At the Crossroads (#FridayFlash)

I went to the crossroads…

As always, I got a round of polite applause after my first number. I try to focus on the positive. This bar beats most of the gigs I’d played. The audience was polite, and tipped well. The stage wasn’t much—just a raised platform—but I had mikes for me and my guitar, and the acoustics were great. I played too many gigs where I deafened half the patrons, and the other half couldn’t hear at all.

“Good evening, folks,” I said. “And welcome to The Crossroads. Paisley’s the name, folk and blues are my claim to fame.” Again, polite applause. “I’m gonna go up-tempo with this next number, a little ballad called On the Centerline.” The lyrics for this number were rude, and I wouldn’t sing this song back home, but here? No problem.

I called Ma after the gig. She thinks I’m in L.A., playing different bars and trying to get discovered, and I won’t try tellin’ her different. “How’s things at home, Ma?” There was a time, not too long ago, that I would have done just about anything to keep Ma from tellin’ me everything that her neighbors were up to. Now, I just let her rattle on and on to her heart’s content. “Zach will be walkin’ soon,” she told me after about ten minutes. “He stood up by himself this mornin’, right in the middle of the kitchen, and took a look around before he sat down.”

“He’s growin’ fast, ain’t he, Ma?” I asked. Some dumb chick I met at one party or another, Amber or Opal or something, dropped Zack off at Ma’s place one day. Said he was mine, and took off as quick as she could. He sure looks like me, so he’s probably mine.

“He’ll be needin’ his father soon, Pay-pay,” she said. “When you comin’ home?”

“Soon as I can, Ma,” I lied. “You got the two hundred I wired, right? I think I’ll be able to send two-fifty this weekend.”


To make a deal with the devil…

Me and school were never close friends. I made my first money playing a gig at someone’s party, back when I was thirteen. I got straight As in music class, passed math, but I couldn’t bother with the rest. It was drop out or flunk out, and I got my pride. That and my guitar.

I hitched along the Gulf coast, playing gigs where I could get one, putting a hat on a street corner where I couldn’t. It was enough. Usually. Then that big mess with the oil rig, a few years back, gave me the opportunity for what Ma called “a real job with an honest paycheck.” So I worked for a while. I didn’t see the attraction. Sure, I could afford better booze, but I don’t have fancy tastes. Give me food, guitar strings, and a six-pack, and I’m good.

I was out on the road when Ma told me about Zack. I came home to see him, tried to remember the girl, and got back on the road. I had more than myself to support now, and I needed more gigs to cover the expense.

So, I figured trading off my soul for a better paycheck wasn’t a bad deal. Not like St. Peter would let the likes of me in, anyway, you know?


But someone else showed up.

I got everything I asked for, and then some. Ma might complain about my lifestyle, but she don’t complain about the money they conjure out of a computer and send to the Walmart across town for her. All my wants are taken care of—what I think is kinky, they think rather quaint. I can have pretty much everything I want, except for one thing. And you know, going home is something I never would have thought I wanted.

It’s time for me to go onstage again. I thank God for the bright lights shining down on me, so I don’t have to look at what’s out there watching me. Ma and Zack are provided for, so I guess it don’t matter that I’m traveling ever farther away from home, at half the speed of light.

It ain’t the devil I struck the bargain with. Maybe I got a better deal. Maybe.

Writing Wibbles

The last couple weeks, I’ve been doing just about everything but writing. Taxes, yard work, driving long distances, working… you name it. That changed a little in the last few days; I got a little new material down in Into the Icebound. But I’m starting to panic a little; I’m nowhere near done with adding beta feedback for Pickups and Pestilence. The only saving grace there is that my editor wanted to beta it, and opined there shouldn’t be much more to clean up. Whew. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about this week…

Set the Wayback Machine for 1989. At the time, I worked for a company, now long-defunct, called DCA. The management decided to give themselves a free vacation, and sent themselves to Hilton Head for a “strategic planning conference.” Uh-huh. They were out of the office for two or three weeks… and things ran more smoothly during that time than at anytime they were around. Imagine what would have happened if they’d just sent all the administrative assistants off for a couple weeks, let alone all the other employees: the place would have ground to a halt by Day Two.

Now, just a couple days ago, a link to The Passive Voice turned up in my Google+ feed. There’s a lot of gems in this post, like “At this stage in the disruption of the traditional publishing business, publishers need authors more than authors need publishers. Smart authors already realize this…”

Yes, indeed. Just like any company bigger than a mom-and-pop needs its employees far far more than it needs managers. After all, without authors, what would publishers have to publish? But the crowning glory comes at the end of the post, with a suggested “submissions” policy:

Publishers wishing to submit proposals for publishing any of author’s books should send them to queries@author.example.com. Proposals should be no more than 250 words and include the amount of the proposed advance, royalty rates for hard copy and ebook editions, the number of years of publishing rights requested and the amount of the guaranteed promotion budget for each book. Proposals that ask for rights for a period of longer than ten years or include ebook royalties of less than 50% of net revenue will not be considered. Regretfully, Author does not have time to respond to proposals that do not meet these requirements.

You can quibble about the details, but this is pretty good. Me, I’d give them more than 250 words to describe what they’re going to do for me. Other commenters said they’d reject proposals that weren’t strictly for print rights (ala Hugh Howey). Seriously, though, publishers are already cherry-picking the blockbuster indies—when they, like they did for Howey, make an attractive enough offer. But there’s a very finite number of indies who have that blockbuster pre-packaged for publishers to poach, and some of them aren’t interested in going traditional at any price. So the bravest and most forward-thinking publishers may soon start looking down-market, hoping to discover authors who haven’t “broken out” yet. They’ll find a hungrier crowd down there, authors that might be willing to jump at a mediocre or worse contract, and many works that require a minimum of preparation (i.e. already edited).

I suspect that will be a future version of the original Hydra/Alibi-type of publishing contract, tempting indies who are willing to trade control of their destiny for an up-front advance or that ephemeral “validation.” Perhaps, like Random House modifying those “e-publishing house” contracts after all the negative publicity they got, there will be a period of adjustment as both traditional and indie authors (and agents) have the opportunity to vet them. Agents will still be relevant, for vetting contracts and keeping everyone honest, but the whole “querying” process might get tossed out the window—if publishers are already expressing interest in an MSS, after all, that would eliminate the need to decide whether they could sell it to that publisher.

These are interesting times. And, as others have said, no better time to be an author.

Sideloading EPUBs into iBooks

Sideloading: the process of transferring data between two local devices, in particular between a computer and a mobile device [such as an eReader].
— Wikipedia

While a backlit LCD isn’t the best kind of screen for reading eBooks, Apple does make the experience as pleasant as possible with its iBooks app. On an iPhone, it hyphenates long words, to avoid making the margins too horrible. While Stanza is growing ever more outdated, there’s still a need to load EPUBs into a reader, just to make sure they’re right if nothing else. And sometimes, you might buy an eBook from Smashwords that you still want to read on your iOS device.

Fortunately, the process is straightforward.

1. Find your eBook.
When you download an eBook, whether on MacOS or that Microsoft thing, it usually ends up in your Downloads folder. Leave the folder window open on your desktop.

2. Open iTunes.
If you’re like me, you already have iTunes open in the “mini player” view. You need to open the expanded view. If you’re using the latest version, display the sidebar and look for “Books.” Select it to see the books in your library.

