternal battle of Harley versus Garbage Truck, the latter always wins.

I drive a garbage truck now, just to be prepared.  Parallel parking is a chore, sure, but there's nothing quite like having a pair of dumpster-grabbing arms on the front of your enormous monster truck. Did you know a Prius weighs about the same as a fully-loaded dumpster? Neither did I, or that jerk who cut me off.

So let's recap for a moment. You aren't counting on guns to save you, you're wearing nice breathable cotton, you're living in a pawn shop, driving a garbage truck, and carrying a club. All your friends are short-tempered felons. If you think about it, it's just like living in Detroit, only without all the violent crime.

You're well on your way to living what's left of the American Dream. The only limits to your ambition are your pluck, your moxie, and of course the endless sea of shuffling corpses bent on stripping every last morsel of flesh from your still-twitching bones.  Which isn't drastically different from working in the hotel or entertainment industries, so buck up, little camper, and let's turn this smoldering wasteland into a land of opportunity!

Just keep that nine-iron handy, and your garbage truck, which you refer to as 'The Beast,' fueled and ready. Especially if you have to flee through Detroit. Man, even zombies avoid that place...

Doggie Update

Fletcher is home!  Home, and resting comfortably in his usual spot below the TV.

Max is happy to have his buddy back.

We gave him his first at-home insulin injection just a short time ago.  Karen did it, and did a great job!

Hopefully, we can all get back to normal around here now. I could certainly use some normalcy.

Thanks for all your emails and posts and words of concern. We really appreciate all of them!

Frank, Karen, Fletcher, Max, Lou Ann, Thor, Petey, Lamar, and Jake.

Close Calls and Old Dogs

It's been a worrisome week here at Casa Tuttle.

As many of you know, dogs outnumber humans here by a ratio of more than two to one. Mister Fletcher is our most senior dog, being somewhere around ten years old.

We got him from a shelter in Olive Branch, just south of Memphis, when his number was nearly up. I still don't know exactly how I knew Fletcher would be such a great dog. He's not a purebred anything. He's exactly the kind of dog that all too often goes unnoticed in a shelter -- big and brown with a black muzzle. Nothing cute of fuzzy about him.

But something about his big goofy mug in that tiny pic caught my eye.  Dog Max needed a buddy, since the other dogs were all so much older than he was. So we took Max up to meet Fletcher, to see if they'd hit it off or snarl at each other.

They bonded instantly.  We brought Fletcher home the next day, and he's been with us for nine years. He's Max's best friend and protector. Ours, too.

Fletcher is the house watchdog. He counts people in rooms. He patrols. He has excellent situational awareness, even though he's a bit past his prime.

Monday morning, what had been a bout of lethargy turned serious. He could barely walk. We could look in his eyes and see something was wrong, so to the vet he went.

You don't take a dog that old to the vet without a cold grip taking hold of your heart. Especially a dog that can no longer hold his head up. We feared the worst.

But Fletcher's weakness was discovered to be the result of diabetes. I didn't even know dogs got diabetes. But they do, and he did, and if we hadn't taken him to see Dr. Sullivan he wouldn't have made it.

He's a trooper. Two days of IV fluids and insulin injections have left him thinner and still weak, but this afternoon he walked and wagged his tail and licked out hands in greeting.  If his numbers stay stable throughout the night and day, we'll be bringing our man Fletcher home tomorrow afternoon.

Of course, he'll need twice-daily insulin injections, special food, and a strict diet and feeding regimen thereafter. But that's fine.

The thing about dogs is this.

They'd charge a herd of rhinos without hesitation to protect their people. They'll lay at your feet and snooze all day, if that's what you want, or they'll walk until their paws bleed. They'll stick with you for every moment of their lives, for better or for worse, and they'll do it all for nothing more than a pat on the head and an occasional 'good boy.'

Which is why I'm tempted to throat-punch people who hear about Fletcher and say something like 'I'd never go to all that trouble for a dog.'

Those people don't get it. Fletcher would walk through fire if he thought I was in trouble, or Karen. Maybe he's not such a whiz at math. Maybe he does not, and will never, wear pants.

