In the Dark Mind of B.R. Stateham

The Book Reviewer Today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagination

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

Imagination.

The 'What If Factor . . .'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagination.

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

Eh, what the hell.

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

Okay. What's next?

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

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

Eh, what the hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm . . . .

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

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

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

I've said fairwell to Trestle Press

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

It's done.

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

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

And admit that I was wrong and they were right.

That proof came to me today.

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

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

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

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

No . . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Defense of Trestle Press

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

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

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

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

However . . .

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

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

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

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

Not one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Turner Hahn/Frank Morales Cases at OneTrueMedia.com

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

Book trailer for Eleven From The South Side.

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

Lamenting Souls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you do.

Lamenting Souls

Evil burns in colors sullen, Pilgrim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roland of the High Crags: Evil Arises

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please help us!

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

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

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

it! This we promise!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghosts, Pilgrim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helshvingar.

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

Helshvingar.

The Killer of All Evil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

　

Blogging with Joshua J. Mark

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

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

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

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Is A Fair Price

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low earth orbit will be just fine.

An Experiment of Mine

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

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

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

Enjoy.

I'll Take Care Of It

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

Suddenly demanding immediate attention.

Insisting.

“Yes,”

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

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

“Stop who?”

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

“Where?”

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

Click. The phone went dead.

The night.

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

Fate, brother. Fate.

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

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

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

And pauses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing. Nothing.

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

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

Sleep, child.

Sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Sleep, mother.

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

For the Angel of Death never sleeps.

Meet two good friends of mine

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

Serendipity.

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

Anyway . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Smitty Novellas

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

A Dish Served Cold

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

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

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

Anyway . . .

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

Three Deadly Sins

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

For five bucks.

Can't beat that with a stick, momma.

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

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

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

Buy One, Get One Free

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Trestle Press: trestlepress@gmail.com

-Giovanni Gelati:gelati.giovanni@gmail.com

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

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

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

Have fun and happy reading!!

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

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

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

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

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

What's Coming Up In The Near Future

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few questions for Robert W. Walker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Five Goals for 2012

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

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

Hmmm . . . .

Okay. Here's what I'm thinking;

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

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

That's perseverance.

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

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

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

So that leads to goal number three . . .

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

In a word . . . . no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Buddy of mine, Aldo Calcagno

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

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

Thus Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn.

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

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

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

So here you go. Here's Aldo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brit Grit Too Is A Kick In The Pants

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

Brit Grit Too

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

Or else.

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

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

The history of the anthology is as follows:

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

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

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

And here is the cast of BRIT GRIT TOO:

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

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

About The Author:

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

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

http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

Paul’s Amazon Author Page can be found here

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

Smitty's Latest Two at OneTrueMedia.com

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

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THE problem in writing a series, bubba

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

The Bourne Sanction

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

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

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

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

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

The Bourne Deception

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

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

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

The Bourne Dominion

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

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

The Beginning; Call Me Smitty at OneTrueMedia.com

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

Trailer number two of the Call Me Smitty series.

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

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

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

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Merry Christmas

2011-12-12T15:16:00.000-06:00

Thought I'd offer an unusual Christmas present to everyone. Last year a wrote a Christmas story featuring Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. Called it The Curious Mr. Klaus. Well, it's Christmas again . . . and two thoughts struck my interest.

If you're looking for a good present, you couldn't go wrong buy Eleven from the South Side. My eleven story collection of Turner Frank short stories currently out. (That was the first idea).

The second idea was I thought I'd share with you today the story. Sorta like give you a Christmas present. So here's the story. Enjoy.

The Curious Mr. Klaus

The holidays.

The constant blare of Christmas carols.

The hordes of people moving like gigantic herds of cattle from one store to the next in search of that elusive cut-throat sale. Exiting stores so loaded down with packages and more lists to complete they’re bent over and staggering from the load.

The holidays.

Everyone supposed to be in a gay, happy mood. The Spirit of Joy and Giving. The Holiday Spirits. And other crappy emotions like this.

Sure. Uh huh.

And of course . . . the weather in this town contributing to the holiday mood. Frigid cold winds blowing off the rivers—cold enough to make a space probe setting on Mars surveying orange skies seem like a tropical paradise. And snow. About every other day. Coming down with a vengeance and screwing up the city’s traffic in one gigantic snarl of howling cars, profane-laced drivers, and terminal cases of ill tempered assholes.

It was eight in the evening, Christmas Eve night and only Frank and I—and the lieutenant—were on duty.

The holidays. I hate them.

“Ah, quit bitching ya fucking ole’ Grinch. Here—drink this. Some eggnog with a little spice in it ought to make you feel better.”

Frank—my partner here in Homicide down in the South Side Precinct—lumbered over to me like an uncaged gorilla and shoved a tall glass of yellow liquid into my hand. As tall as me he was maybe fifty pounds heavier. The glass of ‘nog in his mitt for a hand looked like shot glass to any other normal human being. Keeping my opinion to myself I lifted the glass and took a long pull from it.

And almost gagged from the amount of alcohol in it.

“Jesus, when did you drain the anti-freeze on your kid’s snowmobile, Frank? Fer chrissakes don’t light a match in here. The whole frakken place will be blown sky high.”

“It’s good, huh?” Frank answered, the corners of his lips twitching—his way of grinning—as he sat down at his desk and looked at me. “It must be pretty good. Yank’s been over here eight times to ask for more.”

Yank was Lieutenant Dimitri Yankovich. Second shift watch commander and directly in charge of the precinct’s second floor—the detective section of the precinct. Yank was a good man. A great boss. Rarely had anything cross to say to anyone. And apparently liked Frank’s eggnog. A lot.

“Got any more?” I asked, looking down at the empty glass and then back at my partner.

Frank pointed to the ancient, battered, scared relic of what once had been a refrigerator in the janitor’s room over by the stairwell. I turned and started to make my way to it. But the phone on my desk lit up. The square little light aglow on the phone was from downstairs. From the booking desk. Reaching for it I threw it to my ear and kept it in place with a shoulder as I pulled the chair of my desk out and started to sit down.

“Yes, Dougie? Whatta got?”

Dougie was Sergeant Douglas Timmons. A twenty-five year veteran of the uniformed force—of which half of it was sitting behind the booking desk and listening to just about every kind of crime, crazy, and looney bin tale a human being could concoct. He’d seen it all and cleaned up most of the messes left behind. Nothing got under his cool. Nothing surprised him.

“I’m sending up an elderly gentleman by the name of Friedrich Klaus. He owns Klaus’ Tailoring over on Houston Street. For the last two days he’s been coming in here asking to see you, Turner. You’re here. He’s here. It’s time for you to hear his story.”

“What’s it about?”

“Naw—not going to say. If I did you’d probably have me committed to a funny farm. It’s your squawk, kid. And it’s a doosey.”

I told him to send him up and glanced at Frank.

“Customers?”

“Elves,” I said, turning to look at the stairwell and the soon to arrive Friedrich Klaus. “Who else would be out on a night like this?”

Sonofabitch. Elves indeed.