3. Drag and drop.
Arrange your Downloads window, and the iTunes window, so you can see them both. Drag your book file into a blank area of the iBooks window. It may take a few seconds for the new book to show up in your library, be patient.

4. Sync and go.
Plug your device in and let it sync. It will automatically copy your new eBooks over.

You can actually do the first three steps in less time than it takes to read this blog post… although the sync process will take a while longer.

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #4 END (#FridayFlash)

And now we come to the part you’ve all been waiting for… the end…

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3

---

Photo Credit: Keith Survell,  Flickr (Creative Commons)

“Thou art no friend of mine,” Dower intoned, “nor of any man who calls himself a servant of the Lord.”

A darkness flowed over and above the altar. “Must it come to this?” the voice whined. “Once I was worshipped as a god, and then I had a place under the glorious stars. And now? Now I languish in this swamp. Thy God has forsaken those whom I hunt on the darkest of nights, old friend. He has not sent any to replace Reverend Martin. Who, I might add, was most tasty.” It paused. “Ahhh. Is this thy consort, or have thou brought me a morsel to feed upon?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Sally snarled.

“A saucy one!” the voice held a hint of amusement. “Joab, I’m surprised. All this time, I thought you preferred boys.”

Dower held up his sword. It glowed in the firelight—or perhaps of its own internal light. “Twice have I defeated thee, Tolet. And the Lord has allowed me to curse thee thus: for thy pride, thy name shalt be ever used for that which receives the unclean things that come out of a man. This third time I confront thee, and thou shalt be banished from this world forever!”

The darkness seemed to recoil, but regathered and grew. Even the fire seemed to dim in this great shadow. “Joab Gideon Dower, I entreat thee a final time,” it said. “Take this woman unto thee. Satisfy thy desire in her flesh, and I will withdraw to a far place where thy kind shall not come, unto the third generation.”

“Never!”

“Then give her to me. Look at her, Joab. See how she grubs in the dirt, like a pig rooting in the midden? She is not worthy of thy attention. Perhaps she might be worthy of mine.”

In a showy maneuver, Dower flicked the sword upward, and shifted his grip to the hilt. He brought it around in the same motion. “Thou hast twice tasted the sword of God’s wrath, Tolet. Now, thou shalt taste it for a final time!”

The whining tone returned. “Men such as thee never see reason.” The darkness coalesced into a shape like unto a man’s, and a sword took flame in its hand. “Then have at thee, Joab. But thou will not find the battle so easy this time!”

The demon Tolet sprang at Dower, who brought up his sword to meet the assault. Light and darkness met, clashed, recoiled.

Sally, casting about in the fickle firelight for what she’d seen in the twilight, spared a glance for the nearby battle. The demon pressed Dower hard, but the preacher seemed to be holding his own. Lord God, she prayed, let me find what I thought I saw here. Let it do what my grandmother said.

Dower held up a crucifix. Wielding it as a shield in his right hand, he slashed and thrust with the sword in his left. Where the demon’s flaming sword struck the crucifix, the flames guttered and flickered, but soon regained their strength away from the symbol of the Devil’s ultimate defeat. Slowly, slowly, Tolet gave ground, backing toward the pagan altar that had housed it for a time. Placing a hand on the stone where so much blood had been shed over so many years, it fed again on the power the altar contained.

“For thy pride!” Tolet shouted, and struck Dower’s sword a mighty blow. Dower was thrown, landing on his back near the fire, his sword falling out of reach. He yet clutched his crucifix, and thrust it at his adversary.

“Ah, Joab.” The demon stood over him. “Where is thy God now?” It brought the sword down, but not where the crucifix could stop it—instead, it laid the flames along Dower’s left hip. Dower gritted his teeth against the searing pain, but did not cry out.

“Oh, Joab, thou will scream,” said Tolet. “I will have that satisfaction. First, when I deal thee a mortal wound, one that will not kill thee right away. When I have done that, I will have my way with thee, and thou will scream again and again. Thou will beg thy God for release. But first, I will tell thee a secret, dear Joab. Thy God has forsaken the world of Man. He is disgusted with those who do my Master’s work in God’s name, and has abandoned thee—indeed, all men—to their own devices. So when I have sated myself in thy dying body, Joab, I shall tear thy soul from its moorings, and carry it to my Master. We have prepared a place for thee, where thou may forever preach to the other damned. And they will laugh in thy face, as the living now laugh behind thy back—”

Tolet’s blasphemous taunt ceased, with the flat report of a pistol shot. A great wad of—something—struck it in the face. It screeched and clawed at the wad, and screamed more as it drove the stuff into its smoky flesh. Dower wasted little time, rolling heedless of the pain in his hip, grasping his sword and slashing through Tolet’s legs, bringing it shrieking to the ground.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” Dower snarled, “I consign thee to the depths of Hell, for all eternity!” He took the sword in both hands and drove it into the demon’s chest. Tolet’s final scream rang inside his skull, but the shadow faded and was gone.

“You—you got it?” Sally’s voice was shaky.

“By the hand of Providence,” Dower panted. He lowered himself to the ground, favoring his hip. “What saved me just now?”

Sally sat next to him. “My grandmother said this certain concoction of herbs would repel all evils,” she said. “I thought I saw what I needed to complete it, before it got dark, but then your demon came out. You kept it occupied long enough for me to find it again and make what was needed. It wasn’t enough to send that thing off, but it gave you enough time to get back on your feet. Now let me see to that burn.”

“Nay, woman, do not—”

“Oh, hush.” Sally reached through the remains of Dower’s trousers and laid a hand along his seared flesh. She lowered her head and whispered something, too low for the preacher to catch, but the pain faded.

“What witchcraft was that?” he gasped.

Sally laughed. “You think the devil would heal his mortal enemy? This is a gift that’s been in my family for generations. We can talk the fire out of a burn. It’s a certain Bible verse, that I can only pass on to a descendant. No witchcraft, only a gift from God. You won’t even have a scar.”

“If it is of God, why have I not heard of such a thing?”

“Are you so prideful, that you think you know all of God’s gifts to all His people?”

Dower lowered his head. “I accept your rebuke,” he said. “Now let us pull down this altar, that we may ever rebuke those evil spirits that would make it their home.”


With the altar laying in rubble around them, no stone left standing on another, Dower looked up. “Lo,” he said, “the clouds recede. The darkness upon this land is no more.”

“Amen to that!” Sally grinned.

“I am in your debt, Sally Harper,” the preacher said. “And frankly, I am at a loss as to how to repay it.”

“Well, let’s get back to town, first,” she said. “I don’t want tongues wagging at our spending the night alone in the swamp.”

“And how shall we do that?”

Sally pointed at the sky. “Follow the Irishman.”

“Irishman?”

“O’Ryan!” She laughed. “My mother was Irish, and she loved that jest. In June, his belt points the way out of the swamp.”

“Then we shall be on our way. But returning you home does not fulfill my debt.”

“Good. Because in the morning, I’m going with you.”

“You—what—I say thee nay—” Dower sputtered.

“Oh, hush,” Sally said again. “There’s nothin’ for me, here. And it looks like you could use a little help from time to time. You can teach me the trade, and I know more than what I showed you tonight.”

Dower followed her down the hill, and they struck out across the swamp. “I must pray about this,” he said. “And I suggest you do the same.”

“Oh, I will. But I’ll be up at dawn and ready to go. Now watch your step, the swamp is tricky at night.”

