NOTES FROM THE LAIR | Abner Senires, science fiction/fantasy pulp adventure writer

"Last Tango in Bolivia (excerpt)" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-30T07:09:00.000-08:00

[originally published in the August 2001 issue of The Oblivious Plethora; from The Jericho Files collection]

It had been a fifteen-hour flight beginning in San Francisco International, with an hour layover in Miami where I was subjected to the same harried-looking woman and her screaming toddler everywhere I went, then about six hours of peace to La Paz, Bolivia, and then into the northern Bolivian town of Rurrenabaque.

I was investigating a case of strange seizures affecting residents in over two dozen cities across the Midwest and another half-dozen up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Victims were said to experience violent twitching in their eyelids, calves, feet, legs, and arms. One female victim in North Dakota experienced eyelid twitches followed by calf twitches and then severe arm flailing all while shopping at a local mall. The flailing took out six other women around her who ended up in the hospital with concussions.

Two days after the Dakota Episode, I had gotten a call from a man who identified himself only as La Rana who said he had vital information for me.

"I know about the sickness happening in the news in your country," he'd said. "You must come here. Ahora. Now. To Bolivia. Rurrenabaque. That is all I can say for now."

Then the line went dead.

I quickly called Jonesy at Plethora and told him about the Bolivian lead. He jumped on the story and said he'd make arrangements for me to fly out.

* * *

The plane, a nineteen-seater Fairchild Swearingen twin turboprop, touched down on the grassy runway of Rurrenabaque airport just before 7:00 am and the temperature was already climbing into the low 80s. I got off the plane into warm and humid air ripe with the smell of vegetation and was met by a tall, well-built, lantern-jawed man with close-cropped brown hair and ruggedly handsome features. He was dressed in khaki pants, a tan work shirt, battered brown leather jacket, and an equally-battered fedora canted at a rakish angle. He spotted me, raised a hand in greeting, and strode over.

"You must be Doctor Jericho," he said. "I'm Wyoming Knott."

"Heinlein?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nevermind," I said, then indicated his clothing. "That's very Indiana Jones," I said.

Knott made a face. "That damn Lucas."

"George Lucas?"

"Yeah. Based that character on my grandfather who was an soldier of fortune in the twenties. Gramps wrote a book about his time in Egypt called Raiders of the Lost Arch. Never got any credit for it."

"I thought the character was something Lucas and Steven Spielberg came up with."

"Nope, that lying sack of warm cat vomit. Lucas stole a lot of the details from Gramps's book. The jacket. The fedora. The satchel."

I looked around us, cautious. "Best take care. Lucas is know to have long litigatory arms. He may have spies posted around here."

Knott grunted. "He can try to sue me. But he best beware. I have detailed files." He gestured toward a ten-year old gray, dirt-splattered Suzuki Grand Vitara parked nearby. "Anyway--come on. We're meeting folks at the docks. We'll talk more in the car."

* * *

On the way to downtown Rurre (as the locals called Rurrenabaque) Knott filled me on the details.

"My local contact, who calls himself La Rana, tells me there's one guy who's manufacturing the stuff," he said.

"La Rana," I said. "He's the one who called me about this."

"Apparently he's got the inside scoop on our guy."

"Who is our guy?"

He reached between the seats, pulled out a manila folder, and handed it to me. "Doctor Manuel Gilipollas de Madera. Went to Universidad Autónoma Juan Misael Saracho for a biochemistry degree. Then got his Masters in molecular biology from Universidad Mayor de San Simón."

I skimmed the file then found a photo of de Madera. He was a small man with thinning hair and droopy goldfish-bowl eyes.

"Biochem and molecular biology," I said, looking up from the file. "So he's making drugs?"

"Biological weapons," said Knott.

"How do you figure?"

"La Rana tell me de Madera has his people searching the jungle for a certain types of poson dart frog," said Knott.

"Poison dart frog," I said, considering. "So he's probably taking their skin secretions and manipulating them to create these drugs."

"Biotoxins," said Knott.

"Which are making people in the States go into seizures."

"Yeah."

"Why? And how is he getting them out of the country?"

Knott shrugged and glanced at me. "Isn't that what you're here to find out?"

"It is," I said.

"You've got good shoes on, right?"

I lifted my foot and showed him my well-scuffed pair of black Corcoran jungle boots. "Why?" I asked.

"We'll be trekking into the jungle," he said. "Downriver on the River Beni, first. Then we take one of the forks. And then on foot into the jungle. Maybe a mile or so. There's a place there that used to be called Grano Verde. Abandoned village from the looks of things."

"You've been there?"

Knott nodded. "It's where the lab is at."

"You're sure."

He nodded again. "And we'll need to be armed." He reached behind his seat, pulled out a plastic and paper-wrapped bundle, and handed it to me. "Take this and keep it close."

I opened the bundle and found myself staring a golden fish head the size of a basketball.

"Jove's hairy nutsac!" I said, nearly jumping out of my seat and dropping the head into the footwell. "What the hell is that?"

"Fish head," said Knott, chuckling. "Roly-poly."

"I can see it's a fish head. But I'm not going to eat it up. Why is it on my lap?"

"It's the head of a Golden Dorado," Knott said. "Aggressive critters. The locals call them River Tigers."

"Big damn fish," I said, looking it over and quickly extrapolating likely size of the body. I noticed a handle had been attached to the back of the head. I looked at Knott. "Why is there a handle on this fish head?"

"Grano Verde sits in the middle of Ahbeeg country."

"In Ahbeeg country?" I said. "Why walk? Why not take ATVs?"

"It's thick jungle. ATVs would just get stuck."

"And who or what are the Ahbeeg? Mysterious women who will chase us and burn down farmhouses?"

"Indigenous peoples. Fierce warriors. And cannibals."

Damnation. I hated cannibals. Fine, young, or otherwise. They drove me crazy. And gave me the heebie jeebies.

"So what--we give them the fish heads, they don't eat us?"

"They're icthyophobes. Scared of fish. Specifically dead fish. More specifically, dead Golden Dorados."

Ah.

Genius.

As we drove into what passed for downtown Rurre and I looked around at the dirt streets and single-story buildings, a thought struck.

This was Bolivia.

I said to Knott: "Butch and Sundance died here, you know."

"Not in Rurre," he said. "Further south. Or so the story goes. And I wouldn't worry too much about that."

"Why worry?" I said. "We're just about to hike into cannibal country armed only with fish heads."

"At least we're not wearing unlicensed nuclear accelerators on our backs."

"Good point," I said.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

New Release: 30 Minutes or Less

2012-01-25T08:45:00.000-08:00

30 Minutes or Less is a new short story that takes place in Bay City (the same stomping grounds as everyone's favorite gun-toting duo, Kat and Mouse) and involves armed pizza delivery.

Get it for your Kindle now.

Nook version will be available soon. I'll let you know when.

"More Notes From The End Days" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-25T06:30:00.000-08:00

"I'm not convinced," Anne said from her desk, "that the world will end on December 31st."

"Even though Duke and Mallory Braus have talked about it?" I said.

"Even then. Because The Hobbit, Part One comes out the same month."

"The Armored anthology by John Joseph Adams comes out in late-March," I said.

"And the restraining order against you is still in effect. Besides, March is too early. December supposedly marks the end. But I disagree."

"March is also the time of WonderCon," I said.

And it was. But WonderCon was in Anaheim this year, owing to renovation at the Moscone Center. There was something not quite right about those so-called "renovations," something that gnawed at my insides like Graboids, and I had a few calls out on it.

Anne and I had originally planned to partake in the glorious three-day extravaganza but now it was not in the cards. "They show a three of cups, a six of diamonds, and a Seven of Nine," she'd said, "which is the symbol of a narwhal lost amid the lilacs. Not a good sign."

Indeed. Not a good sign.

"I've been doing some research on this whole dastardly business," said Anne, gesturing to her laptop. "It all just points to a new cycle beginning. And if you look at 2012 numerologically, it adds up to 5."

"Five?" I said. "Five is right out."

"But in the Mayan calendar, every date expressed in long count terms contains five numerals. And Agrippa showed Man inscribed in the five points of a pentagram."

"And Agrippa cancels out Thibault canceling out Capo Ferro."

"Different Agrippa. That was Camillo. This one is Heinrich. And Heinrich's diagram, oddly enough, corresponds to the image of Vitruvian man."

"Meaning?"

"Vitruvian Man, Jericho. DaVinci?"

"You mean--!"

"Yes. Part of the Code."

"Ah, yes. The Konami Code."

"No no," said Anne. "The other Code."

"The Source Code?"

"The other other Code."

Realization finally dawned like an ice cube down the back of my shirt. How could I've been so blind? Science, it was. And The Light.

"Oho!" I said. "Code Geass."

"Jericho," said Anne. "I'm talking about the DaVinci Code."

"But that was about the Sacred Feminine being left out of Christianity," I said. "What's that got to do with beginning a new cycle?"

"You just answered your own question."

"I did?"

"Think about it."

And then it hit me. Like a ballpeen hammer to the temple. Sacred feminine. New cycle. Of course!

Sweet Mother of Dingos!

I gaped at Anne. "Are you saying--!"

Anne nodded, smiling. "Yes," she said. "The Universe is simply ending her period."

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Deadlines and Soul Stealing" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-23T06:30:00.000-08:00

I was hip-deep in the middle of frantic writing fueled by coffee and Mr. Sketch grape markers when "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana blared from beneath a small pile of notes on my desk.

My cellphone.

I fished it out from the pile and put it on speaker. "Go away!" I said. "I have a deadline!"

"Thief!" cried the voice on the other end.

I recognized it.

Tammy Farmer. Book blogger. Who, along with cohort Holly Dell, ran the urban fantasy blog Midnight Readings.

"What are you talking about, Farmer?" I said. "And make it quick. I'm on a schedule."

"You stole that line," Farmer said with a slight drawl. "Jim Butcher had it on a t-shirt in a Suvudu interview with Patrick Rothfuss at Comic-Con."

"I've seen that interview" I said. "Isn't Rothfuss one of the guitarists on ZZ Top? Along with George R.R. Martin?"

"Swine!" said a different voice.

Holly Dell. The other book blogger. They always traveled in pair.

Always there are two, as the wise man once put it.

"Dell," I said. "I should've known I'd hear from you, too. How are the Alaskan wilds treating you?"

"Don't change the subject," Dell shot back. "How dare you steal from The Man."

" 'The Man'?"

"Yes," said Dell. "Jim Butcher himself."

"I didn't steal anything from him," I said. "T-shirt or otherwise. I'll bet you're both still miffed I nitpicked him in that review I wrote, right?"

"You called him an indie brownie, whatever the hell that is," said Farmer.

"I said Indy also used a Browning," I said. "Dresden pointed out that Indy just used a revolver. But he also used a Browning Hi-Power in the tavern sequence. A Browning is a semi-automatic."

A few months earlier, The Oblivious Plethora had run a review I'd written of Jim Butcher's novel Turn Coat, the eleventh in the Dresden Files series. It was a good read and I'd enjoyed it but simply pointed out what thought was a minor detail.

Farmer and Dell had immediately jumped on it and had been harrassing me ever since. Calling my phone and screeching at me. Leaving vile emails with instructions on folding my laptop into sharp points and inserting it into various uncomfortable body cavities. And sending me teddy bear heads in ornately gift-wrapped boxes

"Jim Butcher is an artist!" Farmer said.

"And a god!" said Dell.

Then a high-pitched trilling wail erupted from my cellphone and I leaped from my chair.

Jove's hairy nutsac! I'd heard it right, hadn't I? Both women had just squeed.

"Did you two just squee?" I said.

"None of your business!" they chorused.

"You did, didn't you. You both squeed."

"You're changing the subject again," said Dell.

"I don't have time for this," I said. "Why are you calling me for the twentieth time?"

"You're keeping track?" said Farmer.

"Yes," I said. "In case I need to turn state's evidence."

"We're giving you a warning," said Dell. "Don't you ever contradict Jim Butcher again."

"Ever!" said Farmer.

"Or we'll hunt you down like the English pig-dog you are."

"I'll have you know I'm a journalist," I said. "And a Professional. I'm free to write what I want. And if it means contradicting Jim Butcher or anyone else, so be it."

"Jim Butcher is a saint," Farmer retorted.

"I thought he was an artist and a god?"

"He helps save the boobs!" Dell said.

"Good for him," I said. "And I see he finally went with a shorter hairstyle."

"Don't you make fun of his hair!" Dell said. "He has awesome hair."

"Sweet Mother of Dingos!" I said. "He had a mullet at one point! I've seen pictures!"

"Vicious lies," said Dell. "It was a ponytail."

"And it was charming," said Farmer.

"And we'll have you know that we are Jim's close personal acquaintances!" said Dell.

"Yeah!" Farmer put in. "We spoke to him in Lexington last July. When he was at Joseph-Beth Booksellers. He knows us."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You went to see him speak?"

"Yeah, we did," said Dell.

"What of it?" said Farmer.

"You two don't live anywhere near Lexington," I said. "Farmer's in Arizona. And Dell's in Alaska. What did you do? Fly out to Lexington?"

"Blue Grass Airport," said Farmer.

That's called 'stalking'," I said.

"You'll rue that remark!" Dell cried.

"Pootyhead!" Farmer screeched.

I'd had enough. They were questioning my integrity as a journalist. And they had disturbed me in the mighty throes of writerly creation. That, in itself, was a crime. A travesty. A transgression of the highest order.

This would simply not do. They had to be shown this was unacceptable.

Plus, they were trying to stop the signal.

No.

The signal must go on!

"Call me again," I said, "and I'll personally find you and feed you both to a pack of rabid lawn gnomes!"

There came vicious gibberings and chatterings over the phone speaker. I tried to make them out but all I could decipher was howl howl gargle howl blargh weep howl bargle yowl howl howl snorfle howl.

Then the line clicked and they were suddenly gone only to be replaced by another voice.

"Is this Doctor Jericho?" it said.

"It is," I said. "Who's this? And make it fast."

"This is Patrick Rothfuss, fantasy author and alternate guitarist for ZZ Top. I am coming to steal your soul."

I screamed and hung up.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"A Crisis of Unicornian Proportions" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-16T06:30:00.000-08:00

Anne gasped and went saucer-eyed. "They have them in Russia?"

Elaine Goodgulf, tall and slender with high cheekbones, her long white-blond hair tied in a loose bun, sat on the couch with Anne and nodded. "Rossiya yedinoroga," she said. "The Russian Unicorn. And they are in danger of becoming extinct." She looked at us. "That's why we need your help."

"Anne and I are both animal lovers," I said, sitting on a small stool facing the two women and trying not to pay any attention to the whaling harpoon on the wall just above my desk. "Of course we'll help."

Elaine and Anne were old high school buddies and had kept in touch while they were both away to college. Three days ago, Elaine had called the house asking to talk about a grave matter. We had agreed.

And now: saving the Russian Unicorn.

"You must get the word out to the people," said Elaine. "They have to know. It's imperative!"

"What about the WWF?" said Anne. "Can't they help out?"

"Yes," I said. "I've heard Vince McMahon is an animal lover."

"Not the World Wrestling Federation," said Elaine. "The World Wildlife Federation. And no. They won't help. They won't even give me the time of day."

"That's insane!" said Anne. "You're the one of the world's leading biologists not to mention an expert in evolutionary biology. And from Harvard, no less. Why won't they listen to you?"

Elaine harrumphed. "Those bastards think there's no such thing as a Russian Unicorn. But I know there is. I've seen it."

"You have?" I asked. "Incredible!"

"Well, I've spoken to those who have," Elaine replied. "Evenks from Tura, in the Evenkiysky District of the Krasnoyarsk Krai Federal District. Northern Russia. Several folks claimed to have seen a large one-horned creature out in the taiga. I spoke to three of the witnesses. They report at least three to five of the animals being seen. They think there may even be more."

"Evenks?" I asked, pulling out my small moleskine notebook and jotting notes.

"One of the indigenous peoples of northern Russian," said Elaine. "But the WWF idiots keep telling me it's a sham. One of their blowhards pointed out they might be imagining it, that it's probably left over from Evenk legends of the Elasmotherium."

"Which blowhard was that?" I said

"Thornton Chugwell," said Elaine. "I have his phone number. You can talk to him."

"I will," I said, writing the name down in my moleskine.

"Wait--" said Anne. "Elasmotherium?"

Elaine noddeed.

"Didn't Willy Ley write about that in his book Exotic Zoology?" Anne said.

"A great Trap Door Spider, was Willy," I said.

"Ley did," said Elaine. "Chugwell mentioned that, too. Then the pox-ridden slimebag had the balls to refer me to Karl Shuker at the Centre for Fortean Zoology." Her eyes blazed. "Hah! The nerve of the man!"

"I know about Shuker," I said. "A cryptozoologist and John Joseph Adams lookalike wannabe."

Anne turned to me. "Is he that Mongolian Death Worm Guy?"

"Yep," I nodded. "And a bad movie, too. Damn roaring worms. Arrakeen sandworms would have them for breakfast."

Anne nodded. "Poor poor Sean Patrick Flannery."

"Forget him!" I said. "Poor Vicki Pratt. I hope they do a Cleopatra 2525 reunion show."

"Mutant X!" Anne shot back, wagging a finger at me. "Mutant X!"

"Can we get back to the crisis at hand?" said Elaine.

Anne and I nodded. This was definitely a crisis. I wondered on the best way to deal with the situation. Perhaps hiring mercenaries to go into Russia to capture them? Take them somewhere where they'd be safe? No no. Too risky. And Elaine did say she wanted to get the word out first.

I decided to ask.

"How do we want to handle this?" I said. "Get the word out, right?"

"Yes," said Elaine. "We must make their existence known to the world."

"Makes sense," I said. "Exposure is an excellent thing. I'm thinking 10,000 words. Feature article. Do some history. Eyewitness accounts. Maybe talk about any work you've done for and about them."

Elaine nodded. "Sounds perfect."

"I'll call my editor at The Oblivious Plethora. They're a widely read magazine that caters to an elite crowd who'd probably be more than happy to help this cause. We should get pictures, too."

"Call Nardy," said Anne. "He's well-seasoned now."

"Nardy?" said Elaine.

"Nardo Bones. Photographer for the Plethora. Helluva nice guy. Likes zoot suits for some reason. But a crack photographer. Marinated. Hard-core. Very tactical. We'll need that for this story, I think. And we'll have to go to Russia."

"I'll get our passports and make some calls," said Anne.

"Call Jones first," I said to her and turned to Elaine. "My editor at Plethora. Milton Seth Jones. Great guy. He can probably grease some palms for us. They grow taller with grease. Bigger fronds, too. Yessir. Exposure is vital."

"Agreed," said Elaine. "It is very vital. And by doing so, we will fuel the auric energies that will bring the Dark Elders back into this realm."

Anne and I sprang from our seats.

"Auric energies?" I exclaimed. "You're planning to siphon off from Gamma Flight?"