The little man came up the stairs to the squad room dressed in a derby, carrying an umbrella and wearing a very well made heavy navy blue trench coat. He had bright, ruddy cheeks, a round and very red nose, wore wire-rim spectacles and an expertly trimmed and maintained white beard and mustache. The whitest beard and mustache I had ever seen. Glancing at Frank I lifted an eyebrow questioningly. He shrugged gently, mouthing “Elves” silently to me.

“Detectives Hahn and Morales, at last I have the pleasure of meeting you!”

His handshake was surprisingly strong through the gray colored gloves he wore. I asked him to sit down and tell us what was so important to come out into a night like this and drive through the wind and snow to come to South Side Precinct.

The little man with the ruddy fat cheeks nodded but the merriment illuminating his eyes switched off like a bathroom light bulb. To be replaced with a deep look of concern.

“I’m afraid we must set aside pleasantries, gentlemen. You two are the only ones who can help me. And we have so little time.”

“What can we do for you?” I asked, sitting down at my desk and swiveling the chair around to look at the nattily dressed little man.

“Tomorrow night, precisely at nine p.m. I am going to die. Unless—unless you can find the madman who is going to kill me.”

Frank and I stared at the little man in front of us—blinked a couple of times in surprise—unable to find anything not of a smart-ass quip to say. The ruddy faced man sitting across from us first looked at me, then at Frank, the irritation on his face clearly visible.

“I see things, boys. I have . . . visions. Glimpses of people . . . events . . . places. Sometimes they are quite vivid. Sometimes they are fuzzy—like watching a television show through wax paper. I also feel other people’s thoughts. I feel the thoughts coming out of both of you right now. You think I’m crazy.”

“You feel thoughts,” I repeated. “Not read thoughts—but feel thoughts. There’s a difference?”

“Very much so,” the little elf nodded, frowning. “I never hear exactly what a person is thinking. But I get an overall impression. Like the one coming from you, Sergeant Morales. You want proof. Solid proof to back up what I say. Very well—try this for size.”

Mister Klaus suddenly stood up, turned, and made a bee line straight to the janitor’s room where the squad room’s frig sat. Moved as if he knew exactly where he was going. Even though, to my knowledge, he had never stepped into this building before. When he came out of the room he had the big picture of Frank’s eggnog in his gloved hand. Walking to where we were sitting he poured each of a full glass—and one for himself with a clean glass he pulled off the shelf above the frig.

“The rum in the eggnog you made, Sergeant Morales. It’s from the bottle of expensive rum Sergeant Hahn bought for you and has hidden above the hat rack over there. He’s going to give it to you tonight when the shift is over. But you found it when you two came on duty this afternoon. So you decided to make some of your famous brew. Quite delicious, I might add.”

Startled I looked at the big guy sitting across from me. Frank was looking at me, the corners of his lips twitching—laughter in his eyes. He nodded, shrugged, and reached for his eggnog.

“And you, Sergeant Hahn. You’re thinking about buying an old car to restore for your car collection. An Oldsmobile 442 is it? Well, look in your IN BOX and see what the motor vehicle department says about it. Second piece of paper in the box. Yes. That’s the one.”

I was thinking about buying an old muscle car to rebuild. That’s what I do for a hobby. Frowning, I pulled the report out of the IN BOX and glanced at it. Stolen. Stolen in ’86 off a residential street in San Diego.

Grinning—impressed—I tossed the report onto the desk and brought my attention back to our elf.

“Who’s trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know. But apparently he knows the two of you. He really wants to kill either you, Sergeant Hahn. Or you, Sergeant Morales. I don’t know precisely. But he’s using me to get to you.”

“Huh,” I grunted, frowning and pulling on the lobe of my right ear. “That would mean he somehow knows you and your . . . ah . . . clairvoyant gifts.”

“What do you see . . . or feel . . . from his thoughts?” Frank asked.

“Shoes,” he whispered for a reply.

“Shoes,” I echoed, frowning.

“For the last week I’ve . . . I’ve been catching these mental glimpses of tomorrow night’s event. Images a metal pole and street signs—trees behind the signs blowing from a strong wind—snow falling out the trees in a white curtain—an old, abandoned house. But most frightening image I see is a dim, partially lit hallway with a pair man’s legs, dressed in gray slacks, lying in the hallway with a steam of blood flowing past his right leg. That’s where the shoes come in. Black loafers, made by a small shoe firm called Pakkers. Very rare. Hard to find.”

I arched an eyebrow in surprise. On my feet was a pair of black loafers. The very brand our little elf mentioned. Throwing a look down at his feet I noticed he had the same style of shoes on as well.

I glanced at Frank. He was watching me closely. A frown on his thin gray lips.

“You see my conundrum,” the ruddy faced, bearded little tailor said softly. “One of us is going to die, Sergeant Hahn. I’m thinking it will be me—but it could very well be you.”

“The street signs. Where?” asked Frank.

“Corner of Dreary Lane and Hope Streets.”

I would have grinned and dismissed this whole thing as a hoax—maybe a stunt perpetrated by a partner whom I knew liked to pull tricky little pranks on people. On me in particular. But there was a Dreary Lane. And a Hope Street. And they did cross each other. Frank’s ugly mug wasn’t grinning that devilish little grin he almost had on his lips when he was pulling something on me. He looked deadly serious. Our little elf looked pale and scared.

“Okay. Tell you what,” I said, nodding. “Frank and I will go over to Dreary Lane and Hope and check it out. You I want to stay right here. Downstairs. The desk sergeant will keep an eye on you until we return. Understand?”

It didn’t take long to drive across town and find the corner of Dreary Lane and Hope. Curiously, half way there, the wind picked up and started blowing strong enough to send sheets of snow sailing across the streets in a white curtain. Climbing out of our car I glanced up at the street corner. The paint on the street sign for Dreary Lane was peeling off. It was half coated with a thick smear or dark red rust. Like the color of blood. Reaching up, I pulled the collar of my trench coat up and hunkered down in it. The wind was freezing cold.

“Turner,” Frank’s voice said calmly. “Look at the trees.”

Behind the street signs the trees were dancing like mad Afghani tribesmen. Snow falling out of the trees was creating a blinding curtain of pure white. One look at the trees and snow and a hand reached inside the trench coat and wrapped fingers around the butt of the .45 caliber Kimber semi-automatic riding underneath my left armpit.

I dunno—but have you ever had chills walk their icy fingers up and down your spine? Chills not from the cold or the wind. But from something else. Something like—dread.

Sitting on a small knoll an empty two storied house. The house out of the Hitchcock movie Psycho came to mind. Dark, lifeless windows staring at us; window shutters somewhere on the second floor banging against the house thanks to the wind—the weird, eerie vision of an upstairs window directly above the main entrance busted out and a single, faded white curtain waving at us as we approached. Walking through the deep snow up to the house I heard Frank grunt beside me.

“I’m not wrong am I? I mean . . . this is Christmas, isn’t it? Not Halloween?”