THE END

---

If you liked this story, you’ll love my anthology Oddities, now available in the Kindle Store and (for Prime members) the Kindle Lending Library. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, Oddities brings you, as book blogger Eric Townsend said, “one entertaining story after another.” Some flash fiction, some short stories, some stories which have never seen the light of blog. Helen Howell said, “what could be better than a nice cup of coffee and a good short story to read” — and at 99 cents, you can still afford that cup of coffee!

Indie Life/Writing Wibbles

Welcome to the Indie Life edition of Writing Wibbles. Don’t forget to hit the linky at the end, and see what other indies have to say about their travails, triumphs, and tips this month.

Once again, this is a continuation of my previous Writing Wibbles post. Last week, I ranted about someone who did a (deliberately?) bad job of releasing his novel and using that as an excuse to write off the whole indie experience. Of course, I wasn’t the only blogger—especially not the highest-profile blogger—to feed the troll. Chuck Wendig also responded.

Then Salon, perhaps to balance the scales, ran an article by Hugh Howey that said self-publishing is always the better option. I might have commented strictly on that article, had it not been Indie Life week, but Wendig did already, and got rebuttals ranging from polite to “typical Internet rude.” Not the kind of guy to slink into a corner, Wendig came back with a very good point: there is no One True Way.

I have to agree.

There are, contrary to what the simple-minded insist, very few absolutes in life. There are some absolutes, to be sure, but the route to sharing your stories isn't one of them. Self-publishing was what worked best for me, which is not to say it will be best for everyone. I have a couple friends querying their books now, and I cheer them on. In my own case, I found myself with an epic-sized, post-apocalyptic, paranormal non-romance that defies attempts to pigeonhole it into a particular genre. I followed that up with two fantasy novellas, Accidental Sorcerers and The Crossover. Novellas are probably the closest thing, right now, to an absolute “indie is the best way” choice. They’re too long for magazines, and too short for book publishers; but they’re just right for people using eReaders, tablets, or phones. So my course is pretty well set… for now.

Once I digest my way through the first half of the year, I hope to turn my writing efforts to a YA contemporary fantasy trilogy that has been patiently waiting its turn. Once I finish the first book, I may try querying it (but with strict limits on query cycles or time). A handful of sales, after all, is worth far more than an endless stack of “it’s good, but not for us” rejections.

Feel free to share what brought you into the Indie Life in the comments. Thanks for reading, and check out some of the other Indie Life writers this week!

---

My latest release is Oddities: an Anthology. This is an eclectic collection of flash fiction and short stories. Some are fantasy, some science fiction, and some could go either way (but had to be pigeonholed in one section or another). Book blogger Eric Townsend described it as “one entertaining story after another.” Enjoy a quick story on that bus ride or with your morning coffee—for 99¢, you’ll still be able to afford both the fare and the coffee!

Mason, behind the Camera

I’m a little under the weather right now—Mason had a stomach virus that had him barfing all night last week, then the wife got it. Now it’s my turn, but at least I haven’t been barfing. But that won’t stop me from blogging, dangit!

Mason’s photography technique is “point and spray” at the moment. When he gets older, I’ll try to teach him how to do it right, but he still gets some interesting shots. He found the “switch to front camera” button, so now I find some fun little selfies…

Razzzzz…

What does this button do?

Thirsty, Granddad?

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #3 (#FridayFlash)

The wife said she liked this story! That’s a pretty big deal around here, I usually don’t write stories that she likes to read.

Now, the hero everyone loves to hate prepares to do battle…

Part 1 • Part 2

---

Photo credit: Keith Survell, Flickr (Creative Commons)

They ate on the march, jerked beef and hardtack, and reached the hills well before dark. As Dower knelt to pray, thanking the Lord for returning his feet to solid ground, Sally wandered off to forage. She soon returned, her hat brim-full of early-season blueberries. The wholesome fruit reinvigorated their weary bodies, and they soon set forth. Winding their way around or over hills as Sally saw fit, they at last reached a hill thick with trees.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” the preacher asked, “or are those trees growing in circles around yonder hill?”

“That’s the place.” Sally’s voice was almost a whisper. “It’s like that, so you don’t walk up it unawares.”

Dower pressed his lips together. “Well, we are aware. Let us go.” But he made no move forward. “It would be best if you stay well clear of the field of battle, Sally Harper. Remember, the devil is the Father of Lies, and this is one of his unclean children. If it speaks to you, answer it not, for in deceitful words it will seek to trap you. And in the mouth of a demon, even the truth can be a mighty lie. If I fall, run. Run with the Lord’s Prayer on your lips, and your hand on a crucifix. That may be enough to keep it away from you—but better you drown yourself in the foul waters of the swamp, than to find yourself in its clutches. Understand you?”

“Yeah, preacher, I understand. But I’m done runnin’ and hidin’ from this thing out here. That’s my town back there, and so it’s my fight, too.”

“We face worse than death this night.” Dower gave her a stern look.

“You think I don’t know that?” Sally put her arms on her hips and looked up, staring Dower in the face. “I know worse than death. Worse than death is hidin’ in your house like a frightened rabbit on new moon nights. Worse than death is livin’ among men so afraid of their own shadows, none of them dare to court me, because I ain’t a mouse like them. Worse than death is starin’ at your life ahead, seein’ no family in it, no children.” She swallowed. “No purpose. Tonight, I got a purpose, and I ain’t gonna stand and watch it go by.”

Dower returned her glare with his own, but finally nodded. “Then kneel, Sally Harper, and be consecrated unto this task.” Bent over almost double, he dipped a finger in a vial of holy water and drew a cross on her forehead. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I consecrate thee, Sally Harper, and charge thee to be true to the Word. Now arise.”

“You’re the leader now,” she said, standing. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“First, we gather firewood.”


Standing just inside the inmost ring of trees, the two stared at the altar. Its builders had chipped off the tops and bottoms of each stone, so they lay flat upon each other. Three sides were steep slants; the fourth was straight. Its top was a slab of solid stone.

“An altar of sacrifice, I warrant,” Dower whispered, as they laid out the firewood they carried. “Such a dark purpose would, even after centuries, be a fertile garden to nourish the evil spirit.”

“There were rumors,” Sally replied. “This one band would sacrifice their enemies here. Even the other Indians don’t like to tell of it, they say it shames them that their own would do such a thing. But after the white man came, they’d snatch any of us they could, and carry ‘em out here, too. So the whites and the other tribes made an alliance, and killed every last one of ‘em they could find. That was like a hundred years ago. Then, a-course, we run the rest of ‘em off, too.”

“Aye. That is good to know. But speak no further of such things, in this place. This is a night of cleansing.” Dower knelt, took out his tinderbox, and put spark to the dry tinder at the bottom of the pile. As the sun went to slumber, unseen behind the clouds that had hidden it all day, the fire grew. “Prepare thyself for the battle to come, Sally Harper. Put on the gospel armor, as described in the Word, that ye may withstand the onslaught that is to come.”

Sally nodded, and took a flintlock pistol out of her bundle. “Maybe you should consecrate this, too,” she said, loading and preparing it with expert hands. “And if it don’t do for this thing here, maybe it’ll do for me.”

Dower nodded, and said a quick prayer over the weapon. “And I myself did not come unarmed,” he said, drawing a sword from under his cloak.

“Nice pig-sticker,” said Sally, looking over the shining blade and wide cross-guard. “Where did you get that?”