"Forget that!" cried Anne, jabbing a finger at Elaine. "Did you just say 'Dark Elders'?"

"No, I didn't," said Elaine, looking between us, worry creasing her features. "Why--why would I mention my masters in the netherrealms--" She went saucer-eyed and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Anne backed away. "You're with them, aren't you."

Sweet Mother of Judas! Anne was right.

I stepped back, too, and picked up the stool. "You dare enter our domicile, minion of darkness?"

Elaine exploded from the couch into a low fighting stance. "You will be devoured in the everlasting fires of destruction."

"Jericho!" Anne called out.

I turned and caught the cutlass she tossed to me.

She'd also grabbed one.

We faced Elaine, swords at the ready. Elaine wasn't just an evolutionary biologist. She was also a Dark Elder Minion. And that wouldn't stand. Not with us.

I may be just a Professional. I may be just a Rogue Journalist.

But I was also a Warrior for Goodness and Light. And so was Anne.

I leveled the cutlass at Elaine. "Time to meet your masters, you abomination."

"Kiss my ass, Hack Boy," snarled Elaine.

"Don't you know who we really are?" I said. "We are members of the Order of the Three Dragons."

Elaine's eyes went side. "The Chan-Hung-Biao? The dreaded Tactical Thespians?"

"That's right!" said Anne. "The Warrior-Actors. So bring it on, bitch!"

We lunged at her, our blades spinning and twirling.

Elaine evaded effortlessly, bobbing, weaving, knitting, and I quickly recognized the knitwun-purltu evasive manuever.

She was well trained.

"My master will see you suffer in torment!" Elaine rasped, her voice raspy. Long, curved talons ending in razor-sharp claws popped from her fingertips. She swiped at us.

"And who might your master be?" I said, dancing back out of range.

Elaine pressed forward. "The Destructor," she said. "In his human guise, he's already started his work in subduing you."

"What human guise?" said Anne.

"As Michael Bublé," said Elaine and lunged, swinging.

Anne cackled, feinting and riposting. "That Harry Connick, Jr. wannabe? At least Harry teamed up with Lonestar and Agent J. What did your Mikey do?"

"X-Files, you pathetic cow," Elaine shot back.

"Hah!" I said, parrying. "Two measly episodes! Uncredited!"

"He was in Duets with Paltrow!" she growled. Then she leaped back with preternatural speed, executing a backflip that sent her flying toward the front windows. She landed on all fours, Spidey-on-the-wall-style, and her eyes blazed blood-red. She bared teeth and spittle dripped from the corners of her mouth. "The Destructor is only the beginning. He will pave the way for the Dark Overlord. The Great Father Oomaumau who is also called Kali Ma."

"What's happening to you, Elaine?" said Anne.

"Puny humans!" she rasped. "Elaine Goodgulf was only my corporeal vessel. I am H'kk'tuuee. Leader of the Sh'boig'ans. Shock troops of the Dark Elders. This world will soon be ours. First we will overrun the Muslims. Then the Hebrew god will fall. And then the Christian god will be cast down and forgotten. Soon Kali Ma will rule the world."

"You're going back to Kali," I intoned.

"To Kali," Anne agreed.

"Kali," I repeated. "You're going back to Kali."

"Uh-uh," Elaine replied. "I don't think so."

"Then prepare to meet Kali," Anne and I chorused. "In HELL!"

We charged.

Elaine whirled and hurled herself through the front windows.

Thank goodness they were already open.

By the time we reached the windows, Elaine/H'kk'tuuee/whatever was gone.

A cold breeze blew into the house, and the curtains billowed around us.

"This could get ugly," said Anne, her expression grim.

"We'll be ready," I said.

First, we had to save everyone from Michael Bublé. Then get to the Russian Unicorns before Elaine/H'kk'tuuee/yaddayadda could. It wasn't going to be easy. But we knew people who could help.

Plus, I was a Professional. And so was Anne.

Time to bring it.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Fracas in Fargo: Further Notes From The End Days" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-11T06:30:00.001-08:00

Lack of coffee and Oh-Dark Hundred make for twisted and strange bedfellows, especially when combined with a supersonic flight from the West Coast into Fargo, North Dakota. Back again, into even stranger country.

Omega-13's YF-12 variant pulled Mach 2 eastward then went VTOL and deposited me at Hector International Airport in the middle of Fargo under the cover of 4:30 in the morning. I was met on the tarmac in 20 degree weather by a black Crown Victoria and a petite blond woman dressed in black under a black trenchcoat who introduced herself as Absentia Rhodes.

"But you can call me Abby," she said.

Abby gave me the skinny: For the past three days, Neil Gaiman had been spotted sitting in a Starbucks on Kristen Lane South. This was shortly after rumors of a Mecha Gaiman had been circulating on the Intertubes. Abby was one of the Omega-13 operatives tasked with patrolling the Midwestern Sector and Duke had dispatched her to the scene to investigate.

"Was easy enough," she said as she pointed the big car southbound onto US-81/Interstate 29 from 19th Avenue North. "I'm local."

"You see a lot of this kind of thing?" I asked.

"You mean the odd stuff?" She nodded. "About five years ago. Little town northwest of here."

Ah yes. "In Devil's Lake," I said. " Haunted body parts."

"You know?"

"I was there. Wrote a piece about it."

"Ah, you're that guy."

"I am. Who told you?"

"Besides Duke? My old mentor, Jonquil Burkhardt. She was working that particular case."

"Tall?" I said. "Short dark hair? Looks like Ripley?"

"That's Jonquil. 'Jonni' for short."

"Ran into her while I was investigating the story."

"What happened out there? I was working another case at the time."

"Things got hairy for a while," I said. "Eventually worked out. But had to bring in the big guns."

"A plunger, they said."

"Lies," I replied. "It was a mutant shillelagh. The báeth cluith. A little-known Celtic holy weapon. Like a mace but bent and gnarled. Pistol grip. Anyway, I'll tell you about it later. Have to focus on this crisis first."

"Is it a crisis?"

"Too early to tell but you never know. Could change in a heartbeat."

"Duke send you out for that? The Devil's Lake Haunting?"

"All on my own, actually. Met Duke after that story ran. But didn't know anything about this. About Omega-13."

"He told you recently, didn't he."

I nodded. "And then told me about the Fae Invasion. He thinks this is related, doesn't he."

"Possibly," said Abby. "Is that why you're here?"

I nodded. "If it is part of the Invasion, I'm here to cover the story and make sure the public knows about it."

"I'm not sure how Mecha Gaiman fits, though. Iron and Fae don't mix much."

This much was certain. I, too, wasn't sure about the Mecha Gaiman connection. Unless, like the Auto d'Fae the Unseelie Court had dispatched against Carina Press editor Mallory Braus, it was a remote agent, enchanted to do its bidding then controlled from afar, maybe from a La-Z-Boy. Or perhaps, it only looked like it was made of iron.

Abby turned off the highway onto 32nd Avenue South and headed down a long stretch of road past small strip malls, turned on 25th, then pulled into the deserted parking lot near an insurance office and backed into an empty slot in front of Starbucks.

"That's it?" I said, gesturing to the building.

"Yep," said Abby, cutting the engine. "We've got about forty-five minutes before they open."

* * *

We waited until 6 a.m. before getting out of the car and sprinting into the place to warm up. Their heaters were at full-blast and the welcome warmth was much more welcoming than the lined leather gloves and Grabber Warmers Hand Warmer packs I'd had in the car during the wait. Even at this early hour, the place was filling up fast. They opened at 5:30 and cars had already begun to trickle in around us. By the time we shuffled inside, at least a dozen people were already seated, several cars were waiting at the drive-thru, and a line of ten people were at the counter.

Abby ordered a venti drip coffee for herself. I got two venti white mochas with two extra shots each, two breakfast sandwiches (sausage), and a bottle of water (cold).

"Hungry much?" Abby asked, eyeing my order as I brought it to our table.

"Fuel," I said, sitting down and unwrapping the first sandwich. "Body must be properly nourished in these situations. So when is he supposed to show up?"

"Based on reports, between 7:30 and 8," said Abby. "And he sat over there." She gestured toward a table next to the big front windows currently occupied by a small elderly Chinese man wearing Han Solo's blue Hoth parka with fur-line hood, baggy chinos, and Ugg boots, hunched over an iPhone and humming the theme to "The A-Team" to himself.

"We're early yet," I said, chomping away at my sandwich. "Gives us time to reconnoiter then blend in with the crowd."

"Good plan," said Abby. "Then we nab him when he shows up and take him to the local base for questioning."

"I'll make positive identification. I know Neil Gaiman."

"You two are close?"

"No. But I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express once. And I've made an extensive study of his photos, videos, and audio recordings over the last few days. I'll be able to tell if it's really him."

"With 100% certainty?"

"Yes."

"Amazing."

"Yes."

"So you're skeptical it is Gaiman."

"I am. I've been following his Twitter feed since the reported sighting."

"And?"

I leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. Abby leaned forward, too. "No indication that he's anywhere near here. He's been in Australia and only recently got back to the States. So this guy is either a bad celebrity author look-alike, a clone, or..." I looked around. "Or a doppelgänger."

* * *

It was 7:36 a.m. and the baristas were humming the Super Mario Bros. theme song out loud when Neil Gaiman walked in and got in line.

It took me under five seconds to check and re-check and double-check based on my extensive research and I quickly leaned toward Abby. "Not a look-alike. Not a clone, either, since there's no goatee."

"So doppelgänger?"

"Doppelgänger," I said. I downed the rest of my mocha and got to my feet. As I did, I drew the retractable harpoon from beneath my jacket, deployed the fluke, and leveled it at Faux Gaiman. "Fake!" I called out. "Pretender!"

Faux Gaiman whirled on us, dropping to a crouch, baring teeth, and snarling. "You fools!"

"Suck on this, asswipe," Abby said, drew a Taser from beneath her coat and fired. The twin barbs plunged into Faux Gaiman's torso but he just ripped them off and threw them to the ground.

I charged, harpoon jabbing, and got in two good hits before he backhanded me and I went down.

People were screaming and running now. Someone yelled "Mortal Kombat!" Then came a chorus of voices humming the theme song and drumming the bassline against countertops.

I heard two blasts of thunder near me then an explosion of glass. When I looked up, Abby was empty a breech-loading sawed-off shotgun and shoving two more cartridges into it. I turned to where Faux Gaiman had been and saw a blown out window and a figure on the ground in the parking lot outside.

We bolted outside in time to see Faux Gaiman get to its feet and face us. "We are coming," it said, long ropes of saliva dripping from the corners of its mouth. "I am but the beginning."

Then it turned and bolted toward 32nd Avenue, leaping over cars and buildings.

"Pretender?" Abby said. "You got a Michael T. Weiss vibe, too?"

I nodded. "It was the voice. Same as Jason Blood on Justice League and Adam Strange on Batman: The Brave and the Bold." I collapsed the harpoon. "Crisis now."

"Infinite?"

"Yes. But not the gauntlet."

"Oh man," she said.

"And OMAC," I said then pulled out my phone and dialed Azerov. "We need more data on doppelgängers."

"The Gaiman sighting, yes?" he said. "I was afraid of that. I'll let Duke know and send over the material. Give me half an hour."

I hung up and Abby turned toward me with a questioning look.

"Azerov and I are on the same page," I said. "That doppelgänger is a scout."

"The Invasion."

"Yeah. We need to find it and stop it." I started for the car. "Let's hunt some Orc."

"Doppelgänger," said Abby.

"Don't change the subject."

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"The Right Place" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-09T06:30:00.000-08:00

I was alone in The Lair about to watch Venkman and Co. rid NYC of Zuul for research purposes when a lightning storm exploded in the middle of the living room between the couch and my desk.

When the storm dissipated, a blue porta-potty stood in the middle of the room.

I leaped to my feet, spilling a bag of Swedish Fish, snatched up the shotgun I had leaning against the couch, and leveled the barrel at the porta-potty.

Then the door squeaked open and a tall, slim man with sideburns wearing a brown pinstriped suit and sneakers stepped out and looked around.

"Hello," he said.

"State your business," I ordered, keeping the shotgun aimed at his face.

He gave me a toothy smile and extended a hand. "Professor Xip," he said. "And you are...?"

"What kind of professor shows up in the middle of a person's living room in a porta-potty?"

He winced. "Wrong place, wrong time, I'm afraid. Travelling circus out near Kappa Tucanae. Anyway, my ship--"

"Ship?"

"Ship." He patted the porta potty. "Space-time vessel."

I gestured with the shotgun barrel at the porta potty. "That's a space vessel."

He nodded.

"So you must be an alien."

He nodded again. "I'm from a small planet six light years from Alpha Sculptoris, in the Scupltor constellation. Anyway, the onboard stealth circuits on the ship went dodgy while I was taking a rest stop by that circus. Caused the ship to take the shape of the nearest object."

"A portable toilet."

"A blue one at that. I would've preferred something in black or thunder gray." Xip shook his head. "Anyway, I never got your name, friend." He looked at me expectantly.

I hesitated. He hadn't attacked me. Yet. And he looked vaguely like a character in a TV show I watched off and on. Plus, I had the shotgun trained on him. "I'm Dr. Ace T. Jericho," I said finally.

He arched one eyebrow. "A doctor? Of medicine?"

"An honorific. I'm a writer. Rogue Journalist, really."

Xip's eyes widened. "Fascinating," he said. "I'm a bit of a poetry aficionado myself. Keats. Shelley. Yankovic. Golaca. The great ones, you know."

"Golaca?"

"Yes. Kraalian poet. Wrote a famous ode about the scent of space lice."

"There's lice in space?"

He nodded. "And they smell of cinnamon, apparently."

I shook my head. "No poetry. Sorry."

"What do you write?"

"I freelance."

"Outstanding. I'm a bit of a freelancer myself."

"We have something in common," I said.

"We do."

"What kind of freelancing do you do?"

"Tax collector. This week at least."

"And what brings you to Earth, Space Tax Man?"

"Call me 'Xip'."

"Zip?"

"No relation."

"What?"

"Nevermind," he said. "I'm here to find someone."

"Who?"

He started to reach into his jacket.

"Slowly, Sonny Jim," I said.

He froze and frowned at me for a moment, then smiled and nodded. "Of course. I keep forgetting some Earth people are naturally wary."

"Do you meet many Earth people?"

"I've met a few in my time. And space." He chuckled. "Science joke." He flashed a toothy grin, then gestured with the hand still near his jacket. "May I?"

"Slowly, please."

He complied and drew out what looked like a stainless steel twin-bladed speculum attached to a multi-buttoned remote control

"That better not be a weapon," I said.

"It's not," Xip said. "It's a data wand."

"That's all it better be."

"Let me show you a picture."

I steeled myself for whatever heinous image he was about to show me. A space speculum and the threat of pictures conjured up a series of horrific possibilities in my mind, not including Natasha Henstridge and teeth. Sharp, Great White Shark-sized teeth. And claws. Despite her having been a San Francisco lawyer who worked with a aneurysm-inflicted prophet and the father of a covert government agent.

Xip manipulated the speculum/data wand and a image appeared in mid-air. It looked like a teddy bear with dark fur and a weird topknot.

I lowered the shotgun. "A teddy bear?"

"No," said Xip. "A Furry. From the planet Daykin."

I pointed to the topknot. "Why is that thatch of hair on top of its head shaped vaguely like a hypodermic needle?"

"It's just a Furry with a syringe on top. Very common species."

"And why is a tax collector looking for this creature?" I said.

"He owes four time ticks of back taxes. That's equal to twelve of your Earth years."

I gave a low whistle. "That's a helluva lot of taxes."

"He's number one on our list."

"And you think he's here on Earth?"

Xip winced. "Ah, no."

"Then how'd you end up in my living room?"

"Miscalculation of coordinates," said Xip. "Also, I'm out of fuel. And that's where I believe you can help me."

"How's that?" I said. "I don't think I have anything like rocket fuel in the place. Or even dilithium crystals. Or a beryllium sphere."

"I need sodium erythorbate and sodium nitrite," Xip said and gestured with the data wand. "And according to this, you have both in great abundance." He depressed a few buttons. The image of the Furry was replaced with that of a blue-labelled can that read: Libby's Potted Meat Food Product.

I had a box of those in the kitchen cupboard.

"Mister," I said. "You've come to the right place."

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Remember, Remember, The 31st of December" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-06T06:30:00.000-08:00

Glenn Lord died on New Year's Eve and a thousand Robert E. Howard fans mourned and a thousand more wailed and clawed at the skies but we heard about it on Monday the 2nd.

The 2nd was also Isaac Asimov's birthday and the the Good Doctor and I shared titles. Anne and I, Alabaster McMurdo, and the Peninsula Gang (Parker and Marc Muldoon, KC, and Chin) were all at Mr. Happy's Bar and Grill to raise a toast in his honor. He didn't do much drinking in life so we were doing it for him in rounds, shots, fifths, and jiggers, and for the next three hours, we listened to man himself narrate Foundation from a copy I had of a Bantam Audio production, played on an old Optimus CTR-111 cassette recorder. Every time he said "Foundation," "psychohistory," "Hari Seldon," or "The Seldon Plan," we drank.

Then around 1:36pm, Louie the bartender got a call and when he hung up, tears were streaming down his face and he dropped to his knees behind the bar and screamed "Crom!" and clawed at the sky.

Al and I dove behind the bar to check on the man. I snatched up the phone. It was Duke.

"Glenn Lord's dead," he explained. "Word came in on the Locus website. I had to tell him."

"I understand," I said. "We'll take it from here."

Louie curled up in a fetal position, clutching a bar towel, and began muttering under his breath. The two of us knelt beside him.

"What's he saying?" Al asked.

I bent closer so I could hear better.

"Know, oh prince," Louie rasped in a choked voice, "that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities..."

I straightened. "The Nemedian Chronicles," I said. "It probably helps ease his pain."

Sally, one of the other two servers, hurried to the bar. "What happened?" she said, her brown eyes wide.

"You'll have to take over for a bit," I said to her. "Louie's not well."

Sally peered over the bar and gasped when she saw Louie. "Holy shit! Did we call 9-1-1?"

"No need," I said. "He's just crying, that's all. He needs some time alone."

"Crying? What happened?"

"Glenn Lord died."

"The guy who played Jonathan Kent in the original Superman?" said Parker. "I thought he died a while back?"

"Not Glenn Ford," I said. "Glenn Lord."

"Wait," said Marc. "You mean the guy who sang 'The Heat Is On'? One of the Eagles?"

"That's Glenn Frey," said Al. "He's still alive."

"Isn't Glenn Lord the guy who produced Galactica and Night Man?" said Sally.

"And Automan," chimed in KC.

"Automan rocked!" Chin piped up, a big grin splashed on his face. "Cursor was the bomb!"

"Don't forget Manimal," said Al.

"What's a manimal?" Sally asked.

"Nevermind," I said. "No, not him. That's Glen A. Larson. He's still alive and kicking. Glenn Lord was the literary agent for the Robert E. Howard estate."

"The Conan creator, right?" said Sally.