But he's still an old and dear friend, who has literally spent his life at our side, never asking for a thing, always willing to give all.

So hurry up and get well, Fletch.  We miss you.

Good boy.

Care for a Quickie?

Gird thy loins, gentle reader, against this brief but patently self-serving blog post, in which I hawk Passing the Narrows.

If you're an Amazon Prime member (and if you bought a Fire in the last 30 days, you are), you can get Passing the Narrows for free, but only for the next 30 days.  Yes, I said free. Gratis. No charge.

I'm pricing Passing the Narrows at just 99 cents for anyone who isn't a Prime member but who might want to read it anyway.  Just click here to grab a copy for less than a buck.

What is Passing the Narrows about, you ask?

It's about the steamboat Yocona and her crew of defeated Confederates, who are forced to dare a haunted stretch of the Yazoo River on a dark and moonless night.  It's about loss and letting go, about triumph and redemption. It's about 5000 words, so you can read it in a single sitting.

Still not sure?

Here's the opening to Passing the Narrows:


      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."

If you want to keep reading, just go here.  It's a good story.  And free or 99 cents, you can't go wrong.

Enjoy!

Video Blogging: The Future is Now?

Everyone is doing it.

No, not metabolizing oxygen or that other thing (hoarding great hoops of Colby Jack cheese).  I speak of the newest, bestest, most wonderful-est way to blog -- the video blog.

Now, once upon a time, making a video blog would be the stuff of nightmares. And even if you managed it, you'd just enrage your viewers, who were stuck with AOL dial-up and leg-warmers because I am freaking old.


But hey, in these whiz-bang hi-speed wireless broadband satellite wonder days, making a video blog (called a 'wentzencrapzenjammerzenhooplaflangbangbangduck' by the kids) is child's play.  Heck, it's so easy even I can do it.

My question, though is this -- should I?

And my initial gut reaction is thus -- NO.

Why no?

Look.  I'm pretty good with words.  People have even been known to pay for them.  That's because I can type them out, letter by letter and space by space, and no one sees them until I am bloody well ready for them to be seen. That might mean hours or days or even weeks of fiddling and re-writing and staring and sighing. But no one sees that part.

This allows me to create the illusion that I'm good with words.  Anyone can appear to be good with anything if you've got all the time in the world to work unseen on the presentation, right?

Putting my big fat head on video, though, that's something else entirely.

For one thing, there's my accent.  Now, I know everyone out there believes I speak in a James Bondish brogue, but I was born and some say raised in Mississippi.  I have an accent so thick it can, in a pinch, be used as a blunt instrument suitable for opening stuck doors or loosening frozen bolts.

Take the sentence "I'm going to the store for some milk," for instance.

You read that, quite correctly, as I'm going to the store for some milk.


But if I were to read that harmless little sentence aloud, it would sound like this:

Ahm goin' tu thuh stor fer sum beer.   Editor's Note:  There is no word for 'milk' in the dialect I speak.  

That's how I sound.  I can minimize my accent with conscious effort, but I cannot eradicate it entirely.

The Southern accent bit works pretty well if you're William Faulkner and you're writing about the American South.  People love it.  It's also a good mix with crime fiction, unless your books are set in New York (Nuhe Yoke).

But I write fantasy.  Some of it traditional, some of it YA, some of it hard-boiled detective stuff.  But it's all fantasy, and I'm just not sure people are going to find my voice compatible with the genre.  I don't want to present anything that will jar you, the reading public, out of the comfy little worlds I try to create in my books.

Which might well be a stupid thing on my part to even worry about.  It's the books that people like, right?  I'm not really a part of the picture.  What does it matter, who I am?  People read the words in their own voices, imagine things how they want, and that's how it ought to be.

But still.  I'm leery of the whole video blog concept.  So, if I do post a video blog one day, and I appear on your monitor as a square-jawed fit young man with a newscaster's generic Midwest accent, you'll know I've hired an actor.

Now I'm off to find some supper.  Good evening, all!