“It came to pass, that in my travels, I was led to preach the Word in a seaside tavern. A drunken Spaniard bade me hush, but I obeyed only the Lord. He drew this sword, and ordered me to smite him, that he might strike off my head in turn. But when I struck him, the Lord Himself smote him as well, and he fell dead at my feet. His companions were sore when I took up his weapon, but none dared press the matter. I carried the blade to one whom I trust, one who preaches the True Word, and he consecrated it to the use of the Lord.” He held it up. “It makes a fine crucifix as well. I had a blacksmith blunt the blade, just below the cross-guard, that I might use it as such. I have found it often as effective in this manner, as for its intended use.”

The dusky gloom deepened. “Ready yourself,” said Dower. “The battle is soon joined.”

“Joab Dower. My old friend.” The voice was oily and a little repulsive.

continued…

---

If you’re enjoying this story, you’ll love my anthology Oddities, now available in the Kindle Store and (for Prime Members) the Kindle Lending Library. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, Oddities brings you both flash fiction and short stories, some of which have never seen the light of blog. Helen Howell said, “what could be better than a nice cup of coffee and a good short story to read” — and at 99 cents, you can still afford that cup of coffee!

Writing Wibbles

Feeding the Troll (or, the Winters of Our Discontent)

In today’s column, I’m going to break a long-standing rule of mine and feed a troll. Just this once.

The troll’s name is John Winters, and his bait is called I’m a self-publishing failure (capitalized, or not, exactly as shown). In a nutshell, a journalist who writes for Salon self-publishes a novel, doesn’t do too well with it, and thus gets to write off the entire phenomenon as “the literary world’s version of masturbation.” The condescending tone comes through loud and clear, even when he pretends to be self-deprecating.

Now I’ll be the first to admit: even with five books available, one of which has been fairly successful, I’m still trying to figure out a lot of this—especially the promotion stuff. Still, the methodology that Winters describes in his column just plain reeks of UR DOIN IT RONG. As a journalist and (according to his bio) someone who teaches writing classes at a local college, I’m guessing he knows better. In fact, I’m guessing he deliberately sandbagged the whole process, playing at being the newbiest of newbies, so he could write about the outcome he’d planned all along.

First off, he tells us “Turning my [book] to a title on Amazon took relatively no time at all.” No comment about formatting or editing it, nothing about getting cover art, no agonizing over the synopsis (although, to be fair, he could have done the latter when he was querying). Are we to believe that a journalist/columnist/writing instructor is ignorant of the importance of production values? I’d bet a box of donuts that Winters has editors and artists in his personal address book. It’s not beyond the pale that he could have had both done for sweetheart prices. And (he doesn’t mention this part in the article) he sets a retail price of $9.99. Um… yeah. No wonder he’s not getting any sales. Spending 10 minutes cruising the best-seller list would have shown a lot of titles at $2.99 or less. (Although it’s free as I write this, and doing well enough in the rankings. Maybe his Salon article touched off some interest.)

Next off, Winters goes on to talk about the variety of advertising he did. According to his article, he spent $100 on Google ads, and (reading between the lines) $50 on Facebook to promote a giveaway. Nothing spent at Goodreads, Indie Author News, or any other bookish site, where he might have had at least some return. (I’ll be doing a little advertising later this year, but even now I know that Google and Facebook aren’t the places to advertise books.)

What strains belief most of all (and this article is dated April 1): someone who has the kind of exposure you get writing for Salon, doesn’t think to use it. Well, maybe he did—if Winters has sold 20 copies of a $10 eBook, that’s not bad. But he doesn’t know any book reviewers who would let him jump in line? A positive review on a major site can really kick your sales, after all. Coupled with a reasonable price, there’s no reason that a good book written by an author with connections can’t do quite well.

Winters speaks of two groups of indie writers: the half who make less than $500, and the blockbusters. But what about the (almost) half of us in-between, the hundreds of authors making a decent living, or the thousands with a nice supplementary income? Not a peep. Why not talk about those people if you’re not writing with a pre-determined conclusion in mind?


OK, I’m done feeding the troll. In other news, I received an email from Amazon about a “Kindle Quality Notice” for Accidental Sorcerers. The email calls out a typo and something they call “forced alignment,” which I assume refers to the block-quoted sections. So whoever you are, thanks for the typo catch, and for caring enough to report it. I’ve emailed back to ask for clarification on the “forced alignment” issue, and I’ll update as soon as I know what to fix there.

---

If you haven’t grabbed my new anthology, Oddities, you’re missing out. Reviews have been pretty positive so far. If you want something to read on your commute, or during a coffee break, you’ll be treated to what Eric Townsend called “one entertaining story after another.”

And you’ll spend a lot more than 99 cents on that cup of coffee! If you’re an Amazon Prime member, you can borrow it, too.

It Grows On (or all over) You

My God… it's full of pines!

As I’ve mentioned before, the landscaping around FAR Manor is largely invasive, and aggressively so. But it’s not limited to the plants that were planted by former occupants; the native flora is pretty enthusiastic as well.

So, native or exotic, the plants start springing up in places where they’re not wanted. Left alone long enough, they’ll take over completely. Since Saturday was the first really nice weekend day in a long time, I spent the morning cutting firewood from a big deadfall. Then, I spent a pleasant afternoon outside, laying waste to holly and pine trees that were growing where they didn’t need to grow. Those about as big around as my thumb (or smaller), I yanked out of the ground. Up to quarter-size or so, the loppers did for them. Beyond that, it was up to the handsaw. (The chainsaw I reserved for trees roughly 3 inches across or more. A handsaw is actually more convenient for smaller stuff.)

The photo shows a partially-cleared stand near the back corner of the house. I laid waste to all the little pines here, then moved along the side of the house and cleared the path from the driveway to the propane tank. There was also much activity on the opposite corner, where trees were growing right up next to the detached garage, and there are several very tall trees (two cypresses and a holly) that needed lower branches trimmed back. And pines. Pines everywhere. After a timber company cleared them out about six years ago, they tried to spring right back up. Actually, they have, everywhere we haven’t kept them cleared out.

I can hope that next weekend will be equally pleasant. I’m actually taking today off, but only because Daughter Dearest is going in for gall bladder removal. Someone has to watch Mason.

Speaking of Mason, I need to post more of his ad hoc photography soon.

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #2 (#FridayFlash)

Soon after posting part 1 last week, I got the result I hoped for: the impetus to finish the story. It’s going to be four parts, and here’s the second.

Part 1

It occurs to me, I should maybe plug my anthology, Oddities. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, it includes short stories that have never seen the light of blog. “One entertaining story after another,” according to book blogger Eric Townsend.

---

Photo credit: Keith Survell, Flickr (Creative Commons)

Sally Harper was gone and back, before the last of the folk left the church to their pursuits of the day.

“You are not dressed like a proper woman,” the preacher growled. She had changed her dress for loose-fitting pants and a man’s shirt, and her bonnet for a straw hat. Her pants were tucked into a pair of scuffed leather boots. She carried a bundle in a sling, tucked under one arm.

“It’s proper clothes for this work, preacher-man,” she said saucily. “You think me to hike the swamp in my Sunday best?”

Dower gave her a sour look. “You have all you require for our mission?”

“I do. You ready?”

“I am always ready in the service of the Lord.”

“Then let’s go.” Harper set out on the northbound road, not looking back to see if Dower followed. Her stride betrayed a purpose, but Dower’s long legs let him easily match her pace.