"That's right," I said.

"How sad. Were they friends?"

"They've met a couple times before," I said, remembering that Louie had been to several Howard Days in Cross Plains as a dues-paying member of the Robert E. Howard Foundation and had met with Lord at least twice.

"I didn't know Louie was such a big Conan fan," Sally said. "Of course, I've only been here for six months. And I've only ever seen the Arnold movie."

"Big Robert Howard fan, really," I said.

Sally nodded then crossed behind the bar to take Louie's place. As she passed him, she frowned. "What's he mumbling?"

"An old West Central Texas Death Anthem," I said not bothering to explain the Nemedian Chronicles, especially if she was only familiar with Arnie's Conan. "Hasn't been heard since the late '30s."

"He said something about shadow-guarded tombs." She shuddered. "Creepy."

"It'll be okay," I said.

I heard footsteps come up nearby, looked up, and saw Anne standing on the other side of the bar. "Back office is ready," she said. "I moved those boxes he had on the couch."

Al and I grabbed Louie by legs and under the armpits and carried him to the back of the bar. His voice was rising and falling now.

"What is that now?" I said, trying to listen to the words.

Al cocked his head for a moment and, when we turned into the back hallway, said, "The Song of Bêlit."

Anne kept the way clear and Al and I finally rustled him into the small back office and set him on the faded green couch. It was here, in his private sanctum, that Louie indulged all things Howard and Conan. A framed print of Frazetta's "The Destroyer" hung above the couch. A short bookcase sat against the wall just to the left of the door was packed with all twelve Lancer/Ace paperbacks, the seven Bantam editions, the four illustrated Ace editions, and half of the fifty Tor editions penned by such luminaries as Steve Perry, Leonard Carpenter, Roland Green, and Robert Jordan (before he lost himself in the Wheel of Time). Across from the door, on top of the desk next to an opened laptop was a stack of materials from the Robert E. Howard Foundation and some copies of Howard manuscripts Louie had told me he'd gotten from the Cross Plains Library. Two neat stacks of boxes sat to one side of the desk.

As soon as we had set him on the couch, Louie turned and buried his face against the cushions.

Anne went to his desk, picked up a photograph in a plain wood frame, and handed it to Louie. It was a photo of Louie standing in front of the Howard house in Cross Plain, Texas. Louie took the photo without saying a word and continued mumbling to himself.

"Let's give him some privacy," said Anne, gesturing toward the door.

Al and I nodded.

We left Louie curled up on the couch, reciting the Nemedian Chronicles once more, and clutching the photograph, and Al, Anne, and I, humming "Riders of Taramis," walked back to the main bar.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Grim Notes From The End Days" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-04T06:30:00.000-08:00

Over at the Carina Press blog last Thursday, editor Mallory Braus posted about 2012 being the year of the Zombie Apocalypse.

After the last conversation I had with Duke a month earlier, I thought I'd see if he'd heard anything and called him up the next day but didn't get through.

I finally got hold of him Monday afternoon. He'd seen the post, of course. I figured as much. Omega-13 is tightly wired into the pulse of such matters.

"We did some checking of our own," Duke said. "And we're sending field agents to Miss Braus now. We'll need to brief her."

"So she's on the ball on this?" I asked. "A lucky prognosticatory post?"

"Blind luck," said Duke. "She's probably thinking it's a joke, ha ha, and all that. But it's not."

"What'd you find out?"

"One of contacts, Madame Zamboni, is a regular liaison with the world of the Fae. She's heard some whisperings among the Courts on the other side. The Unseelie Court is planning to use zombies as their vanguard. Both kinds, too."

"The shambling and the running?"

"Yeah," Duke said. "I fucking hate the running ones. Just a sec." He turned away from his phone and spoke to someone nearby. I only snatches of the conversation. After a moment, Duke was back on the line. "Looks like we're also going to send over a protection team for Miss Braus."

"Protection team?"

"Four-man squad. Armed with the latest in supernatural weaponry. They'll keep an eye on her. From a distance, of course. But close enough to act in case something goes down."

"You think it's that bad?" I said. "Needing protection teams?"

"That bad," said Duke. "If word reaches the Unseelie Court about a leak, they're liable to retaliate, albeit as unobtrusively as possible."

"How unobtrusive do you think?"

"I checked with Madame Zamboni. She said there could be any number of different things but thinks they may try to take her out with a car hit."

"A car hit?"

"It's called an Auto d'Fae. Pretty nasty critter from what she told me. Typically appears as a red and white 1958 Plymouth Fury. Swallows its victim through the hood then sucks out their life essence. Force drain style."

"Shades of Exar Kun!" I said.

"Exactly."

"I follow her on Twitter. Mallory Braus, I mean. Should I DM her with a warning?"

"Leave it to us," Duke said. "Better that way."

He had a good point. They were Professionals in that department.

"About the vanguard forces," I said. "The zombies. Did Madame Zamboni give a likely date?"

"No, dammit all. Her people are hush-hush about it. Plus, time works differently over there so any specifics are vague. I hate vague specifics."

"Tell me about it," I said. "They give me gas."

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Madness At The Moscone Center (excerpt)" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2012-01-02T06:35:00.000-08:00

[originally published in two parts in the June and July 2011 issues of The Oblivious Plethora; from The Jericho Files collection]

We were somewhere around Davis on Interstate 80 when all hell broke loose. I remember saying, "I've got a bad feeling about this..." And suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge, half-crushed cylinders with glowing red Cyclopean eyes and insectile hook-arms, all swooping and keening and diving around the car, which was going about hundred miles an hour with the windows down to San Francisco. And a voice was screaming: "Holy shit! What are these goddman things?"

"Probe droids!" I said, ducking as they came at us. "I don't know how, but they found us. Drive for it, Nardy!"

"Who found us?" came the reply. "The Libyans?"

I shot a glance at my driver. "Worse," I said. "Imperials."

Nardo Bones let out a gut-busting scream, slammed on the gas, and the car lurched forward.

Nardo Bones. Scarecrow thin and all sharp angles with floppy blond hair. Dressed in a black pinstriped zoot suit. Nothing at all like Emily Deschanel. Photographer for Plethora. A rookie, not yet bloodied on the journalistic battlefields. This was to be his Guadalcanal. His Trafalgar. His Khitomer.

I'd been sent to cover WonderCon in San Francisco for The Oblivious Plethora. My editor, Milton Seth Jones, had picked Bone to be my photographer. He lived in Sacramento and I had picked him up earlier that morning after spending the previous night at the Banner Manse exploring Mount Waterdeep with a team of fellow spelunkers that included a singing dwarven pirate, a gay halfling thief, and a cross-dressing male elven paladin.

The car suddenly veered off the road and came to a sliding halt in the gravel on the shoulder. The seat belt locked, keeping me from bouncing off the dashboard and flying through the windshield.

The driver side door flew open and Bones scrambled out, howling and flailing his arms.

I leaped from the car. "What're you doing?" I yelled. "We can't stop here. This is no country for Josh Brolin. Or Goonies."

"They're everywhere!" he cried. "They won't go away. And my eyes! They burn!"

"You little fool!" I said. "I told you. Short, quick sniffs!"

He screamed and flailed and ran in circles around the car.

This was bad.

A rookie, yes. But not just in journalism. In Liquid Paper, too. Before we left his house, he'd inhaled most of a bottle and decided to drive. I had tried to talk him out of it. Told him it was best enjoyed in short, quick sniffs rather than one big nasal suck. And no driving. The scent was intoxicating in that fuzzy-brained, light-headed, walking on storm clouds in metal boots way. But he hadn't listened.

I had to calm him down. And we still had to get to San Francisco before the Insanity of the Lines descended upon us.

Oh, the Lines! The Lines! The tintinnabulation of the Lines!

Panic started to creep over me in ninja-silence and I fought to keep it in check.

Focus, Jericho! Focus! One thing at a time.

First thing--I had to calm Bones.

I dashed to the back of my red 1994 Toyota Tercel hatchback and popped the trunk.

In the center of the trunk sat my funbag. The funbag was an important piece of journalistic equipment. I had mighty tools in my funbag, to wit: four classic bottles of Liquid Paper, ten large bags of Swedish Fish, a box of Mr. Sketch Scented Markers, and a red plastic pencil case that contained two black Sharpies, two double-packs of Pilot G-2 pens (black), three yellow Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencils (sharpened), and a small green hand-held pencil sharpener (small), plus two steno pads and a small moleskine notebook.

Everything a journalist needed in the field.

But the contents of the bag weren't going to help in this instance.

No. I needed stronger, more powerful medicine.

That medicine sat next to the bag--a stainless steel tank thirteen inches long and two-and-a-quarter inches in diameter attached to a black rubber facemask.

Oxygen. Pure, lifegiving air. None of that crap stuff from across the border, from Sedona, tainted with gods knew what. Charlatans and mountebanks there. The lot of them.

No. This was from Big Sur. Where the air was fresh and clean.

I grabbed the tank, shut the trunk lid, and went to the driver's side.

Bones was still wailing and circling the car, kicking up gravel and dirt in his wake. His cries rose and fell in perfect 4/4 waltz-time.

I shoved the tank into the footwell behind the driver's seat then turned to corral Bones just as he came whistling around to my side of the car, "God Save The Queen" dopplering from him, and snatched him by the back of his pants. His feet shot out from under him and he dropped to the ground on his butt.

Then I pulled him to his feet and wrestled him toward the passenger side and into the car. He started raving and jabbering, arms still flailing, fingers jabbing at the sky.

"Here they come! They're coming! Run for your lives! Run for the hills! The hills have eyes! I, Robot! Robot Carnival! Carnival of lost souls! They want our souls! Funk soul brother! Brother from another planet, where art thou! Soylent green is Heston!"

I finally got him into the seat, all the while dodging and evading his flailing arms and jabbing fingers, wrapped the seat belt around him, and shut the door. He lunged at the window, clawing at the glass, foaming at the mouth, and yowling as if his ass was on fire.

Poor bastard. If only he'd listened to me.

There's nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the throes of a Liquid Paper high.

No matter now.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time.

We had to get into the city. And fast.

I clambered into the driver's seat, shut the door, then grabbed the steel tank and shoved it at him. "Keep it on your face, turn the knob, and inhale. Deep inhales."

His head snapped toward me, his face a Munch scream. "Will it make them go away?" he mewled.

"It'll keep you from screeching," I said. "I have something else for the monsters."

Bones clutched at the tank, jammed the mask into his face, and started taking deep breaths.

"Turn the knob," I said. "It works best that way."

He nodded in a violent bobblehead doll fashion, scrabbled at the knob, and air began hissing forth. He stuck his face deeper into the rubber mask and gulped like a trout in the middle of the Mojave.

Took a quick glance around.

Malformed shadows danced over the car.

They were still out there.

I poked my head out the window to check.

Yep. The beasts were circling overhead like greedy vultures, hook arms flexing, glowing eyes pulsing.

I ducked back inside and reached past Bones to the glove compartment and opened it, then pulled out a pair of fuzzy dice. Fuzzy polyhedral dice soaked in gun oil. A Chumash shaman I met in a Morro Bay dive bar just off Highway 1 told me it was an effective talisman against demons. "They are nunashish," he'd said, nursing his sixth fifth of Jack. "Demons. This will drive them out."

Clearly, that's what these creatures were. Demons.

I hung the dice over the rearview mirror and it worked immediately, like gangbusters.

The shadows squealed and vanished.

Success!

Not bad for the thirty bucks I'd ponied out for them.

Elated, I pointed the car toward the freeway and peeled out, spraying gravel behind us, little realizing what was about to befall us next.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

Happy New Year!

2012-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

It's 2012!

Just 364 days before the world ends, right?

(photo: peterl1084/flickr)

"Philosophical Fantasy (excerpt)" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

[originally published in Maison Meson Quarterly, October 2001; from The Jericho Files collection]

"And you, Atlos," said the wizard. "Are you ready to take on this quest, to take the burden of this world upon your shoulders?"

Atlos shrugged. "I guess so, Master Flayto."

"Then to begin, you must first enter the Cave."

"No. Not the Cave."

"Yes. The Cave."

"But the alligator--"

"Allegory."

"Huh?"

"The stories about the Cave are allegories. Not alligators."

"Oy!"

Atlos turned at the shout.

Scam stood at the end of the lane with a mare and a wooden cart. "I've got our travel arrangements."

"Be certain you don't mix them up, Master Scam," said Flayto.

"What do you mean?" said Scam.

"Horse, then cart."

"What?"

"He means don't put the cart before the horse, Scam," said Atlos.

"Oh! Right! I knew that."

"Good horse," said Flayto.

"You know it?" said Atlos.

"The mare?" Flayto nodded. "Her name is Imbrium."

"What happens when I get to the Cave?" said Atlos.

"You must seek out the serpent Sturmandrang and defeat it. The serpent guards the only weapon which can defeat the Follies--the Hie Dagger."

"But I still don't understand why I must do this. I'm just an apprentice mapmaker."

Flayto chuckled. "Atlos Randmacnallie, there is more about you than you think. Fear not, my boy. You will have help on your quest."

"What kind of help?"

"Me," said a voice.

The two of them turned.

A tall figure dressed in black stood before them, rugged, stubbled face staring out from beneath the cowl of his cloak.

"Who are you?" said Altos.

"I am Vigilius," said the stranger, bowing with a flourish. "At your service."

"It is good to see, old friend," Flayto said to Vigilius.

"Who's the vagabond?" said Scam, walking up to the trio.

"That 'vagabond'," said Flayto, "is from the kingdom of Soren. A member of its elite soldiers."

Altos gasped. "You mean he's one of the Keer'kh Guards?"

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

Merry Christmas To All!

2011-12-25T01:00:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Season's Greetings.

Enjoy family and friends, relax, and have a great and safe holiday.

Thanks for hanging out with me in this little corner of the Interwebz.

(photo: Talis Source Blog/scottfeldstein)

"It's Powerful Knowledge, By George" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-21T06:30:00.000-08:00

A frantic series of knocks on the front door of The Lair startled me out of a trance writing session of savage rogue journalism.

Caution immediately overtook me and I snatched up the whaling harpoon hanging on the wall above my desk and planted myself in the front entry, harpoon at the ready, fluke tip leveled at the door. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Flame of Anor!" I called out in my best Ian McKellen but sounding oddly more like Brock Peters. "The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udun! Go back to the shadow. You. Shall not. Pass!"

"Jericho!" said a voice on the other side of the door. "It's Duke! Open up!"

"What's the password!"

"For the love of all that's Felicia Day, open the damn door!"

"Good enough," I replied, lowering the harpoon, and opening the door. It was my old friend Cordwainer Duke, all right. Aside from Anne, my Trusty Companion, he was the only other person who knew I had a crush on Felicia Day. I silently cursed him as I opened the door.

Duke stepped inside, dressed in his customary dark gray tweed jacket with elbow patches, pair of tinted aviator-style glasses, and carrying a thick leather satchel slung over one shoulder. "We have to talk."

"I had writing-sign the likes of which even God has never seen," I said, "and you interrupted."

"We have to talk," Duke repeated. "Have you got beer?"

"Hefeweizen," I said, closing the door. "In the fridge."

Duke went into the kitchen. I sat back down at my desk. A moment later, Duke returned with a chilled pint glass filled with beer. He took a long pull, grabbed a nearby stool, set it in front of me, and sat down.

"You could've called, you know," I said.

He shook his head. "Couldn't risk an open line. Better to meet in person."

"So what's going on?"

"Remember what we talked about last time? In the city?"

I remembered. Vividly. Omega-13. Covert wing of the SFWA. The Fey Invasion at the end of next year. Urban Fantasy authors as our trainers. I repeated what he'd told me.

"Correct," he said. "And there's more. Did you see that video by George Takei?"

"The Star Peace one?" I said. "Sure. What's that got to do with--"

"It's no joke," said Duke.

I fought back a gasp but failed. "You mean...!"

Duke nodded. "Part of the Fey Invasion plan. We've been following it for a while and thought it was going to blow over. Twilight, I mean. But Azerov noticed some strange patterns going on. He put two and two together, got six, and knew something was up."

"Twilight?" I said. "Sparkly vampires? Beefcake werewolves? That's part of the invasion?"

"Insidious, isn't it. Azerov's been working around the clock since the video went up on the Interwebs, checking in with his contacts around the world. He's learned that they've put together a hidden army. They call themselves the Twilight Revolutionary Army Paratroops."

"It's a TRAP," I said, as if my mouth were full.

"Exactly," Duke said. "Can you get this out to your readers? Pronto?"

"I can," I said. "They're dialed in to the pulse. They know that the worm is the spice. That knowledge is power. And that power is great. And with great power comes Tobey Maguire."

"Good." Duke downed the beer and got up. "I have to go. There are other people I need to see. Including George Takei. He needs to be warned."

"Is he in danger?"

"Possibly. His blueberries must be protected. Azerov says the North Carolina blueberries are extremely susceptible."

"Susceptible to what?"

"Exactly. We can't have anything even close to what happened in Santa Barbara."

"What happened in Santa Barbara?" I asked.

"TriCon. Tri-Annual Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention. Kidnapping case solved by a local psychic. G.T. could've been in the line of fire."

"G.T.?"

"George Takei."

"And what line of fire?"

"Explosives set to go off under the stage of the S.B. Convention Center."

"Not John Malkovich?"

"Or Clint. Luckily George wasn't."

"Omega-13 saw to it?" I ventured.

Duke nodded. "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor blackest night, no evil shall escape our sight."

"Isn't that the oath of the Green Lantern Corps?"

"We have many oaths," said Duke. "That one's non-repeatable."

"I won't repeat it," I said. "Mum's the word."

"The bird is the word," said Duke.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"The Books of War" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

The Scientologists and the Delreyans were preparing for local war and I was stuck in the middle of the bloody mess because I was, literally, in the middle of the two camps.

Our neighbors Cyril and Hester Thwing were high-ranking Delreyans, of the Great and Holy Order of Lester and Judy-Lynn del Rey, and they were currently standing on their front lawn surveying the blue and white-trimmed house across the street and to the left.

Cyril was a huge, barrel-chested man well over six-and-a-half feet, with a thick shock of red hair pulled back into a ponytail and equally thick beard that fell over his chest. Hester was shorter than her husband by only two inches, with long red hair that fell to the middle of her back, wound in a thick braid, had the face of a supermodel and the build of a woman who either worked out with bulldozers or wrestled Brahma bulls.

Both were dressed like pirates: blousy shirt under a knee-length brocaded coat, knee-high boots, tricorn hat, a cutlass at their hips held by a baldric, and a brace of pistols.

I stood on my front walk with my morning paper and looked over the hedge that ran between our houses. "Ahoy, mateys," I said.

"Jericho," said Cyril, without looking at me, his voice a rich, sonorous baritone. " 'Ware the dungballed pump-pullers off the port bow."

"I know," I said. "The bastards have been taunting me all week. They even had the audacity to call me a 'lint licker.' "

"Using an open source sound editing program?" said Hester.

