Ahoy MidSouthCon 31!

It's almost time!

I speak not of my next colonoscopy, but of my attendance at MidSouthCon 31.

If MidSouthCon is not known to you, it is the premiere SF/fantasy con in this part of the country. Held in Memphis, MidSouthCon is large enough to attract big names (Cherie Priest, Steve Jackson, John Picacio) and small enough to feel intimate and relaxed.

I'm even on a panel this year. If you're going to be at the Con, stop by the Grand Ballroom at 3:00 PM Saturday, where I'll be joining other Darrell Awards winners and nominees to talk writing.

I enjoy the panels. You can find everything from nuts-and-bolts author sessions to ghost hunting techniques. There truly is something for everyone.

Of course the press will concentrate solely on the cosplayers (i.e., people dressed up as fantasy/SF characters). Which is understandable, since the cosplayers are a dedicated and imaginative bunch. I've seen some truly awe-inspiring outfits at MidSouthCon, which always has a strong steampunk showing. Last year's girl with articulated wings was one of my favorites.

The Storm Troopers are always in attendance as well. They're a nice friendly helpful bunch, although they are a bit sensitive about mentions of unshielded thermal exhaust ports.

And what Con would be complete without zombies? We get all kinds. Zombie storm troopers. Zombie Alices. Zombie cheerleaders. Zombie tax preparers...

Itemize....

And, of course, steampunk Catwoman. Because -- who needs a freakin' reason?

This year I'm going to try something different at the Con. Along with the usual photos, I hope to post some short audio interviews (and possibly even video segments) with any of the more interesting cosplayers and attendees I can corner -- er, invite to take part in my blog. I've spent a lot of time tweaking my ancient Dell netbook, getting it up to snuff, and I'll be taking my microphones as well as my camera.

So, with any luck, next week's blog will feature an extensive Con report, with pictures.

March 26 is of course the release date for Brown River Queen. To celebrate, I'll be at the Barnes & Noble bookstore on the University of Mississippi campus in Oxford, where I'll be grabbing the ankles of passers-by and begging them to buy a copy until the University Police Department tazes me into unconsciousness. You don't want to miss that, so if you're in Oxford on Tuesday the 26th, please stop by the B & N at noon. I'll also be signing copies of The Broken Bell, so even if you don't have a Kindle or a Nook you can buy a print book.

Did you know that authors who fail to sell all the books at a signing are ritually shaven and then held underwater for eight minutes by the infuriated bookstore manager? It's true. I mention that not to entice you to buy a book, but just to pass the time. I'm pretty sure I can hold my breath for three of the eight minutes, and let's face it, another five minutes of brain damage probably won't have a significant effect on my cognitive skills.

I'm kidding. Signings are a lot of fun, and the people at Barnes & Noble have been most gracious and kind. There WILL BE SNACKS. I am willing to share.

To recap -- noon on Tuesday the 26th at the Barnes & Noble on the Ole Miss campus. Stop by and say hello!

One final word: progress on the new Markhat went very well last week. Looks like I might make my goal of writing two novels this year after all.

Of course it's one thing to write the books, and another to sell them. But unless I've completely lost my ability to tell good from bad, this new book is a good one.

Speaking of which, it's time to get back to work.

See you at MidSouthCon 31!

Movie Review and More!

That's your Mystery Picture for this week. What is it? Where did it come from? What if any significance does it hold?

I'm not telling.

But I will tell plenty about my new favorite movie, Oz the Great and Powerful.

By now, you may have seen some lukewarm Oz reviews. The New York Times is disenchanted, calling it an 'extravagant misfire' after babbling on about how much better movies were in the 1930s. The LA Times claims the movie is a 'rough slog' down the Yellow Brick Road.

I claim both reviewers watched the movie with their heads up their asses.

Oz the Great and Powerful is not a remake of The Wizard of Oz. It doesn't try to be. There is no Dorothy, no Toto, no Tin Man. Also, and noted with much relief on my part, there is no singing.

But there are visuals which make critically-acclaimed films such as Life of Pi and Avatar seem like cheap Saturday morning cartoons by comparison. And the new characters are just as engaging as any of Dorothy's face-painted retinue.

I dare anyone to tell me China Girl alone wasn't worth the price of admission. Go ahead, tell me that, and I will knock you down. I mean it. And Zach Braff's Finley, the flying monkey in the bellhop outfit?

Magical. And hilarious.

Without giving anything away, I can also say I loved the witches. Glinda the Good was spot on perfect, as the beleaguered defender of the peaceful folk of Oz. And James Franco's con-artist carnival magician turned makeshift wizard is unfailingly endearing.

This will sound of heresy to some, but I'll say it anyway -- Oz the Great and Powerful is a better movie than The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey.

Oz the Great and Powerful has everything -- visual feasts, engaging characters, suspense, humor, and heart. Ignore the bleating critics. See the movie. You'll be glad you did, or I'll eat a hot-air balloon.