“This is the easiest way into the swamp,” she told him as he hauled up alongside. “It comes closest to town on the east, but there ain’t no road goin’ east. Couple miles up, this road comes alongside. I know a good place to cut in from there.”

“Very well,” said Dower. He swept his gaze around the houses and businesses lining the road on either side. “This place has been bereft of Christian comfort for five years, yet it seems to prosper well enough. What do your people for industry?”

“They cut cedar for shakes,” Harper replied. “A-course, they won’t go in the swamp until well after sunup, and not far. And they come home well before sundown. They spend a couple days cuttin’ cedar, then bring cut pieces into town and split the shakes, and that takes ‘em a couple more days. Today’s a splittin’ day, not a cuttin’ day. So we got the whole swamp to ourselves.”

“Perhaps that is for the best.”

They said little else until Sally led them off the road and down an embankment. “Watch your step,” she said. “It’s easy to fall through.”

“What manner of earth is this?” Dower looked incredulous.

Sally laughed and hopped in place twice, making the ground under Dower’s feet lurch. “It ain’t earth, preacher. It’s the cedar roots.” She glanced around, then knelt and punched an arm through. “Come look.” Dower raised one eyebrow at the black water, standing about a foot beneath them. “The leaves rot, and make dirt,” she explained. “That fills in the gaps between the roots. The water’s about three feet deep down there, in this spot. It gets deeper in some places, less so in others.”

Dower nodded. “A deceptive place makes a fine home for a deceptive spirit.”

Stopping and turning, Sally pulled off her hat and swung it at her side. “Preacher-man,” she said, “I get the feeling you know more about what you’re huntin’ than we do, and we’ve lived with it—or not—for goin’ on six years.” She stood and stared, crossing her arms. Her thin lips asked the unspoken question.

“I will tell you,” he said at last, “but to tell you true, I must speak of my wanderings. As a young man, the Lord called me to preach His word. Of course, I obey His commandments, and He led me to a flock. But when the true Word offended the ears of certain propertied men, they conspired against me and drove me out. In my despair, the Lord reminded me that great is the reward in Heaven for those who suffer for His Name’s sake. Thus, He sent me to correct the heresies of the Papist and the Unitarian. I suffered greatly for His glory, and some sought my life, so He led me unto the heathen savages that dwell in the hinterlands. As with Peter among the Gentiles, I found a warmer welcome among them than I did among my own kind.

“It was when I cast out a demon from an Indian boy, that the Lord told me my true calling. There are evil spirits and other foul creatures that plague this land, parts of which have not heard the Holy Word to this day. Some other heathens, so easily led astray, had fallen to worship of a demonic spirit. By the power of Almighty God, I drove it away, but it set itself up in the high places to the west. Again, I confronted and defeated it, although the outcome was in doubt for a time. It seems that it has now retreated unto this swamp. If by Providence I may defeat it a third time, it shall be banished to the depths of Hell, forever.”

To his surprise, his guide nodded. “I think I know where it’s gonna be, then.”

Dower looked skeptical. “How?”

“My parents and grandparents before me always made a living, huntin’ and trappin’ in this swamp,” she said. “Back before your demon came here, they took me with ‘em. A-course, they don’t come here no more, they’re old and happy on their little patch of farm, and they leave swampin’ to me. But there’s hills, over in that direction.” She pointed northeast. “One of ‘em has an altar on it, somethin’ the Indians set up forever-long ago. We never went up on that hill, though. Some places are best left be, eh?”

“Truly did the Lord lead me to you, Sally Harper. Can we reach this altar by dusk?”

“Sure. You gonna tear it down before it has a chance to wake up?”

The preacher shook his head. “Nay. Such would allow it to slip away. But after I defeat the unclean spirit for the final time, we shall pull down the Asherah. Then no foul thing may find a comfortable home in this place hereafter. Lead on, Miss Harper. Our Lord calleth.”

continued…

Truckalypse Covers!

In lieu of Writing Wibbles this week, I’m happy to show off some new covers by Angela Kulig. As part of the upcoming launch of Pickups and Pestilence, we’re cleaning up a few typos in White Pickups and giving it a new cover! They’ll look like they ought to, two books whose covers reflect their close relationship.

OK, OK, here they are!

  

And here’s the start of a blurb for Pickups and Pestilence. Don’t forget to click the button to add it to your to-read list:

“Humanity decides its own fate and the means by which it comes.”

War, locusts, vermin. The world continues adjusting to the Truckalypse, and to the sudden disappearance of billions of people, seeking a new balance. People in Laurel Hills and elsewhere survive and try to rebuild what they can.

When a dream reveals the nature of the trucks, it is young Cody Sifko who must become humanity’s champion. His friends—and the enigmatic Delphinia—will stand with him, but he must face his inner demons alone.

Pickups and Pestilence takes you on a ride from suburban Atlanta, to the heights of Heaven and the depths of Hell. Buckle up and hang on!

I am really looking forward to this release, which is currently scheduled for April 25. If it doesn’t hit by then, though, it’s because I’m busy making this the best it can be.

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #1 (#FridayFlash)

This four-part story is an echo of Robert E. Howard's "Solomon Kane" stories. Enjoy!

---

Photo credit: Keith Survell, Flickr (Creative Commons)

A long shadow on the road, lined with the glory of the setting sun, gave people pause to squint into the light. That was the first the folk of Bethany saw of the Most Reverend Joab G. Dower.

As the man of God drew closer, the folk murmured amongst themselves. Those of the Papist persuasion crossed themselves. Dower wore a wide-brimmed hat and a traveling cloak, both of them as black as the heart of Satan. He was a tall man, standing a full four cubits and more, a head taller than any man of Bethany, and thin as a fencepost. His scowl could curdle fresh milk.

“Direct me to the church,” Dower told the first man he saw. “There I will take lodging with your pastor.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” the man stammered, wringing his hat, “but our pastor died four, five years ago. They never sent us another.”

None would have credited the possibility, had they not seen it themselves, but Dower’s scowl deepened even further. “Well. I suppose there is a rectory attached to the church proper?”

“Y—yes, sir, there is. Shut up it’s been, since Pastor Martin departed. But you’re welcome to use it.”

“Then I will. And I will hold a service at sunrise, on the morrow. Do spread the word. After you lead me to the rectory, of course.”

“We do beg your pardon for the condition of the place,” said the guide, standing in the rectory with Dower. “None have been in it since Pastor Martin went to Glory, sir.”

Dower raised his hat and knocked down the thick cobwebs over the dusty bed. “It will do, Mister Hat-wringer. If Providence has left behind a broom, I will make it suitable for the short time I intend to stay.”

The guide, perhaps not finding Dower’s appellation to his liking, set his crumpled hat upon his head and departed. Finding a candle in the deepening gloom, Dower produced a tinder-box and lit it, then made a circuit of the rectory. But for the years of neglect, all was as it should be. The place smelt of dust; that was an honest odor, not one foul but only what it was. The rectory and church were yet hallowed ground, and there was a broom lying on the kitchen floor.

After knocking down cobwebs and sweeping most of the dust into one corner, Dower knelt next to the lumpy bed. “Lord God,” he prayed, “Thou hast led Thy servant to this place, for Your divine purpose. Let me serve You to the best of my ability, then may I soon depart. Amen.” He rose, lay his bedroll across the mattress, and lay upon it. Many a night had Joab G. Dower spent on the cold ground, so any bed was welcome. He blew out the candle and slept.