I grinned and moved onto the porch and tried the front door to see if it was locked with a gloved hand. It wasn’t. We searched the house from the attic down to the basement. Found nothing. But twice we both thought we heard footsteps walking across the floor above our heads. And once—faintly—I thought I heard laughter. Still . . . we couldn’t be sure. The wind was even stronger outside and blowing through the house like a small tornado. The footsteps . . . the laughter . . . could have been just the wind and our nerves playing tricks on us.

But I didn’t think so.

When we got back to South Side our Friedrich Klaus was missing. Gone. Told Sergeant Timmons he was going home to wrap some Christmas presents. If we had any questions we knew where to find him.

“Turner, tomorrow is Christmas. The wife and kids and I are driving down to Kansas City to have Christmas with my brother and his family. I won’t be around until well past midnight.”

“I know, Frank. I know. Don’t worry about it. I’m doing nothing but just hanging at my place. I’ll take care of this. It’s probably nothing anyway. Say hello to your brother and his wife for me.”

Christmas.

A time of cheer. Of exchanging gifts with loved ones. Of watching children’s’ faces light up as they open their presents. Of laughing and telling old family stories around the dining room table while relaxing after the big Christmas dinner.

Christmas.

I sat in my car across the street from the house of our curious Mr. Klaus. Sat behind the wheel of the ’67 Pontiac GTO and ate hamburgers and drank coke as I watched the snow come in off the Brown River and begin falling in buckets full. Nothing moved down the quiet street of the Klaus house. Kids came out late in the afternoon with new sleds and tried them out in the blizzard—or pent up too much with their family, out to throw snowballs at anything that moved. A couple of cabs plowed their way down the streets to come to a halt in front of a house or two. Grand parents and friends climbed out, carrying bags of brightly covered Christmas packages with them. They were greeted half way up the snow covered sidewalks with friends and family pouring out of the houses to envelope them with glad tidings.

At a little past eight pm the garage door to the Klaus house opened and a bright red four wheel drive Jeep Cherokee pulled out, smashed through the wall of snow which had built up in front of the garage, and backed into the street. Our ruddy complexioned elf was sitting behind the Jeep’s wheel.

I wasn’t surprised in the least when the red Jeep made its slow way across the deserted streets of the city and came to a halt in front of a house setting on the corner of Dreary Lane and Hope Streets. I watched Klaus roll out of his car and make his way through the snow and enter the house. The moment he disappeared inside I climbed out of the GTO and started toward the back door of the creepy place.

Coming in through the kitchen door, gun in one hand, and a big six-cell Mag light in the other, I moved through the kitchen and entered a long, dark hall which led to the living room. Stepping into the living room—empty—I heard a squeak of flooring behind me. Turning, I just had a glimpse of a black mass flashing toward me, a hand rising up and over his head—something thick and black in his gloved hand.

It was a crowbar. It cracked across my gun hand in a pain searing blow. I heard bones snapping like match sticks. Staggering back I threw the Mag light up and made the second blow of the crowbar glance off and away from my skull. But in the darkness I didn’t see the gloved fist in time. It caught me in the jaw, snapping my head back and exploding bright lights in my head. I don’t remember dropping to my knees from the blow. Shaking my head trying to get some vision back I tried to stand up. But my legs felt like lead weights and I couldn’t focus my eyes.

Laughter—I heard laughter—that of a madman’s and then . . . and then . . . through the pain . . . .

BOOM! BOOM!

The ringing explosions of a 9 mm Glock exploding in two rapid shots directly behind me. I heard a grunt and then the clatter of a heavy body falling to the floor in front of me.

When I opened my eyes and blinked I found myself in a sitting position. Braced in a sitting position by the snow shovel sized paw of Frank standing in front of me. My right arm felt like someone had parked a bull dozer on it and was trying to grind it to pieces with its tracks. I couldn’t open my jaw too much. But my eyes were working. I could see the carrot colored hair and the square jaw of Frank as he held me firmly in place.

“You okay, Turn? Never mind. Stay still. Got an ambulance crew on the way. And don’t move that right arm of yours. Jesus, but you look like hell.”

I grinned.

“Hiya, pal. How were the brother and his brood?”

“Boring. As they usually are. The fucker never changes.”

I looked toward the semi-lit hallway. Lying in a puddle of dim light were a set of legs. Dressed in gray slacks—feet covered with a pair of black Pakkers. Blood flowing like cold molasses on the floor past his right leg.

“Klaus?”

“Not Klaus,” Frank grunted, shaking his head. “Haven’t a clue who he is. But I know Friedrich Klaus. He spends his Christmas with his son down in Florida every year. Apparently this fucker didn’t know that.”

“You knew all the time he wasn’t a tailor?” I asked looking up in the darkness at the dim outline of Frank’s face.

“Yes. Thought I’d let him play it out and see where this went. Farther than I wanted it to. Sorry, buddy.”

“Well, just to let you know. You’re buying lunch for the rest of the year,” I growled. “Still. I’m glad you showed up.”

Christmas. A time to be with family. A time to enjoy good cheer and the laughter from good friends. But . . . did I say how much I hated Christmas?

Not this one. This one I was happy just to be alive.

Nigel Bird Drops In

2011-12-10T12:49:00.001-06:00

Nigel Bird. Brit.

Teacher. Artistic bon vivant. Writer of noir. Kinda like the guy already. Another one of those Trestle Press writers who seem to be popping up everywhere. Like me. Here's a talented writer who openly admits he may have grown up on the wrong side of the tracks. Grew up in the dirtier, rougher side of British society. Which is good. That kinda life gives you a feel for writing noir/hard boiled.

Or so they tell me.

Anyway, pleased I was when Nigel graciously agreed to be interviewed by me. (I doubt the rubber hose, the 1000 watt light bulb in his face, and the brass knuckles lying about had anything to do with his decision.) Read and enjoy.

1. As one of those rising new British stars in writing noir, what was it that made you decide to tread deep into these troubled waters?

Troubled waters are where I swim. Not in a dramatic way, just in the way a depressive does - perfect strokes one minute, sinking the next.

I grew up watching old noir movies and that’s probably the strongest link I can suggest. They became a regular part of life and almost formed a mould of the way I viewed things. Of course I wanted to be the heroic character who went down with the ship; in some ways acted this out a bit too well in the early days.

Dirty Old Town

Fitting in with that was the punk movement and the rise of such art as Factory Records who also celebrated the industrial landscapes and the misery of them.

Inner cities have always been places I find fascinating. For some reason I’ve always seen some kind of romance in the urban decay, partly as I imagined that the stories of lives there must be so much more interesting than those in the suburbs in which I grew up. Of course, now I’ve matured, I see that life stories are never dull and that fiction is so much less about recreating real events than about crafting a plot of one’s own.

2. How long have you been writing? And when, might I ask, will we see a set of characters developed from you that requires novelization and perhaps an on-going series to be written?

I’ve been writing since I left school really, as long as diaries are included.

I moved on from diaries to poetry after the break-up of my first marriage. It was one of the few ways in which I managed to find an outlet for my pain. From there I moved on to being the editor or a magazine and a publisher on a very small indie level. As for prose, I guess I’ve been at it for more than ten years, five of those with a huge amount of focus and effort.