"Yeah, and blasted through speakers somewhere on their property," I said.

"Ruffians," said Cyril.

Then a tinny, amplified voice rang out from across the street: "You are all cabbage! Normal persons wouldn't steal pituitaries!"

"You know they're the ones who've been nailing dead weasels on your front door, right?" said Hester.

"What!" I said. "Anne and I were thinking it was the gun controllers down the street."

"No," said Cyril. "They're not that imaginative. Always parroting talking points by rote." He gestured toward the Scientologists. "It was them."

Suddenly, a mass of rectangular objects shot up into the sky from behind the Scientologist house, arced overhead, and rained down onto the sidewalk in front of us.

I dashed forward to look.

Several mass-market paperback copies of The Sword of Shannara bearing the Del Rey logo on the spine had been neatly chopped in half and flung at us.

Hester was at my side and I heard her sharp intake of breath.

"Goddamn animals!" she spat. "Greg and Tim would be horrified at this treatment of their cover work!"

"Especially Tim," I said, "may the gods rest his soul."

Cyril was there now, down on one knee and examining one of the chopped copies. "Foul beasts," he said and held up the fragment of book, his expression grim. "These were first printings."

Hester growled. "They wanna play dirty? We'll play dirty." She whirled and stalked back into their house.

"What next?" I asked.

Cyril watched his wife disappear inside, his eyes narrowed. "Not sure. But hell hath no fury and all that."

I nodded in agreement and turned to look at the Scientologist house. In the front window, I could see a pair of eyes peering out from the edges of curtains.

According to Cyril, they were Ray and Edith Jones, late of Los Angeles, and they worked for the Church of Scientology International's Office of Special Projects, aka OSP. The OSP, under the oversight of the Sea Org (their elite inner circle of Scientologists), was actually a secret army of shock troops whose mission was to seek out and destroy suppressive persons--their opponents and enemies.

That meant the Thwings.

That mean me and Anne.

At that moment, I patted the .45-caliber pistol in the flap holster at my hip, hidden beneath my safari jacket.

Good. Still there.

Praemonitus, praemunitus goes the Latin.

Forewarned is forearmed.

I knew the Joneses had only moved in a few months ago and when Cyril had found out they were Scientologists, he and Hester had begun war preparations. He'd told me and Anne shortly thereafter and the two of us had taken to keeping armed at all times. After all, I had told the Jonses they were batshit crazy. They hadn't liked that. It was good to know they'd been the ones to hang the dead weasels on our door. Probably also the ones who spray painted "monkey fuckers" across our garage.

Conniving toads.

I remembered asking Cyril some weeks earlier when the war between the Scientologists and the Delreyans had begun.

"Technically, mid-September 1949," Cyril had said. "That was when Hubbard started talking to Campbell about dianetics. Then came the article 'Dianetics' in the May 1950 issue of Astounding. A lot of hullabaloo when the issue came out. Lester panned it in a speech at Hydracon that July. And later in Marvel Science Stories the following May. But the Great and Holy Order didn't form until late '93, after Lester passed away. Hester and I joined in June of '94. Skirmishes had already been fought, but under the radar of most people."

"Covert stuff then?" I'd asked.

"Very covert," Cyril had replied.

At that moment Hester appeared from the side of their house pushing a wheelbarrow toward the sidewalk. It was piled high with copies of Battlefield Earth, Buckskin Brigades, Final Blackout, the Mission Earth series, Typewriter in the Sky, Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, Dianetics 55, and The Way to Happiness. On top of the pile was a five-gallon jerrycan. When she reached the sidewalk, she parked the 'barrow, picked up the jerrycan, popped the cap, and began pouring its contents onto the books.

The sharp tang of gasoline hit my nostrils.

"Hester!" I called. "Sweet Mother of Dingos, Woman! Don't do it!"

"Back off, Jericho," Hester snarled, then pulled a Zippo lighter from the sash at her waist and thumbed the cover open.

"For the love of Anakin, don't fall to the dark side!" I said. "You're about to pull a Godwin!"

Cyril stepped between us. "Not that Godwin, Jericho," he intoned. "The other Godwin." He pointed to the chopped paperbacks. "You know it's right. You saw what they did."

That stopped me in my tracks like a punch to the balls.

h amount of fuel will not power an EDS with a mass of m plus x safely to its destination.

Cyril was right. It was the other Godwin.

I stared down at the surgically sliced sections of Shannara and could almost hear the pages crying out in agony. Like being sliced with razor blades and left in a lemon juice bath.

Bile bubbled at the back of my throat.

Barbaric. Simply barbaric.

At least Hester's way would be cleansing.

Yes. Cleansing.

A cleansing fire.

Purification.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Requiescat in pace, baby.

I gritted my teeth, felt my eyes welling up with tears. "So be it," I said, my voice husky with emotion.

Cyril gave me a short nod and turned to Hester.

Hester snatched a soaked copy of Dianetics from the wheelbarrow and held it up. In her other hand, she flicked on the lighter. Then she faced the Scientologist house.

"Hear me, Defilers!" she called out, her voice ringing. "You have desecrated our books! Therefore we will desecrate the books of your lying, hack writer overlord! Xenu can kiss my ass!"

Then she lit the book and hurled it into the wheelbarrow. The entire pile gave a whuff! and erupted in huge tongues of flame that licked at the sky.

The Scientologist house screamed.

"You'll pay for this!" they screeched.

"Bring it!" Hester called back.

And local war descended upon us.

No matter, though.

I was armed.

And I was a Professional.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!

Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

In Which I Pimp Upcoming Books by Regan Summers and Tiffany Allee

2011-12-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

A couple of my author compatriots have books coming out next year (which means in a few weeks). Both are UF, and both look like a lot of fun.

Don't Bite The Messenger by Regan Summers is from Carina Press

Banshee Charmer by Tiffany Allee is from Entangled Publishing

Put them on your list, pre-order now, or get them when they're hot off the presses.

Go. Now. Do it.

"A Dire Warning" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-16T06:30:00.000-08:00

"Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world"
—"The Second Coming," William Butler Yeats

An Intertubes Associate named Pit Viper* posted to his blog recently talking about politics and religion, which took me so completely by surprise, I coughed up oatmeal through my nose when I read it. You see, PV (as I sometimes call him; other times, Captain Studpants) does not usually post about such things. Typically he writes about the writing process, discos, and mathematical formulas for insanity.

It was my duty to save him, from himself and from the Politicals and Religionists who routinely troll the Intertubes, looking for troublemakers. And PV (who sometimes goes by the codename "Sexual Viking") fit that description to the letter.

So I wrote a comment on his blog post:

You poor fool! The Politicals and the Religionists have a finger of the pulse of the Intertubes and they will no doubt find out about this screed. Quick! Arm yourself with large-caliber hand and long-range weapons. They will come for you in no time flat. There isn't a moment to waste!!!

Shortly after that, another Intertubes Associate named Katydid* did the same thing, talking about politics and religion on her blog. And this time, she directly named a possible candidate for U.S. Emperor. If PV was a potential troublemaker, they'd likely see Katy as a potential Count Dooku, despite looking nothing like Christopher Lee. I attempted to post a comment on her blog but, due to inexplicable security issues, some involving complex encryption algorithms akin to the movements of distant solar flares, I was unable to do so.

Which, no doubt, begs the question from you, Dear Readers: "Why do you consort with snakes and insects?"

But more importantly: "Did they—your snake and insect compatriots—not know the dangers of discussing politics and religion? Especially on the Intertubes?"

It seems they don't. Or at least, they didn't realize the depth of that danger.

Unlike me, of course. I learned of the power of the Politicals and Religionists nearly twenty years ago. Back then, they trolled the wilds of Usenet, CompuServe, and AOL. I narrowly missed being one of their targets, if not for the swift use of applied esoterica. A throwaway mention of Exo-Man sent them sniffing elsewhere, completely ignoring me.

Saved by Martin Caidin, despite the fact that I didn't care for his Indy-Sky Pirates novel. But Steve Austin had been a good television companion in my youth, so it balanced out.

I later learned from Skinner, my go-to info guy, that Michelangelo (neither the artist nor the turtle) was a product of a Politicals/Religionists strike against its enemies, though why it began in New Zealand is not fully known. (Skinner thinks it was simply to mislead and I tend to agree with him. It helps to agree with Skinner on such things. He is well-entrenched in that sort of knowledge.)

But I saw the panic and destruction that Michelangelo wrought upon the world back then, including LANSpool. And that was only in the early 90s. Given the advancement of computer technology, the Intertubes, and LOLCats, a similar event today would be hugely bad.

Instant Apocalypse.

Consider this a warning, Dear Readers. A dire warning. Quite different from dire wolves, despite also being of dire-ness dire-ity.

And the warning is this: Don't poke the caged Politicals and Religionists.

They bite.

*Names have been changed to protect Pope Innocent.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"The Depravity of Network Television" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

We were six hours into streaming The Gates via Netflix when "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana blared from my phone. The cats, who had been sitting quietly by our feet next to the couch, bared teeth, hissed and yowled, ears flattening, eyes going to slits, and batted at the air around them with exposed claws.

I hurried to my desk to answer the damned thing.

"Unforgiveable depraved son of a motherless loon!" I screamed into it. "How dare you interrupt our Netflixing. We were trying to figure out if Devon was a body snatcher when you interfered. Now speak or begone!"

"Or we'll have you boiled in man-boob sweat!" Anne called out from the couch.

"You foul bastard!" said the voice on the other end of the line. "Man-boob sweat is just wrong."

It was my good friend Parker from The Peninsula, who fought deranged computer hackers in command-line steel cage matches by day and fired off large-caliber hand weapons and tromped across online game realms by night. The Peninsula lay across San Francisco Bay, west of The Lair, a mysterious land shrouded in fog. I grew up there, and Parker knew how to survive the wild inhuman places with only a high-powered Dremel and a six-pack of Henry Weinhard's Cream Soda.

"You mutant coelacanth," I replied. "Good to hear from you."

"Who is Devon and why is she a pod person? And is Donald Sutherland involved? Or Leonard Nimoy?"

"We're watching The Gates on Netflix. Rhona Mitra is a vampire again but thankfully, she's sparkle-free. And Prince Edvard of Denmark left Julia Stiles to embrace a blood-drinker's life."

"The Gates?" said Parker. "Urban fantasy in an HOA?"

"That's the one."

"I'll bet Edvard left Julia because she was canoodling with Jason Bourne. Or was it The Joker?"

"But Evard is with Rhona now so that's a plus," I said. "Six eps in and it's pretty good. Shame it got canceled. Damn ABC and the Networks."

"The fate of Firefly and others," said Parker, his voice mournful.

"Network Execs are fools. I made a study of this."

"I remember. Two months, was it?"

"Six," I said. "In depth. By the time it was over I was so disgusted with their practices I nearly gave birth to a Chia Pet. They have no imagination or sense of their audience. Unless your count Bat Boy fans and those people who follow alien anal probe news. Just a bunch of delirious wide-eyed swine with brain parasites. They should be packed into small cages where hyperactive children can poke them with sharp sticks."

"You should just stick with anime," said Parker. "The pinnacle of visual entertainment phantasmagoria."

Parker was a huge anime aficionado. He had a closet full of DVDs and other memorabilia that threatened to burst open and bury smaller men. Willow Ufgood and Tyrion Lannister would not survive such an event, even if Tyrion had seen Wash standing on the roof of an English manor totally starkers and hopped up on acid. But Parker was six feet tall and broad shouldered. He could stave off the deluge with a twitch of the eyebrow. His wife, Mary, had been after him for years to build more storage space for his collection but Parker used most of his workshop time attempting to create a hand-held sun.

Parker was also a flashlight fetishist. But that's another story for another, depraved, soulless evening.

"And speaking of Bat Boy," Parker went on, "he was a chiropteran."

"As a matter of fact, we just finished Blood+."

"Good man," said Parker. "I'll forgive the excursion to network television But anime is the way to go."

"As long as it doesn't involve Matrix Boobs. That was a bit much."

"It was. But a small price to pay."

"Time's a-wasting!" Anne called out.

"Is that Anne?" said Parker. "Tell her I said hello."

I told Anne.

"Call back later!" Anne replied. "We're in the middle of entertainment. He's talked for too long!"

"Damn your timekeeping, Woman!" I shot back, then said to Parker, "I'd better go before she boils me in man-boob sweat. Death may follow."

"Let me know when you'll be heading this way again," he said. "I'll muster the troops and we'll revel in burgers and LAN parties."

Glorious.

Nothing like gluttony and technology.

And no boiled man-boob sweat to worry about.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Plan B From Outer Space" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

I was knee-deep in research material, mainlining Swedish Fish and scenting with a classic bottle of Liquid Paper, when something howled nearby, a bloodcurdling noise that froze me to the short and curlies.

"Sweet Mother of Dingos!" I said, leaping from my desk chair and snatching up the whaling harpoon from the wall. "What poor unfortunate soul is getting a Lovecraftian horrors enema?"

"It's your cellphone," Anne, my Trusty Companion, called out from the couch.

"Can't be," I replied. "It's supposed to play from Carmina Burana, not some whacked-out demented bluegrass death metal."

The howl sounded again. I could feel the noise searing into my brain like a flaming railroad spike through the temples.

I bounded onto my desk, the harpoon held at the ready. "Where are you, you damned white whale?"

"Answer it already," said Anne. "I'm trying to watch my show."

"Show yourself, foul beast!"

"Check under that stack of papers next to your computer."

"Those are Important Notes."

"Check it anyway."

I jammed the harpoon into the stack. It toppled, spilling printouts, scrawled-on notepapers, and a bronze kazoo.

Then my cellphone tumbled out.

"O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana blared from it.

"Ha-HA!" I said, snatching it from the pile of papers.

"Told you," said Anne. "Can I get back to my show now?"

"Return to Robin Hood 90210," I said then keyed the speaker. "Begin your utterances!"

"You're late again, you diseased hamster penis!" said the raspy voice on the other end of the line. "Where's the goddamn article you promised?"

Milton Seth Jones was a right bastard. A savage and obscene man who probably enjoyed being shocked with defibrillator pads applied to his left testicle.

He was also an editor.

My editor. At The Oblivious Plethora.

I loathed him with a visceral hatred akin to a sledgehammer hit to the scrotum.

But a good loathing. A friendly loathing. A loathing accompanied by beer and drunken singing.

"Article?" I said. "What in the name of the wind are you blabbering about, Jonesy?"

"You owe me ten thousand words on the steel cage match between print books and e-books," said Jones.

"Would you settle for a thousand words and four boxes of Swedish Fish?"

"Gadzooks!" Jones replied. "I might at that."

I got down off my desk and grinned to myself. Jones and I were both confectionary aficionados with similar tastes and I knew Swedish Fish was one of his weaknesses.

"Excellent," I said. "I'll send those right on over."

"See that you do," he said. "But that's not the only reason I called. I decided to take you up on your offer and run that John Joseph Adams interview you wrote."

"Sounds good," I said.

"Is it true the two of you are buds?"

"We are," I said. "I serenaded him while he was on jury duty."

"So you can get that interview over to me? It'll be a nice tie-in to the news of his publisher-ship and the merging of Fantasy and Lightspeed."

"Not a problem," I said. "Give me three weeks."

"Ha ha, very funny," said Jones. "You got four days to polish it. Don't be late."

He hung up.

The front door slammed shut.

I turned and saw Anne walking toward me, a folded document in her hand.

"Who was at the door?" I said.

"Process server," Anne said and held up the document. "John Joseph Adams has taken out a restraining order on you."

I gaped at her. "What madness is this?"

"Probably from all those emails you were sending."

"I was attempting to gather information," I said. "Jonesy agreed to run the interview."

"The one you haven't written yet?"

"Exactly."

"You might be shit out of luck. If you'd just sent a couple of emails instead of two hundred, you might be talking to him by now. Oh, and that dead octopus in a box was probably a bad idea."

"It was a Cthulhu Gift Basket!"

"Whatever. You're not allowed within a hundred yards of him. Or Christie Yant."

"By Jove's hairy nutsac!" I said, quickly contemplating my options. It wasn't a lot. In fact, it was next to nil. Or minus-nil.

Then a thought struck.

"I'm gonna have to go with Plan B," I said.

"Oh no," said Anne, horror etched on her face. "Not Plan B."

"Oh yes. Plan B."

"Plan B has something to do with that black and green padded barrel sitting out back, doesn't it."

"It begins there," I said, rubbing my hands together as ideas crept forth from the depths of my brain and gave me goose bumps.

"It'll probably end in tears and wailing," said Anne.

Probably. But that wouldn't stop me.

No sir.

I was a Professional.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!
Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

Let Me Help Your Christmas Shopping

2011-12-07T07:00:00.001-08:00

(Here begins the shameless self-promotion)

One less thing to worry about on your Christmas Shopping/To Do List, right?

Buy them on Kindle and you can gift them. Or purchase a B&N gift card for someone to use and send them the Nook link.

Here's what I got fer ya...

Do you like cyberpunk? Near-future SF? Stories about kick-ass women with guns and swords? Or maybe you know someone who likes these types of stories? Then KAT AND MOUSE, GUNS FOR HIRE is right up their alley. And right now, it's on sale for only $0.99 for your Kindle or Nook

Fancy some urban fantasy instead? Maybe something light to read? A GIRL AND HER DEMON is for you. Just $0.99 for Kindle or Nook.

Want some fun short stories? Want to know what happens when girl scouts attack? Find out in NIGHT OF THE GIRL SCOUTS AND OTHER STORIES, just $0.99 for Kindle or Nook.

And there you have it, folks. Quick and easy Christmas shopping.

(Here ends the shameless self-promotion)

(photo: marciostk/stock.xchng)

"Rumblings From the Dark Side of Twitter" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-12-05T07:00:00.000-08:00

I had just walked in the doors of the Banner Manse last Saturday morning when Marv Banner pulled me aside and flashed his Android phone at me.

"Artoo wants to show you something," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Careful, Marv," I said. "George Lucas has long litigatory arms. If he hears you, probably through your XBox, he's liable to plug up your afterburners with legal action. You may be a city attorney, but you're not as large and intimidating as your namesake. They gave him the chair, remember?"

"Pfeh," said Marv. "Lucas can blow me. Lemme show you my new toy."

I held up the two plastic bags I was still carrying. "The beers need a home or they'll complain in German. Hefeweizens don't like to be kept waiting."

He pointed toward the garage where we would be congregating later. "Fridge on the left."

"Back soon." I made a beeline for the door, passing Marv's wife, Helen, on the way.

"Doctor Jericho," she said with a nod.

"Amazon Queen," I said, also inclining my head.

I went into the garage, packed ten bottles into the fridge, and brought the last two back to where Marv sat on the couch in the living room.

"We have an hour before we dive back into Thunderspire Mountain," he said, taking the proferred bottle and popping the cap. "My toy. Let me show you it."

"Careful with LOLCatSpeak," I said. "I've heard that it will infect your subconscious and drive you mad if you're not paying attention."