The above is another piece of Markhat fan-art, created by Raevyn Tws (his Facebook page is here).  Some say Markhat is pointing out the guilty party, but I maintain he is indicating to a bartender which beer he wants next.

Speaking of Markhat (see what I did there?), the new Markhat novel Brown River Queen is still available for pre-sale. It goes live on March 26!

I've blathered on and on about the book for weeks. I know that. But it's a good book, and I can hardly wait until people can dive into it.

The new Markhat book is underway, of course. I'm calling it The Five Faces. I've also toyed with the idea of a book narrated entirely by Mama Hog, who has no end of things to say about any subject you might care to name. If may wind up entitled Mama On the Town. But that is by no means a promise; just keeping the Markhat books written is about all I have time to do these days.

Brown River Queen cover, just because.

Just for the heck of it, here's a brief excerpt from The Five Faces, featuring an unusually vengeful Markhat:


FROM THE FIVE FACES:

Voices, from the top of the stair.

A match scratched and flared.  The lantern bobbed off its hook. The door swung open.

Boots clambered down the stairs. A man laughed. Another cussed.

I divided feet by two and came up with three.

Three men, who didn’t know a damned thing about fighting in the dark. They held the lantern close to their faces. They took the stairs before their eyes had time to adjust. They swapped a bottle as they walked.

They never saw me coming.

Two went down before the third finished swigging at the bottle. I hit him in the gut with the butt-end of the stout club I’d found amid the trash. When he doubled over, I hit him in the mouth.

Down he went. I kicked him as he fell.

None of the three managed to stand by the time I joined them at the bottom of the stairs.

One did groan and make a half-assed attempt to rise to his elbows. I rewarded his determination with a sharp blow to the back of his head. He went down and went still.

The lantern rolled down, trailing small pools of burning oil. I snatched it up before it sparked a real fire.

“You’re going to give me a name,” I said. A pair of faint groans answered. “You’re going to give me a name, or I’ll kill every damned one of you, and enjoy doing it.”

More groans. Somebody spat teeth. I felt myself smile.

“Someone paid you to watch this place,” I said. “Who?”

Silence.

The light still illuminated the pile of dead dogs not thirty feet distant.

I issued a dozen heartfelt kicks.

“Stop it, stop it,” muttered one of my supine friends. “Chuckles. Chuckles pays us. We don’t know nothin’, mister. We just got paid to watch the door.”

I dropped to my haunches.

“Chuckles,” I said.  I waved the lantern near my talkative friend’s face.

He was maybe fifty. Whatever teeth he’d worked so hard to keep were scattered on the floor beneath him. I wasn’t sorry.

“Now, where can I find this Chuckles?”

A knife-blade glinted in the lamp-light. I brought down my lumber. Wet cracking sounds and a scream echoed in the dark.

Again, I wasn’t sorry.

“You were saying?”

“Everybody knows Chuckles. Keeps a table. Down at the Bastion.” He cut his eyes to his fellows “What the Hell’s the matter with you? We just watch the door. I don’t think Mort is breathing.”

“Worry less about Mort and more about yourself. This Chuckles. He run this place?”

“Hell if I know, mister, he just pays us to—”

“Watch the door. I heard. Tell you what. I’m going to pay this Mr. Chuckles a visit. But before I do, you’re going to give him a message. How’s your memory, pal? Think you can repeat what I’m about to say, word for word?”

He spat blood and glared hate.

“I’ll take that as a yes. My message is this – the dog fights end. Or I end you. Simple enough. Got it?”

He spat again. “You got a name?”

I don’t remember much from the days when Mom dragged all us Markhats to Church. But a line of Scripture came to mind.

“I am Death. You shall not know my name until I speak it in thine ear. Dread my name, and fear its revelation, for it shall be thy undoing, amen.”

“Crazy bastard.”

I hit him again. He rolled over and howled, and I rose. I cast my club down beside him.

The other two lay still. If they breathed, I couldn’t see their chests rise or fall.

“I am Death,” I said. “Dread my name.”

I blew out the lantern and threw it as far as I could.

Then I climbed the thirty-eight steps, whistling all the way.

END EXCERPT

That's it for this week!

Ghost Hunter's Guide: Dead in the Deep South

As both long-time fans of this blog know, I do a little ghost hunting on the side.

Since my private jet is A) in the shop and B) doesn't exist, I do all my ghost hunting locally. Which means I stalk a particular brand of restless spirit -- that of the wily Southern ghost.

I'm a Southerner myself. I was born right here, not in this chair but in Mississippi nonetheless. This grants me a unique insight into the ectoplasmic minds of the local spectres, haunts, haints, will-o-the-wisps, goblins, revenants, poltergeists, apparitions, and of course the Class II free-floating non-repeating vapors that haunt these gently rolling hills.

From what I've seen on television, your northern, eastern, and western ghosts seem to have standardized their behaviors, at least when the cameras are rolling. Here's every ghost hunting show I've ever seen, condensed:

GHOST HUNTER #1: I'm getting a hit on my K2.

GHOST HUNTER #2: I'm being touched!