Dower rose before dawn, broke his fast with bread, water, and prayer, and entered the church through a hallway connecting it to the rectory. He felt a twinge of surprise to find the church, nearly as dusty as the rectory, close to full at this early hour. Folk yawned or slouched in the pews, but for a handful standing in the narthex. One of those was a young woman, standing apart from the others, arms folded. Unlike the others, she met his gaze with a boldness not even the men here seemed to feel.

Laying his well-worn Bible on the pulpit, Dower opened to the passage he’d marked and began his sermon. “Lo, saith the Lord, I am with thee, even unto the end of the age.” He paused to look at the flock. “The Lord could well have written that, with this place in mind. For verily, the Lord hast not forsaken you, though you languish in this place, sheep without a shepherd. The same Lord sends me not to speak to you words of comfort, but to do battle with the demons that plague you.” A murmur went up at that, but Dower preached on.

After the sermon, he offered the traditional benediction, then strode down the aisle and out the doors into the grey morning light.

“It’s true, then?” one of the older men asked him. “God has sent you to us?”

“He has,” said Dower. “But He has left it unto you to tell me the nature of the Evil that I am to confront.”

“None has seen it,” said another. “Or if they have, they ain’t lived to tell of it. But it dwells in the Great Cedar Swamp, and roams the land on the new moon, devouring those it can find.”

“And the new moon is tonight.” The servant of the Lord scowled. “And I must find a guide afore time.”

“I’ll go with ya,” a woman’s voice broke the silence. It was the young woman who had watched him from the narthex. “None other have the nerve.”

Dower’s disapproving gaze raked the woman from bonnet to boots. Up close, a spray of freckles across her cheeks reflected the red hair that strayed from her bonnet. A girl’s face on a woman’s body, but he tamed that sinful thought. “And you do?” he asked at last.

“The swamp ain’t a dangerous place, if ya know what yer doin’,” she said, meeting his gaze with that same boldness. “I go in there for fish and mushrooms, all the time. This time of the month, I usually stay home. But if you mean to strike down whatever it is in there, I’m the one who can get you to it.”

Looking at the others, Dower saw she spoke true. “Are ye pure then, woman?”

She laughed. “None of these sheep so much as dare try me!”

“Very well. Who are you?”

“Sally Harper.” She stuck out a grimy hand, which Dower ignored.

“Very well, Miss Harper. Provision yourself, and we shall begin at once.”

continued…

Cover Reveal: Oddities

Coming this month, a collection of odd little tales, both flash fiction and short stories. I've sorted the stories into Fantasy and Science Fiction collections… of course, I had to make a judgment call on a few of them.

Only 99¢, how can you go wrong?

If you want to give it a little early love…

A Rotten Deal

Once more unto the breach, my friends, once more

— Shakespeare, Henry V

Shooting straight up…
and it’s shot, all right!

I always thought FAR Manor was a rotten deal from the get-go. Of course, my opinion means nothing; I’m just the one paying the mortgage. But when I saw the rotten soffit and trim above the back porch, I knew I couldn’t ignore it anymore. This was above a little decklet off the back porch, so I could do half the work on a stepladder on the deck itself, and the extension ladder off to the side let me reach the other half. It had been there for a while, but a warm and dry spring weekend meant I had the opportunity to do something about it.

So, after taking certain measurements yesterday morning, I scrounged around and found a sheet of 1/4" plywood (amazing!). The 1x8 trim boards needed a trip to Home Despot when we went that way for lunch, anyway. Now, I embarked on my favorite part of these repairs: taking implements of destruction to FAR Manor. The white trim board was only rotten on the end, but I found it was split in the middle, and my enthusiastic crowbar work finished it off. Thinking the plywood would also be rotten only on the end, I figured to cut it off halfway back… but when I misjudged the length, and cut too much, I found it was rotten along the edge almost all the way up, anyway. So more crowbar work was applied, and down it came.

Distraction

During the up-and-down that goes with measuring, getting tools, running back to grab the thing I forgot, that loose step finally… got really loose. This was an annoying distraction, one I hoped I’d have time to deal with after the main event. I’ve always been one to take steps two at a time when I can, so I just stepped over it.

So… the rotten wood was ended, but the nails lingered. More crowbar work, hooray! Fortunately, the underlying wood was okay; it was the just the outer layer that needed replacing.

Then the fun begins: measure twice, cut once, curse when it doesn’t fit, and cut again. Hoping to avoid doing this again in a few years, I found some primer and slapped a coat on the backsides and edges of the replacement pieces. This took me to “it’s getting dark” time, so I knocked off for the day.

All you need is paint…

After church, lunch, and Mason’s nap, I was able to finish the job this afternoon. I drove in the last nails, and went to get the paint. Now one of the cosmic rules of FAR Manor is: things are supposed to be in one place, but they’re usually in three. And that was the case here. The paint is supposed to be in the basement—and some of it was (including the primer coat from yesterday). The ones I needed were in both the attached garage and the detached garage. But I found the paint, found a roller (I used a brush for the primer), and had at it. The new paint doesn’t quite match the existing surrounding pieces, but I figure that’s because it was still wet. I’ll have a look tomorrow.

My enthusiastic crowbar work had split trim up above the replacement, and I had to climb onto the roof to address that part. Using the stepladder, I put the tools up on the roof, then took the extension ladder around to the garage where it’s easier to climb up. I cleaned off the screen over the chimney while I was up there, then sawed off the broken parts and pieced them together. It’s ugly, but it’ll do until I can carve up a proper replacement.

Finally, with all that taken care of, I got the drill and some screws, and took care of the step. I do need to pressure-wash and repaint them, and if it’s nice next weekend, I might get to it.

The wife then recruited me to help with feeding the cows (and other things that somehow never get mentioned until I’m in the truck), and that took us to dusk. So that was a weekend at FAR Manor—at least it was shot to hell in the way I wanted it shot to hell for a change.

Enemy of My Enemy (#FridayFlash)

I got requests for more Pulse, and the Muse was in an obliging mood…

---

“Harr Electric.”

“Do you repair computer room powering?” The voice on the phone sounded frantic.

“We can, and have, on a number of occasions.” Pulse, in his public guise as Helmut Harr, listened and jotted down names and addresses. “Do you not have an electrician on retainer? … Ya, I can send someone right away, but I will have to charge emergency rates.” He listened some more, then shuffled some papers on his desk and tapped at his keyboard. “All of my other people are on jobs right now, so I will have to come myself. No, it’s no problem.” Both were true. As a supervillain, Harr’s electrical contracting business provided not only income and a cover for his extra-legal activities, it could provide opportunities. Like now. He pulled up Maps and plotted a route. “If I am not delayed by traffic issues, I can be there in about half an hour. No, I am leaving right away. … You realize, if I am detained by police, it will take even longer. … Yes, I am leaving now.”

Hanging up, Harr turned back to the computer. Republic Industries was a nut he’d wanted to crack for a long time. Their IT was top-notch, and had thwarted prior attempts to break through from outside. Inside, things should be much easier. Like last month’s bank caper, and the ongoing campaign against spammers, this was personal. Republic had a “devil may care” attitude toward product safety, and their subsidiary’s faulty electrical equipment killed one of his workers last year. Harr’s insurance covered the monetary loss, but neither he nor the employee’s family could replace Kenny Brownfeld.