"Ceiling Cat sees all," he said and held out the phone.

I started to reach for it, then stopped. "Three Laws compliant?"

"Wouldn't be in this house if it wasn't."

"Good man." I took the phone and looked down at the screen. Colorful icons, miniature photos, and words looked up at me. "What am I looking at?"

"Twitter."

"I can see that," I said. "Why? I know about the Great Social Media Giant."

"Yes," said Marv, "but are you familiar with its dark side?"

"What are you babbling about?"

"Twitter Sith."

I leaned forward. "Have you told anyone?" I said, keeping my voice low.

Marv leaned forward, too. "Just you."

"That's best. If too many people found out, they could swarm the house, smash down the door, and beat the mortal shit out of us with Cabbage Patch dolls soaked in the blood of decapitated My Little Ponies. Your wife and kids would be in danger of being sent to the gulag. And you'd have small fabric body parts jutting from your spleen."

Marv shuddered. "I can't have that."

"I know. Now tell me about the Twitter Sith."

"They roam the edges of the timestream."

I gasped. I had seen them. Dark, shapeless masses, just at the corner of my retweets. Never fully formed. Hovering there in Shymalanian phantasmagoria.

Marv's eyes widened. "You've seen them, too, haven't you!"

"Yes, by Jove's hairy nutsac. I have. Just the other day, as a matter of fact. I thought they might pose a problem but I wasn't sure anyone else had seen them. Thought maybe I was seeing things. That I'd gotten a bad batch of 5 Hour Energy Drinks."

Marv made a face. "Those things'll kill you. Better stay with Monster."

"It was an experiment in warp field manipulation," I said, "but I don't think it worked. I lost a pair of boot socks because of it. But nevermind that. We've got to do something about these beasts before they plunge a sword into the very heart of the global social network."

"Yeah" said Marv. "Otherwise they're liable to infiltrate the entire world psyche. We're already seeing what they've done, you know."

"Stalking," I said. "Everybody's following everybody and some of them you don't even know about. Just watching you from afar with a pair of 10-power Alpen binos. Ten thousand watching eyes. Big Brother's wet dream."

"And Twitter spam," said Marv. "Don't forget that. Asking us to buy penis products. I think they're getting too powerful. Powerful of Dan Brownian magnitudes."

"A single fluke harpoon," I said. "Made of iron. Iron hurts them. Drive them back into depths from whence they came. And with a harpoon you have reach. No need to get too close. But just in case, you'll want a big-bore handgun as backup."

"But how are we supposed to use that on Twitter to get at them?"

"You leave that to me. I'll come up with a cunning plan. And when we save the Twitterverse and Felicia Day from certain destruction, we'll be praised as heroes."

Marv threw both arms into the air, hands clenched into fists. "Yatta!"

"Domo arigato gozaimasu, George Takei," I said and glanced up at the clock hanging over the fireplace.

Forty minutes left until we ventured forth into the realm of polyhedral dice and ability scores.

I took a long pull of beer and a thought struck.

"Something else," I said to Marv.

"Yeah?"

"What's Twitter's dominant image?"

"A whale?"

"Yes, and that's where the harpoon comes in handy. But I mean the primary image?"

"A bird," Marv said and went saucer-eyed. "Do you mean--!" He made a gagging sound. "Shades of the Fat British Man with the Speech Impediment--!!"

I nodded slowly and drank more beer. "That's right, Sonny Jim. Bodega Bay was just the start."

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!

Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

Progress Notes

2011-11-30T09:00:00.000-08:00

Tales of Episode #207
I have to confess that the writing has been slow-going, mostly because of a certain incident with a certain...er...call it an "entity" for lack of a better word. (You can read about that here.)

Despite that, some work has been done to the tune of:

1,519 / 6,000

I hope to ~~pull more teeth~~ write more as soon as possible. Considering the current episode ends soon.

ack.

As for those other Non-K+M Projects (NKNMP) I talked about previously:

NKNMP #1 - #3: On hold.

NKNMP #4: Back from markets. No other possible markets to be found. I may need to do more checking around. Or I might just turn it into an e-book for Kindle and Nook. I haven't decided.

(photo: abcdz2000/stock.xchng)

"Invasion: 2012" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-11-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

I was sitting in a Starbucks on New Montgomery Street in San Francisco with a large white mocha when my old compatriot Cordwainer Duke walked in and looked around. He wore his customary dark gray tweed jacket with elbow patches, a pair of tinted aviator-style glasses, and carried a thick leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

"Duke!" I called out, waving him over to my table next to a long picture window that looked out onto Jessie Street.

Duke raised both arms high. "Jericho, you foul bastard! How the hell have you been?" The other patrons, mostly twentysomethings in designer clothing or wannabe-retro fashions, shot him vile glances but Duke ignored them and strode over. He unslung the satchel from his shoulder and dropped into the empty seat across from me.

"I'm doing fine," I said and handed him a cup of coffee.

He sipped it a moment, then took a longer pull and smacked his lips. "The drink of the gods, eh?"

"Yes, it is," I said. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

Duke took another swig, set the cup down, then leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced. He looked around for a moment, then at me. "Invasion," he said.

"What!"

Duke motioned me to keep my voice down.

"Jove's hairy nutsac!" I said through gritted teeth, pitching my voice low. "What invasion?"

"How long have we known each other, Jericho?"

"Five, six years," I said.

"And you know what I do, right?"

"You used to do work for Starlog until they folded," I said. "Now it's stuff for blastr.com, io9, Locus, Empire, those folks. But what's that got to do with invasion? And what's invading where?"

He leaned closer. "What I'm gonna tell you, you can't repeat to anybody."

I leaned in, too. "Fine by me. You know I keep secrets well."

"Exactly why I'm telling you and only you."

"What is it?"

He looked around around again without turning his head, his eyes flitting from side to side before settling on me. "I belong," he said, his voice kept low, "to a covert black-ops wing of the SFWA."

I gaped at him. "SFWA? The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America?"

He nodded. "We're known as Omega-13."

"Omega-13? Like in Galaxy Quest?"

"I disavow any knowledge of a relationship between our group and the item as described in that film." He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "Before I go on, I need you to sign this NDA."

I took the sheet and unfolded. It was good linen letterhead paper. At the very top was a stylized logo that included the Greek letter Omega in uppercase and the Latin phrase "Caesum caudam, suscipit nomina." I read it over. Standard document. I pulled a pen from my jacket pocket, signed it, and handed it back to him.

"Fabulous," he said, folding it up and slipping it back inside his jacket.

"My lips are sealed," I said.

"Better be," said Duke. "Consequences are not pretty."

"So," I said. "Covert ops? Hush-hush, black bag sort of things?"

Duke gave a vague gesture and noncommittal grunt.

"Like what?" I said. "At least give me an idea."

Duke thought for a moment, then said: "Did you hear what happened to the World Fantasy Con Creeper?"

"He got booted from the con," I said. "I read about it on Jaym Gates's blog."

"Do you know what happened after he got booted from the con?"

"No."

He gave me a feral smile. "It's better that way."

I gaped again at him. "Egads, man!"

Duke made another vague gesture and took a drink from his coffee cup.

"Now what's this business about an invasion?" I said.

"Our latest intel confirms a suspicion we've had for some time," said Duke.

"This invasion."

"Yes."

"From where?"

"The Fae," said Duke.

I gasped. "Are you sure?"

Duke nodded. "All these UF novels being published? Preparation. Mass preparation. We've been working behind the scenes with publishers to get these novels out there so that the general populace is aware of the threat. Same goes with movies and television."

"Wait," I said. "Are you trying to tell me that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is--was--a training video?"

"Pretty much. As are the books of Jim Butcher. Also Kat Richardson, Kelly Meding, Stacia Kane, and K.A Stewart, to name a few. Training manuals."

"Supposing it's true--"

"It is true, Jericho."

"Okay. Fine. It's true. So why tell me? Why not go to CNN or MSNBC? Fox News. Hell, tell the big boys like John Scalzi or Neil Gaiman or Mark Henry. They've got reach."

"CNN and MSNBC wouldn't touch us with a ten meter cattle prod," said Duke. "Fox News would laugh at us. And people will just think Scalzi, Gaiman, and Henry are just yukking it up. We need a John Q. Public to get the word out. Especially a John Q. Public who's also a Professional Writer."

"Let me guess. That's where I come in."

"Bingo, baby. This is big league stuff, Jericho. Big like Watergate. Iran-Contra. Twilight. And you're our guy on the street. Our man in the trenches. In like Flynn. You gotta be Lieutenant Hatcher to our Thorn and tell everybody. Be like Miles Bennell, running up and down a highway full of cars and trucks, screaming the truth. Think you can handle it?"

"Of course I can," I said. "I'm a Professional Writer."

Duke grinned. "We knew you'd come through for us."

"I'll need data to get started," I said. "Can you get me some of your intel?"

"Do you one better," said Duke. "I can get one of our intel guys to help you out. Name's Azerov. Ezekiel Azerov."

"I've heard about him," I said. "Writes science articles and books. Also some science fiction novels."

"That's Zeke."

"He's a supergenius. A polymath."

"Hell," said Duke. "I can't even get through New Math. But yeah--Azerov's the best of best. The creme de la menthe. The shiznit."

"The what?"

"The shiznit. He'll give you the down-low. The 4-1-1."

I squinted at him. "What's happening to you?"

"I'm hip to the 'leet speak'," said Duke.

"Don't do that," I said. "You might pull a muscle." I took a drink of my mocha. "When do you think the invasion's supposed to take place?"

"End of next year."

"2012."

"Exactly," said Duke.

I nodded. Of course. It now made perfect sense. Even the Mayans knew about the Fae Invasion.

Duke fished out a business card from his coat pocket and slapped it onto the table. "That's Azerov's number. He's waiting for your call."

I grabbed the card. "I'm on it like Nutella on toast," I said.

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!

Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

"Welcome Message" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-11-23T07:00:00.000-08:00

[originally ghostwritten for the first issue of the magazine The Oblivious Plethora; from The Jericho Files collection]

Welcome to the first issue of The International Journal of Integrated and Strategically Applied Porcine Spatio-Temporal Dynamics, an electronic journal dedicated to the review and conveyance of information related to the fields of porcine spatio-temporal dynamics.

We live in exciting times. The science is rapidly expanding and the last ten years has already shown what can be done with a plate of bacon and a miniature warp field.

Our goal is to develop and maintain our position as the eminent journal within the associated scientific literature and to crush the souls of those who dare defy us.

We promote the spirit of obsequial intention and vociferously abide by our motto and guiding principle: "Vescere bracis meis."

--Milton Seth Jones
Editor-in-Chief

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!

Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

Damn You, NaNoWriMo! Damn You To Hell!

2011-11-22T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hello, Blog Readers.

As you might have seen from these two posts, an entity has now joined us.

And I blame NaNoWriMo for letting him escape from the maximum security psychiatric ward of my subconscious.

You see, the esteemed Doctor Ace T. Jericho has been out before, wreaking havoc and holy anarchic hell in '93, '01, and '07.

But he was relatively controllable then.

In late 2007, using a strategically placed carton or ten of Swedish Fish and an Underwood manual typewriter, we were able to lure him and lock him back into his ten-by-ten room with a touch lamp, cot, TV, DVD player, and a stack of books and movies.

However, he's grown powerful now. Powerful enough to bypass the wards that were thrown up around him. Wards like six layers of concertina wire, a piranha-filled moat, and a minefield.

NaNo, by its very creative nature, gave Doctor Jericho the loophole through which he crawled.

And now he is among us. He has co-opted this blog. And he has placed an uncanny mental block upon me so that I cannot delete any of his posts.

The little turd.

As I said before, may the gods have mercy on our souls.

My apologies ahead of time.

And I shake my fist and curse you, NaNoWriMo.

"Operation: Occupy Warner Brothers" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Professional Writer

2011-11-21T07:00:00.000-08:00

"This," I said, gesturing to the monitor, "is a travesty against humankind."

"What's that?" said Anne, my Trusty Companion, rolling her chair towards my desk and peering over my shoulder. "Not LOLCats. LOLCats are a gift from the gods."

"Not that," I said. "This."

"Happy Feet Two? Yeah, I also fail to see why that needed a sequel."

"No, Woman," I said, jabbing a finger at the monitor. "This. Kristen Stewart gets cast in Akira."

Anne gave a strangled yelp.

"My thoughts exactly," I said. "What in the name of the wind are these people thinking? Actually, that's probably the problem. They aren't thinking. All hopped up on triple mocha lattes while their brains leak out of their ears."

"You're right, Jericho," said Anne. "That is a travesty against humankind. I don't want my anime to sparkle, goddammit. We've got to do something."

"I'm working on that right now, Old Girl," I said. "Here's my plan. Occupy Warner Brothers."

Anne blinked at me. "You mean like Occupy Wall Street?"

"Yes," I said. "Exactly that. We gather thirty, maybe forty thousand screaming, gibbering twentysomethings, offer them free WiFi and the MMO of their choice, and camp them out in front of the studio offices singing karaoke, doing interpretive dances, and chanting slogans against crap-tastic adaptations."

"Problem. You don't have many followers."

"I don't have any followers. Except maybe a few dust bunnies."

"So how do you plan to go from zero to forty thousand gibbering twentysomethings?"

"I can buy them off."

"You don't have money. Just two pieces of lint and a paper clip."

"Minor technicality," I said. "Then we'll have to focus our energies. Time's a-wasting."

Just then "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana exploded from nearby.

It was my cellphone wailing for attention.

I grabbed the bullhorn from the desk. "Quiet, you technobeast! I'm trying to concentrate!"

Anne reached past me, picked up the phone, and looked at the display. "It's an unlisted number."

"Put it on speaker."

She did and set the phone back on the desk.

"Is this Doctor Jericho?" said the tinny lisping voice on the other end.

"Who are you, Foul Miscreant," I said, "that I may smite thee with a large piece of farm equipment for interfering in creations of cosmic proportions?"

"Is this Doctor Jericho, the Professional Writer?"

"It is, sir. Who's this?"

"Call me Ishmael," said the voice.

"Are you serious?" Anne said, making a face.

"Yes. Ishmael Pequod Bell."

"All right, Ishmael Pequod Bell," I said. "Speak fast. This is an unsecured line and there are wily weasels out there who will stop at nothing to censor us Rogue Journalists with six feet of plastic tubing and a yak."

"I'm an assistant at Warner Brothers," said Ishmael. "I've been asked to talk to you. My superiors know that you probably heard the announcements for the casting of Akira. They just want you to know that they have the source material's best interests in mind."

"Best interests?" I said with a guffaw. "By whitewashing the cast? Surely you're joking. And if not joking, clinically insane."

"We're planning on getting Helena Bonham Carter and Gary Oldman to sign on. They've got the filmic cachet to lend the movie some authority."

"Cachet is not the point," I said. "You and your superiors are treading on dangerous ground. Bordering on taking the source material and subjecting it to an acid enema. If your cast members are not Japanese, why keep the Japanese names?"

"They spoke Chinese in that Joss Whedon space western."

"Are you talking about 'Firefly'?"

"Whatever it was called."

"Your ignorance is showing, you filthy excuse for a walking turd. Besides, 'Mal Reynolds' isn't a Chinese name. If you're going to Americanize an anime classic, might as well make all the names American. Or at least non-Japanese."

Anne snorted. "That might be too much, even for the brains at Warner Brothers," she said.

"Not at all," said Ishmael. "There's already some discussion about that."

I gaped at the phone. "Say it ain't so."

"Oh yes," he said. "So far they're considering 'Ken' for 'Kaneda,' 'Tony' for 'Tetsuo,' and 'Kate' for 'Kei.' "

Anne and I exchanged worried looks.

I was afraid to ask.

"What about 'Akira'?" I said.

"They're thinking 'Fred.' "

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!

Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

F*ck A Duck. He's Back.

2011-11-18T07:19:00.001-08:00

Jericho.

May the gods have mercy on our souls.

In Which I Co-Opt The Signal

2011-11-18T07:06:00.000-08:00

I am come (cue Charlton Heston voice) to bring you out of Darkness and lead you into the Light. I am here not just to instill Wisdom into the Unbelievers out there, but to ram it so far down their throats that their next bowel movement resembles a Zen garden.

And yes, I said "revered." The native tribe of a small South Pacific island called "Fred" considers me a god, a righteous, fiery deity with blazing eyes and steaming loins, and they have erected towering monuments in my honor, and named their children after me. Bless them.

And so it is time. Time once again to spread my Buttery Self upon the Slice of Toast that is The World.

Gentle Readers, I salute you from The Lair, sans pants and with coffee in hand. Join me as we examine Life through rose-colored 3D glasses...then bash it into submission with the Rubber Chicken of Truth.

You can trust me.

I'm Doctor Ace T. Jericho. Rogue Journalist.

"A Scattering of Rhinos" by Dr. Ace T. Jericho, Rogue Journalist

2011-11-16T07:15:00.000-08:00

The doors of the Lair swung open and my Trusty Companion, Anne, stepped inside. "More dead weasels nailed to the door," she said.

"Nevermind that," I said from my desk. "There are more important things afoot in the world."

"Who did you piss off this time?" she asked, heading into the kitchen.

"I haven't pissed anyone off," I said. "It's a conspiracy."

"Is it the gun control weirdos again?"

"Possible," I said. "I did call them childish that one time."

"No, you didn't. You called them, and I quote, colicky infants who cry and shit themselves at every loud noise."

"Toughen up, Old Girl. It's a dog eat dog world out there and I'm low on tranq darts. Those wily bastards creep around like flashers in oily raincoats."

Anne poured herself a cup of coffee and took a swig. "What're you gonna do about the weasels?"

"Nothing for now. They can be our battle standard for the moment."

"Battle standard?" she asked. "Are we going to war?"

"According to your voicemail earlier, we are."

"What?"

"Something about rhinos. Then a lot of gibberish. Like confused baboons trying to assemble a VCR from an instruction manual written in Urdu."

"Rhinos? What are you talking about? Have you been sniffing Liquid Paper again?"

"The classic containers are getting hard to find now, you know. But yes. Rhinos. I'd stay away from them. Politically dangerous. Highly unstable. Been known to explode at any given moment." I mimed an explosion. "Boom! Just like that. All over the walls. There've been studies. I've seen the PDFs. But if you're eager to tangle with them, we'll need assistance. And weapons. Especially against those techno ones you were going on about."

"Techno rhinos?"

"No," I said. "Nano rhinos."

Anne sputtered. "No no. NaNoWriMo."

"That's what I said. Nano rhionos. I bet they're tiny fuckers. Nano and all that." I stood and pulled the whaling harpoon from the wall. "This might be overkill but it's a start."

"No no, Jericho," said Anne. "It's NaNoWriMo. Short for National Novel Writing Month."

I lowered the harpoon. "Novels?"

"Yes. Novels. The idea is to write a fifty-thousand word novel in thirty days."