(Na-ow ahm awff ta fine-duh sum chitlins. Ya'll hav yorselves ah gud un!)

Cheap Date

No one needs to remind me that times are tough, and 'extra cash' is quickly gaining the same mythic status shared by Bigfoot and Nessie.  In fact, the last time I saw a hundred dollar bill, it was blurry, poorly lighted, and being photographed wandering in a thick alpine forest.

So, in the interest of offering you, Gentle Reader, something for very nearly nothing, I'm going to list some very cheap books below. All written by me, naturally, and they can be yours for about a buck. Kindle, iPad, Nook -- name your poison.

I'm not just shoving old trunk stories your way, either.  Well, okay, that's exactly what I'm doing, but these are all anthologies of short stories that were published back in the 90s, when I was just beginning my rise to the lofty position of fame and vast wealth I now enjoy (that's industrial-grade snark, by the way).  These are stories editors deemed worthy of publication, and paid for, and printed. I'm offering them now because the rights have reverted back to me, and I hope by selling them on the cheap I might snag a few more fans. Hey, I'm nothing if not honest. But these aren't rejects that never quite found a home!

I'm proud of all these stories.

WISTRIL COMPLEAT

First of all, let me introduce you to Wistril, the White Chair wizard, and his sharp-tongued apprentice Kern. I wrote a trio of Wistril stories, back in the day, and they've been popular with readers ever since.

The stories in the anthology Wistril Compleat are my homage to the traditional high fantasy that I devoured as a kid. I added my own twist to the genre, though, by making Wistril a cranky, reclusive gourmand who wants nothing to do with adventure or power or politics. What Wistril wants is four meals a day, a steady supply of beer, and lots of peace and quiet.

As you can imagine, he gets little to none of the latter.  Complicating matters further is his status as a White Chair wizard. White Chairs refuse to use any offensive magics whatsoever, which leaves Wistril a staunch pacifist in a world filled with swords and hostile magics. Luckily, Wistril's wits are as sharp as any blade.

But what sets the Wistril stories apart is the friendship between grumpy Wistril and snarky Kern. That's always been my favorite aspect of the stories, too.

You can get all three Wistril stories in Wistril Compleat for only 99 cents.

Wistril Compleat at Amazon for your Kindle

Wistril Compleat at Barnes & Noble for your Nook


MALLARA AND BURN

Wistril isn't the only wizard I've written about, either.  Meet Mallara, my first female protagonist, who appeared in five short stories published back in the nineties.  Mallara isn't a moody recluse who hides away in a mountain keep, though.

Instead, Mallara is a Royal Sorceress who patrols a regular beat. It's up to her, and her invisible assistant Burn, to keep the magical peace in the Five Valleys region of the Kingdom.  And while the Five Valleys appear to be nothing more than a string of sleepy little hamlets at first glance, Mallara keeps busy. Oh yes she does.

Whereas Wistril and Kern are fast friends, Mallara and Burn are co-workers, and not even born into the same species. Burn is a Shimmer, which means his 'body' is composed entirely of microscopic convection currents powered by tiny magical heat sources.  As a magical being, Burn can do no magic himself, lest he simply vanish in a puff of brief but intense heat.  Nevertheless, he and Mallara find themselves coming face to face with a variety of threats, and again, in the end it's their wits that are tested the most.

Again, you can get all five Mallara and Burn stories for the bargain-basement price of 99 cents.  How do I do it?

Volume!

Mallara and Burn: On the Road from Amazon for your Kindle

Mallara and Burn On the Road from Barnes & Noble for your Nook



PASSING THE NARROWS


Passing the Narrows is a single short story, so you may be wondering 'Hey Frank, why would you even put a single short story out there by itself and then charge a buck for it? Who do you think you are, Stephen King?'

Fair question.  Passing the Narrows appeared in Weird Tales magazine, though.  The Weird Tales magazine, in which the works of Stephen King have also appeared.  And I didn't just appear in Weird Tales -- the story was voted best in that issue by readers.  So yes, I think 99 cents is perfectly fair, because Passing the Narrows is a great story.

