127,419!

I'm in the very final stages of hammering the rough draft of The Bonnie Bell into shape for submission to the publisher.

The word count stands at 127,419 words.  I don't expect that to change significantly.

That makes The Bonnie Bell the longest piece I've ever written.

By contrast, Hold the Dark is around 60,000 words, and The Banshee's Walk is around 80,000.

Not too many years ago, I was having trouble churning out 4000 word short stories.  In fact, I'd probably have a rough time today, starting and ending something in less than five thousand of the little squiggly things.  Especially a fantasy short -- you've got to tell a good story and build a believable world, and a limit of five thousand words make doing both extremely difficult.

No, I prefer writing novels.  You've got more room, more time.  If you want to write in a minor character with a quirk just for some comic relief, that's fine -- you won't be looking later on to cut three hundred words just to make the piece fit inside some magazines hard-and-fast length limits.

The flip side to that freedom is of course the peril granted by the freedom itself.  The last thing you want to do is go off on so many tangents readers get lost in the action, and wind up glaring at the book in confusion (I'm looking at you, Gene Wolfe).

I think I've managed to walk that tightrope pretty well in Bonnie Bell.  Of course I won't know for sure until I get a yea or a nay from the kind folks at Samhain, but right now it feels good.

I'd love to talk specifics about the book itself, but of course I really shouldn't.  I will say this one ends in a manner unlike any of the others.  I hope that means readers will clamor for the next book, and not rise up in anger and storm my castle with torches and pitchforks, because A) the castle is a rental and B) my homeowner's policy specifically does NOT cover 'mobs, angry.'

I will give out a hint or two.  My favorite scene, I think, involves Markhat riding a war-horse right through the doors at Wherthmore.  And then there's the dinner scene at the fancy restaurant -- but alas, that's all you get.

So, very soon, The Bonnie Bell will be sent away for judgement, and the new book will begin.

But right now, I'm just looking at that word count and grinning like an idiot.

One hundred and twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and nineteen words.

With THE END stuck at the bottom.

Feels good.

The Wreck of the Toyota Corolla

It's been a rough few days.  Any story that starts out with the words 'And then there was the car wreck' probably isn't a cheery little tale.

In honor of our beloved Toyota, I offer up this tidbit of song -- weep as you sing it.




Sung to the tune of THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD:


The legend lives on from the Wendy's on down
of the red light they call the So Sue Me
The light, it is said, is right quick to turn red
When the students are texting and moody.


With a load of Subways -- not very much more
then the mighty Toyota weighed empty
That good car and true was a bone to be chewed
When the red light turned red, and turned early

The car was the pride, yes the Tuttle's main ride
Coming back with sandwiches laden
As Corollas will go it was faster than most
With insurance, full coverage, and paid in

The wind in the tires made a tattletale sound
And I waved at Larry in passing,
And every man knew, as the Tuttle did too,
T'was the students at him were laughing


The lunch hour came late and the hunger was great
When the deadly black Honda came speeding
The brakes, they were applied,
But t'were doomed to collide, when the fateful lunch hour came callin'

The policeman called in he had tow trucks comin' in
And the little Toyota was wounded
And later that same, the insurance man came
and said fellas, it's been good to cover ya

Does anyone know where the Blue Book value goes
When the impact turns your bumper to confetti
The bystanders all said I my face was really red
Came the wreck of the Toyota Corolla!

Guitar Update

As many of you know, I procured a Raven electric guitar last week with the intention of claiming my rightful place in the lofty pantheon of Rock and Roll.

Sure, I'd need to learn to play the thing first.  A minor detail.  Trivial, really.  And it's not like I was completely inexperienced.  I'd seen a guitar once before.  From a distance.  Through heavy foliage.  But I'd taken that chance to observe the wild guitar, in its natural habitat.  I watched the guitar feed, watched it use its trunk to spray cooling water on its back...

What?  A what?  An elephant?  Are you sure?

Hmmm.  Well, that explains a few things.

Anyway, I've been practicing.