Checking his inventory, he had the repair parts most likely needed. He tossed them in a component bag in the back of his pickup truck (blue, with an aero-cap and the Harr Electric signage prominent). A few of his ferret kits were already hidden in the toolbox.

The guard at the gated parking lot waved him through, and Harr took a contractor parking space. Hefting his tool box and component bag, he entered the maw of the beast itself. The indoor security looked through his things, but found nothing to raise suspicion. The ferrets were in hidden compartments, and were powered down in any case. Satisfied, the guard led Harr to the IT director’s office.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Mr. Harr,” the director said. “We’re in a pretty tight spot here.”

“Your redundant supplies didn’t kick in?”

“No, and it’s horribly embarrassing. One of our subsidiaries made the equipment.”

“Ah. So all of your powering is JES?” Jelsen Electrical Systems made the box that killed Kenny Brownfeld.

“You’re familiar with it, then.”

“Oh, ya.” Failures with JES products kept Harr Electric profitable, personal antipathy notwithstanding. Ironic, that it now provides a path to vengeance. Harr had emigrated from Austria, as a child, with his parents. They worked hard, and expected him to do the same. He learned English, endured the other kids calling him “Helmet Hair” and mocking his accent. When he discovered his power to create an electromagnetic pulse, he took great delight in frying their electronic toys. Vengeance brought such satisfaction…

The IT room was dark. “Everything is powered down?” Harr asked, incredulous.

“Even the security cameras. Is it going to be a problem?”

“Not at all,” said Harr, hefting his toolbox. A golden opportunity, indeed. “I always bring emergency lighting.” He put the toolbox down long enough to bring out a trouble light. “Lead the way.”

Alone in the dark, Harr plugged two ferrets into unused Ethernet ports on the primary routers. Small magnets kept them hidden inside the racks, where they were not likely to be found for a long time. It took only a few minutes to confirm Harr’s guess about the problem: the under-spec’ed relay JES used in the switching circuit had burned out. It took only ten more minutes to replace it with a better part.

With his actual work done, he loosed a little of the EMP power that gave him his supervillain name, damaging several servers and switches. They would not fail right away.

He wrote up the invoice in the IT director’s office, shook the man’s hand, and left. Whether Republic actually paid the eight hundred dollars was doubtful, and not important; Harr already had what he wanted. They would pay far, far more.

At home, working through his carefully crafted relays, he accessed the data the ferrets were already sending. He smiled, attached several files to an email, and clicked Send. Then he opened Twitter and DM’ed Captain Heroic.

sv_pulse
You have mail.

Captain Heroic (Ret.)
AMAZING! How did you get this?

sv_pulse
Unimportant. I will soon have more if you need it.

Captain Heroic (Ret.)
Sure, send what you can and I’ll pass it on. But this is actionable. You want to be in on the takedown?

sv_pulse
Justice is the heroes’ job. ^_^

Captain Heroic (Ret.)
With enemies like you, who needs friends? LOL

sv_pulse
Sometimes, the enemy of my enemy is also my enemy. Good hunting.

Harr closed Twitter, and looked at the data continuing to pour in from Republic’s no longer secure network. Soon, he would have what he needed to hang CEO Palmer Lanois himself. “All in a day’s work,” he chuckled.

Indie Life/Writing Wibbles

Welcome to the Indie Life edition of Writing Wibbles. Don’t forget to hit the linky at the end and see what other indies have to say about their travails, triumphs, and tips this month.

In last week’s Writing Wibbles, I described my mobile writing station that consists of a smartphone, Bluetooth keyboard, and +Evernote. I was delighted when +Katherine Hajer used that post as a springboard to talk about ferreting out the root causes that keep you from writing.

Katherine made a good point about my post: I didn’t present it as a “this is how you get more writing time” post, but rather “this is how I get more writing time.” There’s a zillion “writing tips” blogs and websites out there. Sometimes, advice on one site conflicts with another’s—but they all agree I’m doin’ it w0rNg because I edit as I go and often revise previous passages while I write new ones.

This month, I want to say hello to writers just getting started, unsure of how to find an audience and how to develop as a writer.

This is what worked for me.

When I decided I wanted to start writing intentional fiction¹ again, after a long hiatus after college, I already had a blog. It seemed like a good place to post a few short stories I had sitting in my desk, and I did. Not much came of it, but infinitely more people read them on my blog than they could have in my desk.

Later on, I joined Twitter, and one day I stumbled across something called #FridayFlash. The premise is simple: write a piece of flash fiction (1000 words or less), post it on your blog, and tweet links with the #FridayFlash hashtag (and don't forget to add it to the collector). I met many of my bestest Twitter buddies through #FridayFlash.

Writing flash fiction helped me develop as a writer by focusing on the moment, and what’s important in that moment. Flash doesn’t absolutely require elements found in longer stories, like plot or character development, but it’s cool if you can fit them in. I know artistically-talented people who can sketch a few lines and make you see so much more; a skilled flash writer can do the same in a handful of words.

There’s an unwritten rule of #FridayFlash: if someone comes by and leaves a comment, it’s a courtesy to do the same for them. You don’t need to be on Twitter to get involved; just hit the collector and check out things that look interesting to you.


One thing I realized when writing short pieces: 2000 words might be a short story, but it’s a hell of a long blog post. And there were longer stories wanting to get out. Like FAR Future.

While I was writing flash, I was also writing much longer pieces, and began serializing them on my blog. Soon after I finished FAR Future, a flash piece called White Pickups blew up into something huge and I was off to the races again. Then, I discovered TuesdaySerial. It works much like FridayFlash: put up your latest episode, tweet links with the #TuesdaySerial hashtag, add a link to the collector. After White Pickups came Accidental Sorcerers and others. Somewhere along the line, I was invited to join the TuesdaySerial staff.

If you’re brave (or just crazy like me), you can start serializing a story before it’s done. It does give you an incentive to keep writing, and sometimes your readers give you ideas for subplots or can help you get unstuck. Serials don’t get the readership that flash does, simply because serials require more dedication on readers’ parts as well as the writer. But serial readers can turn out to be more dedicated fans in the end.

Feel free to share what has worked for you in the comments. Thanks for reading, and check out some of the other Indie Life writers this week!

---

¹ My dayjob is technical writing. Some of that turned into fiction, but not by intent.

Bottom-feeding

Do traditional publishers think that bottom-feeding is the way to beat Amazon?

This has been a disturbing week for anyone watching the publishing industry. Random House launched four new imprints, with “you really named them that?” names like Hydra and Alibi, offering terms worse than a standard vanity publisher. As always, “the large print giveth, the small print taketh away.” The 50/50 split seems pretty good, until you realize that your share is zero until all expenses are accounted for. The thing is, it’s Random House that determines how much they’re charging themselves (and authors) for the editing, cover design, layout, and so forth, as well as any ongoing expenses they can gin up. Musicians have pointed out similarities to record label contracts, coupled with the record companies’ use of creative accounting to avoid paying royalties to artists at all.

Given the nature of the contracts, the SFWA has de-listed Hydra (the SF imprint) as a qualifying market¹ for SFWA membership. SFWA president John Scalzi thumped Random House thoroughly on his personal blog. “It’s genuinely shameful that a publisher is willing to offer this contract — and for that matter, to defend it,” he writes. But defend it they do, in an email to SFWA’s Writer Beware.