My novella, Smoke, is a stepping stone towards fleshing out characters for longer fiction and I do have a novel that’s complete and waiting for feedback. Early thoughts are very positive indeed and I feel like it will be ready for release some time next year.

3. Comment, if you will, on the British Crime Scene. What points of interest do you see that makes British crime writing vibrant and unique compared, say, to the European or American scene?

The British crime-writing scene is spectacular and has become all-the-more lively with the advent of e-books.

To put it into context, there’s a great tradition of crime-writing here, something which lies as a foundation and offers signposts to those writing today. We’re also very lucky to share the language of the Americans, which means that the influences of the hard-boiled work of the 1930s and onwards has always been easily accessible, as has everything since.

On top of that Britain has many aspects to life which make settings easy to come by. There’s a huge drinking culture; the council estate; the football gangs; huge variety of regional dialects; drugs; disaffection; an embedded sense of class and class-struggle; lots of movement in terms of immigration and emigration; multiculturalism with all its positives and seething undercurrents; riots; humour; conservatism; rain and grey skies. Perfect.

What it has in common with other scenes is a loose-knit umbrella for everyone to shelter under. The community is friendly and helpful and considerate.

Trestle Press has played some part in shifting things up a gear for those authors who deserved to be established, but hadn’t quite cracked the ceiling. I’m thinking of Paul D Brazill, McDroll, Sant, Veste, Bury et al.

4. What kinds of struggle do you wrestle with when you write? What holds you back? What compels you to overcome these struggles and write?

I don’t find many struggles with short fiction. It’s not to say I find it easy, but my focus is clear and my mind can incorporate all aspects of a piece at once. The editing process is vital there, but not too daunting as there isn’t a great deal of structure to work at re-shaping.

It’s long fiction that I find taxing. I’ve attempted three novels now. The first, ‘Orinoco Pony And His Dandelion Adventures’ I’ve almost forgotten. The second was edited from 70000 words to 22000 and became the novella ‘SMOKE’. The third, ‘In Loco Parentis’, I’m pretty excited about and it’ll make it out to an audience one day. It can seem like a huge mountain to climb – I can put in months of work with all the spare hours I have and still find myself only at first base. Once enthusiasm drifts, I tend to let things drift with it and that means the structure starts to creak and my memory stops working. In the end, something usually kicks in to get me there – obsession might be the best word for it. Or stubbornness.

Smoke

5. Who has inspired you? Was there a certain author you may have read that flipped a light on inside you to reveal the possibility that maybe you could write something better?I’ve been inspired by many writers over the years. Going along to see people read out their work is one of my favourite pass-times. It’s what stared my brother and I with our publishing effort, The Rue Bella way back.

It was seeing Allan Guthrie at the launch of his debut novel, ‘Two Way Split’, that excited me about the possibilities for my own writing. Not only did I immediately sense that he was a talented man, I also saw that he was able to take flavours from the history of noir and crime-writing and bring them into a contemporary and regional setting. What also gave me hope was his explanation of his journey to publication and the stamina and dedication he’d had to apply to the process. That was a point when things began to crystalize for me, though things are still solidifying around my work all the time – though I hope that an element of malleability will always remain.

Mr Guthrie’s still inspiring me. His books are fantastic and he’s doing very exciting things over at Blasted Heath just now that leave me in awe of his capacity to work.

6. For you, what makes a good story? What ingredients have to be added into the boiling cauldron that's used to eventually cook up a good story?

I’m not sure about ingredients. Perhaps it’s the blend that is the most important thing. I love to read work where I feel utterly absorbed (don’t we all?). How that is achieved is one of those mysteries to life.

As a Support for Learning teacher I work with a range of children who often have similar issues, but are all entirely individual. I guess that’s why I have a job – because there’s no one single answer. Things need to be carefully thought through and experimented with. I suppose that’s what it’s like to be a writer, too. There would seem to be templates out there to follow, but if it were simply a matter of copying, we’d all be at it.

Dramatic tension and empathy or sympathy for characters would certainly figure, as would well written sentences, great imagery and a dash of the poetic from time-to-time.

7. Looking back on the path you've trekked down so far as a writer, are there turns in the trail or, perhaps other paths altogether, you would have followed if you could start all over?

I wish that I’d reached my current position of status and as a craftsman many years ago. It would have given me more time to work at a better level.

Other than that, the path is what it was. I needed to do lots of things in life to get to where I am, had to survive a lot of stuff and to find some kind of hold on the planet. For those reasons I can’t separate writing from anything else.

8. What are you working on now? Give us some hints as what will soon be seen in the next coming months.

I’m not working on anything new just now. Attempts to keep the balls rolling in terms of sales for the things that are already out there is time-consuming, but always worthwhile. ‘Dirty Old Town (and other stories)’ recently made its 1000^th sale and things like that keep my spirits up.

In the New Year I’ll be starting on my next attempt at a novel. I have some ideas simmering away, but they need more time to ferment before I start shaping them into a draft.

I’ll also be working with Chris Rhatigan again. The experience of producing ‘Pulp Ink’ together was very rewarding and we’re keen to see what else we can do. At the moment, we’re not entirely sure what that will be, but it may involve adding in a couple more editors and changing the approach ever-so slightly.

There are also a couple of collections out soon which will feature my stories. ‘Brit Grit Too’ is being put together by Mr Brazill and there’s John Kenyon’s ‘Grimm Tales’ collection with an introduction by Ken Bruen. They’re both exciting the hell out of me.

/////

There you have it. Good stuff. (but don't ask me why there's gaps in the interview. I've been pulling my hair out for the last two days trying to figure that one out!)

My Video 12/6/11 at OneTrueMedia.com

2011-12-06T15:41:00.001-06:00

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

A Taste of Old Revenge is Finally Out

2011-12-06T10:44:00.001-06:00

Turner Hahn

Tally ho, me hardies!! It is finally out. Finally out! After nearly two years of waiting around drumming my fingers and pulling what little hair I have left in my head out. A Taste of Old Revenge is finally out! (check right and see the cover)

The year after god invented dirt I came up with the idea of developing Turner Hahn and Frank Morales . . . the two homicide cops that are the main go-to guys in this book. Uh . . . . maybe I'm stretching the time line a little bit about when Turner and Frank came to mind . . . but you get the general idea. It was some time ago.

I've been reading the detective/mystery genre for more than . . . . uh, hell! That long?! . . . . fifty goddamn years! Half a fracken century. And yeah, over the last fifty years I've seen a lot of trends come and go in this venerable old fart of a genre. Some good. Lot's on the 'what the hell!?' side of the coin.

Take, for instance; the 'main chartacter' or 'hero' of our imaginations. Over the years we've seen the demise of the Phillip Marlowe kind of guy . . . you know, the honorable wreck of a near-alcoholic who fights in the back alleys of crime trying to right the world in a world that doesn't care anymore . . . to the certifiably homicidal killer molded in the guise of Lee Child's Reacher, or Robert Crais' Joe Pike. Or we have Robert Ludlum's Jason Bourne. (note how I put the spy/adventure sub-genre into the mainstay of mystery/detective? Sorry, that's just a tic of mine).