Novels. This was something new. This was something not standard. But I, as a Professional Writer, was agile in that respect. I could bend like the proverbial reed in the proverbial wind.

"Then what the hell do rhinos have to do with that?" I said.

"Nothing at all. I think you misheard 'NaNoWriMo' as 'nano rhino.' "

"Impossible," I said. "I never mishear anything. I'll bet that's precisely what they want you to think. And hear." I set the harpoon down and drew the cutlass I always wore. "We'll need to be ready when the time comes." I pointed to the bookshelf next to the desk. "Get that shotgun."

She gestured at the cutlass with her cup of coffee. "You're gonna hurt yourself with that."

"I'm a Professional Writer," I reminded her. "We're trained in a variety of weapons. Our primary weapon being words. The gun with which we blow the kneecaps off the Establishment."

"You stole that line."

"Not stole. Ingrained it. Deep into my frontal lobe." I took a swig of coffee from the mug at my desk. "Fifty thousand words in thirty days, eh?"

"That's the idea," said Anne.

"It's the middle of November now. How much have you written?"

"I'm not participating."

"That's a relief," I said, sitting back down in my chair. "Because if you haven't started by now, you're probably screwed. Unless you take some meth."

Come back next week for another entry of The Jericho Files!

Read previous Jericho Files entries here.

NaNo Halfway Mark!!

2011-11-15T08:32:00.000-08:00

We're half done with November and the crazy days of Thanksgiving are soon to be upon us.

How are you coming along with NaNo?

Are you also halfway to your 50K? Are you behind? Are you finished?

Share your progress!

Confession Time: Leading a Double Life

2011-11-10T06:30:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. One that was prompted by NaNo.

I had decided to unofficially use NaNo Time to work on Episode #207 of Kat and Mouse.

But while writing the episode, I also found myself doing another kind of writing. One that I hadn't done in some time.

And one that's currently exploding from my fingers.

See, back in April of 2007, I started a little blog called The Madman Raves. It was a blog focused on gun rights and on exposing the misinformation campaign of gun control groups.

If you haven't guessed, I am pro-gun. And a gun owner.

Now before you all go screaming and bolting for the hills, I feel it necessary to say I'm also a firm believer of our personal freedoms and civil liberties. Privacy. Pro-choice. Religious tolerance. Gender equality. Sexual preference. Free speech. Free press.

So yes, I'm probably an odd duck.

Now--what's this writing that's exploding from my fingers?

That other blog I mentioned. Previously called The Madman Raves, it's now morphed into Confessions of an Armed Californian.

Why am I bringing it up?

In case you were curious what else I'm using my writing powers for.

If you are, pop on over to Confessions of an Armed Californian.

If you're not, no need to go.

That's fine, too.

Just thought I'd share.

Here We Come A-NaNo-ing...

2011-11-02T07:45:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again.

NaNo time.

So tell us: Are you NaNo-ing?

Are you official? Unofficial?

Or maybe you're not NaNo-ing? Feel it's just a waste of time? Or you don't have time?

Up On Drabblecast

2011-10-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

I narrate the story "A Happy Family" by Nathaniel Tower over on the newest episode of the Drabblecast.

Have a listen and enjoy!

Today's Writing Quote

2011-10-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

You say "trope" I say "time-honed tool."
--John Rogers, producer and writer, Leverage

Progress Notes

2011-10-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

Tales of Episode #207
After some research reading and episode breakdowns (aka outlining), I think I have enough to get started. Act 3 is still about 60-65% worked out, but I figure I'll get cracking with what I've got.

I can always work things out when I get to that point in the story.

As for those other Non-K+M Projects (NKNMP) I mentioned a while back:

NKNMP #1: Swashbuckling fantasy. About 700 prelim words. On hold.

NKNMP #2: Portal fantasy. About 400 prelim words. Also on hold.

NKNMP #3: Bay City story. Still in notes form. And yet another on hold.

NKNMP #4: Bay City story #2 completed at about 3,200 words and now out to market #3

(photo: abcdz2000/stock.xchng)

Where The F**k Are The Wednesday Tips?!?

2011-10-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

Where are they, Abner? Where the hell are my Writing Tip Wednesdays?!?!

Hold your horses. They're still around. But I have to ask--

Are they helpful? Do you enjoy them? Anything you want to see me talk about?

Leave a comment and let me know.

A Reading From the Book of Wendig

2011-10-12T20:01:00.000-07:00

For your listening pleasure, I shall now read "Beware of Owner," by Chuck Wendig.

"Read By..."

2011-10-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

The other night I happened to land on Clarkeworld's website and noticed the link to "audiofiction."

And saw the notation: "Read by".

And it suddenly hit me--there are peeps doing this online! Right now!

Narrating fiction!

Holy testicle Tuesday! I gotta get in on this!

I mean, I've already had experience acting in audiodramas.

And I did narrate one bit of audiofiction.

So, in conjunction with me finding out how to get started narrating for places like Clarkesworld, I'm also gonna hang out my shingle as an audiobook narrator. Dramatic readings for SF/F flash, shorts, novelettes, and novellas.

Okay. Not quite audiobooks. More like audiofiction.

You get the picture.

Click the link to "Narration" up there under the header for my rates and contact info.

Here's hoping to work with you soon!

KAT AND MOUSE Updates

2011-09-26T07:03:00.001-07:00

Part 1 of "Into The Woods" is now live on the site.

Happy reading, gang!

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] "Shut Yer Cake-hole!": Dealing With Dialogue

2011-09-21T06:30:00.000-07:00

Let's cover dialogue today.

You'll hear this advice a lot (and I'm paraphrasing here): "Your dialogue should sound like real people talking."

Good advice, right?

Right.

Except when it's not.

See, when most folks here this, they immediately think: "My dialogue needs to sound exactly like people talking at Starbucks."

And instead of dialogue, they end up writing what amounts to a transcript.

Now why the hell would someone want to read a transcript?

Dialogue--dramatic dialogue--isn't a transcript of conversation. It simulates real conversation. It doesn't replicate it.

Let's go over that again:

Dramatic dialogue simulates real conversation. It doesn't replicate it.

"Simulate" is the operative word here.

So how do we do that? How do we simulate real conversation?

Here are three keys to keep in mind...

SAY YOU, SAY ME
People speak different depending on a variety of factors: place of origin, educational level, culture, etc. A literature professor at Oxford will speak very differently from an Appalachian miner. And that miner won't speak the same as a surfing enthusiast from Santa Monica, California. William F. Buckley sounds completely different from Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.

Next time you're at the mall or sitting in Starbucks, listen to the conversations around you and take notes. Listen to the rhythms of speech and look for the following elements:

Fast or slow
Melodic or monotone
Complex vocabulary or lots of slang
Word choice
Favorite expressions
Complete sentences or fragmented sentences

Don't take that as an exhaustive list, but just a few things to get you started.

Once you hear those elements in speech, give them to the characters in your WIP. Have one person speak quickly but using a complex vocabulary. Or another speak slow and melodic but uses lots of slang. Mix and match.

SAY IT FORWARD
Dialogue should move the story forward.

Real conversations spends a lot of time chit-chatting. The weather. The kids and family. The game last night. The latest gossip. A lot of this before you actually get to the point of the conversation.

Drop the chit-chat.

Every spoken line needs to have a purpose in the story. Will it reveal character? Will it establish backstory? Will it heighten tension or conflict?

If it doesn't none of these things, cut it, cut it, cut it.

Get right to the meat of the conversation.

SAY IT, BUT DON'T REALLY SAY IT
Avoid "on the nose" dialogue.

I'm stealing this advice from the world of screenwriting.

"On the nose" dialogue is dialogue that says exactly what it means.

It's boring.

Avoid it as much as possible.

People will rarely say what they truly feel and truly mean. They'll hedge. They'll tiptoe. Beat around the bush. And if they think they've been found out, they'll vehemently deny it.

Let's look at this example:

LEIA: I love you.
HAN: I love you, too.

Ugh. Booooring.

Now compare it to the exchange we all know and adore:

LEIA: I love you.
HAN: I know.

Speaks volumes, doesn't it.

Or this one:

"Dana--How could you sleep with him?"
"You drove me away."
"I love you."
"No, you don't. You love your job more than me."

Blah blah blah-bitty blah.

Now try this:

"Was it worth it, Dana?"
"What do you care?"
"I do care."
"By coming home late every night? You're kidding. Tell me you're kidding."
"And Bill?"
"I felt like me again. The real me."

I'd keep reading. Wouldn't you?

So there you have it. My three keys to dramatic dialogue. Use them.

Or at the very least, try them out and see if they put a kick into your dialogue.

In a future post, we'll look at handling exposition in dialogue.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Surveyin' Mah Readers

2011-09-20T13:35:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow marks the 14th installment of my Writing Tip Wednesdays post series.

I'm hoping to write more but before I do, I want to find out the following from you, Mah Readers:

How helpful are these posts?
What topics would you like me to cover?

Or, am I way outta my league with these and should go do something else? Like herding cats?

Let me know in comments.

And now, over to all-ya'll...

On TURN COAT by Jim Butcher

2011-09-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

I just finished Turn Coat*, book 11 of the Dresden Files. A fun read, as usual.

But really, Jim Butcher, sir? I figured by now Harry would know the difference between a "clip" and a "magazine."

Yeah, yeah--I understand it's from Harry's POV. But the incorrect usage makes me go "gaahhk".

Oh and the Indiana Jones-revolver comment? Let's not forget Indy also used a Browning during the fight in Marion's tavern.

If you haven't read the series, go get started. Now.

If you are reading the series, yes, I'm behind.

*This is an affiliate link to Amazon. If you buy from this link, I get a little extra to help pay for a mocha or two.

KAT AND MOUSE Updates

2011-09-19T06:40:00.000-07:00

"Skeletons" is now live on the site.

Happy reading, folks!

KAT AND MOUSE Returns

2011-09-15T13:30:00.000-07:00

That's right!

The Duo are back with more cyberpunk pulp adventure.

The serial starts up again on Monday the 19th.

If you're subscribed, check your RSS feed or your email inbox next Monday for the latest installment.

If you're not subscribed, get it by RSS Feed or via email.

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Enter, Kicking Ass: Your Story's Opening

2011-09-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

Your beginning is gonna be key. If it sucks, you're losing your reader right at the start and that's bad.

In order to make your beginnings work, you need to make sure you have the following:

Hook
Status Quo
Shift

HOOK
First thing you gotta do is "hook" your reader.

Most people think this means starting with a bang--literally. A gunfight. A big chase, battle, or other action sequence. A grisly murder. A shocking line of dialogue.

Sure. If that works for the type of story you're writing then go for it.

Basically you're trying to open with an image, an action, or a description that pulls the reader into your story and immediately impacts a primary character.

If you decide to open your story with the weather, make sure it's more than just a description. Make that description work. Instead of opening with

It was a dark and stormy night

and then going on to describe how dark and how stormy it was, why not open with something like

It was a dark and stormy night and Caitlin cringed as the wind slammed into the picture windows yet again, praying hard they wouldn't break.

Because those things were out there.

And they went through open windows first.

Here, you're not just opening with a description of the weather. You're also giving context to that weather in terms of plot development.

The whole point of the "hook" is to make the reader want to read more and with this kind of a beginning, your reader will want to read more, to find out what those "things" are and why they go through open windows first.

STATUS QUO
Once you've got them, set up the world of the story. That means introducing the setting, the protagonist, the antagonist, and the various relationships between important characters.

Here, you're describing the "normal" before the "un-normal" happens. Your MC has a dog, is estranged from his parents, and lives a dull, boring life. Or your MC is an angsty teen who just wants to go to the Academy but constantly gets stuck behind at home to work on the condensers on the south ridge.

Once you've done that, it's time for the "un-normal," otherwise known as

SHIFT
You've drawn the reader into the story world. You've shown him the "normal" state of the world for the protagonist.

Now we get to the end of the beginning.

Now we violently unquo the quo.

We turn the protagonist's world upside down. Horribly upside down. An event happens that upsets the status quo and moves the story into the middle.

This is where your hero discovers the ring he's inherited is a powerful object and it's being hunted by servants of the Dark Lord. This is where the galactic farmboy from a backwater planet finds his aunt and uncle have been killed by the bad guys so he has to leave the planet or get killed.

From here, your story spins itself toward the middle.

And things start to get interesting.

(For more on writing the middle, be sure to check last week's post.)

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Go Buy Other People's Books

2011-09-08T06:30:00.000-07:00

A couple of fellow writer folks I want to promote here on the blog.

First is D.S. Moen and her short "A Sword Called Rhonda" now available on Kindle.

And Diana Rajchel has written a workbook for you magic practitioners out there called The Spellcasting Picture Book. Available on Kindle.

Show 'em some support and grab a copy.

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Prevent Ball-Sucking Middles

2011-09-07T06:30:00.000-07:00

You know it happens. Every time. Every story.

Your beginning opens with a bang. You have an ending that zings.

But your middle sucks balls.

So how do you fix it? How do you give it cojones?

How do you conquer your story's middle?

Here are two ways:

Failed Solutions

Rock Throwing

FAILED SOLUTIONS
Think of it as "two steps forward, one step back."

Your main character sets out to overcome the story problem. As soon as he tries, it fails. He tries another solution. More fail. Tries another. Another fail. Over and over until he figures out the one solution that actually works. From there, your story moves toward the ending.

But the point is this: He tries. He fails. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

And don't forget--make your hero fail hard.

ROCK THROWING
I remember reading a great description of how to build a story: "Get your hero up a tree. Throw rocks at him. Get him down from the tree."

The story middle is where you throw rocks at your hero.

That means you put obstacles in his way that keep him from directly solving the story problem. You make things hard. You turn up the heat.

If he's trying to reach the magic sword, the Dark Lord's henchmen and minions attack him at every turn. If he's trying to solve the disappearance of the rich debutante, this is where he finds red herrings, puzzling clues, and heavies that harrass him.

Get the picture?

You can even combine them. When your main character tries to solve the story problem, the bad guys attack.

Let's say you're writing a fantasy novel. Your hero has to find the magic sword to save the kingdom. First, he's gotta find the wiseman who knows the location of said sword. When he finds the wiseman, have him run into the villain's henchmen. Even better--have the henchmen kidnap the wiseman. Now our hero's gotta rescue the wiseman and defeat the henchmen before he can find out where the sword's located.

So now you've got these two methods to create a good story middle. Question is: How many failed solutions do you use in your story? How many thrown rocks? How many of both?

Depends on your story. There's really no hard and fast rule for this.

My tip: Have at least one failed solution or one thrown rock. If you don't, you won't have a story. You'll just have an event.

And an event sucks more balls than a saggy middle.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

It's Alive! It's Aliiive!

2011-09-06T06:30:00.000-07:00

We're back.

Hope y'all had a good Labor Day weekend.

Announcements:

WRITING TIPS WEDNESDAY resumes tomorrow. Check back here or on your RSS feed for the next post.

KAT AND MOUSE starts up again on the 19th. Head on over to the site to resume the escapades of our favorite ronin.

Light Postings Ahead...

2011-08-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

Busy days ahead, folks, so the blog's gonna be a little sparse.

Writing Tip Wednesdays will resume on September 7th.

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Research Craziness

2011-08-17T06:30:00.000-07:00

Certain genres of fiction need research.

Science fiction. Police procedurals. Fantasy. Technothriller. Historical.

If you don't take the time to do the research, your readers will be pissed. And they'll let you know about it, mainly by never buying your books and telling their friends not to buy your books because you don't know what you're talking about.

Yeah, even fantasy novels can get research wrong. Or get none at all. Horses, for instance, aren't four-legged cars that eat grass and go nonstop for hours on end.

No.

But some fantasy writers will forget that.

I'm all for research. Research is good.

Do the research. Know your shit.

But.

(And here's the big "But".)

Don't get lost in the research.

How do you get lost?

When you spend more time researching than writing your story.

You're writing a story.

Not a dissertation.

Story.

First and foremost.

Figure out what you need to know.

Then friggin' get back to writing your story.

Otherwise, you're wasting time.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

The Motivation Whine

2011-08-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

"How do I get motivated to write?"

Another often-asked question I see in writing forums.

And this one bugs the crap out of me.

If you're serious about writing, why do you need to ask this question?

What do I mean by serious?

Serious = wanting to do this professionally.

As in making money from writing, getting your stories into magazines and your novels into stores, and doing it full-time. Or as close to full-time as you can get.

If that's the case, then not writing means you won't get paid means you can't pay bills means you can't buy food.

So you write.

Come hell or high water.

You sit your ass down and you write.

But if this isn't you, if this isn't what you want to do, if you're just in it for the art, then I have to ask: Why are you worried about being motivated?

Don't you just "write when you feel inspired"?

If that's the case, you just answered your question about motivation.

You write when you're inspired.

So don't complain about motivation.

And as I've said before: Writers write.

/rant

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Conflict, Conflict, Conflict!

2011-08-10T06:30:00.000-07:00

You gotta have it in your story.

It's crucial.

Always always keep this in mind:

YOUR STORY WILL NOT WORK WITHOUT CONFLICT.

Remember your structure: at the beginning of your story, your main character's life gets thrashed. Turned upside down. Ass over teakettle.

Now he's got a big problem in his hands. And he's gotta take care of it or there'll be hell to pay.

There's your conflict.

You need it because conflict is your story's primary driving force. It's the thing that's getting in your MC's path and keeping him from getting to his goal. That goal is the solution to the problem.

So your MC has to find a way over, under, around, or through that conflict.

And that makes for good story.

And that's what you want: Good story.

Now pay attention to this next tidbit.

Conflict doesn't have to be explosions, running gun battles with ninjas, or laser sword duels with alien invaders.

Sure, it's fun.

But not always necessary.

See, conflict can take one of three forms:

Man vs. Nature/Society
Man vs. Man
Man vs. Self

Use it.

Use it, use it, use it.

For the love of all that's holy, use it!!

Use all three forms if you want to.

But use it.

Or you won't have a story.

You'll have crap.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

"Should I Be A Writer?"

2011-08-08T06:30:00.000-07:00

I saw this question on one of the forums I lurk at.

Which brought to mind a recent email newsletter item I received from SF/F writer Holly Lisle.

The email was titled "If you CAN be talked out of it, quit."

There's a story Lawrence Block relates in Telling Lies for Fun and Profit:

There's an old story about a young man who cornered a world-famous violinist and begged to be allowed to play for him. If the master offered him encouragement, he would devote is life to music. But if his talent was not equal to his calling, he wanted to know ahead of time so he could avoid wasting his life. He played, and the great violinist shook his head. "You lack the fire," he said.

Decades later the two met again, and the would-be violinist, now a prosperous businessman, recalled their previous meeting. "You changed my entire life," he explained. "It was a bitter disappointment, giving up music, but I forced myself to accept your judgment. Thus, instead of becoming a fourth-rate musician, I've had a good life in the world of commerce. But tell me, how could you tell so readily that I lacked the fire?"

"Oh. I hardly listened when you played," the old master said. "That's what I tell everyone who plays for me--that they lack the fire."