Here's the Amazon blurb, so you know what the tale is about:


Passing the Narrows' is the tale of a haunted American South, an ancient evil, and a defeated yet defiant riverboat crew. The stern-wheeler Yocona has been ordered by a Federal sorceress to make a 
frantic run to Vicksburg via the Yazoo River, and that means passing the Narrows on a moonless night, a passage every riverboat master knows is suicide...

Passing the Narrows is, quite simply, one of the best things I've ever written.

Passing the Narrows from Amazon for your Kindle

ANTHOLOGY 1: THE FAR CORNERS

"Keeping the Peace" -- The Troll War is over, save for a lone sorceress and the renegade general she's spent years tracking down. But the general holds a secret...

"The Harper at Sea" -- Jere the Harper, afloat on a raft, in the midst of the Great White Sea. His only hope is rescue -- but will the merfolk be his undoing?

"Waking the Master" -- The old wizard's house is clever, hard-working, and eager to please. So when the Master oversleeps, the House decides to take charge.

"The Truth About Arphon and the Apple Farmer's Daughter" -- Jere the Harper once again finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Can he sing his way out of trouble, or has the harper sung his last?

"One Such Shore" -- Silicy takes to the Sea to pursue her dreams. But the Sea is a perilous place, and the storms Silicy faces may force her to seek a new shore.

"Tinker Bell, Cannon Dale, and the All Wheeling Nick of Time"-- Elves. Bicycles. Shotguns. Whiskey. Just another day for Tir Na Nog's foremost bicycle repairman -- but a night is falling that will change him
forever.

Anthology 1 The Far Corners for your Amazon Kindle

Anthology 1 from Barnes & Noble for your Nook



THE CADAVER CLIENT


And now you're in for a treat.  Okay, we've left the realm of the 99 cent ebook, that's true. But we've entered Markhat country, and since my Markhat the finder series is six books strong and growing, I'm happy we've arrived.

And so, for anyone out there who hasn't had the pleasure of joining Markhat as he walks the mean streets of Rannit, I give you The Cadaver Client. We're talking a couple of bucks and change, which I consider a more than fair price for what you'll get in return.



Humans, Trolls and even the halfdead have all passed through Markhat’s door—more than once—seeking his services as a finder of missing persons and lost loves. This is a first, though. This time, his client is a dead man. At least that’s what Granny Knot claims. But as long as the coin is real, Markhat has no trouble working for a guilt-ridden ghost.

Trouble is exactly what he finds, and soon he suspects his client, ghost or not, has darker motives for finding his estranged wife than the reconciliation he claims. Left with a cadaver for a client, a spook doctor for a partner, and Mama Hog as advisor on all things spiritual, Markhat must unravel a dark mystery ten years old, and do it before another grave is filled. Maybe his own.

Warning: This work of fiction involves the occult, several rather questionable uses of stuffed birds, the release of sarcasm inside a cemetery and numerous disparaging portrayals of wood elves.

The Cadaver Client from Amazon for your Kindle

The Cadaver Client from Barnes & Noble for your Nook

So there. You could buy -- heck, you should buy -- everything I've listed for around seven measly, no-good dollars.  How's that for a bargain?

And those aren't even all of my books!  There's more Markhat, there's a brand new YA fantasy called All the Paths of Shadow -- visit my webpage at http://www.franktuttle.com to see it all in glorious hi-def color!

Tragic Thursday Horoscopes, Blood Loss Edition

Be warned -- the heavens are especially surly today! Even the mainstream scientists at Pasadena's JPL Planetary Science Division agree that Mars, which usually displays all the geological activity of a bowl of ice cream, is "in a floor-banging wall-chewing four alarm snit."  


My advice to most of you would be to stay not in the bed but under it. Except in the case of Taurus, the bull. You Taurans might as well crash-land fuel planes into Mexican fireworks factories because baby, the stars have got it in for you...