GHOST HUNTER #3: I saw a shadow!

Play obscure EVP segment during reveal, in which ghostly voice says short phrase:

"I smell the eggs, Bartholomew."

Which is a lot more dramatic when shot in patented Green Night-O-Vision(tm) and accompanied by a sepulchral voice-over and sinister background music.

Southern ghosts, though, often march to a different tune (usually the phantom strains of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd album).  As such, I've decided to offer my own brief primer on the nature of Southern haunts.

Pull your Alabama ball-caps down firmly, and enjoy the ride.

Ghosts of the Haunted South: A Bestiary

1) The Residual Bubba.

A residual Bubba haunting is non-responsive and wholly un-communicative, unless provoked by the playing of NPR anywhere on the property. Residual Bubba situations are rarely dangerous, and in fact often go unnoticed if they peak during football season. 

A residual Bubba haunting is characterized by the following physical phenomena:

• Repeated auditory phenomena, i.e., the sound of a pickup horn playing 'Dixie,' the reluctant cranking of an un-mufflered diesel engine, source-less WWF wrestling played at high volume, etc.
• Periodic visual phenomena. Apparitions of bodiless Big Yank overalls, translucent Pabst Blue Ribbon six-packs floating through the double-wide, etc. 

An EVP indicative of a residual Bubba in progress:

Residual Bubba EVP

2) The Intelligent Dwayne.

An intelligent Dwayne haunting occurs when the spirit of a deceased person remains attached to a property. Often, these spirits don't realize they are dead, and sometimes grow agitated when they mistakenly assume their new state of being is simply some newfangled Yankee holiday that has made their disability checks late.

These intelligent hauntings are characterized by:

• Menacing physical phenomena, most often in the form of slaps, punches, and repeated butt-kickings.
• Movement of physical objects, usually of TV remotes and bottle openers.
• Poorly-spelled Ouija Board warnings, usually of the 'Git out er I will KICK YOR ASS' variety, although some sessions might reveal a decided slant toward debating various NASCAR drivers or the inability of Ole Miss to consistently score in the fourth quarter. 

An EVP indicative of an Intelligent Dwayne haunting:

Intelligent Dwayne EVP

3) The Saturday Night Phantom.

When a person is taken by death too soon, they often remain Earthbound, tethered by a wistful sense of leaving behind unfinished business.

When a Saturday Night Phantom is taken by death, the process usually includes (but is not limited to) propane, firearms, crude incendiary devices of a homemade nature, copious amounts of easily-affordable alcohol, motorcycles, livestock, heights, wet roads, lack of headlights, amateur rocketry, and ill-timed use of the phrase 'Watch this, y'all.'

A Saturday Night Phantom, known as a poltergeist in other locales, is a mischievous (and possibly still drunk) spirit which reveals its presence through pranks and trickery, such as:

• Sudden foul odors, usually accompanied by loud raspberry sounds and faint giggling.
• Crude knock-knock jokes delivered during Ouija Board sessions.
• Repeated inexplicable toilet flushings.
• Nocturnal wails and screams, followed by slurred renditions of the Arkansas State football fight song.

An EVP typical of a Saturday Night Phantom:

Saturday Night Phantom EVP

4) The Old Man Burtrell Ghost.

Every community in the South, no many how tiny or remote, features an Old Man Burtrell by one name or another. In life, these reclusive, hostile souls demand absolute privacy and demonstrate an eager willingness to maintain it by casual discharges of shotguns and cursing. In death, their spirits continue on as they always have, not knowing or caring that their Earthly lives are over.

An Old Man Burtrell haunting is indicated by any of the following:

• Sounds of a phantom shotgun being chambered.
• Motion on the part of empty rocking chairs, followed by a spit of phantom chewing tobacco.
• Spectral gunfire, followed by confused, enraged cursing.

Sample of a typical Old Man Burtrell EVP:

Old Man Burtrell EVP

5) The Wilted Rose.

Saddest perhaps of all the Southern haunts, the Wilted Rose is the wandering spirit of the truck-stop diner waitress who, even in death, can find neither rest, peace, nor affordable astral housing on her lousy tips alone. 

The presence of a Wilted Rose is most often indicated by:

• Coffee cups which fill themselves. Small plastic containers of spoiled creamer often appear beside the cup, alongside a syrup-smeared paper packet of pure cane sugar.
• Clouds of cigarette smoke which form from nothing.
• Phantom diner checks decorated with smiley faces drawn on steamed mirrors.

Sample of Wilted Rose EVP:

Wilted Rose EVP

Next Week: On the Trail of the Southern Bigfoot, or, Sasquatch Can't Drive Worth Crap.

Bonus Tuesday Blog

I know, it's not Sunday, but here I am blogging.

I don't always blog on Tuesday, but when I do, I've been drinking Dos Equis. Which isn't true either; I haven't been drinking, but I do want to make a small special effort to let people know they can snag a copy of The Mister Trophy free from Amazon!