"But that's unforgivable!" the businessman cried. "How could you do that? You altered the entire course of my life. Perhaps I could have been another Kreisler, another Heifetz--"

The old man shook his head again. "You don't understand," he said. "If you had had the fire, you would have paid no attention to me."

So here's my take on the question above: If you have to ask, you're better off doing something else.

Another KAT AND MOUSE Review

2011-08-05T06:30:00.000-07:00

This time, from Sift Book Reviews.

Have a look.

My thanks for Kevin for taking the time to read and review.

Progress Notes

2011-08-04T06:30:00.000-07:00

Tales of Episode #206
We are now at:

5,464 / 6,000

Looks like we'll be upping the "final" word count in our next progress report since the story is far from finished.

As for those other Non-K+M Projects (NKNMP):

NKNMP #1: Swashbuckling fantasy. About 700 prelim words.

NKNMP #2: Portal fantasy. About 400 prelim words.

NKNMP #3: Bay City Story. Still in notes form.

NKNMP #4: A call for an antho submission has generated Bay City Story #2 which needs to be completed and ready to sub my month's end. Ack.

(photo: abcdz2000/stock.xchng)

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Plotting Your Story

2011-08-03T06:30:00.000-07:00

Now let's talk about plotting and outlines.

Before your freak out, panic, and get overwhelmed, just remember what we talked about last time:

STRUCTURE IS YOUR FRIEND.

So...how do you plot your story?

Easy.

Here's what you do.

Get a blank sheet of paper or open up a new document in your word processor.

Then, answer these questions about your story:

Who is the story about (this is your main character)?

What's the problem this person is facing? What event turns my main character's world upside down and moves him to resolve the situation?

What solution does my main character decide on to resolve the situation?

Now, figure out the following:

As your main character moves toward the solution, what obstacles, each "bigger" than the one before, get in his way to try and knock him down and what does he do to get past them?

When your main character seems to be almost within reach of the solution, some event occurs than knocks them almost all the way back to the beginning of their struggles, and all hope seems lost. What's this event?

Right after that blackest event, another event takes place that throws the main character toward the solution. What's that event? (Doesn't have to happen right after the black event. Maybe a short time later. But don't let too much time pass.)

How does the main character resolve the problem? Basically, how does the story end?

Think of this as a loose blueprint. You don't need to know every single tiny detail when you start.

Just know the main points.

When you get down to writing, you'll be able to fill in the details using what you know of your story world, your characters, and the situation.

For now, just a quick sketch of story.

Next time, we'll look at a key ingredient you're gonna need.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

KAT AND MOUSE On Consignment

2011-08-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

A local bookstore has agreed to carry KAT AND MOUSE, GUNS FOR HIRE on consignment.

So if you happen to be local to the San Francisco East Bay, head over to Berkshire Books in Concord, CA to grab a dead-tree edition of the book.

Or go to look and ogle and point.

I'm all excited.

Feeling tingly and stuff..

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Plotters and Pantsers and Outlines, Oh My!

2011-07-27T06:30:00.000-07:00

Sooner or later you're going to run into the old debate about plotters and pantsers.

Plotters are folks who outline and do prep work before they start writing their novel. Pansters don't do any of that. They just go in "by the seat of their pants" (hence the term "pantsers.")

Pantsers are the folks who tend to turn their nose up at outlines. They're the ones who say things like "I write about character, not plot." Or "I let the characters tell me the story."

To this I give the ol' one finger salute.

Here's the thing: There is no such thing as pantsing.

What pantsers are actually doing is what I call "micro-outlining."

Even Stephen King, self-professed pantser who says he has never plotted a story in his life, is really a micro-outliner.

What is micro-outlining?

Simple.

Instead of planning out your story in broad strokes, you're working small scale.

A little at a time.

Start with your character in a situation.

Ask "Then what?"

And answer the question.

When you finish answering the question, look at where your character is at. Look at the situation they're in.

Then ask the question again.

And answer it again.

Repeat.

So, really--we're all plotters.

And those "pantsers" who say that they just write to discover the story and after 60,000 words they finally know and can revise with the real story in mind?

Guess what, dude--you just outlined.

Keep this in mind: Plot is key.

You'll hear lots of folks tell you otherwise.

Crap.

That's what it is.

A load of crap.

Look--when someone's telling you a story, what do you usually say when they pause?

Yeah.

"What happened next?"

Right?

That's where plot comes in.

And if your story is gonna work, you need to know your plot.

And that means outlining.

A couple of reasons people hate outlining and plotting:

"It hinders creativity."

and

"I'll be trapped with an outline."

To these I say "bullshit" and "bullshit."

Plotting and using an outline actually sharpens creativity.

Instead of being all over the place in your story, it provides focus (remember when we talked about focus last week?).

It forces you to figure out what your story is about.

Remember this:

STRUCTURE IS YOUR FRIEND.

Another thing to remember:

AN OUTLINE IS NOT SET IN STONE.

The outline, the plot, is a framework.

Broad strokes.

As you write, details that fill in that parts of the framework will come to you based on the characters and situations and the world of the story.

And yes, that can change.

So how do we outline? So do we set up that framework?

Check back next time.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Progress Notes

2011-07-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Tales of Episode #206

We are now at:

3,825 / 6,000

Still chugging along. Possibly finishing the draft by the first week of August (?).

Possibly.

In addition, I now have two other non-K+M projects (NKNMP) taking shape and ~~asking~~ begging to be written.

NKNMP #1: a swashbuckling fantasy story, possibly a long short story, maybe a novella.

NKNMP #2: a portal fantasy of undetermined length that, interestingly enough, involves the same world as NKNMP #1. Which made the worldbuilding part kinda simple. (And I say "made" because I've spent that last week-ish sketching out the world basics.)

There's also a possible NKNMP #3 that's bubbling to the surface, this one set in K+M's Bay City. But it's still bubbling so nothing further on that.

Yes. That's right. My head's on its way to exploding.

(photo: abcdz2000/stock.xchng)

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Focus, Focus, Focus

2011-07-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

I see this a lot in writing forums and hear it from various "writing folks" I talk to.

I'll ask, "What's your story about?"

They'll say, "Oh, it's very complex."

And then they'll begin to tell you the main character's backstory.

Translation: "I don't know what my story is about."

No no no, Dudes and Dudettes.

Know what your story is about.

This is important!

Saying "it's complex" is a cop out. Lazy.

Also, I'll see or get this answer to the question: "It's about government oppression."

No.

That's not a story.

It's a theme. It's a premise for a story.

A story has a beginning, middle, and an end. It features a character or characters.

If you don't know what your story is about, you're gonna waste a lot of time trying to write it.

So--how do you figure it out?

Nathan Bransford uses a great format in this post about query letters.

[protagonist name] is a [description of protagonist] living in [setting]. But when [complicating incident], [protagonist name] must [protagonist's quest] and [verb] [villain] in order to [protagonist's goal]

That's one good way to do it.

My favorite way is to write what Hollywood calls a "log line." Basically, a one sentence description of your story that follows this format:

who the story is about (protagonist)
what he strives for (goal)
what stands in his way (antagonistic force)

Here's a few examples of loglines.

In a future where criminals are arrested before the crime occurs, a cop struggles on the lam to prove his innocence for a murder he has not yet committed. (Minority Report)

A 17th Century tale of adventure on the Caribbean Sea where the roguish yet charming Captain Jack Sparrow joins forces with a young blacksmith in a gallant attempt to rescue the Governor of England's daughter and reclaim his ship. (Pirates of the Caribbean)

After a twister transports a lonely Kansas farm girl to a magical land, she sets out on a dangerous journey to find a wizard with the power to send her home. (The Wizard of Oz)

When a Roman general is betrayed and his family murdered by an insane and corrupt prince, he comes to Rome as a gladiator to seek revenge. (Gladiator)

After a series of grisly shark attacks, a sheriff struggles to protect his small beach community against the bloodthirsty monster, in spite of the greedy chamber of commerce. (Jaws)

Yeah, we're talking about fiction and these are for movies. But the concept is the same.

Focus.

Get to the meat of your story.

Because all the other stuff is flavoring for the meat.

All those sub-plots and labyrinthine plot twists and intriguery and double crosses and double-double crosses and ginormous set pieces?

Spicy goodness and various other nommy bits.

But what you want to know right off is the meat of your tale.

From there, we can move to the (gasp! ZOMG!) outline.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Random Thoughts: Transformers 3 , Sacred Blacksmith, Kaze No Stigma

2011-07-18T06:30:00.000-07:00

Transformers 3
Recently saw this and I have to say--better than the second one. About as fun as the first. Entertaining, overall. Wasn't really expecting any more than that.

Rosie Huntington-Whiteley replaced Megan Fox as Shia LeBeouf's new love interest and did a decent job. Although shame on Hollywood for making her run around in high heels during action sequences. C'mon, Hollywood. Make with the reality check.

Then again, I'm talking about Hollywood here, right?

And we all know: Hollywood + reality = does not compute.

Nice to see Peter Cullen back as the voice of Optimus.

And kudos to bringing in Leonard Nimoy as the voice of Sentinel Prime. Looks like Nimoy tips a hat to his previous Transformers appearance (the 1986 animated movie; he played Galvatron).

Was it planned? Hmm. Can't tell. Not sure how much of a geek Michael Bay is.

The Sacred Blacksmith
LadyAce suggested this 12-episode anime to me after she'd just watched it on Netflix streaming. Good fantasy series.

I could've done without the gratuitous boob jokes, tho. Yeah, they were giggle-worthy for the first ep. Maybe the second. But when you're on the fourth and fifth and they're still cracking boob jokes? C'mon. Enough already.

And Cecily, despite wanting to be a Knight Guard, shows the heart but not the follow-through. Several times in the early episodes, she hesitates in battle and Luke ends up saving her ass.

Yeah, she eventually comes into her own but I wanted to see more fighting spirit in action rather than in words. More pluckiness and still getting beat down rather than shying away and getting beat down.

I recommend it.

Kaze No Stigma
Started this one after finishing Blacksmith. It's like Avatar: The Last Airbender but set in present day Tokyo and the ~~airbender~~ air magic user isn't bald with arrow tattoos. Different families control and manipulate the elemental powers.

Pretty good.

Cherami Leigh, who voiced Cecily Campbell in Blacksmith, returns here as Ayano Kannagi and does an excellent job. I noticed, though, that Ayano seems to be prone to "'Khaaaan!' a la Captain Kirk" outcries. Usually directed at Kazuma, our male protagonist.

Thankfully the boob jokes are gone. But there seems to be a pervasive penchant for panty shots here. Not a lot. But I noticed several over three successive episodes.

There's also a nice little romantic subplot involving Ayano and Kazuma, including subtle-but-not-so-subtle attempts by Jugo Kannagi, Ayano's father, to hook up the two crazy kids. The amusement park episode is hilarious.

Also, Ayano's classmates Yukari and Nanase are a hoot.

There is a rather disturbing turn of events in episode 10. Made me flinch a bit. You'll see when you watch.

Finished Part One, which covered the first 12 episodes. Now watching Part Two. Part Two introduces Catherine McDonald, an American ~~firebender~~ fire magic user who comes to Japan to challenge Ayano in fire magic supremacy. And according to the anime's creators, American women dress like 1800s frontier women? 'Cuz Catherine's outfit reminds me of a woman out of an old Western show like Gunsmoke or Bonanza.

Okie dokie.

Overall, another recommended series.

Progress Notes

2011-07-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

Tales of Episode #206

Plugging away. Currently at:

2,994 / 6,000

Yeah. A bit slow going.

But still going.

Hoping to start ramping up production soon.

(photo: abcdz2000/stock.xchng)

Danger With Dialogue Tags

2011-07-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

Ran into this advice on dialogue tags whilst surfing the Interwebs the other day and just had to respond with a post.

The title should really be "Here's One Way To Use Attribution Tags When Writing Dialogue."

Because the author makes it seem like this is only way.

Nope.

It's just one way of using tags.

Read that again:

This is just one way of using attritbution tags.

For instance, the author writes:

Short quotes:
Place the attribution tag at the end, so your reader pays attention to the quote itself.
"I’m feeling confident about how to punctuate direct quotes," Sheila said.

Actually

Sheila said, "I’m feeling confident about how to punctuate direct quotes."

is also correct.

She also advises:

In most cases, place the speaker’s name first, followed by the attribution word:
Sheila said
NOT said Sheila

Um...not quite.

"Said Sheila" is also correct.

Author Juliette Wade has a post on the "Sheila said/said Sheila" issue.

Read it. There's some good stuff in there.

So what's the lesson for today?

The only rule in writing is to write a good story.

Dialogue attritubion tags?

Whatever way works best.

Seriously.

Arizona Senator Lori Klein Is A Dumbshit

2011-07-14T08:10:00.000-07:00

Pardon my politics but I think this needs to be said.

Senator Lori Klein is a dumbshit for pulling a stunt like this.

Jim Hines said it best in his recent post on the matter.

Go read it. You'll enjoy it.

Okay. I'll put my politics away now...

(Yeah, yeah. So I'm behind. Gimme a break. I'm playing "catch up.")

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Idea Overthink

2011-07-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

I see this a lot in writing forums. Folks will post and ask "Does this sound like a good idea?" Or "What do you think of this idea?"

Stop.

Just stop.

Stop thinking. Start writing.

Ideas are everywhere. Everybody and their dog has an idea. (We talked about this last time, remember?)

What counts is the execution of that idea.

Think about it for a sec.

Idea: Boy and girl from two different world/societies fall in love despite differences.
Execution: Romeo and Juliet. West Side Story. Titanic. Avatar.

Here's another--

Idea: Two mismatched cops become friends and partners and solve the case.
Execution: Lethal Weapon. Rush Hour. Miami Vice. Bad Boys.

One more--

Idea: Zombie invasion.
Execution: Night of the Living Dead. 28 Days. Resident Evil. World War Z.

Getting the point yet?

Good.

Now stop overthinking and get back to writing.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

KAT AND MOUSE Featured at Indie Books Blog

2011-07-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

That's right!

The Ladies are still making the rounds on the Interwebs.

Today, they're featured at the Indie Books Blog.

Head on over yonder and cheer them on.

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] The Truth About Inspiration And Your Muse

2011-07-06T06:30:00.000-07:00

Waiting for inspiration is the mark of the amateur.

Why are you waiting?

You should be wanting to write.

To not write should be painful. Or at least uncomfortable.

If you're waiting to be inspired just so you can work on your current story or novel, you're doing it wrong.

Start writing. Even if it's just a sentence. Or even a word.

Just the act of doing it will get the ball rolling, get those mental gears moving.

It's all about momentum.

And don't just take my word for it.

Try it.

Now.

"But I'm waiting for ideas to come to me," you say.

Oh, yeah--you'll hear people say "I need to find my Muse" or "I'm waiting for my Muse."

You're probably saying the same thing to yourself.

Hell, I sometimes do it.

But them I remember the truth: the Muse is always there.

It never really goes away.

What makes the difference is how much you've fed your Muse.

Wait. I'm giving it to you straight. No mumbo jumbo here. No esoteric bullcrap.

What we call "the Muse" is just that storehouse of information in your brain. All that "useless" trivia you picked up over the years. All the stuff you've read and seen and heard and experienced.

That's your Muse.

Nothing mystical about it.

You don't need to wait or find your Muse.

It's already there.

Dig into all the stuff that you've stored in your head and you'll find 90% of what you need.

In On Writing, King talks about the "inspiration" for the novel Carrie.

Two unrelated instances that were already in his head (in his information storehouse, in his Muse) came together to form the premise that turned into the novel.

Go dig out your copy (or go get the book) and read it. (In my edition, it's Chapter/Part 28, starting on page 65.)

And speaking of reading from books, here's another one.

In Zen in the Art of Writing, Ray Bradbury has a great essay on how to feed your muse.

Go dig out your copy (or go get the book) and read that essay.

You'll see what I'm talking about.

And you'll also see why in last week's post, I talked about reading a lot of stuff.

(P.S. If you click those links above, you'll be able to get the books through Amazon. Or head over to your nearest bookstore to grab a copy.)

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

More Jesse James Dawson!!

2011-07-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

Just sending out the word that fellow writer K. A. Stewart just released A Shot in the Dark*, the second book in her series about Jesse James Dawson.
You may remember K. A. from my post about Comic-Con last year in which I was her proxy for the con.

Here's a picture of me, K. A., and her editor, Anne Sowards.

A Shot in the Dark should be available now at fine booksellers everywhere.

And if you haven't read A Devil in the Details, the first in the series, go get that one.

Then get A Shot in the Dark

Better yet, get them both at the same time.

Go.

Get ye to yon bookshop.

NOW.

*This is an affiliate link to Amazon. If you buy from this link, I get a little extra to help pay for a mocha or two.

Happy Independence Day!

2011-07-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

"Here's to America's colors, the colors that never run. May the wings of Liberty never lose a feather."

Have a great 4th of July.

(photo: The Expired Meter)

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Writers Write...And Read

2011-06-29T06:30:00.001-07:00

In addition to writing, you're gonna need to read.

A lot.

Because writers don't just write.

Writers also read.

A lot.

Fiction. (That's a no-brainer.) Non-fiction. Essays. History. Science. Poetry. Read them all. As much as you can.

And if you're planning to write romance, mystery, science fiction, or any other genre, read them.

For the love of all that's holy, read them.

Read them a lot.

Grab a stack of whatever genre you're gonna write and read them.

Find their classics and read them.

Why?

So you learn what makes them tick.

So you don't try to reinvent the genre wheel.

So you know what's been done--and know variations of what's been done.

So you know what your readers are gonna expect from you.

Look--if you decide to write sword and sorcery and you end up with high fantasy, you've got a problem.

If you try for a hard-boiled story and end up writing a cozy, your readers'll be pissed.*

There's another reason you should be reading (fiction, non-fiction, essays, poetry, etc.), but we'll cover that in an upcoming post.

For now, go get you some books and get started reading.

*If you have no clue what "hard-boiled," "cozy," "sword and sorcery," or "high fantasy" means, you're gonna have problems. Look them up. Learn them. Remember them. You need to know this stuff, Dudes and Dudettes.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Hollywood Gunfight Bullshit

2011-06-27T06:30:00.000-07:00

Let's get this straight once and for all: Hollywood-style gun use is purely theatrical.

That's right. It has no basis in actual use.

All show. All done just to look cool.

The cop hero who stands by the wall, waiting to duck around the corner, his gun raised up near his face?

Doesn't happen.

Shooting a gun sideways?

Idiocy.

Silenced pistol going phht-phht?

Nope.

If you've been using Hollywood as your source of gun use, you're doing it wrong.

Lela Gwenn gets it in her post, Dear Erotica: You Fight Like a Girl*.

Please, writers. When it comes to fights and depictions of weapons use, get it right.

If your character plans to use a gun, get yourself to a gun range and try out some guns. Or if you have a friend who is a gun enthusiast, ask them to take you to the range and sample some firearms. Learn how it feels, how it sounds, how it smells (yes, there's a definite smell to gunsmoke).