ARIES (March 21-April 20)
Your love life will see big changes next Tuesday, which is also the day you are introduced to the harsh reality of a federal Supermax prison.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)

Your Thursday really isn't that complicated, if you break it down step by step. Cab veers off street. Scaffold collapses. Gas main ruptures. Explosion hurls manhole cover. Magician asks for volunteers. I'm sure you can figure out the rest.

GEMINI (May 21 - June 20)

Your generous and compassionate nature is the theme for your wake next Monday, though several speakers allude to the previously docile nature of Korna the killer whale, and speculate on its sudden unstoppable  outpouring of rage.

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)

You've heard about airplanes making forced landings on busy streets, but until the nose landing gear crashes through your windshield next Tuesday, you always thought the stories the stuff of urban myths.

LEO (July 23 - August 22)
Well, now you know exactly how long it takes to fill a subway car with water.

VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)

Sadly, you'll realize too late that you truly can't pick the serial killer out of the crowd based on his looks.

LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)
What's most surprising about your case, says your HazMat suited doctor from behind the protective shatterproof glass wall, is how how aggressive this strain of the Plague has become.

SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)
Bear traps? Who leaves bear traps lying around? You have every right to scream.

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)

Your inadvertent foray into the illegal human organ trade is lucrative, yes, but sends you scrambling to the internet to determine if one can survive with half a liver, one kidney, no spleen, and only 14 feet of small intestine.

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
The Bomb Squad transports all their confiscated explosives out to the desert once a year, in an armored truck you won't quite see until it's far, far too late.

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)
Turns out there are good reasons you've always been afraid of clowns, heights, and chainsaws, and they all make terrible sense next Friday.

PISCES (February 20 - March 20)
The chalk outline drawn around your body will briefly become a celebrated internet meme.

The Zombies Got One Right

An unholy combination of cough drops, cough medicine, Vicks Night-time Flu Relief, and a pinch of mummy dust sufficed to ease the infernal sneezing from yesterday.

It also caused me to temporarily lose about 150 IQ points.  At least I hope this is a temporary loss. True, I don't use my brain very often, but it's nice to know it's there, should I be confronted with algebra or a life or death game of Pictionary.   

I feel obliged to give a bit of praise to the writers of last night's episode of The Walking Dead. One scene in particular stands out to me as a writer, and I'll tell you why.

Without giving too much away, Rick, Glen, and a grieving Herschel wind up in an empty bar in the walker-infested town they normally avoid.  To say they've had a bad day is something of an understatement.

In walk two strangers. Living strangers, not walkers.

Both groups are wary, sizing each other up. We get a sense that the two newcomers are up to no good.  Rick refuses to tell them where the farm is, or how many people are there.

The pair insists in asking.  Their manner is almost jovial -- but sinister.

Now, as a writer, I was thinking this -- how could let my readers know just how depraved and vicious these newcomers are?  How can I communicate to the readers how much danger they present to the characters we've come to know and love?

I could have the pair brag about their murderous exploits, I suppose.  Or have them make all manner of brutal and terrifying threats.  I've seen that done, time and time again, in movies and books.

But it would have been all talk.  Scary, maybe, but just some guy talking, all the same.

The show took a much more direct approach.  In the middle of the terse exchanges of dialog, one of the newcomers simply stands up and proceeds to urinate right there in the floor.  He never seeks cover.  He doesn't turn away.  He doesn't even stop talking.

He just relieves himself right there, as though doing so is the most agreeable and natural thing in the world.

That single act told us, the audience, everything we needed to know about these two strangers.  Told us that they were so far gone beyond the bounds of normal society that they had no limits.  These were men for whom any act, no matter how unspeakable or vile, was just another part of just another day.

And that makes what happened next not just plausible but inevitable.

So I tip my hat to a TV show, and that doesn't happen very often.  

And now, since I'm still loopy, I'm going to post another excerpt from a book. This one is from The Banshee's Walk, one of the Markhat books.  Enjoy!

From THE BANSHEE'S WALK:

But Gertriss wasn’t listening to me or looking at me anymore. “What’s that?” she asked, taking a step off the trail toward a big swaying pine tree.