If you haven't read any of my Markhat books before, this is a great place to start. It's short, it's fun, it features at least one scene of gratuitous vampire-thumping, and did I mention it's free?

And of course I can't help but cackle with unseemly glee over the upcoming (March 26) release of the new Markhat novel, Brown River Queen. Which you can now pre-order.

The piece of original fan art above shows Markhat encouraging you to pre-order. (Thanks to Raevyn Tws aka Eric Ralphs for the artwork).

So, to recap -- free stuff! New release! Dogs and cats, sleeping together!

See you all Sunday!

Announcing an Announcement!

Hold your metaphorical hats tight on your allegorical heads, gentle readers, for today I am full of....news.

I saw a bunch of you mouthing a very different word from 'news,' and I find that hurtful, but even so my spirits remain undampened, and I'll tell you why.

First of all, the new Markhat title is now available for pre-order at Amazon and Samhain! Barnes & Noble doesn't have pre-order turned on yet, but Samhain offers a Nook version (as well as Kindle, pdf, and every other format imaginable) of the book. So you don't have to wait for B&N, if you'd rather not.

I'm really excited about Brown River Queen.

Sorry, I get this rash when I'm happy. 

There's the right image! The book's cover, because I never get tired of looking at it.

Fans of the series will see the return of all the old familiar faces. Mama Hog will supply her usual homespun charms. Buttercup the banshee is always underfoot. Darla, who finally made a cover (she's been waiting patiently for her spot beside Markhat) is there, and she's reading over my shoulder to make sure I mention that at no point does she require rescuing. Quite the opposite, in fact, but you'll need to read the book to find out what I'm talking about.

I've tried to bring some new influences into the Markhat series. There's always been a touch of steampunk about Markhat's world, where magic and heavy industry rub shoulders in unexpected ways. The Banshee's Walk was set in a private artist's retreat. Hold the Dark explored Rannit's churches. The Broken Bell saw the introduction of gunpowder, cannon, and the outbreak of civil war.

I set Brown River Queen on a lavish gambling steamboat right out of the Mississippi River post US Civil War. There are gamblers and ne'er-do-wells. Plots and subterfuges. Vampires and worse. Intrigue and Blues singers. It was a blast to write, and I think you guys are in for a treat when it goes on sale March 26.

To those of you who've already pre-ordered, my thanks! Few things are more gratifying that seeing one's book show an Amazon ranking before it actually goes on sale. That's rare good fun. I may well have cackled maniacally. No, I'm sure of it.

Next, I've been nominated as a Finalist for the 2013 Darrell Award! The winners will be announced at the annual awards banquet, which takes place at the always-amazing MidSouthCon. 

I'm looking forward to the Con this year, because  -- well, look at the Guest List. Cherie Priest, Steve Jackson, John Picacio, Ross Lockhart? I know these names, and others! And being nominated for a Darrell Award is a genuine honor.

 It's going to be a blast.

That's my blaster, not a blast, but you get the idea.

Since it's a long time until March 26, I'm posting a brief excerpt from BROWN RIVER QUEEN below, to whet your appetite. There aren't any spoilers, so read without fear.

From BROWN RIVER QUEEN:


A meaty fist struck my door. “Open for the Watch!” shouted my new friend Captain Holder. “Open or we’ll break it down.”

Evis stubbed out his cigar and folded back into the shadows. I rose and unlocked my door, then opened it wide before stepping back out of yanking distance.

Captain Holder marched in, hand on his sword hilt, face beet red around eyes already going teary from the cigar smoke.

“What brings you here, Captain?” Carelessly, I puffed smoke directly into his face. “Care for a Lowland Sweet?”

That’s when Captain Holder, an officer of the law and a high-ranking Watchman, dared lay hands on me—a law-abiding citizen who did nothing but exhibit a generous nature concerning his excellent tobacco.

Evis moved, a silent shadow leaving brief wakes in the smoke.

Slam went my door, plunging my office in shadows.

Snick went the Captain’s Watch-issue shortsword as it was snatched from its scabbard.

Thunk went the blade as Evis buried the tip of it in my desk before returning to his seat and once again wrapping himself in silk and shadow.

The Captain gaped, his sword hand closing on air. “I have half a dozen men right outside.”

“Only half a dozen?” I sniffed and looked down my nose. “I’d have thought a desperate criminal such as myself would have demanded a full dozen, at least.”

He wasn’t listening. Instead, he backed toward my door, his eyes on Evis, and then he yanked it open and bellowed through it.

“Your men were called to attend pressing matters elsewhere, Captain Holder,” said Evis from the dark.
“Close the door. You are in no danger. But we do need to have a chat.”

I would have bet even money on the Captain bolting. But after a moment of staring out into the empty street, he straightened, uttered a single brief curse word, turned to face us, and closed the door.

“You’ve had a bad morning, Captain,” I said. I strolled around my desk and pointed to the empty client’s chair. “But it doesn’t need to get any worse. Have a seat. Let’s talk this out like gentlemen.”

He glared but yanked the chair back and sat.

