It’s been rough, frankly…

…I’m having issues with my job — what’s new (to everyone).

…it’s tax season, and my head hurts.

…I’m getting both my kids into new schools for September.

…I never seem to see my wife.

…my dog just came back from the dentist, and had 4 teeth remoeeeyah, now I’m getting a little pussified.

Oh, and I’ve been reading a lot of things about Amazon’s KDP Select, and pricing for eBooks in general, and — though the single book I have out is no Pulitzer prize winner — can’t help but feel like I’ve unwittingly jumped into some self-fashioned bargain-bin e-basket.

Many comments I’ve read from readers do not shine nicely on how they feel about 99c priced books, and I’d hate to have forced myself into that particular corner when I really have no preference on 99c or $2.99 etc. My book being out there is what counts, the milestone it meant for me, not the price. But if that milestone has turned into some ‘read-it and delete-it’ memorandum on my online presence as an imagineer, then that sucks. I don’t want to make a quick buck, and I’d prefer 5 people buy it at a decent price and enjoy it (or pretend to and write something nice on Amazon) than 10 people buy it on the cheap and never even read it.

I’m re-thinking it all, I tell ya… IT ALL! Kind of, in-between all the crazy mentioned above.

Well, moving on. I thought I’d toss out a block of text filled with updates. So here we go.

And The Stars Ran Red is about to be gone over. I’m working up my appetite to make a final sweep over the FINAL draft before getting it onto the eBook shelves. All this build up, and it seems so ridiculous now. It’s not going to win any awards, I know that much — I still like it, don’t get me wrong, but it feels like… well, a lot of time spent on something that many will simply not care about. Which is fine, if I hadn’t cared for it for soooo long. Ha!

May 5 & The Assassin sales, we’ll see. It hasn’t been a rollicking success (not even friends and family seem that keen on buying it and pretending to read it — I know the jig, ain’t no secret!) but it’s out there, it’s a published book and I’m proud. It’s my first, so I don’t expect the world (maybe a moon though). I just enrolled it in Amazon’s KDP Select, so it’s free for Prime members to download and read, and 99c for the rest of you lot.

Only Shadows Ahead is battling it out with my short story collection. Neither is winning, as I keep wandering off and writing other short stories… I guess that’s good though, eh? For a short story collection I guess I’m making headway. The Wendigo Hunt, August McCrae, and others will go into it. You could call it putting tasters out there, with writing these shorts, posting them, and eventually taking them down. FREE for now, I guess is the case. But not forever. So, I guess the short story collection is winning after all.

Talking of The Wendigo Hunt, I’ve put it up for the Fantasy Faction January Writing Competition. Please visit, read and VOTE (top of page). I love the story as it gave me scope to try out some new (and old) ways of writing I haven’t done for a while. Forgot how fun it was to dance with poetry in your prose. It’s kind of western meets supernatural / fantasy, something I enjoyed writing in August McCrae.

Been reading Peter Newman’s The Vagrant over on his site. Great serial — VERY imaginative and rich in detail. Give it a poke (and let it poke you back).

I think I’m good at this juncture. Things are moving forward and I’m not going to complain, because they could be standing still!

(Also watched Homeland — which I keep calling Homicide. Not bad, not fantastic. But… enjoyable.)

He climbed and forged on, pulling the fedora tip to his nose. The snow battered him, it hated him, it wanted to claim him for the wild forest. Simpatico:  the children carried the seed, and the Earth Mother gave them the means to do so. He fell though, no mind for philosophy, and leant a battered arm to hard bark. A moment’s breath: a second, a third, a blink or two, and something in the distance, out of place caught his ragged attention: a light. He thought maybe a home, some lonely, snowy denizen hiding in nature for his refuge.

The heat of survival drew his legs tighter, gave his back poise. Mikkelson pushed on, invigorated by this new, preferable option to untimely expiration. Come to me, he prayed, be the fire-stoked home to rest by broken body. As he neared though, he saw it; nothing but a cave, though a cave with light within meant something more. The prize he’d left Europe and journeyed the Great Path for. Cocked pistol in hand, he slowed and stalked his way closer. Inside, a shadow painted itself upon the walls, flickering in monstrous shapes of pointed joints and bony form. A step from one hazard to another and the black shape writhed, shrinking away and fading, but no light died. Still the cave was illuminated, though Mikkelson was not.

A moment more, with no pause on entry, and he was inside. A corner waited, turning him from the white behind; of sure and easy freedom. Beyond the sight of snow outside, something new introduced itself. A woman, old, lay atop a pile of broken bones bequeathed by past visitors. Her arms held a rifle, locked on a dark hole beyond: the exit, or entrance to deeper caverns beneath.

She turned. He paused. They aimed at one another.

“Well? Are you here to save me, or kill me?” She said; thick accented words, hard to understand.

Mikkelson raised his colt, though his rib cried louder than his threat. He winced, taking a sharp intake and dropping his weak arm. “Hverken,” his frozen jaw rolled, “Eh, neither. Here for the creature.”

“Too many to name out here, but I’m guessing you mean the Wendigo?” The woman kept her aim trained.

He snorted. “I have no need for Indian names.  It is a sickness escaped from Niflheim, and back to Hel I should send it!” Bruised bones and an empty stomach left his patience vacant.

The woman, lowering her rifle, sighed with blown-out cheeks. “Well alrighty then. Seen as you are most definitely not from around here, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now help me up.”