One major publisher pulling this kind of stunt, ever, would be bad enough. But it’s not just Random House. They weren’t even the first. Last year, Simon and Schuster hooked up with Author Solutions/ASI, the scammiest of the publishing scammers, to create the “Archway” imprint. (Hmmm… “arch.” As in, bend over? I’m seeing a trend in these names.) Perhaps to steal a little of Random House’s thunder this week, S&S emailed major writing bloggers, offering an affiliate program. (No, I wasn’t contacted. No, I wouldn’t have signed up anyway.)

If it was just this, I could say the universe is validating my decision to not bother with traditional publishers. But then someone forwarded me an email they got from Amazon on Wednesday:

Look at what’s topping that list. Look at the fourth book down. I believe it was no coincidence that Accidental Sorcerers got yet another wind (fourth wind? fifth? eighth? I’ve lost count) after that mail went out, and jumped back into the Top 100 lists for Kindle Fantasy, Fantasy, and Teens. How many traditional publishers are going to do that kind of marketing for a new unknown author?

Say what you will about Amazon. Even 30% is a better cut than I’d get from a traditional publisher, and they actually do some marketing. Now I need to email Apple, B&N, and Kobo, and tell them, “Hey, Amazon’s including my book in ads, and we’re getting pretty good sales over here. How about you guys try to outdo them?”

---

¹The SFWA also says indies like me don’t qualify either, to which I give a shrug and a “pfffft.” Why join a club that would have me as a member, anyway?

Marginalia (Accidental Sorcerers ephemera) (#FridayFlash)

Source: Wikimedia Commons

Charn sim Bas trudged up the steep street. “Such a waste, having to study on a day like this,” he grumbled to himself. After a week of cold rain, drenching Westmarch and washing it clean, the first true spring day felt all the sweeter for the bright noonday sun. Fetching books from the Royal Library was an burdensome chore in winter, but today it at least got Charn out in more pleasant weather.

Reaching the Royal Terrace, Charn turned to look at all of Westmarch sprawling below him, all the way down to the crowded harbor where Prince Nalfur’s navy anchored cheek by jowl with merchant ships. Puddles from the departed rains sparkled, bejeweling his city. Such a beautiful place to live, he thought, allowing himself a little pride before continuing on his way.

The librarian took the list Charn offered him, and his empty pack. “You can sit and wait over there,” he told Charn. “This shouldn’t take long.” Indeed, it did not. Charn barely had time to construct his favorite daydream, he and Isa in any private place, before the librarian returned with his pack.

“Those who have gone before you have abused your book enough,” the librarian told him. “If you feel the compulsion to add to it, make it something useful.” Charn nodded, took his pack, and departed.

The sorcerers of Westmarch lived and worked on Kestral Terrace, among the wealthier merchants and distant relatives of the Prince. Charn brought his burden to his mentor, Zharcon the White, who nodded absently and gave him one of the four books. “Make a thorough study of this,” she said. “I’ll see that we have time to go over things later this week.”

Charn mumbled consent and carried his book away. “The Portico,” he said to himself. It was outside, and had shades overhead if the sun got too bright. The other apprentices were likely there as well. Reaching the Portico, Charn saw he was right; all but one or two apprentices were out here. One of the missing was Vibeli sam Tatrin, which was a minor disappointment. Vibeli was a frequent visitor in Charn’s daydreams, even if she was unfriendly in real life. Charn shrugged and opened the book.

“A Survey of Magic Useful for the Intermediate Apprentice,” he mumbled, reading the title page. The mentor had not given him a specific area to study, so he looked over the summary. The most promising topic, COMBAT MAGIC, was crossed out. He flipped to the indicated page, to find the entire section had been excised. The book must have dated to before The Treaty, to have had such information at one time.

Choosing “Exercises in Two-Element Spells,” he opened to that chapter—and was immediately distracted by the marginalia and glosses, left by other apprentices down through the ages. “That’s what the librarian meant, then,” he said.

“What?” Charn looked up to see Portia sam Perin, a new apprentice, standing there and smiling. She always smiled when she talked to him, which made Charn a little nervous.

“Nothing,” he said. “The librarian warned me that other students had marked in this book, is all.”

Portia peered over the table. “Indeed,” she said. “Well, I have reading to do, too.” She took the table next to his and opened her own book. “Does this happen a lot?” she called to Charn. “The mentors leaving us to ourselves all the time?”

Charn shook his head. “No. There’s some politics.” There’s always politics when your ruler is crazy, he thought. “Nothing for us to get involved with. They’ll work with us some tomorrow, or maybe in another day or two. Until then…” he lifted his book, and Portia grinned and turned to hers.

The spring air and Charn’s hormones kept him distracted, or maybe it was the marginalia. Sketches of faces, detailed drawings of naked female torsos (and some male), insulting commentary about sorcerers or apprentices long on the final journey, even some interesting asides about the main text from time to time. Charn dwelt on one of the drawings, thinking about Isa and her own curvaceous torso. He’d see her at the Gathering, in a few months, and hoped he’d have a chance to see more of her (if the gods-forsaken mentors wouldn’t watch over them). Her letters were like her speech, long and rambling, and he enjoyed reading them even if his replies were much shorter. He let his mind wander, and thought about Mik and Sura for a moment. Sura was angular compared to Isa, even to little Portia, but Mik was completely devoted to her. Besides, there was a popular song about what happened to any, man or boy, who trifled with a daughter of the Matriarchy. Isa was a much safer fantasy—

“I’m sorry,” said Portia. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Charn looked up at the girl standing there, politely not blocking his sunlight. “What?”

“It’s my Fire magic,” she said. “I’m supposed to light a candle, but—but I can’t get it.” She looked near tears.

Charn sighed, but nodded. “My mentor said that Fire magic is the hardest element for beginners,” he assured her. “Unless you have an affinity for it.” He followed her back to her table, where a squat candle sat.

He chuckled. “First thing, let’s make it a little easier.” He opened her book and stood it up on the other side of the candle. “There, that’ll keep the wind off it. Sit. Relax.” He pulled a chair alongside the table, keeping a little distance. “You know how to find your center?” She nodded. “Good. Find it, then this is the tricky part. Think of something that makes you angry, but not so angry you lose your center. Then, you focus…”

A minute later, Portia squealed with delight at the burning candle, and jumped up to hug the surprised Charn. Standing at the railing, Vibeli looked at them and smirked.

Writing Wibbles

Between the day job and the family, sometimes I have to snatch writing time when and where I can find it. I’ve done plenty of handwriting onto notepads and journals, but then I have to type it all up again. Sometimes, it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes, it just feels like a hassle.

Technology is a wonderful thing (as long as the batteries hold up, of course). If there was a way to have something about as portable as a writing journal, but doesn’t force you to write it twice, why not use it?

Behold, it really does exist!

The required ingredients are a smartphone, a Bluetooth keyboard, and +Evernote. I have to take off my glasses to read, so they make a fine phone stand. As you can see, the A key on the keyboard has gone to the Great Computer Room in the Sky, but it only took a little adjusting on my part. All of the components here can be substituted—use a tablet instead of a phone, use whatever Bluetooth keyboard will pair with it, use Dropbox or Google Docs instead of Evernote. The whole point is to have something you can type into, then copy/paste from Evernote into your normal writing tool.

This rig does get some attention when I’m at lunch. People come by to see what I’m typing into, or just what it is I’m doing. They want to know how it works, and sometimes what I’m writing.