“You dumped a bucket of shit on a Watchman,” he said, his voice still rough with rage. “I know all about you, Markhat. You’ve been running roughshod over the Watch for years. I’m here to tell you you’ve gone too far this time. I’m charging you with assault on an officer of the law.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Charging me? With assault? Good thing my legal counsel is present, then. Captain Holder, meet Mr. Evis Prestley, of House Avalante. I believe you’ve heard the name.”

“I know it.”

I leaned back and laced my fingers together behind my head. “Assault, you say? Mr. Prestley. Have I, to your knowledge, assaulted any Watchmen recently?”

“Why no, Mr. Markhat, I don’t believe you have.”

The good Captain repeated his curse word. “You dumped a bucket of shit on my man outside. I can’t hang you for that but I can damned well throw you in the Old Ruth for a week or three.” He made as if to rise.
Evis appeared by my side, his dead-pale face just touched by the sun.

“And you can prove my client was involved, can you Captain?”

“It was him. You know it and I know it.”

Evis shook his head and made tsk-tsk noises. “At what time did this alleged assault by excrement occur, Captain? As you have noted the complainant is a Watchman, I assume he was able to provide such details in his official report?”

“Ten of noon,” growled the Captain, his beefy right hand clutching his Watch-issue handcuffs. “You’re wasting your time. He’s coming with me.”

“Ten of noon,” said Evis. “Well. I can produce no fewer than two dozen prominent citizens of Rannit who will gladly swear they were dining with Mr. Markhat at the Brickworks between eleven and half-past one, Captain Holder. Remind me of the names, Mr. Markhat.”

“Certainly. Tavis Green, of the Tavis Greens, was there. We enjoyed a bottle of Fitch together. Oh, and Markum Sate, and Corliss Poole, and that nephew of the Regent’s chief of staff, Malcom Slater.” I trailed off and watched a vein in Holder’s forehead bulge and pulse.

“You spoke of a waste of time, Captain. Indeed, that is what incarcerating my client will yield you. Time and trouble. I assure you, Avalante will take an immediate and active interest in the matter.”

“Might as well put the bracelets away,” I said. “Maybe one day I’ll slip up and you can clap them on me. But that isn’t today, Captain, and you know it.”

Ten breaths. That’s what it took for Holder to work out the truth behind my words. But work it out he did, and the cuffs went back in his pocket.

“I won’t forget this,” he said after a time. “Nobody dumps chamber-pots on my Watch officers. Nobody.”

I shrugged. “Good for you. Now then. Being completely unaware you had a man watching my door, I find myself suddenly compelled to ask why you’d do such a thing. So. Why?”

“Because a woman is dead and you killed her, that’s why.”

Evis waggled a taloned finger at the Captain’s nose. “My client acted in self-defense during an unprovoked attack by a deranged stranger,” he said. “Even the Watch concurs.”

“I think your client knows exactly who the dead woman was and why she ended up cut in half by a beer-wagon.”

“If I knew who she was, Captain, I’d tell you. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because, as usual, you’re mixed up in something,” said the Captain. “Think you’re above the law, don’t you, Markhat?”

“We don’t see enough law in this part of town to think ourselves above it.” I put my hands on my desk and leaned close. The Captain needed a bath. “Look. I’m not lying. I don’t know who she was or why she came at me. There wasn’t time to ask. But why do you care? The dead wagons haul bodies out of alleys every morning. Nobody asks. What makes this woman so special the Watch is pestering me about her?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know her.”

“I’m telling you I don’t.”

“What happens if I stand up and try to walk out of here, Markhat? You going to turn your vampire loose on me?”

I stood. “Beat it,” I said. “Get out and stay out until you calm down enough to talk sense. Try and snag me again and you can explain yourself to the Corpsemaster. That clear enough for you?”

“Corpsemaster is dead.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you piss me off again and we’ll see?”

He stood. Evis watched but didn’t move.

“We’re not done here.”

“I beg to differ. Get out.”

He did, slamming my door behind him.

Evis glided back into the shadows, chuckling.

“Markhat. Did you really arrange for a Watchman to be bathed in excrement?”

“The Arwheats don’t much care for the Watch. I almost had to force their pay upon them.”

Evis shook his head. “They’ll not forget that. Not for a long time.”

“Good.” I put my hands back behind my head. “Something about that dead woman has the Watch nervous.”

“Indeed. Have you learned anything new about her?”

“Nothing. I was heading to the hotels downtown today to see if anyone fitting her description skipped a bill. Maybe she left something in her room with her name on it, along with a note detailing her dastardly plans.”

Evis nodded. “Still. A bucket of shit?” He shook his head. “As your attorney, I must admonish you against future use of night soil as a deterrent for loiterers.”

“As you say, counselor.”

Evis chuckled and produced fresh cigars.

End of Excerpt

The rest will have to wait until March 26.

This is Your Brain on Benadryl

Brain chemistry is a tricky bag of worms.

Or is it cat of bags?

You see my problem today.