Cautious as he may have been, Mikkelson saw she was more warn than he. The weathered cave gave protection, but little more. She would not last long, left alone atop the bonepile. Holstering his pistol, he approached with care, seeing that her legs were stained red.

“What happened?”

“Straight to it, hmm? Not even going to ask for a pretty lady’s name?” She smiled. “Well, no worries. I, this damsel you do not know, have broken my leg – well, it were broken for me.”

Mikkelson, though experienced with such a life as this and the lessons it tends to teach, paused. He looked her over, then down the black hole in back, and felt his own pains within still yelling for attention. “The… Wendigo did this?”

She propped herself up; an attempt to slide down the pile followed. “Well, it weren’t no wolves.”

“…you attack, and yet you live?” He helped her away, finding temporary solace at a rock. “How so?”

“You so,” she moaned, adjusting her posture. “Wandering in when you did – wrong place, but sure as hell right time.” A waterskin appeared, taken from her belt. “Drink? You need it too.”

He nodded, tasting a bitter wash of rehydration. A sleeve wiped red from his lips; a cut somewhere within perhaps. His body thanked him, quietening down their childish rants and being still for just a moment. Silence took them for a time, Mikkelson letting tired eyes take in the cave’s entirety. It was lit well, by torches on low stands. Several bodies cluttered the floor, most in half-dress: parts of clothing missing and some completely naked, baring bite marks where fatty meals resided.

“Where are you from, stranger?”

Mikkelson turned, looking her over also. “Denmark,” he said, “across the seas.”

“I didn’t think you meant Massachusetts.” Her lips parted, she smiled. “You got a name?”

There was no reason to spend all this information, and spill the borders of personal details to this stranger, in a cave, in the middle of a frozen western world miles beyond any town. Yet he did, and without care, perhaps he lacked conviction of making it beyond this craggy hell.

“Søren Mikkelson.” A stretch burned as he walked to the dark entrance. “It went down here?” The black was assaulting; a creature in and of itself. It pulled at him, swallowing his face and features, tempting him into its emptiness.

“Aye,” she said. “You alone, Søren? No friends to sail with from Denmark, no hired guns from the coast? I find that a mighty bit… irresponsible, to come hunting for some creature by yourself, I mean.”

Heavy breaths echoed as he tore himself from the pulling darkness. Looking to her across the cave, Mikkelson rubbed his eyes; shook his head. “No more but me, I had a friend.” A guilty weight tried to suffocate his words. “Lars…” he whispered. “It is not important.”

“Fair enough, I’d hate to pry.” She smiled again, sincerity lost. “I have a question for you, a one you might find mundane, but entertain me. It’s important.”

Mikkelson tilted his head; a line begun with loss of warmth gave him no desire to ponder. He flicked his wrist, the colt un-holstered, levelled at his hip. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, I don’t want to die here, that’s for sure.” She waved a hand. “My question is simple: If you left this cave and headed back, could you make it into town? I, most obviously cannot, but your wounds seem frightfully less dire.”

Pistol unwavering, he let his eyes roam again. The cave seemed brighter, though unlikely so, and yet he felt capable. Doubt had triumphed outside, and extinguished his abilities to conduct the hunt. But inside, warm and watered, he knew it quite possible. He nodded, understanding more than just curious questions.

Mikkelson, with experienced hands, pulled a twin colt from a holster and raised it, firing it down the dim tunnel beyond. Bang and whoop followed: no attack, no reprimand. Just silence.

He turned back. “You are the Wendigo.” He knew it to be true, fearing no fool for misplaced guesswork.

Her smile went to pout, eyes loosing reflection. “Quick, I’ll give you that. Most of these boys stumble in, all bravado, wanting to help a lady fallen on bad luck… my heroes. Not you though, Søren. Hmm?”

“You are no lady.” Pistols and words; all fell on her. “Where is the death form, where is the body Hel gave you, creature?”

“Harsh words, mister. You might just hurt my feelings going on like that.” She stood from the rock, awkwardly so, her manipulation of body not beyond the wounds. “What gave my show away, Nord man?”

Air shivered; the light adjusting to her unseen build. Mikkelson chinned the fiery torches. “They are mounted low, and these dead are missing clothing.” Eyes met. “You are wearing them; their memories, and their warmth.” He rounded the centre, moving to exit. “And the bite marks, they are yours.”

She, the it-thing Wendigo, snarled. Body shook and earth beneath, and all around the cave constricted. “You know of nothing, fool. You come here, near death, and I save you! I will take that price, too.” An unseen hand tweaked its marionette with mastered skills. The body fell, limp and cool, and the shadow appeared; realised in his presence.

“Price?” Mikkelson coolly considered its words. His strides even, his calm controlled. “Ah, you need me, my body? Loki made you flawed, Lofn bred you sick? A broken-legged servant is no servant at all. You are a sygdom… a sickness.”

“Be quiet your Norse ranting, this is my home!” Spat the Wendigo. “You trespass, you die. I take you, and you are mine, and with it and your loss, I will leave this place and travel to the community, and exact my will on them!” The black shape grew, washing the ceiling with its presence: a new sky of black.

Mikkelson unloaded both colts, bringing war on himself. They bounced inadequately, causing not bloodshed but frown upon his cautious face. He turned to run, but found the snow-white exit snuffed out by shadowy suffocation. “Take me…” his lips repeated, “take… me.”

“Babbled words from a soul gone mad,” the Wendigo crowed.