Don't care how you want to slice and dice it; look deep into the psyches of all three characters listed and you have to agree these guys would rather kill you than look at you. Not that I'm saying it bad, mind you. So happens I like to read all three of them. With my preference leaning toward a good Jason Bourne tale.

But the point is this; what happened to the honorable, traditional, god-I-need-one! . . . traditional hero?

I think it's time to resurrect'em. Sure, there are authors and characters out there that I haven't read that will undoubtedly fit this bill. But when Turner and Frank came along I hadn't seen one for decades. I read and read and never found a story, or a character, I truly thought satisfied the needs I had for a good book/series/long term relationship.

Frank Morales

So I decided to create them. Two of them. Make them homicide detectives. Make one just as good, and as interesting, as the other. Make both of them have their own unique characteristics. Individually Turner Hahn is an equal to Frank Morales when it comes to solving a homicide case. Neither plays the traditionally second-fiddle to the other. Each bring to the detective team talents uniquely their own. Not the least of which is their respective sense of humor.

Yeah. A little humor in a good 'whodunit.' What the hell! Don't care what the 'experts' say; I find that a little humor in even the darkest of stories makes the darkness even more bleak . . . and the story even more compelling.

In A Taste of Old Revenge Turns out to be a three-dimensional human being. You find out that he has his weaknesses as well as his strengths. You find out about what happened to his mother and father. About the farm he grew up on. About suddenly becoming unimaginably rich. And about what the sudden acquisition of vast wealth does to his relationships with his peers in the police department. And you get to meet Turner's grandfather. Brother, are you in store for a surprise here! Gramps is one interested dude.

You get to meet Frank Morales' wife. His kids. You get to taste and appreciate Frank's intellect. He may look like a genetic throwback to pre Cro-Magnon Man . . . but the guy is one smart critter! Best of all, you get to see Frank as the head-investigator in his own homicide case. See how he ticks. See how he moves.

I like these two guys. Each is what I think a 'hero' should be. Each have their own foibles. Their own susceptibilities. Their own strengths. But at the end of the day you'll come to two definite conclusions. They are both interesting to be around. And they are both honorable.

There are a number of Turner/Frank novels coming down the pike. At least three more novels in the immediate future already started. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping A Taste of Old Revenge will kick start the series into high gear.

But really, that depends up to you, the reader, doesn't it?

But hell! What do you have to lose by throwing down five bucks and loading it up on your e-reader? Ya can't even go to McDonalds and have a burger and fries for five bucks! Give'em a try. I betcha ya won't be disappointed.

Another friend of mine

2011-12-03T12:37:00.003-06:00

Good lord, recently I've been on a roll. In the last couple of months I've interviewed some big names in the noir/ hard boiled/ historical-detective fiction world. Guys like Richard Godwin, Vincent Zandri, Jason Michel. And there was the amazing feminine master, I.J. Parker. This time I add another superlative writer to the list.

Matt Rees.

Matt is another one of those world traveling international reporters. Matt lives/work in Jerusalem. His beat, for years, has been the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It's been this generations-long conflict which made Matt become an international best seller.

Matt created a character by the name of Omar Yussef. A Palestinian refugee. A teacher by profession who suffers along every day through the pain and suffering that is an houly occurence, it seems, in the Gaza Strip.

What I like about the character Matt has created in Omar Yussef is this; the man is basically a humane, gentle soul forced to overcome his fears of violent reprisals both from the many factions found in the Palestinian movement, and from the Israelis, and confronts those in power to demand justice. Demands that those who murder are captured and tried as the criminals they are.

But Matt also has written other novels. Novels about as far away from the Gaza Strip as one can get. Currently his Mozart's Last Aria. And yes, me puppies, the book is about Mozart.

So I thought it'd be great to interview the guy and pluck his brains to see how he ticks. I think the results are fascinating. I believe you'll agree with me.

1. I'll admit it enthusiastically; I am an Omar Yussef fan. Omar is a Palestinian-teacher-turned-reluctant detective. Where, when, and how did this character come into being? And how successful has his mysteries been in your writing career?

You’re very kind, B.R. Omar was born out of my sense that the reporting I did for Time Magazine during the Palestinian intifada was unable to contain the full reality of what I witnessed as Palestinian society destroyed itself. It became a gangster reality, which I was able to tip at in news stories. But to truly encompass that reality, I’d have had to write about it again and again – journalism doesn’t really deal in such continuity. Moreover I wanted to get at the emotional reality of life under such extreme circumstances for the Palestinians I had come to know well. Journalism is supposed to stay on the surface, to be objective. I had enough of that. The first Omar Yussef novel "The Collaborator of Bethlehem" won a Dagger from the Crime Writers Association in the UK. The books have sold in 23 countries. So I'm pretty happy with them.

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The Collaborator of Bethelem

2. You are a Western reporter living in Jerusalem. You see the chaos of the Palestinian/Israeli conflict on a daily basis. How does this energy bleed into your Yussef novels, and will Omar ever witness a better set of circumstances for his people?

In some ways Omar already sees things as they might be, and in a positive way. That’s why I made him a schoolteacher. He’s there to protect his society against ignorance, just as a detective aims to protect against criminality. I don’t foresee writing about immediate circumstances of peace and prosperity for the Palestinians, because it’s just not on the horizon. I wanted to show that Omar lives for that day, however, and that’s why his favorite granddaughter is such an important secondary character. All the risks he takes are an investment in her future.

3. Recently you wrote Mozart's Last Aria. What were the factors that came into play which compelled you to write this?

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Mozart's Last Aria

I’ve always loved Mozart, but his music became more important to me during the intifada. I was in some ways traumatized. My reaction to trauma was to lose my temper to a crazy extent. When I listened to Mozart, I felt calmer. I took a break from covering the intifada to visit Austria with my wife – we were looking for a place that was organized, peaceful and beautiful, as a change from Israel and Palestine. We passed through a small mountain village where Mozart’s sister, Nannerl had spent her married life. I visited her house and saw that she looked exactly like her brother. Naturally that got me thinking about plot opportunities. But I also felt called by her, as I stood at the edge of the lake at the bottom of her garden. Called by a talented woman who had been consigned to this backwater while her brother achieved fame in the Imperial capital. I wrote the book for her.

4. Writing and writers in general; what makes a writer, for you, worthy of reading? Are there any pre-requisites a writer needs in order to be successful (in any genre)?

Writers seem to me to be some kind of introverted version of an actor. They need to inhabit a character, just as a method actor might. So I think writers are the introverts of the creative world, which makes outsiders particularly suited to writing. I know I felt that way growing up and for much of my life. Now I’m a Brit living in Jerusalem. Still an outsider. I think of Hammett, who was a Communist, and Chandler, who was just rather prickly, amongst others. All outsiders. If your life has been a stroll in the sun and everyone always loves you, I don’t think you’ll have much to write about.

5. As a follow-up question for question No. Four, what are the parameters for a good mystery/detective novel? Is it plot? Characters? The crime? All of the above? None of the above?