Many people must resort to LSD or mushrooms or a quart jar of mecsaline to achieve what clinicians term an altered state of consciousness.

All I need to do is swallow a single Benadryl.  Which is what I did, early this morning, in a desperate attempt to rid myself of the concrete which somehow found its way into my overly large and pointlessly aggravating nasal passages.

The Benadryl worked. I can now breathe, but I cannot think. Honest. I have the attention span of a pole-axed gnat, and I keep having to look back at what I've typed because I keep re-typing portions of the same sentence.

In short, I've been rendered temporarily idiotic.

Hey, I see you out there, you with that 'Why is that different from any other day?' grin. Grin. Other day.

What was I saying? Something about cats?

Sunday is a bad day for me to drop 200 IQ points. I always do my blog entries on Sunday. This is the last day to check the ARC of BROWN RIVER QUEEN over for errors. I need to work on my writing class material for Thursday evening.

I still have to do all these things, but now I have to do them while commanding the mental acuity of a shoe.

I decided to finish my blog entry first. I correctly surmised I'm in no shape to write, so I decided to make another short stop motion movie instead. That's mostly physical, and extremely repetitive, so I thought I could handle it.

Wrong. I checked the camera, found it needed fresh batteries. Went downstairs to get the fresh set out of the charger. Forgot the dead batteries. Came back upstairs, got the dead batteries, left the good ones down there. Back downstairs, forgot camera. Back upstairs, have camera, good batteries forgotten again. Charged back downstairs to load good batteries in camera. Left camera upstairs. Went back upstairs. Missing one battery. Came back down. Found missing battery. Forgot camera.

All I needed was the Benny Hill chase music in the background.

Undaunted, I tried to compose a story for my hapless stop-motion skeleton. Wound up with a hopeless mishmash of disjointed and unfilmable scenes involving a mailbox in a tree and a sack of bone meal. While toying with the skeleton, his head fell off, probably in protest at the doomed film project's story line.

Nix that idea. I'd probably still be chasing batteries across the entire property. Or I'd get stuck in the tree and require a rescue from the Lafayette County Sheriff's Office.

Next, I settled on the idea of blogging about something mysterious and creepy. That's not a bad idea, really, but it needs refinement, i.e., a specific instance of mysterious and creepy.

Okay, so, um, Bigfoot. Hairy dude, nine feet tall, camera shy.

That's all I've got.

Ghosts? Right! I've got a lot to say about ghosts. They're insubstantial, filmy, and share Bigfoot's reluctance to be photographed. Boo?

EVPs! I'm loaded with EVP recording gear. I fired up a white noise generator and conducted an EVP session right here at my desk, hoping for something -- anything -- anomalous to happen, because frankly I'm exhausted from chasing cameras and batteries up and down the stairs.

The spirits, as usual, showed no mercy. I did record a faint disembodied yawn, followed quickly by a ghostly voice saying 'Change the bleeding channel, he's really off his game today,' but otherwise, just white noise. Oh, and in the process of recording, I somehow bit the end off a black magic marker, so now I resemble an overfed Marilyn Manson after a bad blond dye job.

Is any of this breaking exciting new ground in the realm of paranormal investigation?

Yeesh. Not really.

In closing, let me assure you I'll be back in fine fettle next week, because I might clear my sinuses with modest amounts of gunpowder or a masonry bit on my hammer drill, but I will NOT take another Benadryl on a Sunday.

And now, without further ado, Frank Tuttle and the Seven Dog Choir present Beethoven's Ode To Joy, arranged for canine and primate:

Ode to Joy by the Seven Dog Choir

Finis.

Interview With a Zombie

Tonight is the night!

I speak of course of the season premiere of AMC's brilliant The Walking Dead, which begins again tonight.

As a writer, I'm supposed to hold television and all things related to television in high disdain. And I do, in some instances. But The Walking Dead is one instance where television gets it right.

For anyone unacquainted with the show, The Walking Dead is set in the aftermath of a global catastrophe brought on by the sudden and inexplicable rise of dead bodies as flesh-eating monsters. Civilization has fallen. Most of the population has died, only to rise again as one of the billions of hungry undead.

That's the backdrop. The real drama takes place among the living, as they fight to live through another merciless day in the absence of the rule of law. The walkers, as the dead are called, are often the least of our heroes' problems.

Zombies have eclipsed vampires, werewolves, and ghosts as the go-to monster in popular media. I wondered -- how has all this success and attention changed the un-life of the average walker? Has fame gone to their empty, rotting heads?

To find out, I arranged to interview a real live (so to speak) zombie.

I started my search on the Web, and quickly found a thriving community of outspoken undead (I'd been wondering just who still used MySpace). A few emails later, I actually sat down with Mr. Uurgh<gurgle>jawsnap, who appeared as an extra in the first three episodes of The Walking Dead and acted as technical adviser on a number of Hollywood zombie films.

The audio interview is only about 3 minutes long. Please give it a listen. Safe for work, or for play in an isolated farmhouse.