Most importantly, learn how they operate.

Even if you're not planning to give the exact model of handgun your character will use, at least know whether it's a revolver or semi-automatic pistol.

Talk to the fine folks at your local gun shop. Ask them questions. Tell them you're a writer and you're trying not to fall into the clichés of Hollywood-style gun fights. Most will be more than happy to help.

(And contrary to popular belief, gun store owners--heck, gun owners in general--are not illiterate, no-neck, knuckle-dragging neanderthals. I should know. I'm a gun owner myself. We're actually nice people. *gets off soapbox*)

So the lesson here is to go out, get your hands dirty, and get your details right.

*Yes, I know it's an old post. So what? I stumbled onto it recently. Remember: Good advice is evergreen.

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] The "I Don't Have Time to Write" Whine

2011-06-22T06:30:00.000-07:00

I don't care what you call it.

It's a whine.

If this is yours, it's time to rethink wanting to be a writer.

Too harsh?

Get over it.

See, a writer "writes."

Period.

I've said it before. I'll say it again.

A writer doesn't talk about writing. A writer doesn't think about writing. A writer doesn't sit at Starbucks with a large mocha and a laptop only to stare and frown at a blank document on the screen.

No.

A writer writes.

Now, let me clear something up here.

Yes, a writer will talk and think about the craft of writing.

But 90% of what a writer does is write.

"Write" is a verb.

Action.

Doing.

Writing.

If you've read this far into the post and you're still whining, go do something else. Lay brick. Fix cars. Become a rock star.

Because you don't want to be a writer.

But if you're serious about this and you want to stop whining and you're still reading, I salute you.

You're still in the game.

So...how do we kick that whine in the ass?

GIVING THE WHINE SOMETHING TO WHINE ABOUT
Here's what you do...

You write for 15 minutes.

You have 15 minutes, don't you?

If you say you don't you're a frickin' liar.

Everybody has 15 minutes. Waiting for your coffee to brew. Waiting for your bus or train. Sitting in a waiting room. Waiting for water to boil. Waiting for dinner to cook.

Hell, while you're on the toilet.

Write.

For 15 minutes, do nothing but write.

Get a kitchen timer or stopwatch. Find an app. Something that can count down 15 minutes for you and ring a bell or buzzer or alarm or go "Ping!" when time's up.

Then....

...you write.

"That's it?" I hear you say.

That's it.

Now go write.

You have 15 minutes.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Arming The Near-Future: Kat's Guns

2011-06-20T06:30:00.000-07:00

(Some commentary on the weapons used in KAT AND MOUSE, GUNS FOR HIRE.)

COLT-SPRINGFIELD M2001 HIGH-CAPACITY PISTOL
Caliber: .45ACP
Barrel: 5"
Capacity: 12+1
Trigger Pull: 5 - 6 lbs.
Sights: Fixed Low Profile Combat Rear, Dovetail Front, Tritium 3 - Dot
Frame: Black Polymer with Integral Accessory Rail
Slide: Forged steel, Melonite finish
Weight w/Empty Magazine: 34 ozs.
Height: 5.5"
Length: 8.5"

Features beavertail grip safety, ambidextrous thumb safety, skeletonized spur hammer.

NOTES: The M2001 pistol is based on the Springfield Armory Operator in terms of how it looks but in the novel and web serial, it's a polymer frame handgun and uses a double-stacked magazine. It was originally a 14+1 but somewhere in the course of writing the stories, I seemed to have settled on 12+1, so 12+1 it is. Maybe that doesn't quite fit everyone's concept of a "high-capacity pistol" but oh well. If it's a goof on my part, then so be it.

Oh yeah--what does "double-stacked magazine" mean? Most pistol magazines are single stack--the bullets load one on top of the other. In a double-stacked magazine, the bullets are staggered.

Like this:

(photo: www.GunShopFinder.com)

(illustration: www.Code3Tactical.com)

Rutger Hauer Goes Apeshit

2011-06-17T06:30:00.000-07:00

Whilst browsing the Intertubes, I spotted this post of random links from Spazz!! Books.

The fourth link under Item #2 caught my eye.

Hobo With A Shotgun.
Come on.

How can you not like that title?

And Rutger Hauer!

I swear it's gotta be better than Attack of the Gryphon, Megashark vs. Giant Octopus, or (may the gods help us all) Troll 2.

Currently Reading

2011-06-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

Here's what's on my Current Reading stack:

Strong Justice by Jon Land
American Mafia by Thomas Repetto
Apache: Inside the Cockpit of the World's Most Deadly Fighting Machine by Ed Macy

And I'm in the middle of re-reading:

Foundation and Empire by Isaac Asimov
The Art of War by Sun Tzu
Rogue Warrior by Richard Marcinko

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] Writer's Block Is A Myth, Motherf***ers!

2011-06-15T05:30:00.000-07:00

Let's tackle this before we get any further along 'cuz it's gonna come up eventually.

Writer's Block.

Here's the truth:

WRITER'S BLOCK IS A MYTH.

Say it again with me: "Writer's Block is a myth."

Have you noticed no one ever talks about Plumber's Block? Or Car Mechanic's Block?

If you brought your car to the mechanic and he tells you "Sorry, I can't fix this right now, I'm not inspired," you'd take your business to someone who can fix it.

Lawyer's Block? Doesn't exist.

Doctor's block? Never happens.

But mention writing and at some point, the conversation makes its way to a discussion about "writer's block this" and "writer's block that."

Why does writing get to have a block?

Answer: It doesn't.

Say it again with me, Dudes and Dudettes: "Writer's Block is a myth."

And, sadly, it's a myth that's been making the rounds for a long time.

First things first: Get over the idea of writer's block.

Less stress when you do.

Click here for the Writing Tip Wednesday Archives

Progress Notes

2011-06-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

Tales of Episode #205 and #206
Episode #205 is now completed. It's a short one, a bridging episode.

After a few weeks of research and behind-the-scenes work, #206 is now in progress. Currently at:

730 / 6,000

(photo: abcdz2000/stock.xchng)

Take Note, Fellow Comrades

2011-06-14T05:30:00.000-07:00

No. Not Alone.

2011-06-13T05:00:00.001-07:00

Fellow blogger EEV recently ran a post called "The Loneliness of Pursuing Your Dream."

This part stood out:

Pursuing your dream is a lonely task. You can have online friends who want the same as you, and still, you're lonely. You can have, like me, a person very close of you who share your dream of long-time-hard-work-penning-words. I have my Husband. And he understands me, and I understand him, but still, each one of us has their own work to do, their own buttons to push, their own craft to polish.

It immediately called to mind a similar post I'd done sometime back on that same topic, the loneliness of the writing life.

To me, though, the loneliness is temporary because

Yes, our work is often done alone. By ourselves. And nobody sees our struggles. But remember that your fellow writers are also in the same boat. Sometimes, looking up to see what your compatriots are doing can make you see that you're not really alone.

Because you're not.

And I say it's still true.

(photo: loleia/stock.xchng)

"I'm The Kwisatz Haderach"

2011-06-11T06:35:00.000-07:00

In honor of it being part of the #1 post according to my traffic stats, I give you "I'm The Kwisatz Haderach"--with music video.

Here's the mp3 version if you want to download it.

And lyrics. To sing along with.

I'M THE KWISATZ HADERACH
I came from planet Caladan.
On Arrakis I became a man
When they killed my father, the Duke,
Sent me and mother to the desert.
Joined a Fremen tribe and survived.
Became the leader Muad'Dib, also known as Usul.

Now there's a Fremen storm a-risin'.
See Shai-Hulud on the horizon.
I'll lead the jihad
And fulfill the prophecy.

I'm the Kwisatz Haderach.
Riding out on a worm
With the Fedaykin by my side.
I'm the Kwisatz Haderach.
One day my name will be known
To people far and wide.
And Irulan will write about me.

With the power of worms and sand,
And the Fremen at my command.
We'll stop the spice flow
And take on the Baron Harkonnen.
Not worried 'bout Rabban or Feyd
Or the Bene Gesserit, the Guild,
The Imperium, the landsraad

'Cuz there's a Fremen storm a-risin'.
See Shai-Hulud on the horizon.
I'll lead the jihad
And fulfill the prophecy.

I'm the Kwisatz Haderach.
Riding out on a worm
With the Fedaykin by my side.
I'm the Kwisatz Haderach.
One day my name will be known
To people far and wide.
And Irulan will write about me.

I'm the Kwisatz Haderach.
Riding out on a worm
With the Fedaykin by my side.
I'm the Kwisatz Haderach.
One day my name will be known
To people far and wide.
And Irulan will write about me.

(And if for some reason the video isn't working up there, here's the YouTube link to the song for your enjoyment.)

DUNE Song Parody Wins

2011-06-11T06:30:00.000-07:00

Took at look at my blog stats the other day and found that my top 5 posts are:

Dune, Cheesiness, and David (don't)Hassel(the)hoff: 281 page views
Happy Wombat Day!: 152 pageviews
KAT AND MOUSE Updates: 117 pageviews
The Comic-Con Report: 115 pageviews
Comic-Con Protest and The Gospel According to Kal-El: 83 page views

Not quite sure why an Updates post for the serial racked up 117 pageviews but okay, I'll take it.

Legacy Pub-Indie Pub-Small Pub Hullabaloo

2011-06-10T05:00:00.000-07:00

The publishing battle continues.

Recently SF/F author Michael Stackpole tweeted the following

Writers banned from website for spreading truth about digital self-pub: http://tinyurl.com/3zmcxym (HT Terry Mixon) Vital stuff folks. RT!

If you follow the link in the tweet, you can find another link to the forum thread that resulted in the ban.

I read the original thread.

Okay--I think it's time to really come up with solid definitions for what we're doing.

Everybody seems to be upset at what we're calling ourselves.

We're borrowing from "indie music," "indie films," "indie comics," and even "indie role-playing games." You know them--guys and gals who decided not to go with the Big Name film, record, comic book companies, and role-playing game publishers and struck out on their own.

We're doing the same. Why can't we call ourselves that? What's wrong with doing so? Where does it say we can't call ourselves that?

Hell, a lot of comic book creators are being told "You want to break into comics? Try self-publishing. Print your own. Create an ashcan. Use that as your sample."

One of the posts on that thread said "indie publishing" referred to "small presses," those companies who aren't one of the gigantic publishing conglomerates and who have "annual sales below a certain level."

How about this: call the small presses "small press" and call ourselves "indie authors."

It can work.

Rly.

Srsly.

Consider the conversation going like this:

YOU: "I'm an indie author."

THE OTHER GUY: "Oh, you're with a small press? Which one?"

YOU: "No. Not small press."

THE OTHER GUY: "But isn't a small press the same as an indie author?"

YOU: " 'Small press' just means a publisher that's not one of the big name ones. 'Indie' means I did it myself."

THE OTHER GUY: "So you self-published."

YOU: "I prefer the term 'indie author' myself."

Is it spin? Yeah. It is.

But spin doesn't have to be negative. I say make spin work for us.

"Indie author."

Touch it. Love it. Use it.

If you repeat it to people enough times and they'll get it.

Go on.

Give it a try.

(photo: ilco/stock.xchng)

More Interview-y Goodness

2011-06-09T09:00:00.000-07:00

David Wisehart at the Kindle Author blog has an interview with me about KAT AND MOUSE.

Head on over yonder to read.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to mention the "no pants" thing this time around. Oh well.

Thanks to David for running the piece!

In Which KAT AND MOUSE Gets Another Review

2011-06-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, Frida over at Frida Fantastic was going to be reviewing KAT AND MOUSE.

And voila! the review's been posted.

Frida--thanks for the review!

[WRITING TIP WEDNESDAYS] How To Be A Writer And Kick Ass

2011-06-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

In order to kick ass as a writer,you gotta do four things:

Write
Submit to Market
Grow a Thick Skin
Write More

WRITE
For the love of all that's holy--write. Don't talk about writing. Don't go to a coffee shop with your laptop and pose. You don't need a $5,000 computer. You don't need a huge mahogany desk.

At the very least you need a pen and a notebook or legal pad or loose leaf paper. Go to Staples or some other office supply store and buy a 2-pack of the Pilot G2 gel pen and a pack of the yellow or white writing pads.

There. You've got your equipment.

Next up?

Write.

Write your short story. Write your novella. Write your novel.

Whatever it is, sit your ass down and write it.

Begin at the beginning or some other good spot in the story.

And write.

Period.

SUBMIT TO MARKET
When your story is done and you've revised, edited, and polished it, send it out to your chosen markets.

If you don't know what markets you should send them to, find out. Do the legwork. Check out Writer's Market. If you're going for short fiction, look it up on Duotrope or Ralan.com. For agents, go find them on AgentQuery or similar.

GROW A THICK SKIN
If your story doesn't make it to market, it's been rejected.

Rejections are gonna happen. Your story may not be right for the market or it may not be right for the editor. Maybe, it's not even right for the editor at that time.

Doesn't matter. When it comes back, suck it up and send it back out to the next market on your list.

WRITE MORE
Again. Back to this.

Write write write write.

Then write some more.

* * *

Got all that?

Good.

Now go get writing.

A Quick Word About "Writing Tip Wednesdays"

2011-06-08T06:50:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I'll be sharing writing tips on Wednesdays.

Be warned: I'm not going to pull any punches. Straight talk. No-nonsense. Bullshit-free. It's not gonna be for everyone. If you want this to be "art," if you're all about the mystique of being a writer, skip these posts. I mean it.

This won't be for you.

To me, a writer is first and foremost a tradesman. We deal in stories.

Still with me?

Good deal.

Check back shortly for the first post in this series.

Wednesdays Will Now Get All Writerly

2011-06-07T13:00:00.000-07:00

Since this is a writer's blog, I figured I'd finally do some posts on the actual craft of writing. And after sharing some of my thoughts on techniques with a couple of fellow writers, I thought "Hey--why not share them with you, Dear Readers?"

After all, I know there's a few of you who are writers out there in IntertubeLand.

So that's what I'm a-gonna do.

I hereby dub Wednesdays "Writing Tip Wednesdays."

Check in tomorrow for the first post in the series.

Gryphon Droppings

2011-06-07T06:00:00.000-07:00

Attack of the Gryphon stars Amber Benson (yes, Tara from BtVS) as a princess who teams up with a rival prince to seek out an ancient weapon that can kill the gryphon of the title.

One word for this movie: Why?

It was a birthday present from LadyAce (last Friday was my birthday) so I figured I'd at least watch it. Maybe it was halfway decent.

No.

It hurt my brain. In a bad way.

Atrocious dialogue. Logic holes. Crappy writing all around.

I'll say the same thing to Amber as I said to Debbie--excuse me, Deborah Gibson about Megashark: Why?

(Actually, what I said was: please please pick a better movie next time.)

Mecha Anthology!

2011-06-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

John Joseph Adams posted this on his blog last month and I, for one, am stoked and looking forward to it.
Come on--how can you not look forward to that?

I blame it on growing up with giant robot and powered battle armor goodness like Tranzor Z (aka Mazinger Z), Robotech (aka Macross, Southern Cross, Mospeada), Gundam, Patlabor, Megazone 23, Bubblegum Crisis, and Appleseed.

A Goodreads Review!

2011-06-05T09:15:00.000-07:00

And Lo! we've got a review of KAT AND MOUSE posted on Goodreads.

Have a look over yonder.

If you're also on Goodreads and have read KAT AND MOUSE, do please post a review describing your experience if you get a moment.

And if you want to post one for Amazon, too, by all means please do so.

KAT AND MOUSE Get Reviewed

2011-06-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

The reviews are trickling in.

First on Amazon.

Then from fellow writer Kristen (cross-posted to Amazon, as you can see).

And according to her June review preview, Frida over at Frida Fantastic will be giving her report on the Duo so be on the lookout for that.

I'll keep you posted on more as I find them.

(And if you've read and enjoyed the Duo's collected adventures, please take a moment to leave a review of your experience over on Amazon. Many thanks!)

KAT AND MOUSE On Hiatus

2011-05-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned over at the serial's site, the Duo are now on hiatus while I work out the next few episodes.

They will return in September.

I'll post the exact date on this blog sometime in mid-/late-August when I think I'll have a better idea.

So for those of you keeping tabs, check back here around then and I'll have the proper date for y'all.

What Say You?

2011-05-12T17:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, mah fellow readers. I know there are a few of you out there in the Interwebs who follow this humble blog.

What would you like for me to talk about here?

Leave a comment below.

I wait to hear from all-y'all.

Thanks For All The Fish...

2011-05-11T08:45:00.000-07:00

Ten years since. Dork Tower seems to say it best.

I salute the man.
RIP, sir.

And thanks for all the fish.

KAT AND MOUSE...And Cat.

2011-05-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

Fellow writer Hillary Jacques sent in this great pic.

Love it!

Book Giveaway Winner!

2011-05-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

We have a winner!

Matera the Mad will get a signed copy of KAT AND MOUSE!

Congratulations, Matera.

And thanks to those who signed up for the giveaway.

There may be another one later this month so stay tuned to the blog for more info.

Free Comic Book Day Is Tomorrow

2011-05-06T07:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks. It's that time of the year again.

Check the site for all the details. Then use their Store Locator to find your nearest comic book shop (I'm surprised you don't already know this, but you may have just moved so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt) and head on over.

Go go go!!!

[BEHIND THE SCENES]Mapping the City

2011-05-06T07:15:00.000-07:00

We end Release Week Goodness with maps!

Now you can trace the Duo's escapades. Fun for the whole family!

Here's a map of Bay City proper:

Rough, but I'm sure you get the idea.

And here's one of Bay City and surrounding cities:

CONAN Trailer

2011-05-05T09:55:00.000-07:00

The sequence with the serpent in the water reminds me of a Frazetta painting, but that's just me.

As I said before, I hope they don't screw this up.

(via: SF Signal)

[BEHIND THE SCENES]Plotting Sneak Peaks

2011-05-05T08:30:00.000-07:00

As part of Release Week Goodness, we present a look behind the workings of the novel and the ongoing serial.

Below, notes on what later becomes "A Family Affair."

Slight changes when compared to the finished story, as is usually the case.

Isabella is no longer a granddaughter but a daughter. And "Antonio Righetti" became "Vincent Righetti."

Here, plot notes on "Price of Vengeance."
The above was a process I borrowed from J. Michael Straczynski, from his The Complete Book of Scriptwriting.

JMS breaks down the writing of a TV episode this way: You take a legal pad and draw an equilateral cross in the middle, dividing the page into four areas. The four areas are labeled "Act One," "Act Two," "Act Three," and "Act Four." Then in each act, you lay out the major beats of the story, roughly five or six per act.

Says JMS:

I've found that if I fill in all the lines in each quarter-page section...it times out exactly right when i get to outline and script.

And there you have it.

As you can see, there are a number of changes from the planned story to what eventually becomes "Price of Vengeance."

Tomorrow: Maps Galore!