Using the amazing free lessons available at Justinguitar.com, I've learned a few things about the art of playing a guitar.  Chief among these things is that I am completed unsuited physically to actually play the guitar.

First of all, there is the issue of my hands.  While I have two of them, which is considered the minimum number necessary for a guitarist, my hands are the exact wrong size.  Seriously, they're big huge Frankenstein's monster hands, which are well suited for use as bludgeons or shovels, but problematic when employed to strum and fret.  Observe my photo below, to see what I mean.

Fig. 1, Frank's Hands.

See?  On a side note, I cannot get a decent manicure in this town.  I walk in, and all the little Vietnamese ladies shriek and run.  Sigh.

I remain undeterred by my physical obstacles, though.  And things are easier after last night's session -- I unlearned one bad habit I didn't know I had, which was that I was pressing down far too hard on the strings with my fret-hand.

I thought that, to get the proper note, one had to bear down with all one's superhuman might on the hapless string.  I was really putting the pressure on.  Blood was spraying.  Bones were being ground down.  Children screamed.  Clowns nodded, knowingly.

Turns out only a gentle touch is required. Oh well.  Skin grafts are a lot cheaper than they once were anyway.

I'm still practicing the D this week.  Yeah, I know, your average lab monkey could probably master the D on a guitar in half an hour, but keep in mind this is me we're talking about.  I was 27 before I first walked upright.

   

I still have to mutter 'left, right, left, right' while I walk.  

Next week, I plan to move on to the next chord, which is I believe the A.  After that, I may risk the perilous task of following a D with an A, in the same sitting, as long as a team of chiropractors and mental health professionals is standing by.  And maybe a professional barbecue master too.  I find that any endeavor is improved by the presence of a professional barbecue master.

At that rate, let's see, carry the 1, add the Leap Year -- yes.  At that rate, I expect to perform my first full song, a Death Metal version of "Here Comes the Sun," by late 2022.

Okay, hopefully not that late.  But I'm not making any promises.

Oh, and in case anyone is keeping score, here's the practice amp I have picked out:

Line 6 amp  

It has a built-in tuner, and a setting labeled 'INSANE.'  I've always wanted a machine -- any machine-- with a setting of INSANE.  I don't even know what it does, people.  But whatever it is, it will be sweet.

The Old Blog's Sad Fate

Many of you have asked "Hey Frank, what happened to the old blog?"

And when I say many, I mean none.  But nevertheless, I shall 'splain.

The old blog was one I set up years ago.  It was a Wordpress blog, which meant it lived on my website and incorporated a database and had lots and lots of obscure php files in various directories on my site.

The fact that I managed to get the thing up and running is still considered a minor miracle by the Church.  I know precious little about SQL databases and php now, and I knew precisely nothing back then.

But I followed the instructions and the thing worked, for lo, these many years.

Until December 19, that is.  Something happened then.  I could no longer sign in to my Admin panel, couldn't create new posts, couldn't edit old ones.

I was busy during the holidays.  When I did get a chance, I went to the Wordpress tech forums, created an account, and along with a couple of other people experiencing the same problems, I asked for help.

Things went rather downhill from there.

I won't burden anyone with the details, but the fine folks at that particular forum (cough, wankers, cough) weren't particularly helpful.  After a couple of times of being insulted, I decided to just cut my losses and start over, using Blogger, which pretty much runs itself and doesn't require me to run a gauntlet of snarky script kiddies every time I need advice.

I'm sorry for the loss of the old blog.  There was some priceless stuff in there -- my fake interviews with Donald Rumsfeld, the Wells Fargo rant, my pictures of Bigfoot riding the Loch Ness Monster -- but I hope you'll all like this one just as well.

In other news, the editing of Bonnie Bell continues, as does my practicing of the D chord on the new guitar.  Which reminds me -- time for some practice!

Take care, all.

The Glamorous Writing Life

I am more than three-fifths done with the first editing pass through the new Markhat novel.

Which means I'll probably start my second pass this weekend, and if that goes well, I'll ship it out the next week.  The snow days have certainly helped speed up the process.