Characters are the emotional core of a novel, so they ought to come first. However, a good intricate plot is a great way to provide them with conflict and really bring them out. I don’t care if someone figures out the plot halfway through one of my books – and I don’t believe anyone who says they do, anyhow – but plot is a vehicle, in my opinion, for dramatizing character. I also think a writer ought to undermine the genre a little bit. One of my ways of doing this is to have two or even three endings. You think you’ve got the solution, then someone else turns out to be even more guilty, then we realize something else entirely is going on. That mirrors reality as I’ve come to see it. It also jerks the reader out of the cosy complacency that often inhabits even the most frosty and bloodthirsty of crime novels.

6. When will the fans of Omar Yussef get to see another Palestinian caper? And what is the long term diagnosis for the continuation of this series?

I’ve finished a novel about Caravaggio, the Italian painter, and I’m working on a thriller now set in Iraq and New York about post-traumatic stress disorder. So Omar’ll have to wait a bit. I have an idea for a book in which he comes to Jerusalem…

7. Have you ever thought about writing a counterpart to Omar Yussef from the Israeli point of view? It would be a kind of counter-balance, and quite interesting, view of how this part of the world sees itself.

I do have an idea for an Israeli novel. It wouldn’t be a detective novel per se. Something a little different… I hope it’ll be the one after the one I’m writing now… I want it to be a novel centered on Israel but encompassing the whole Middle East. Israel itself is a bit parochial; thinks it’s the most important place on the globe. I don’t find that a compelling scenario for fiction.

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A Grave in Gaza

8. What else is in store for the fans of Matt Rees' writing? Another book on a famous composer? Maybe something out of the mystery/detective genre altogether? Care to share any musings along this line of speculation?

After MOZART’S LAST ARIA, I’ve written another book that turns on the mysterious, unsolved demise of a favorite artist of mine. Caravaggio disappeared in 1610 when several murderous people were on his trail in a series of vendettas. It was too good to resist.

This is Matt Rees. A wonderful writer and an articulate person to boot. You should look into his writings. You'll be happy you did.

Yes, this is a friend of mine

2011-11-30T15:03:00.000-06:00

Yes, this is the face of an accomplished writer, blogger, and emagazine publisher. Add 'friend' to that list as well.

Meet Jason Michel. The man who is behind the fabulously successful emag called Pulp Metal Magazine. By the way, he's another one of those mad Brits. Why is it that all the Brits I've met who have a fondness for dark noir also have this dark, twisted sense of humor that is so close to my own? Am I a Brit in disguise? Or maybe . . . just maybe . . . all of the writers I've met so far hailing from that little island are related to me?!

Hell! Now THAT'S a scary thought!!

Anyway . . . Jason and I crossed paths about a year and a half ago when I sent him a Turner Hahn/Frank Morales story. He liked it and used it immediately. So, being the glut for pain as I am, I hacked together a few more stories and sent them off to PMM. He published them all and I thought . . . sonofabitch! I might be a writer after all!

And then one day he sends me an email asking if he could use one of the stories I sent him, a Turner/Frank story entitled 'Odd Way To Order Carry Out,' for an anthology of PMM stories he wanted to put together. The first collections of PMM stories is called Laughing At The Death Grin. Some great authors are in this collection. Both surprised and happy that I was asked to join this montage of excellence.

Hitting him up for an interview was a no-brainer. I had to ask him why in the hell would a sane man want to put himself thru hell and create an emag like PMM? His answer, I'm sure you'll agree, will conclusively certify that all Brit writers are insane. (grinning and winking)

1. Writer, short-story collaborator, e-magazine publisher. Which came first? Which do you prefer to think of yourself the most?

#1 Well, first came the paranoid megalomania and the overwhelming desire to become a villian in a sixties spy flick. That, of course, still perfumes my every waking moment, MR BOND, um ... , I mean, BR.

Well, to answer the bloody question, the writing came first. Short stories, of course. I actually started off with the intention of never publishing myself. I thought that that way I could be completely free in my writing and never have to pander to any other fucker.
Of course, that way you can sit around in your underpants feeling smug that you are REAL and not like the corporate soul sucking whores making money with mediocrity.
A fantasy and intellectual cowardice was what it really was but it was a good way of honing in on my own way of writing. It gave me the courage to start sending them off.
Then I finally got one published in the now legendary SCARECROW magazine, run at the time by Lee Rourke and Matthew Coleman.

After that there was no stopping me.

As for what I think of myself ... A hack suits me fine.

2. Donning the magazine editor's hat, tell us; what makes for a good short story? What do you look for when you're deciding what to publish?

#2 Of course, taste is all subjective. I have actually chosen stories that didn't slap me across the face with their ideas, but I knew that they were beautifully written and that other people would really appreciate them.
But, the ideas and the vibe of a story are something that I really like. Writing deals with the imagination and the atmosphere of a story plays with the mind and what we see in there.
Give me something unexpected. A twist. A line of dialogue that makes me spit out my mouthful of Merlot over the computer screen. Or a scene that makes me feel downright spooked.

A bloody good yarn helps.

3. How did Pulp Metal Magazine come into existence? Did you wake up one day and say, "Hey! I want to be a magazine editor and waddle through 10,000 pages of drivel just to find ONE good story!" Uh . . . are you crazy?

Actually, that's pretty accurate, except I was drowning in an godawful hangover and then this pernicious thought hit me.
I still think the gods are torturing me somehow ...
I blame Paul D Brazill for agreeing to a column, after that, who could refuse!

4. When YOU craft a story--what do you go after? Plot? Character? Innuendo? Emotions?

#4 Ooohhh, I don't know. The vibes, baby, it's all in the VIBES.

One of my favourite writers was the late great Hunter S Thompson (RIP, Mr Duke). I loved his style of getting right down deep and dirty inside the subject himself. Becoming the story. That's how I approach ideas. Attack the fuckers from all sides and see where they lead. Live them metaphorically and at certain times in reality.

It's hell on a relationship, let me tell you.
When you open the door to the bedroom and scream BUT I MUST KILL HIM! IT IS THE ONLY WAY!
That can even send the cat running under the sofa

5. You have a set of classic Pulp Metal Magazine stories out called Laughing at the Death Grin. Why did you decide to go this route? Was it hard to decide who to put in? Has it surprised you on the success or failure its garnered so far? Is there a 'Masks 2' going to come out?

#5 LATDG was actually a logical extension of the magazine, as is the whole PULP METAL FICTION malarky. It just made sense with the whole ebook thing kicking a hole in the arse of the trad publishing route.
Sales have been slow but do we want instant gratification or a long burner here?
I am in negotiations with a couple of other well known PMM faces to put out anthologies of their work with a couple of all new original stories in for good luck.
Not telling you anything else yet.

So there.

6. What's next for you in the literary world? More short stories? Maybe a ground-breaking novel? And while we're at it . . . what's next on the evolutionary trail for Pulp Metal Magazine?