“How?” He asked, to all and nothing; the cave as was the Wendigo’s presence. “I am no cannibal; I knelt not to that taboo for gain.”

The textured wall of ravens-black laughed. “Drank plentiful though, of my water did you not? Though water… or blood, in quantity of another’s, or indeed of many others. In good conscience, you used them to survive. Now your skin and bones and body heal. Did you not, Nord man… did you not?”

He growled, calm gone, armour pierced: a chink found by an untouchable demon. Mikkelson returned one pistol to his waist, practicing the other to his temple. “You will not win.” He pulled the trigger, blasting hot round through soft flesh; an eye sprouting above his check. His body collapsed.

“NO!” The Wendigo screamed. Rock shook and stone fell, and all about dust filled the cave. Bony shadow withdrew, giving way once more to the form of the broken woman. She hobbled to him, to roll affront his gaping maw, to see the horror of suicidal features. A click announced a drawing back of steel hammer…

…and with a polished bang, the colt fired.

Re-animated senses blinked as one, and then the body folded onto burning torches. The flames licked, tasting old-fibred clothing and evil soul. The Wendigo howled, trapped in the physical, unable to sprout its shadows and dance away. Smoky clouds drifted as dead flesh burned.

The new white sky outside the cave had turned to warmest blue. The sun brought warmth, the trees gave way, and rays collected at booted feet once more. He wiped off his colt, and holstered the weapon still; for another day, another place it would be recalled. Mikkelson, though not the finest medic, wrapped the dry cloth thick, and tied it tightly across hollow socket. His eye was gone, but his life was ripe. Just as Odin: half-blind but wiser, waiting for his next Ragnarök.

He walked on, back to the Great Path.

If you’re not familiar with KDP Select, it goes pretty much like this:

• When you enroll a book into the program, you’re entering it into the Kindle Owners Lending Library, which itself is a collection of eBooks accessible by members of Amazon Prime (US), who can borrow 1 book a month, with no due dates.
• Everytime a Prime member borrows your book, you get a piece of the pie as it were, the pie being at least $6 million for 2012, with a current fund of $700,000 for January. The math breaks down as such:

“If the monthly fund amount is $500,000, the total qualified borrows of all participating KDP titles is 100,000, and your book was borrowed 1,500 times, you will earn 1.5% (1,500/100,000 = 1.5%), or $7,500 for that month.” — FAQ

• You have to sell exclusively through Amazon for 90 days, 5 of which can be promotional ‘free book’ days. You control this all through a new ‘Promotions Manager’ tool.
• You can continue to sell you books on Amazon, and you can sell physical copies. You just have to axe the Smashwords etc.

For me, as a new Indie author still trying to make his way in the world, I’m not going to be successful off the bat. I have to do my best to sell my books, be patient, and still try to hold onto some modicum of respectability… ::waves::

Well, I’ve done these things, and now with the introduction of KDP Select, I think it’s a good time to try it out. My numbers from Smashwords, iBooks, and B&N haven’t knocked me over, so I really have nothing to lose. For me, this could be the perfect answer — I’m not an established name, my book is an unknown quantity and I don’t have a ‘Me-movement’ that’s capturing new fans everyday, so the concept of allowing my book to be borrowed — and if borrowed a decent amount of times, earning me some royalties — is great.

Obviously the big kicker is that you’re selling your eBook through Amazon exclusively for three-months, but as mentioned, that isn’t a big denial for me from other electronic book sellers. As an Amazon Prime member also, and a Kindle owner, I have already used the Lending Library and found it quite useful. There are thousands of titles to borrow, and though it has a ways to go before I’d call it a competitor to the traditional library system (the essentially ‘free’ one), it’s got promise.

I’ll keep the weblog informed of my KDP progress. May is still waiting to go into PUBLISHED status once again, but when that’s done, I’ll have a better understanding of all the new toys at my disposal.

-

If It Hadn’t Been For Love, I’d have never quit school and walked out on my art degree. I’d have never followed Becky halfway across the country and moved into a condo in Orlando. If it hadn’t been for love, I’d have never found my new job at Disneyworld, and neither would she. I would have never asked her to marry me, and if it hadn’t been for love we would have never gotten engaged. Our dog, Francis, would never have found a home with us instead of being put-down at the pound, if it hadn’t been for love. She would have never had puppies, and we would have never met Kate and Simon who bought one of the puppies, and if it hadn’t been for love, I would have not found a new best friend, been a best man, and watched them get married in Portofino. If it hadn’t been for love, Becky and I would have never tied the knot ourselves, never become pregnant and had Josh, and if it hadn’t been for love, I would never have passed on my love of drawing and painting to him, and at the age of three I would never have been so proud to see a picture he’d scribbled of me, his dad; long yellow hair and grinning. If it hadn’t been for love, I would never have asked Becky to have another child, and if it hadn’t been for love she wouldn’t have said, yes.