The same video on YouTube for my Apple friends!

It's nearly time for The Walking Dead, so I'm off to pop some Orville Redenrotten popcorn (with 25% less rigor mortis!) and get settled in for the evening.

And remember, if you don't watch, you may see shadowy figures shambling about in the fog, later on...

BWAHAHAHAHA...

More From the Muse

Back in January, I met my personal writing Muse, the plain-spoken Visavarevagitaga. You can read abut our first meeting here.

I didn't expect to hear from Visavarevagitaga again so soon. Or ever, to be honest. But today I received an email from her, subject line HEY MORON, which I have pasted below:


Date:  Sun, 3 Feb 2013 11:52:43 -0600 [12:52:43 PM EST]
From:  Visavarevagsitaga <Visavarevagsitaga@ancientwritingmuses.org>
To:  franktuttle@franktuttle.com
Subject:  HEY MORON

I see you're working on a new book. If one defines 'working' as pecking at the keyboard between screwing around on Facebook. But I'm feeling generous so we'll call it working. Idiot.

As your Muse, I've got a few things to say. Most of them involved being removed as your Muse, but that request was denied. Twice. So.

The book is a train wreck. A flaming, toxic spill, nuclear-waste-hauling five-alarm evacuate the surrounding counties smoke plume seen from space train wreck, and that's just the dedication, and it's all downhill from there. What were you thinking? What were you *drinking?* Can I interest you in another hobby? Origami? Animal husbandry? Spelunking? Anything that doesn't involve words?

The sad bit, the part that truly makes me want to lay waste to all of Mesopotamia and then weep abut it for a dozen centuries thereafter, is this may be the best thing you've ever written. Let that sink in, and then Google the many joys of spelunking.

Great. My third request for a transfer was just denied. Sigh. I miss the Bronze Age. So much less paperwork.

If you insist on pursuing this book to completion, the first thing you need to do is STOP BEING SO NICE TO YOUR CHARACTERS. Honest to Zeus, are you writing a murder mystery or hosting some demented fictional tea party? Here's a quick tip from an ancient Muse to you, bub -- for it to be a murder mystery SOMEONE NEEDS TO DIE.

So kill one of them off. Kill two of them off. Take my advice and kill them all off and try your hand at origami -- it's soothing and there's never a risk of dangling a participle...no?

Lackwit. Fine. Ignore my advice, what do I know, I'm only older than recorded human history and I once held the fate of millions at my whim. But hey, you read an article about Stephen King's writing habits, so obviously you're the expert.

Even if you refuse to kill off whatshisname, Muckrat the finder, or his wife Duller, consider smiting one of the minor characters. Zeus knows nobody will miss any of them. And if you can't bring yourself to kill them, at least maim them a little bit this time. You've got to thin the herd, pal, or by book ten you'll be drowning in supporting cast and forget I said that, we both know there will never be a book ten because you cant' stay off Twitter long enough, can you, monkey boy?   

I give up. Or rather I would give up if Central Assignments would let me. This email constitutes my official dispensation of my Muse duties for this Julian calendar month. To summarize:

1) Give up.
2) Seriously, give up. Woodworking! That's a good hobby for someone with your literary skills.
3) Give your characters nothing but grief. Grief, trouble, and constant turmoil, followed by epic disaster, and all before you type the words CHAPTER TWO.
4) Stop referring to me mentally as Visa-veggie. I can hear your thoughts, you ungrateful chimpanzee. 
5) Moron.

Sincerely,

Visavarevagsitaga (See #4 above)

PS Don't reply to this email. Or any of my emails. I'll delete your replies unread and if you think a rain of toads isn't impressive wait until it happens in your bedroom with high-velocity toads.

Actually some of what she said makes sense. I do have a tendency to coddle my established characters. And maybe it's time to rock the boat a bit, at least in the Markhat series.

Speaking of Markhat, the new book, BROWN RIVER QUEEN, hits the stands March 26!

Dem Bones: The Movie

Yeah. I know. I have a thing about skeletons.

I blame my fascination on stop-motion animation master Ray Harryhausen. Even if you don't recognize the name, I'll bet you've seen his work -- and if you haven't see classics such as The Golden Voyage of Sinbad or The Valley of Gwangi, you've missed out on some great old-school animation. The fighting skeletons Mr. Harryhausen created are probably part of the reason I write (and read) fantasy -- they intrigued me as a kid, and that led to a search for more of the same, and now here I am.

The photo of the skeleton above is taken from a short movie I made this afternoon. The skeleton is a five-dollar Halloween prop that normally sits on my writing PC. I spent half an hour adding some stiff wire to him, so that he can stand and pose.

The thick wire (flexible aluminum antenna grounding lead, actually) extends down about half an inch below his heels. I drilled same-diameter holes in a scrap piece of plywood, and that became his stage. Hang a scrap of red velvet on the wall, and viola, the stage is set for DEM BONES, a short (very short) film about a dancing skeleton.