#6 Um, my novel Confessions Of A Black Dog was published last year in the US and my self published book of shorts is still available on Lulu as an ebook, just because I've been too lazy to take it off. I may put a revised version of that out on PMF in the future.
I've also just released my novella AND THE STREETS SCREAMED BLUE MURDER! over at PMF.

I'm also still working on my Stories From Old Lurk site, which is the most fun I've had writing for a long time, total freedom. Developing the weird and wonderful world of Old Lurk and that multi-dimensional cad - Vincent Blake just makes my knees tingle.
I've also got the germ of an idea to the follow up to the novella.

Besides that I'll be planning to hold the universe to ransom for a while to come ...

(We're in the white mode today because issues . . . lots and lots of issues. Mostly mine. And yes, I am taking my medicine. Again)

My Interview with The Boss

2011-11-28T10:39:00.000-06:00

Up front, just to let you know, one of the publishers I work with is Trestle Press. An upstart, new, really visionary epublisher just getting into the full swing of things.

I'll just say that . . . somehow . . . I got in on the ground floor of this new publishing house and am glad I did it. The 'Head Fred' (capo de capo; alias, 'the publisher') of the organization is a guy by the name of Giovanni Gelati. Now, what can I say about Giovanni that hasn't already been said? He's enthusiastic, brimming with ideas, creative, funny (in a morbid kind of way. You should read some of HIS writing to fully understand!). Best of all, he's a hard working visionary who actively takes in ideas and suggestions from his growing stable of writers and uses them to their maximum limits while asking for more ideas to bounce his way.

I dunno . . . if you get the impression I kinda like the guy . . . you may have something there.

Everybody interviews authors, artists, and politicians. But who interviews the guys who sit in the background doing the day-to-day work of making a publishing house successful? Hint: it's done rarely.

So I thought I'd go against the grain a little bit and do just that. Interview the boss, if you will. The traditional 'six questions' (except this time it turned out to be seven questions). Hope you like it. I enjoyed myself arm-twisting the guy to pony up with some answers.

1. Trestle Press is becoming a huge success. The stable of writers being recruited is rising at an exponential rate. How did Trestle Press come into existence?

We created it so an exceptionally talented author like yourself and others could find a home and a place to build their “platform” and “brand”. My kids laugh at me when I use words like that.

The idea and genesis for this came from me listening and reading stories from authors and readers looking to find each other.

For author’s, Trestle Press is a nice place for them to be creative, free thinking, and a home for their hard work. For readers, a place that they know they can go to get high quality reads at affordable pricing.

I am going to think it is beginning to work, we are fortunate enough to have a number of our titles hit the sales charts on Amazon Kindle and Amazon UK, many within hours of release.

As I write this “Amish Knitting Circle” is the #1 Short Story on Amazon Kindle (in the short story category) and the entire series (all 4 of it installments) is the most read digital short story series (in the short story category) in the world today.

2. What motivates you to succeed? And why this drive to succeed in the publishing world?

You know B.R. I really like you, why the hard questions? I am not a very deep thinker. My wife once said of me, and I quote:” You are like a dog with a bone”. Now I take compliments when I can get them; I look at that with a positive twist.

But to sum it up quickly: I think the world is ready for the readers to control author’s destinies. I am driven to make sure that authors like you and all the Trestle Press authors find their place and their audiences. Your stories are intense, vivid, and amazing; I can say that about ever author I have the good fortune of working for.

3. You show a wide range of literary taste. Tell us, if you had five books on a table in front of you, (a hardboiled detective novel, a romance, a comedy, a religious/ spiritual selection, or a traditional novel of literature) which would be the one you would choose to read first? Do you have any preferences?

I am not sure I could recognize literature if I fell over it, not my speed. If by “literature” you mean something from Billy Shakes I will save that for last without a doubt.

Romance makes me blush, so that would go on top of that, next to last.

The religious stuff, I need to read slowly so I can reflect on it, so I do it in chunks. I enjoy it very much, but going back to the deep thinker thing, I need to digest it a bit, so it takes me longer.

Comedy? I am always up for a good bocce story, do you know any of them? A little birdie told me that a new one just came out-“Holy Chrome Bocce Ball Beach Bloodbath”.

I guess that leaves the nasty stuff for the top. Thankfully you and the rest of the crew at the soon to be “Dark Pages Press” turn out great stuff every week.

4. Recently Trestle Press has decided to expand and create separate imprints with each imprint specializing in one particular area. Tell us about this decision and how it came about.

Did you just read my mind?

We decided to do it for a variety of reasons but the main ones had to do with the readers and the authors. We are fortunate at Trestle Press to have a very nice diversity in the genres we offer to the readers. But in this new digital age of publishing labels need to be applied, platforms must be built and brands must be created. To facilitate that we felt the need to make the moves. Each genre that we have will have its own Imprint starting with the Noir/Hard-Boiled authors.”Dark Pages Press”

Dark Pages Press

5. Currently Trestle Press is an ebook publisher. Will expand into the print world? What are the pros and cons a new company like Trestle Press may face if they make such a decision.

Paper is not going anywhere, people’s desire to hold a book in their hands I don’t think will ever go away. Don’t get me wrong, I have a sincere fondness for my ereader and love reading on it.

The print thing, well, without going into much detail here, we are going to be putting our own spin on that to. We are going to do the “normal” thing first with some of our full length work like your “Death of a Young Lieutenant” and “Roland of The High Crags: Evil Arises” but after we get that rolling, well let’s just say the fun will begin. Everybody can expect to have our first print books in time to have them underneath the Christmas trees and in their hands for New Years eve.

6. What are you looking for when a writer submits something to Trestle Press? Is it just the words on the screen? The way they tell a story? Or are other factors in play as well?

I have OCD, I am pretty up front about that. I am the kind that is always thinking, and the best way for me to organize myself is with lists. I have lists for a lot of stuff. It is a running joke with my wife, but you know it what makes me stay sane. I mean I do work for you, right? Ha! Just had to get that in there ,I didn’t know if you were asleep or not.

You want to know what I look for. It is not one thing, can’t be, if it was all about the read, then no it wouldn’t work. To me it has to be the whole thing, the whole person, the entire author, from top to bottom. How do they think? What is their motivation? Let’s just say I have a full index card with what I am looking for, at least 20 different things. Does each and every author have all of them, no? Everybody has strengths and weaknesses, gauging them are the key, using them necessary.

I haven’t had the card laminated yet, I may add a few things to it, but , no you can’t see it. Sorry. It is like the remote for the Television, you need to marry one of my daughters to touch it. Simple rules, I think they make sense.

7. Where do you see yourself and Trestle Press in the next 10 years?

B.R. you really are trying to make my head explode aren’t you? I hope that I am doing the same thing I do every day, helping authors and readers find each other. That is a lot of fun.

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It's a good feeling knowing you're with a publisher who trusts your ideas and is willing to work with you. Here's to the idea of bigger and better things for Giovanni, Trestle Press, and their new imprint, Dark Pages Press! (raising a glass of two-day old Coke Cola)

Vincent Zandri checks in for a few questions

2011-11-26T11:05:00.003-06:00

Krikies!