I’d have never pushed and worked my way up the chain, using my responsibility to become an executive at WesterGate, if it hadn’t been for love. I wouldn’t have worked late nights and weekends to provide, if it hadn’t been for love, and if it hadn’t been for love, I’d have never come home early to surprise Becky for our anniversary, with flowers and chocolates. I’d have never walked in on her and Simon, in our bed whilst Josh was at school. If it hadn’t been for love, there would have never been an argument, there would have never been a fight, if it hadn’t been for love. If it hadn’t been for love, their love, Josh would have been mine, but because of love, he wasn’t. If it hadn’t been for love, I would have never stormed downstairs and grabbed the knife, and ran back up and stabbed him, and her, and Francis for barking the whole time. If it hadn’t been for love, we would still be together and Josh would still be mine. If it hadn’t been for love, I’d not have been caught, tried and locked up. If it hadn’t been for love, I wouldn’t be sitting in this cell at the end of the hall, one knock from the chair-room. If it hadn’t been for love, there would be a me, free, back home in Montana, loving someone who loves me back. If it hadn’t been for love, I’d be laughing with my son, sitting in the sun. Painting.

-

            She came running at me, her hair a brown the colour of brandy. Shit, she was hot. Her rack bounced beneath a thin shirt, her hips swayed in ripped jean cut-offs – wow. I crumpled up the letter I’d be writing to my girlfr… ex back home, back… on Earth, and hid it.

            “Hey, sweet cheeks,” I called. She looked to me; I’m sure time slowed. “Yeah, you. Where you going?”

            “Milos teneth di amondo,” she said… I hadn’t a clue what it meant, but it sounded sexy.    

            “What?” Sexy or not, I still wanted to know where she was going. She stopped, her hands raised, touching my chest – I was ripped. It was hot and I was sweaty. I held her firm, looking into those deep-puddle eyes. “I got you, baby. What’s wrong?”

            “Milos…” she began again. I touched her lips with mine; silencing whatever mumbo-jumbo she was trying to sell me. “English, lady. I ain’t no linguist.”

            She pulled away, crossing her arms; her heavy bosom cramming together like two giant peaches colliding. When I looked up, I saw she was annoyed. “To the tower’s top, for my love.”

            “This one?” I hiked a thumb, pointing out that the tower behind me was huge – like, proper massive. “You insane? Come on, you and me…” I winked.

            She frowned. “My papa, he dies. At the top,” she pointed, “the fountain of life. A drink is all he needs.”

            “What about my needs, candy? I’m a stranger here. Don’t even know where home is. The other day I saw some guy with two-heads and a badger on a leash. What the hell is that all about?”

            “Den Bodger.”

            “Nah, it was definitely a badger – had the stripe and everything.”

            “Runda sum… you’re an idiot!” She seemed pissed, but all I saw when she banged her foot down and grabbed a hip was the jungle sweat on her lips. “Bodger is Megra’s druin; one of his men, his creatures.”

            “Alright, Christ. Take a chill pill, lady.” How the hell was I supposed to know what a Bodger was? This chick was acting crazy, if it wasn’t for that body I’d have walked off two minutes ago.

            “My name is Hora, non lady.”

            I raised an eyebrow. “Nice name. I’m Dash. Now, what’s this about some garden decoration?”

            “Den fontai… ah, stupid language. The fountain, it gives life. My papa…”

            “Okay, baby. I got this.” Hearing about her ‘papa’ croaking was killing my buzz. “If I get you up this tower, find some funky water and get it to your pop. What then?”

            Hora pulled her hair back, flicking it over one shoulder and followed it down – way down – with her fingers. I knew where this was going… it was going well. I grabbed her, slamming her body into mine.

            “Wha…”

            “I get you.” She was all over me.

            “NO!” …or not. “I think jut, ah… food. Drink – place to sleep!

            “That’s it? Look, sweet lips…” Then I remembered how long I’d gone without a good meal. I was gonna burn a lot of calories, one way or… another. “Fine!”

            She wriggled away, running for the tower. I checked my six-shooter and slid the empty letter into my fedora. It was time to get my shoot-on.

~*~

            “Hey, hot lips. Wait up.” I fell against a pile of wood that smelt of old piss and caught my breath. “We’ve gotta be near the top, eh?”

            Hora slowed ahead of me – I’d been watching that ass, it had got me most of the way up. But even those denim knolls were losing their charm; I hoped she wasn’t a never-nude. “Time runs out!”

            “For your goddamn papa, yeah I got that the first THIRTY times.” Wow, she was short on conversation. Talk about your one-trick pony. Something below rumbled; another of Megra’s Wildermen scrambling up the stairs quicker than I could reload. I stood up, clocking another half-dozen rounds into empty chambers.

            “They come,” she said.

            I slid a hand around her waist. “A kiss for the road? I mean, at this rate neither of us is going to be getting down again: you’re smoking hot, I’ve got a six pack and full head of hair. It’s disco time.”

            “Disgost…”

            “…I got that one, thanks.” A white thing lunged at me from the landing below, so I blasted a hole through its flabby head and we headed up.

~*~

            Running low on party poppers, I aimed one of my last and blew the roof hatch open. I helped Hora out – copping a feel – and followed. There, in the centre, a fountain squirted pure spring into the air. I hadn’t doubted there was some funky ornamental awaiting us, but I hadn’t expected a Super-Jacuzzi.

            “Shit, looks refreshing.”

            “Life,” I think Hora mumbled. I mean by that time, what with all the blood and shouting and attempted heavy-petting, I was beginning to feel a bit dizzy.

            “Well, grab some and let’s go…” It sounded easy, if not for the weirdo laughing behind me. I turned. There, a giant fug ugly creature wobbled in hysterics like a mouldy jelly.