I followed her eyes.

The pine had sprouted feathers. Black feathers, crow’s feathers, three of them arranged in a neat triangle right about eye level.

Gertriss touched the ends of them just as something streaked past her shoulder, close enough to ruffle a few strands of her hair.

I was maybe three long strides away. She saw me coming and put up her hands and that’s all she had time to do before I hit her midways and took her down. We rolled, and she snarled and clawed. Despite my weight and experience the only way I got her to be still was by pinning her shoulders and head with my rucksack.

“That was a crossbow bolt,” I said. “Shut up and be still.”

She growled something that didn’t sound much like assent but at least she quit trying to knee me in the groin.

I rolled off her, kept low and kept my rucksack in front of me, and peeped around the big old pine long enough to scan the woods before I pulled my fool head back. I’d seen nothing but trees and scrub, heard nothing but wind and the far-off lowing of cattle, but I knew at least one crossbow-wielding Markhat-hater was lurking somewhere near.

Gertriss scooted closer, biting her lip. I felt blood running down my face, shrugged. “Hush,” I said. “You didn’t know.”

“How many?” she whispered.

“I figure two,” I whispered back. One to reload. One to fire. If they were smart they had at least two crossbows, probably sturdy, quiet army-surplus Stissons.

“What do we do now?” asked Gertriss. She was eyeing my rucksack. It dawned on me that they’d wanted her dead first so she wouldn’t scream when I went down.

I shook my head. “Crossbows trump swords,” I said. “So we wait.”

Gertriss frowned. “Wait for what?”

I heard a tromping in the woods. They were on the move. Hoping to flush us out, flank us, just walk up and bury a pair of black-bodied oak bolts right in our chests.

“Keep your head down low,” I said. “Sidestep every third step. Move fast, be quiet, and don’t stop, not for anything.”

Gertriss went wide-eyed. “But—”

“Just do it.” I fumbled in my rucksack, found Toadsticker and yanked it out in a shower of fresh socks and at least one clean pair of underpants.

I stood, pulled Gertriss to her feet and gave her a shove.

Then I took a deep breath and stepped out of cover.

A couple of things happened then, more or less at the same time. First, a muddy, wild-eyed bull calf came trotting out of the trees on the other side of the old road and sauntered right toward me, bound, I suppose, for anywhere but the cattle-paths and the stink of the slaughterhouses and the city.

Next, from the ruined road that lead south toward Wardmoor, a pair of skinny, cloak-clad teenagers trotted up, jaws agape, their pimpled expressions those of confusion giving quickly way to fear.

Finally, and much to my relief, dogs started barking. Out of sight, but close and loud and getting closer and louder. I knew the Watch uses dogs outside the old walls, and I knew my crossbow-fancier knew that too.

The kids stopped, eyed my sword warily. The bull calf snorted at me and without slowing, ambled past, passing so close I could have patted his muddy head had I been so inclined. I suppose bleeding man, indifferent cow and upraised sword made quite a scene, because the youths exchanged looks and took a step back before speaking.

Neither held a crossbow. Neither would have known what to do with a crossbow had they held it.

“We’re looking for a Mr. Markhat,” said the taller of the two. He had long greasy hair and his boots didn’t match. “We’re supposed to meet him and take him to Wardmoor.”

“We don’t have any money,” said the other kid, quickly. “And we didn’t see nothing, either.”

I listened. Wind and trees and barking dogs. No telltale whisking of bolts through pine needles, no clunk and throw of a Stisson. But I did hear the rattle of a wagon, just around the bend, and a man urging on a horse and another man yelling something as he laughed.

“Gertriss,” I said.

“I’m here,” she replied. I didn’t think she’d taken more than four steps despite my shove and my warning. She had a big stick in one hand and what appeared to be one of Mama’s well-worn kitchen knives in the other.

“Come on out,” I said. “Let’s get moving. It’s bad business to keep the client waiting.”

“So you’re Mr. Markhat?” asked the tall kid. He didn’t try to hide a frown. “We made it over the old Bar bridge after all, got further than we thought. What happened to you?”