And what a process it is.  It's not enough to just read the manuscript.  You have to focus on every character, every mark of punctuation, every page break, every spelling of every word.  All while simultaneously reading the events for timing and continuity errors.

And of course, your inner editor must be busy asking the same question of every word, every line, and every scene -- "Does this move the book along?  Does it make sense in the context of each character and their motivations?  Is it any good?  Is everyone about to discover what a failure you are?  HAHAHAHAHA yes they are!"

My inner editor has issues.

But even so I have to turn them loose, and listen carefully to each and every muttered criticism.

I'd much rather be writing something new.  But re-reading and editing and tweaking is a vital part of the process, no matter how much I'd rather fire up "Fallout: New Vegas" instead.

The good news is that I love this book.  It's so good I'm not entirely sure I wrote the thing.  Maybe Lou Ann, Associate Canine Editor and Chief of Security,

fires up the PC after I go to bed and taps away with her little doggy paws and turns my own miserable prose into what I've spent the last week reading.

If so, good dog.

What's different about this Marhat adventure?

A lot of changes for our hero.  Without giving too much away, I will hint that the peace may be ending.  Too, Darla's patience with Markhat's reluctance to formalize things may be wearing thin.  Readers will finally learn what drove Gertriss out of Pot Lockney, and get a glimpse into Mama's past as well.

It's been a lot of fun.  Setting it back in Rannit was a welcome change too.  Rannit isn't a place I'd want to live, but it's a great town to set stories in.

So wish me luck on the remaining two-fifths.  Barring any major 'Oh no' moments, I'll be cranking away on a new book in a matter of a few weeks!

The Obligatory Snow Blog

I live in the Deep South.  Mississippi, specifically, and it doesn't get much deeper South than that.

Snow is a rarity here.  Snow that accumulates in sufficient depth to actually cover the ground is almost unheard of.

Six to eight inches of snow is the kind of thing we'll look back on in August, when the temperature in the shade is 108 degrees, with utter disbelief.

But it's here, and I've got the photographs to prove it.

So settle back and enjoy a virtual tour of scenic Yocona, Mississippi, where for a while at least the heat and humidity have given way to ice and snow.

That's Karen, my wife.  She's happy to be out in it!

I know, I know, pics of snow-coated winter limbs are cliche, but we haqrdly ever get this stuff, so humor me.

What, now snow-covered barns are cliche too?  Okay, pokay, moving right along...

And he won't stand still, either.

Petey takes a hard stance against all things white and fluffy.

Finally, a snowman!

Okay -- now will someone please clear the roads?

Movie Review: Country Strong

Sometimes, I see a movie.

If I'm lucky, the movie has the word 'zombie' in the title.  Juvenile?  Tasteless?  Crass?

Maybe, but I like what I like.

I like movies to scare me.  In fact, I dare them to try.  Go ahead, movie -- be scarier than the IRS or this economy or my rapid approach toward full-fledged codger-hood.  You think you've got what it takes to scare me?  Me, who recently had a colonoscopy?

Ha.  Fill yer fists, movie. Hit me with your best shot.

The last movie that truly frightened me was 'On the Beach.'  The 1960s version.  That was the bleakest, scariest thing I've seen in a long time.  I won't ever watch it again.  No zombies, either.  Just quiet, inescapable doom.

With zombies, you at least get a dash of fun.  Zombies stumble.  They're easy to shoot and run over.  They can't figure out doorknobs.  They're a lot like the people you see waddling around every day in Wal-Mart, aside of course from the craving for warm human flesh.  But there are an awful lot of them, and like bills from AT&T, zombies just keep coming...

Which brings us, oddly enough, to "Country Strong," which features not one zombie, unless you count the various living dead subplots stumbling around in search of something to bite.

Let's be fair, though.  A movie set against the backdrop of the country music scene is not one I'm likely to praise.  Twangy guitars and honky tonks and endless repetitions of Waylon and Willie is just not my cup of hemlock.