            “No so fast. I have waited a long time to face enemy I could respect, a hooman from another world – a lost world. Finally, I have…”

            “Yeah, whatever.” I blasted two rounds into the dickhead and grabbed Hora. She pulled away, filling her bottle quickly. I tried to keep Megra – I assumed this was it – away with a couple more blasts before she had finished.

            “How do we get free?”

            “I’m thinking…”

            She came close, pressing the bottle between our bodies and touching her lips to mine. “For life, I give you…”

            “Bad time for a quickie, candy cane.”

            “..life,” she said. I guessed it was more nonsense, then she pushed us off the roof.

~*~

            I felt the fall, how couldn’t I? Most of the bones in my body were broken and my dick was resting against my shoulder – bad. If only I could reach the bottle.

Since acquiring said e-reader, I’ve picked up a couple of free books (fuck off, it’s just been Christmas) and I bought one of Monsieur Chuck Wendig’s pamphlets on being a better writer. I needed something in that direction, so I grabbed myself a copy of 250 Things You Should Know About Writing. I wanted a quickie (…), without the fluff and I’ve been enjoying the exploits he writes about over at Terribleminds. Sufficed to say it worked a charm. I was already readying myself to get back into the game before the season kicked off (I knew because I kept deconstructing everything I watched or read, following the ebbs and flows of storylines and wondering off into my own imagi-mind), but the book helped blast away all the cobwebs and crap, and just single out what I had to get on with.

Thus, today I submitted my first novel (May 5 & The Assassin being a serial, and technically not a novel) to a publisher. If it doesn’t get picked up after a few submissions, I’m going to release it myself, as per May. I like that route anyway, but I thought I’d try the other path first.

I’m going to start on my second true novel, well… I’ve already started, but I’m going to re-start as in re-read the beginning and find my voice then get on with the rest of it. Quit quitting, as it were. I have to do a bit of planning — sketch out where the characters are going, the point, the world and so on, but I’m actually looking forward to that, whereas usually I hate that part of ‘worldbirthing’.

Before all this though, I need to clear my head and get a cuppa tea. Oh and the picture ofthatunbelievablycraptasticbottomofthebargainbinbullshit, 2012 was just for fun.

It’s been a couple of months since I last poked my head from the sand, but that’s OK. After writing and publishing, promoting and trying to get into new things with older things barking at my heels, I needed to take a break. Autumn approached, as did the holidays and through it all a game I knew I would be taking time out to play Skyrim (DOVAHKIIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).

So, I did. I’m glad I forced myself to ignore the internet, the writing — the thinking on plots and characters. I’ve finished watching all my stories: Boardwalk Empire — Amazing. The Walking Dead  - WTF? Dexter — So far, so shitty. Accordingly, I now feel like getting back into everything. Granted, it’s now Christmas, but whatever. There’s no right or wrong time to play with your art, so I’m not going to wait another two-weeks for cold January.

I’ll be back in the saddle and posting my goings-on. Not in this post though, this is just a quick hello from me to you. :)

-

November 19^th, 2011

Dear Katherine,

            I hope this letter receives you well, and that my absence has not been a torturous affair.  By the time you read this, I will be gone – not dead, just gone. I couldn’t do it anymore – not for the children, not for us, not even for the guilt your mother will no doubt gift me with should I bump into her one day. I’ve been living a lie since the day you met me, since before even then actually, one that I can’t bear to hide any more. We’ve had a good life, an enjoyable life, and I do hope you will continue to do so even after our separation – there’s that Carlos guy at the supermarket, he’s always liked you, give him a call. I don’t mind, whatever helps you forget me.

By this time you will no doubt be wondering why I left… and though I must tell you, I do feel a thread of embarrassment in my confession. Not in what I am, you understand, but in what you will think of me. I am, and this is hard to say, a vukodlak – or what everyone nowadays commonly calls a vampire. It’s hard to take that word seriously considering the world sees us as caricatures and treats us like cockroaches. I’m sorry if I sound angry, no doubt you should be the one annoyed at this point – or laughing, though hopefully not – I am just being honest, despite the ridiculousness of how I may sound. Maybe starting somewhere near the beginning will help you understand why I must move on.

Sum six-hundred years ago, when I was twenty-nine and part of a raiding party in Prilep – back in Mecedonia – I was killed by a giant bear of a man called Arctos. I wasn’t a good man, I wasn’t even noble, but I wasn’t evil. At least I like to think so. He cut me down and left me for dead in the bottom of Zlapo, a mountain north of my home. Forty nights went by, and by that point you may have thought me long since food for the wolves, but that wasn’t to be my fate. I crawled from the mulch, alive – kind of. My father always used to scare me with folklore about such things, who would have thought he was right? …though legend also said that I would have one giant eye and wander the mountain calling out people’s names, before eating them. Don’t believe everything passed down by your senile old man I guess, (good advice for you by the way, sometimes I think Humphrey tries his best to scare you into what he wants, though I guess he may have been right with me).

I apologise if I am going off-point, but I do want to communicate myself effectively. Perhaps then you can understand. Back when I was first risen, vukodlak were feared. People used us to inspire fear, and we roamed the lands as masters of our own destinies. We weren’t interested in secretly controlling countries or controlling humans like cattle – we were loners, Goths at heart (and not the leather and mascara kind). That’s how I lived for centuries, then slowly the world changed and we became increasingly popularised in books and movies:. Bram Stoker, Murnau, Béla Lugosi, Christopher Lee. They all turned us into monsters and velvet-clad Romeos. They had this much though; they believed in their vision, they stuck to what their image of a vukodlak was.