I took 104 still photos, moving Mr. Bones a bit between each shot, making the little film. Putting the still images together as an animation was easy -- I imported the photos and then used Windows Movie Maker to stitch them together with a 0.2 second display time for each frame. Add an opening sequence and some credits, and it's a wrap.

But let us dissemble no longer! Watch the movie by clicking here for the DEM BONES video on YouTube.

Or just press PLAY below!

Yeah, I know, don't quit your day job. But it was fun, the animation actually worked, and you get to see a short movie rather than read yet another tearful entry in the 'writing is hard' parade o' writer's blogs.

I'm still working on the new Markhat novel, which is going well. It's fun, having an established stable of characters to draw on, and then introducing someone new. Without giving away too much, Markhat finds himself running afoul of the new and improved City Watch, now run by a man named Holder, who is no fan of Markhat and his casual approach to proper police procedure. 

The rest of the gang is back as well. Or at least the ones I didn't kill off in the upcoming book, BROWN RIVER QUEEN. Ha! See what I did there? I know. I have a thing about skeletons, and money. Mostly money.

Hope you enjoyed the film! I've got to get back to work, so until next week -- DEM BONES!

Worth 885 Words!

I had a mild case of the Black Death this week. Or maybe it was a touch of Ebola. Either way, it left me so weak I am barely able to water ski, so this week's entry will rely heavily on the posting of fascinating photographs, such as the one below (see what I did there? For those of you in my writing class, it's called a transition! For everyone else, it's called sloth).

Those of you who read my old Wordpress blog may have seen this photo before. But it's still quite possibly the best photo I've ever taken. I love the exploding firework and the motion-blurred crowd, and yes it is entirely possible I have absolutely no ability whatsoever to judge the quality of photography.

I took that photo with a vintage 1969 Pentax K1000 fully manual SLR film camera, using the time-honored method of holding the shutter open and hoping for the best at a Fourth of July fireworks show here in Oxford. I love messing that old camera even though getting film developed is becoming harder and harder to do.

Next up, I have captured the Moon in my evil moon-capturing device! Bwhahahaha. I actually had to alter the Moon's orbit just to take this photograph. Sorry about the extra high tides, folks, but art accepts no half-measures.

This is Jake. I know, I know, it's blurry, but Jake exists in a special state of quantum doggie excitedness, which means he is always moving in at least two directions at once. I was amazed I got him to be still long enough to get this image. Jake enjoys long walks and reducing entire century-old oak trees to splinters. Seriously, beavers watch in awe.

Above is Mr. Fletcher. He's our special-needs guy; last year he developed diabetes, and now he's on a strict diet and he gets two insulin injections a day, twelve hours apart. He bears it all with quiet good grace, and he's still a goofy puppy at heart.

Meet Petey, who is so camera shy I have very few pictures of him. He's peering down at me from the loft in the study, and I snapped this before he saw the camera.

This is the storefront to the right of Taylor Grocery, which serves up the finest catfish in north Mississippi. Notice the smaller busts on the shelves behind the pale lady. Creepy. Oh, and that bright orange line coming out of the pale lady's head? Looks like a ballistic path marker used by CSI techs to determine line of fire in shooting investigations. What it's doing there is a mystery to me.

The old general store on the town square in Bruce, Mississippi. Taken on a motorcycle ride just after a rainstorm.

I've been experimenting with a camera probe, and it took this image of my spleen Thursday evening. At least I think it's my spleen. Frankly, it's hard to tell, nothing in there is labelled. 

A nice red sunset. Or a distant nuclear test blast. Either way, it's pretty, especially the way the gamma rays highlight the clouds of noxious carbon monoxide.

I was already forty feet up in this tree when I decided to stop and take the picture. Then I leaped gracefully to the ground, landing with catlike agility and only a pair of shattered femurs. You're welcome.

Here's a skeleton, holding a book. I don't know about you, but when I see a skeleton holding a book, I feel compelled to rush out and purchase said book. Is it working? Working at all?

I had this toy when I was a kid. It walks, and the eyes light up. There's also a red light in its mouth, because apparently biology and physiology were played fast and loose in the early 1960s where toys were concerned. How I've managed to hang onto this guy for all these years I couldn't say. I think maybe he follows me from place to place, plodding along one slow step at a time, red eyes glowing in the night...

This is what the inside of a 300 disc CD player looks like. It stopped working a few weeks ago, so I took it apart and found a stretched drive belt. When the new belt arrives, I'll spend a good five hours fitting it around various pulleys only to learn that some other irreplaceable component has also failed, because that's how these things work.

One of my steampunk prop pistols. This is a Mauser Armaments Type II Aether Disruptor, favored by airship pirates of the late 19th century. Making these is a good cure for writer's block.

Here is a carved oak wand. Yeah, you've probably seen it before.  It;s the one I use to alter Lunar orbits and add extra cheese to take-out nachos. Such power is not to be wielded lightly.

Next week I promise to return to actual written content. Oh, one last thing -- BROWN RIVER QUEEN has a page up at Samhain, click here to see it!