I asked Vincent Zandri, that world-hopping, e-publishing wunderkind of a writer/reporter, if I could throw at him the nominal six-questions for an interview. Be damned if didn't say 'Yes' and agree to it almost immediately.

Vincent is a publishing success. In both traditional print, and more importantly, in epublishing. He has at any one time two or more of his numerous books in the Top 100 rankings in Amazon, and have kept his titles in the Top 100 for a year or more. Obviously he sells bazillions and bazillions of books.

So that makes him a success.

He has this success because he is a damn writer. His reporter's training has taught him well in sniffing out a good story and filling in the details. You start reading a Zandri novel and you don't stop until you get to the very end. That, to me, is the mark of a great writer.

So being the jealous type that I am (aaaaaaaahemmmm!!) I thought I'd pick his brains and see if I could get a glimmer of an insight in what makes him so good. I think you'll find the conversation quite interesting.

The Innocent

1. Luck. After reading your bio and some other articles you've written about your life, I am struck by the streak of luck that's come your way. Undoubtedly talented--no question about that--but talk, if you will, about the quality of luck, or the lack of it, that affects a writer's life.

Good question…I believe that good luck is like boxing. You keep jabbing enough you’re eventually going land one or two. And if you’re really lucky, you might even land a round-house and knock the poor son of a bitch on his ass. That son of a bitch in this case being this whole crazy writing game of words, pages, books, agents, publishers, critics, editors, predators, sales, and that elusive next book you’re going to have to write. Because remember, it’s never what you’ve done. It’s always what you’re doing or about to do. Those who can’t write another book after the one before are suffering from miserable luck. Which leads me back to the original question. Stay in the business long enough and you will experience streaks of good luck, and just as many if not more, valleys filled with bad luck. You treat the former with a good dose of salt, and the latter with a good dose of booze, travel, reading, women, and just plain living life.

2. It seems to me you base a lot of your stories off real life incidents. Is that a by-product of being the journalist in your life? Or would have you followed this tack even if you were, say, originally a plumber?

There are real stories that genuinely disturb me, not as a journalist necessarily but as a writer and a human being. When some money-hungry college kid who comes from a nice town and a nice home can climb the stairs in the middle of the night and enter into his parent’s bedroom with a fireman’s axe and proceed to bash their brains in with it, I find myself doubled over in pain on behalf of human kind. Sounds a little dramatic, but certain stories have to be told. As a journalist I almost consider the fictional technique of telling a real story as a fiction in line with the more narrative non-fiction writing style invented by Capote in In Cold Blood and later turned into Pulitzer Prize winning fiction by Norman Mailer in The Executioner’s Song. When you write plain reportage you’re going to miss out on a lot of speculation. In other words, what was going on in the killer’s mind at the time of the incident; what did it feel like to bury an axe into your dad’s skull and then pull the blade out. These things need to be dramatized and imagined if we are to better understand the human condition of pure evil. I guess in the end, it comes down to that old adage: You can’t make this shit up if you tried. There are just too many real life stories out there that need to be told. I don’t need to write down a single novel idea ever again for as long as I live.

3. In your bio you've mentioned how you are a workaholic when it comes to your writing. You DO produce a lot of work in a relatively short time. Good stuff, I might add. This dedication to your writing--do you think this is a requirement all writers must have? Or is it just a quirk of your own personality?

Writers and would-be writers have to ask themselves one very important question: Do I want to be a professional full-time writer or do I want to be a part timer? There’s no right or wrong here obviously. There are always going to be those full-timers who work all the time who will barely eek out an existence, and those who write only one or two books in their lives who win Pulitzers. You never can tell. But to be honest, almost no one ever succeeded in this business by doing it half assed. In Hemingway terminology you have to “bite the nail” every day. There’s always going to be the “John Locke’s” of the indie world and the James Fry’s of the major pub’d world who hit homeruns more or less on their first try out (Ok

4. Apparently you have an agent who has bought into the world of ebooks and epublishing hook, line, and sinker. Is this unusual? And are you happy with the results so far?

Ironically that agent quit the agenting business and went into e-book publishing. I am pleased with what she’s done in negotiating my contracts with the Stone Inks, even though at first I was entirely ignorant to the e-book process and what’s been happening. When I originally signed, I thought, I’ll never make a dime from this. Then a few months later I was selling more books than Harlan Coben. Go figure. But like anything else, the success if cyclical. But I have to say, sales are still steady. It all resulted in a major deal with Thomas & Mercer who bought out my back list and two new books. And who could ask for anything more?

Concrete Pearl

5. So many writers of noir/hardboiled, both male and female, are taking the female POV role for their main characters. In a word----why? Whatever happened to the Mickey Spillane characters of the world?

Nice loaded question BR and you know what? I’m gonna take the bait. Well, the answer is this: women read. Men don’t. Plus it’s fun living inside a woman for a change, 28 day cycle and all. Women are far more dominant in today’s society than in previous decades. Ok, I know I’ll catch a rash of shit for that statement, but there are simply some hot, sexy, bad ass women out there who can truly fuck you up if you get rough with them and then fuck you to death if you are nice to them. Not to push my own work, but that’s where I came up with my character Ava “Spike” Harrison of CONCRETE PEARL. Hot, sexy, smart, and able to kick your ass in a New York minute, Spike is entirely independent and self-assured, even if she is entirely up against it in the plot-driven thriller. Ok, how’s that for some shameless advertising?

6. I've asked this to a number of European writers. So I'll ask the same question to you; Writing styles; do you see any similarities or differences when comparing European noir/hard boiled to American noir/hard boiled? For instance the subject of humor has
come up. British writers think they put more humor in their writing. True? False? Maybe? What are your thoughts?

I don’t know. Not only don’t I spend time comparing them (the writing school prof’s do that), I don’t get to read a whole of them simply because I don’t get to read as much as I want to these days. I do read Max Frisch’s stuff over and over again (he’s Swiss and German), may the Lord rest his soul. I love Peter Robinson. I’m really pumped to see how well Russel D. McLean is doing as a young noir up and comer and I’ve blurbed titles for London’s Richard Godwin. Let’s face it, the Brits and the Europeans have always been ahead of the curve when it comes sex, humor, and just not being pent up in your panties. Remember Monty Python???? But so much of the beauty of noir and hard-boiled fiction lies in its regionalism, it’s sometimes hard to categorize anyone into something like, Well, he’s a Brit so he writes funnier than say some dude from L.A. like Charlie Huston who is actually very funny but dark as hell, or a brooder from NYC like Andrew Vachss. And then there’s Zeltserman who is Boston but not as Boston as Parker, and Zandri is Albany, New York even if he doesn’t live there full-time anymore. I actually have a new book in the quirky Dick Moonlight series coming out from Thomas & Mercer takes mostly takes place in Florence, Italy because I spend so much time there now and the regional effects have had a major impact upon me as a writer. Anyway, I’m entirely sure I offered up a fucked up convoluted answer. Bu the simple answer to this question is this: True…False…Maybe…and All of the Above.

Vincent Zandri is good. Very good. You need to find him and read his books. You won't be disappointed.