This brings me to the heart of this letter; my goodbye to you. The world has turned us into a laughing stock. If we’re not being hunted by kung-fu half-bloods, we’re romanticising one-another in the deep south, or glowing in the woods like Prince at an 80s concert – it’s gotten way out of hand. I don’t understand it, I can’t even try; creatures of the night reduced to characters in action movies. Speaking of which, Mary did not make my life any easier. Having the president of an unofficial Angel fan club as your sister-in-law was a lesson in patience every Sunday dinner. I guess if honesty is the policy as I explain my goodbye, I should also confess that I have fed regularly… on people, including Mary. She didn’t fall into a wood chipper on that vacation to Kentucky, we were just camping a long way out, Phil was polishing a bottle off, you were asleep and I couldn’t help myself. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t enjoy her… or perhaps the consolation would be that I did. Regardless, my apologies. I also returned Phil’s copy of The Fountain – a small step towards reconciliation.

By now I imagine you hate me, and cannot comprehend what we had for those twelve years. Give my love to Francesca and Akinyi – by now you understand why we had to adopt, as I cannot reproduce. That part of my culture is, unfortunately, true. I’m still not entirely sure why we had to adopt an African baby, but I guess everyone is doing it these days. It will also be clear why I was so passionate about working nights at the Red Cross, and why I often volunteered to provide foreign aid – I’ve been keeping in touch with old (very old) friends, and we have decided to try and make a home in the old country. You’ll understand I can’t tell you where that is, but I know that will be the last of your concerns – the first should be the mortgage really, as I took our savings. I left the college accounts alone though, the girls will be fine. Especially without a vukodlak as a father, am I right?

Know that you will always be in my heart, Katherine, and hopefully I will always be in yours.

Yours, 

                                   Dimi xoxo

PS: I finally sorted out the Toby barking next door problem. You don’t need to know how, just stay away from the compost bin for a week or two.

After writing August McCrae, and feeling rather pleased with all the positive comments, I decided to write a short story for Fantasy Faction’s October Writing Challenge. The challenge was a rather approachable affair: write about a forest or wood, in 2k words, and include an element of fantasy. I came up with an idea quick enough, decided on the style and went for it. And then stopped wenting for it. I don’t understand where my brain fell out: work, home, home, home (between you-me, I think I need some actual time to myself, as opposed to writing between things — I spend A LOT of time with my 4yr old. But that’s life, that’s being a father). Anyway, I can usually manage to get something done, but I was just…

…

…sorry, Toy Story is on the TV and Buzz just entered. See what I mean about my brain falling out?

I also read that Chuck Wendig posted another Friday Challenge on, well Friday. This one’s 3 out of 5 words, plus a vampire somewhere along the line in 1k words. I liked the idea, so again I thought I might join in. I had an idea, started and again ________ <– this symbolises the blank space between my ears where my ideas should be.

Anyway… that was last week. I’m feeling better today, and although I’ve done no writing bar a few words of introduction, I feel better mentally. I feel like I can approach this week with some form of patience and clarity, and I feel better for ranting, albeit at myself.

Thanks for listening.

-

Back a hundred years or so, my granddaddy, Job McCrea was a young man on the frontier of the gold rush. The Revolution had been done with him some years prior, and he’d turned to mercenary work to feed his family. It was a hard life like many, but he made it work. Then he heard of some striking gold in North Carolina, it took his attention, and things began to change. Granddaddy never had the money or knowledge of mining though, so he lent his services as a hired gun to any that required it – which, as it turned out, was more than even he expected.

From reading letters bequeathed to me from my own pa, times began to change around the expansion to the west, when the gold rush stretched to California. My granddaddy had fallen ill to consumption and pa was handling securities for the prospectors, but the Forty-Niners – from the year of Our Lord it all began, required something altogether more specific from the McCrea family.

Granddaddy was dead by the time pa took the family west, through Missouri to the California Trail – harrowing from the stories pa told me.

Earl McCrea and his family arrived in Oregon on December 19^th, 1850, and from the few weeks that followed, pa created quite a niche for himself – in the monster-hunting business. See, as much as gold was readily available to any that could dig deep enough, or spend enough time panning at the riverside, something often waited in the bowls of the earth, protecting that most valued commodity over all others: gold. Redskins thought them some kind of guardians – spirits the Mother Earth had sent to protect men from greed, the Mexicans called them Serpientes de oro, or Golden Snakes. Even detractors called them Fools Reward.  Every man had his own version of the stories, but all I know that matters is what my pa said, and all he ever said to me was, ‘Don’t get bit.’

I joined pa as apprentice in ‘53, and business was good for a time, though also questioned by many – the lack of real evidence that these monsters existed caused a lot of doubt. Sure, we always found something to shoot and drag out of the hole, but when big companies like Hammer & Iron, and East Hope arrived in the 60s with capital investments and hydraulic drills, they wanted more than a song to celebrate, they wanted bodies. It drew on pa, and by the time the gold rush boomed in B.C. to the north, he was dead and I was in-charge.

Things changed then, drastically so. Though in name I was a McCrea, the original Forty-Niners did not hold me in the same esteem as my pa, and granddaddy before him. Work dried up as the company men bought up the land claims and denied what they called ‘superstitious concerns’, and I was left to find work elsewhere. Knowing nothing else and possessing a very specific set of skills, I had no choice but to go where I was needed.