But, to my surprise, the music in the movie was actually good.  Which saved the thing from being a total loss,  because the characters reminded me of characters in a game of "Clue."  Draw a card, do something random.  He is sleeping with her, who is married to him, who is looking for an affair with her, who winds up sleeping with him, round and round we go, do I care, the answer is no.

Here's my summary of the film.  It contains spoilers, so if you plan to see the movie, stop reading now.

We're drunk.  We're sober.  We're going back onstage.  We're drunk.  We crash and burn.  We're sober.  We get another shot.  Oh my, is that vodka?  We're drunk.  We don't even make it onto the stage.  We're sober.  We get one more shot.  We perform brilliantly.  We commit suicide.  Various other characters either stay in show business, or do not.  Roll credits.

They pulled the suicide bit out of thin air.  She was self-destructive, sure.  But not suicidal, not then, not there. I think someone rolled a 20 sided die and called out 'You fail your roll against dying.'

Now, let's consider how much better that same film would have been -- with zombies:

We're drunk.  Zombies attack.  We're sober, and how.  The band plays on while the zombies are mowed down.  Zombie Willie Nelson shows up, reeking of cannabis, and the zombies catch a contact high and all gather around a vending machine giggling.  The band sneaks out and travels across a post-apocalyptic wasteland, fighting zombies here, playing shows there.  Heroine sings triumphantly while crowd goes wild.  Even zombies cheer.  Roll credits.

I fully expect to see my version featured on the Saturday night SyFy channel movie of the week very soon.

So I can only give 'Country Strong' a single decapitated zombie head on my six-head scoring system.  By comparison, 'True Grit' gets a solid six, yes six, heads because that movie rocked in every conceivable way.

Wherein I Storm the World of Rock

Last night, I learned to play a D (or is it D chord?) on the my guitar, which by the way needs a name.  I hear 'Lucille' is already taken.

A quick check of the series of tubes that comprise the Interwebs revealed a nearly infinite number of 'Learn to Play Guitar' videos available on YouTube.  A helpful hint from a FaceBook friend (thanks Blair!) led me to http://www.justinguitar.com/ which features a great Beginner's Course.  Justin goes nice and slow, and shows you where to put your fingers, one finger at a time.  For someone like me, whose control over his digits is marginal at best, this is vital.

So I'll be learning to rock out with Jason.  I'll keep you guys updated along the way.  And one of these days, much to the chagrin of my wife, I'm going to post a video of me playing my guitar.

Which needs a name!  If you've got any suggestions please let me know them by emailing me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com.

In other news, the editing of 'The Bonnie Bell' is going much faster than I imagined.  I'm now at page 130, and so far I've corrected a few tying errors and filled in a few ****s with the names of minor characters and fixed one egregious standing/sittting continuity error and that's been the bulk of it.  I hope to have it off to the publishers for the blessed Yea or the dread Nay in a matter of a week or two at the most.

I really like this book.  I keep catching myself just reading it, and enjoying it, rather than inspecting it for problems.  That's a good sign.

And I've already gotten the next one titled and (sort of) plotted out.  It's going to be called Brown River Queen, it will be set on a paddle-wheeled gambling boat, and there will be murder most foul. 


That's all the news I have today!

Keep rocking, fellow babies!

Guitar, Man

There are things I don’t need, but would like to have anyway.  Rocket launchers, for instance.  A solid red F-18 fighter jet.  Germany.

But, fortunately for my neighbors and the Germans, I’ll never have any of those things.

And then there are things I don’t need but got anyway.  The motorcycle, for instance.  My ghost-hunting gear.  A small particle accelerator.  All these things give me pleasure because they are, in a word, cool.  Especially when you try to use them all at once, and wind up trapping a pair of poltergeists while riding down the Natchez Trace in a cloud of just-created baryons.  Word to the wise, though – ghosts get really grumpy if you shove them in a saddlebag that already contains dangerous amounts of ionizing radiation.  I’m just saying.

Lately, though, I realized something has been lacking in my life.  There’s been an empty spot I needed to fill.

But what was the nature of this void, and how to fill it?

I pondered many things.  Perhaps my fading youth requires me to grow a ponytail, I thought.  Or get a tattoo.  Or don a cape and fight crime by night.