Gertriss stepped out into the road, her hands suddenly empty, pine needles in her hair, dirt on both the knees of her good new britches.

“Nothing,” I said. A fat drop of blood formed at the tip of my nose, and I wondered just how deep and long my new scratches were. “The cow made lewd remarks about my apprentice. We had to have words. How far to House Werewilk from here?”

The wagon rolled into view. Two men rode the wagon, one driving, one stretched out in the back with his hat covering his face. By now I was sure that my new friend with the crossbow and the grudge was halfway to the cattle-road if not already across it. Three barking jumping mutt-dogs followed, nipping at the wagon wheels and yelping at each other and even though they were not and would never be huge somber-eyed Watch dogs, I could have hugged them all.

“Not far,” said the greasy-haired kid, who was already eyeing Gertriss with the kind of leer she’d teach him to regret if she caught him in reach of those finely sharpened claws of hers. “You and the lady can ride.”

I hefted my rucksack, and only then did I discover the crossbow bolt lodged deep within it. I’d later find it had penetrated two boot soles and a book before stopping, as well as my best white shirt and a wool sock embroidered by Darla with my initials.

The kid saw and went pale. I shrugged. Let them think I spend every day casually picking crossbow bolts out of everything from my laundry to my oatmeal. If I needed to shake in fear, I’d do so later, in the privacy of my own locked room.

Gertriss came to stand close to me and wiped pine needles and loam off her knees. “They’re gone?” she whispered.

I nodded. “For now.”

I could tell by her look she was having second, third, and possibly fourth thoughts about life as a highly paid finder. But in the end, she picked up her bag and made for the wagon, giving the leering kid a good hard country glare as she marched.

I followed, and we got ponies and dogs and wagons turned around then headed down the ruined road toward the Banshee’s Walk.

Sneezing My Head Off

Here's my life at the moment:

Type type sneeze type sneeze type type sneeze sneeze type.  Glare at empty antihistamine package in disgust.

Type sneeze type sneeze. Repeat.

These are the kind of days that truly infuriate me. I had a very rare block of time. This afternoon should have been productive. Instead, after four uninterrupted hours at the keyboard, I'm left with the kind of red nose one normally associates with circus clowns and a page and a half of lackluster prose.

In all likelihood, I'll be lucky to salvage two paragraphs from today's miserable writing session.  Maybe less.  In retrospect, I probably should have just taken a nap.

Sigh. I was looking forward to writing this part of Brown River Queen, too.  Markhat and crew have just boarded the Queen, and are seeing her interior for the first time.  She's quite a boat -- four hundred feet long and a hundred feet wide, every inch of her devoted to gambling, boozing, and comfort.

I'm basing her on the real gambling boats that plied the Mississippi in the 1800s. My research into steamboats was fascinating; I had no idea such large, lavish craft existed. The steam engines themselves were marvels. Deadly dangerous marvels, sure, but marvels nonetheless. Our forebears not only laughed at danger, but spent a lot of time giving it face-slaps and yanking its nose, ala The Three Stooges.  When those boilers blew, they made impressive holes in the landscape.

But never fear, Markhat fans -- I'll hopefully wake up tomorrow sneeze-free and ready to work.

Until then, since I'm incapable of extended coherent original thought, here's a brief excerpt from the work in progress, Brown River Queen:

“I’m here to hire the famous Captain Markhat on behalf of House Avalante.”

            “Didn’t you read the placard?  I’m a humble finder, not a Captain.  My marching days are done.  I’ve taken up pacifism and a strict philosophy of passive non-violence.”

            “What’s your philosophy on five hundred crowns, paid in gold, for taking a relaxing dinner cruise down the Brown River to Bel Loit and back?  With meals, booze, and as many of these cigars as you can carry thrown in for free?”

            I blew out a ragged column of grey-brown smoke.

            “I’m flexible on such matters.   But I’m troubled by the offer of five hundred crowns.”

            “Make it six hundred, then.”