I travelled, much. After Canada, I went east to the Black Hills and Wyoming, eventually leaving for Scotland and the Kildonnan rush. Then, while in South Africa, altogether darker news reached me. A rush on Colorado had turned catastrophic. An entire settlement had vanished during the excavation of a claim by East Hope. Thirty-seven miners had disappeared without trace – leaving only dusty equipment and warm plates behind. There was nothing I could do. I was months away – halfway across the world. But I knew it meant something. Work was drying up in the Golden Arc, and a war was underway, so I left as promptly as I could and headed home.

I arrived in Washington on February 4^th, 1896. I had visited Cripple Creek in Colorado during my journey, and found it busy but for a claim of land just beyond the main encampment. East Hope ignored my requests to excavate the site, so I continued west. There had been rumours of an incident at Mount Baker and this time, there had not been sufficient time for anyone to cover it up. Unpatented claims had been staked by independent prospectors and they wanted access to their mines before the capital companies arrived. The family name carried reputation, and they requested my work on the spot.

I remember doubting myself as I tied off – wondering if this was nothing: another monkey escaped from a Chinese purveyor of rare beasts like in San Francisco. I checked my chambers, gathered my noose and lynching rope, and raised my bandana. I forgot how dark it would be, having not descended since Africa, and found myself feeling around the tunnels with lamp in hand. There was a smell of sulphur and a rising heat. I recall the heat like that of the long plains – dry, draining even. My lamp flickered as I entered a large cavern. The sulphur concentrates playing with it like brimstone.

Then I slipped, on what I don’t rightly remember. My lamp flew into the air, exploding in a ball of flames. In the flash, I saw something. There was no boar waiting for me in this place, no wild animal lost to the darkness. A great spider, though unlike any I had seen before, looked up from me – or so I thought. I realised I was staring at a floor of gold, up was down, the spider was above me. When I looked up, it dropped and I tried to scramble away. It landed too quick – too heavy – and stared at me through human eyes. It was then I knew this was no spider. Nothing crawling in my pa’s kitchen had ever been half man. But, there it was and there I was. For the first time in all my years monster-hunting, I had actually found a monster, and at the time, I thought it might be the only time I would see one…

…and that was just the beginning.

-

BLOODY NORA! I researched and researched, and had to cut this thing down from 1,500 words to make it fit. I’m not sure why, but I put real effort into this like I was trying to win a new car or something. This was fun, and though it’s not the most monster-centric story it could have been, I’m proud of the end result.

I have to get some things achieved this month, so in the spirit of such I figured I’d put it all out there. Wear my proverbial heart on my proverbial sleeve, as it where — which is keeping my proverbial arm warm and dry in the actual rain.

And The Stars Ran Red
Ahh, the first book I wrote and still it’s stewing. I finished the 2nd draft about a month ago and am quite happy with it. Unfortunately I have not had much luck (you make your own luck, eh?) finding any beta readers for it, and most avenues for reviewing and/or beta-reading have been leant to May 5 & The Assassin. So, what do I do now? I’m not really sure. If I cannot harness anybody to go over the book for/with me, I may have to cough up some actual clams and pay to have an editor go over it, which though possible, takes away a bit of my own personal approach to indy writing — a large part of it being community, even if I can’t seem to find my place in it. I could of course, re-read it and see how I feel… I’m not sure on this one.

May 5 & The Assassin
Is still published, not really a shock there. I’ve put quite a few feelers out there for reviews and had a few responses from independent book reviewers, and absolutely none from forum posting. I didn’t expect much from forums to be honest as I’m an unknown quantity to 99.9% of everyone out there. Still, I tried.

Having the FREE coupon offer going for a week did good, pushing my downloads well into double digits. So, I have exposure and that always helps. I’m thinking of dropping the price permanently to 99c, as it’s a novella and my first publication, but I’m not sure where to go on that one.

Only Shadows Ahead
The tentative title of Book 3. I need to start getting this put together. I have a few chapters down already (I’ve put Chapter 1 up on the site for a little bit, see what peeps think of it) and ideas abound, but I’ve been so wrapped up in this whole new indy-publisher thing I’ve not been focusing on the actual writing part.

I have my stories and plots down, but not much in-between, I know some characters, stages for setting and so on, but the meat of the book is still AWOL. I need to hire some Mercs to track it down for me.

NaNoWriMo
I’m not doing it. Pretty simple. I don’t want to experiment with trying to write a book in 30 days, not this year. I’ve tried it a couple of times and it doesn’t work out good for me. I need to concentrate on writing Book 3 my way, not the way I can get the most words on a page (and then probably have to delete later anyway).

Short Story: ‘Sands’
Been writing this one for a bit, and have lost where I was going with it. I can’t figure out my end game, but it’s on the back burner now anyway.

…and that’s where I’m at for October — and what I have to work on until November, when I’ll take a look back to see what I sucked at accomplished.

I literally had no idea where I was going, and here are a random 6 things I learned during the writing of And The Stars Ran Red.

1. Apparently there is an ensemble cast.

I had no plans on this, in fact I expected the story to be told from the POV of one MC, perhaps switching to that of the antagonist intermittently, but mainly just the one chappy telling the story. In the end, let me count… OK, I had around 8–9 telling the story through their own experiences. 3 of them are definitely MCs, but there are quite a few characters bouncing around the chapters of this book. It wasn’t/isn’t a negative by any means, and I do enjoy a varying degree of POV, but it wasn’t expected. Shock.