No, I decided one night while piloting a burning hang-glider into a gasoline storage facility.  These are all fine and noble things, but I look goofy with long hair, I can’t find anyone to give me a UNIX ROX tat, and until criminals start getting much smaller and much weaker, I’ll leave the crime-fighting to the convenience store clerks.

But, amid the explosions, it suddenly hit me – what I need, my friends, is a good solid dose of Rock and Roll.

And not the kind you get by nailing a pair of Sennheisers to your skull and cranking up the stereo.  No, for once, I want to be on the creative side of things.

I want to be the guy playing the guitar.

Quiet down, quiet down.  Seriously.  I expected some laughter, sure, but – look, get that guy a paper bag to breathe in, won’t you?  He’s hyperventilating.

Okay.  I admit it.  I have the musical skills of a sack of rivets.  Maybe not even that.

And I’m not exactly young anymore.  I’m 47.  That’s not the preferred time to set about learning complex new motor skills.

And I’m busy.  I’ve got a full-time day job.  I write at night.  I also build ghost hunting gear and various other gadgets, take care of six needy dogs, and of course there’s the whole piloting burning hang-glider gig, which frankly is turning out to be a bit of a drag in terms of time and medical bills.

So, arguably, this is not a good time to pick up a demanding new pastime.

That‘s good advice.  Usually, I follow good advice.  When people tell me ‘Stop sticking your head in that fan’ or ‘There’s a train coming, get off the tracks,’ I usually heed their advice.

But not this time.

There won’t ever be a good time.  There’s not going to come a time in my life at which I can say ‘Wow, I’ve got six extra hours a day for the rest of my life.’

That’s not how House Arrest works.

So today, I bought an electric guitar.  No amp yet – that will come shortly.  But I got the guitar.  It’s a Raven six-string, made in 2001.  It’s used, but in great shape.  I’d tell you all about it, but first I’ll have to learn the terms.  Right now all I can do is describe the knobby things as knobby and the strings as, um, stringy.

In fact, I’ll sum up here everything I know about playing a guitar:

GUITAR PLAYING 101

1) A guitar works by sending the vibrations of the strings into the guitar body and then out to record company executives, who then steal most of the money from the actual musician and leave them the lunch tab.

2) The guitar is played by using those bendy bits on the ‘hands’ to move the strings in certain specific ways.  IMPORTANT NOTE – The phrase ‘Playing by ear’ is NOT to be interpreted literally, because the bleeding takes hours to stop.

3) The neck of the guitar is divided into frets, shires, wetlands, and Indian-head nickels.  The fret you should be fingering is always a good half a meter from wherever your stupid fingers actually are.  That’s why the neck is divided into visible frets, otherwise real guitar players would have difficulty judging just how woefully unskilled you actually are.

4) There are eleven million, eight hundred thousand, four hundred and sixteen major chords, and two minor ones.  Don’t be discouraged; in order to play “Stairway to Heaven,” one must only master all the major chords and either of the minor ones (which, sadly, require eight fingers each).

5) Employing a monkey trained in the savage use of a ball-peen hammer is an effective way to learn proper fingering technique OUCH but remember to OUCH set clear schedules MAN THAT HURTS with the monkey OUCH at the beginning STOP IT OMAR CRAP!

6) There is a huge difference between the stage presence required to write novels and that expected of musicians, so always tie the belt on your natty old bathrobe when performing.

7) Always judge your own guitar technique to that of David Gilmour of Pink Floyd fame.

8) Expect to take some time to learn the guitar.  Some players report the process took them hours, even days.  Don’t be discouraged if, after your first practice session, the finer points of Spanish flamenco sessions are slightly less than perfect.  Given another week, you’ll be headlining at the Orpheum – unless you just suck.  And if you do, well, there’s no excuse for you, loser.

So wish me luck, one and all.  Call it a mid-life crisis.  Call it just another ill-advised foray into realms better left uncharted.

Just don’t call me Shirley…

First New Blog Post!

Just testing, gang...