            “I will.  If I decide to take it at all.  Because that’s a lot of gold, Mr. Prestley.  Even Avalante doesn’t just hand the stuff out to see my winning smile.  What exactly is worth seven hundred crowns to House Avalante?”

            Evis winced.  “You are, believe it or not.  Look.  This isn’t just any old party barge outing.  The Brown River Queen is a palace with a hull.  The guest list reads like Yule at the High House.  Ministers.  Lords.  Ladies.  Opera stars.  Generals.  ”

            “And?  You said it was pleasure cruise.  We won the war and didn’t lose so much as a potato wagon.  Handshakes and promotions all around.  Why do you need me, for eight hundred crowns?”

            Evis lifted his hands in surrender.

            “Because the Regent himself is coming along for the ride,” he said, in a whisper.  “Yes.  You heard me.  The Regent.  For every ten who love him there are a thousand who want to scoop out his eyes and boil them and feed them to him.”

            “On your boat.”

            “On our boat.  This is it, Markhat.  It’s the culmination of thirty years of negotiations and diplomacy and bribery.  House Avalante is a single step away from taking its place at the right hand of the most powerful man in the world.  He’ll have his bodyguards.  He’ll have his staff.  He’ll have his spies and his informants and his eyes and his ears, and that’s just fine with us.  But Markhat, we want the man kept safe.  We want trouble kept off the Queen.  We want a nice quiet cruise from here to Bel Loit and back, and the House figures if anyone can spot trouble coming we don't see it’s you.”

            “When you look at things that way, nine hundred crowns is really quite a bargain.”

            “Nine hundred crowns it is.”  Evis blew another smoke ring and then sailed a second one through it.  “And one more thing.  Bring the missus.  She eats, drinks, stays for free, courtesy of Avalante.  Is that a deal?”

            “An even thousand crowns for watching rich folks drink.  I think you just bought yourself a finder, Mr. Prestley.”

Terrible Tuesday Horoscopes

Several of you emailed to let me know I've missed months of Terrible Tuesday horoscopes.  You're right, I did miss posting them -- but only because the stars themselves forbade it.  Something about Jupiter being in a snit because Mars spent the night at the House of Leo and later tried to claim he couldn't call because there wasn't any cell service out past the asteroid belt.  Suffice it to say that many celestial panties were in cosmic bunches, okay?

But fear not, truth seekers, because I'm back on schedule this week!  So look below and learn your fate...

ARIES (March 21-April 20)

Try to look on the bright side -- your demise next Tuesday will help others take those 'Maximum Occupancy' signs in elevators a lot more seriously.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)

Neither the police nor the zookeepers will ever learn exactly how the gorillas armed themselves with baseball bats or managed to hide quietly in your closet.

GEMINI (May 21 - June 20)

There's no use trying to outrun your fate, especially when your fate is hopped up on meth and driving a flaming gasoline truck.  

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)

The stars aren't sure why that enraged buffalo singled you out, either. 

LEO (July 23 - August 22)
Event after the events of next Thursday, the odds of anyone being besides you actually being struck by satellite debris during a gas leak explosion in a fireworks factory remain microscopically small.

VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)

Well, honestly, who knew Jason Voorhees was both real and hiding in your back seat with a machete? 

LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)

If it's any consolation, the flamethrower manufacturer is going to feel just terrible about your headline-grabbing misadventure next Monday.

SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)
See, what happens Friday at the shark exhibit is why you should never tempt a grumpy Fate by asking the (usually) rhetorical question 'At least it can't get any worse, right?' 

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)

Even if your attacker is just a crazy guy in a Yeti suit, the homicide detectives will all agree those fake claws left quite a convincing mess behind.

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
Yes, fake novelty grenades do look just like the real thing. And no, the novelty company's lawyers aren't going to be very sympathetic at all.

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)
Cheer up! Accusations of serial necrophilia aside, not many people can say they've lasted as the top headline on all three major media outlets for three consecutive days. 

PISCES (February 20 - March 20)
Well, you'll give it a valiant try, but face it -- hanging onto the wing at that altitude just isn't physically possible.