2. Good vs. bad became a difference of opinion.

It’s nice to enjoy your main bad guy, give them those pain-in-the-arse moments you can have fun with, and then push you and them to a point you agree, everyone would be better off if they were fish food. But really, And The Stars Ran Red didn’t go in that direction. From my ‘flaily’ approach to the story, the antagonist was going to be a typical guy taking the wrong course of action, the guy you just stare at and think why. But that’s not how it turned out, he turned out having a decent amount of credibility and balancing out the pros and cons of his arguments quite well. Smart fella, really.

3. As much as I like ‘space’ SF, I’m not sure it’s the love I thought it would be.

This book was my first foray into writing just that, a real book with future possibilities, and as such I imagined a story in the genre I loved. Then, when I finished, I realised maybe it’s not the strong suit I was expecting. I thought I would be a genre-writer, falling into one category more or less… not so much. I’ve dabbled here and there over the period of writing And The Stars Ran Red, and produced a web serial, and those tasters have shown me that I’m not going to be floating in spaceships and fighting gravity exclusively. The proof is in the pudding, as neither the short story I’m writing or my next book are set in space.

4. Men are cool, but women can be more interesting characters.

Before that becomes a staple of my opinion, I’m not saying that about EVERY story I’ll ever write, and I can’t comment on anybody else’s work. There are a couple of female characters in ‘Ran Red, and they hold their own, but honestly I feel like the emotions expressed and choices made by my MCs might have been more resonant — explained, or given better vision - if they were from the POV of the women in the story. I’ve taken this with me into my second book, bringing a strong female presence into the story quickly and giving her the strength and depth to balance out the MC.

5. Aliens weren’t welcome, and it stayed that way.

I’m not a huge fan of extra terrestrial life in SF, I don’t recall any of the books I enjoyed the most having any. I’m more of a technology and possibilities man, as opposed to shaking hands with a five-handed green man in the shape of a hand — he’s in the shape of a hand, not me. You get the point. I didn’t want them in ‘Ran Red and by jove, it stayed that way. I’m glad, very glad. A few times I could have introduced them — watched a late night movie on TV and thought it was a good idea to ‘introduce some anarchy’ — but the STOP sign held, and the bastards kept out.

6. Writing your first book HAS to be the hardest.

Straight out on this one, I fucking hope so! Writing this book took a year, and then editing two drafts and getting it into a state I want to pass it onto beta readers another, oh, hundred or so? I don’t even recall the year I ACTUALLY spent writing it, I just remember all the stuff that came afterwords: the doubt, the disappointment, the getting back on top of it, more disappointment and so on, blah blah blah. It’s been a tricky road, and I’m curious where I go from here. I have a book lined up to write, a short story to finish and I’m still trying to ‘get myself out there’ as it were with May 5 & The Assassin. All of it hard work.

Until And The Stars Ran Red is released, why not pick up a copy of May 5 & The Assassin via Amazon or Smashwords. All proceeds go to the confidence bank, where every book bought makes me feel like I made it.

This is my little fart of an attempt:

–

“STOP!” Bishop gurgles, the blood filling his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorguglglgr.”

He pauses, a hand on a wall, fingers between ivy. He looks down at the man, spitting at his feet. “That’s the best you have? Asshole.”

Broken bones and gaping cuts keep Bishop on the floor; he can’t move. He tilts his head, the tangy copper pools his ear. “I didn’t mean it.”

“She’s dead, it’s too late. I’m one hooker down, you broke one of my toys.” He takes out a knife, slipping it from the small of his back. It glints in the alley light: Lollipop.

–

And that’s that. Not sure what my obsession with hookers and alleys is, but call it residual from May 5 & The Assassin. Once you get a theme in your head, sometimes it’s hard to shake, eh?

I’ve been busy… busy busy busy, and with writing this time as opposed to just being busy. This last 13 days or such, I’ve been taking part in Nick Enlowe’s NPI and editing And The Stars Ran Red.

I had expected to come back to this book that I had abandoned, uh, let simmer on the back burner for a bit, and be greeted by a horrible collection of words and characters. In all honesty, it hasn’t been that at all. I’m actually quite happy with the book, but now I’ve hit a bit of a problem. Instead of pouring over facets and angles I don’t like and abruptly re-organizing a chunk of the story, I’m taking out the ending and re-writing it… only, what I’ve re-written so far feels better that what I previously wrote. It’s no big deal, but it’s quite funny to get to this point and realise that I’ve grown as a writer. In the space of 3 years, I can see those changes: I’m not forcing it out, trying so hard, not worrying so much about how it will be viewed and now just content to write my story. You get the idea, hopefully.

Anyway, my point and the reason Ash from Army of Darkness is the featured image of this post, well, because I’m using it as a parallel, and I’m hoping to reign it in a little and make sure the book doesn’t change in style and substance before the end. Don’t get me wrong, I love AoD and the Evil Dead trilogy on a whole, but it’s definitely noticeable that the end of the story isn’t the same as the beginning or even the middle; there is no growth particularly between the Ash of movie 2 and AoD — besides the chainsaw hand (awesome), so I’m keeping that in mind.

Generally, I’m amazed and delighted that this book will be ‘done’ and that I can move on to start something new. For so long have ATSRR, May and a couple other things been floating around my brain, it will be fresh to get on with the newer stories I have in me…

…anyway, now I have to go, I have to watch Army of Darkness!