Countdown: Four Days For New Markhat!

Four days, boy and girls.

That's the only thing standing, metaphorically speaking of course, between you and the new Markhat book, The Broken Bell.  The release date for all e-book formats is December 27; you can of course pre-order right now, if you so desire, and the book will be delivered with ruthless internet efficiency directly to your reading device of choice the moment it is released.

Here are some links you might follow, based on your preference of format:

Amazon, for your Kindle, Kindle Fire, or Kindle reading app:
The Broken Bell

Barnes&Noble, for your Nook or Nook reading app:
The Broken Bell

Samhain Publishing, for any format, any reader:
The Broken Bell

Hey, is this a series? If so, where do I start?
Frank's FAQ page!

As you can see, we aim to please, no matter what device you use for your reading.  Anyone who prefers printed books may have to wait a bit longer, but as soon as I have a print release date I'll pass that information along to you right here in the blog.

If you're new around here, you may well be asking yourself two questions -- first, why did this guy's blog pop up instead of Fark, and second, who is this Markhat character, and why should I care?

My blog popped up because I pay a hacker who calls himself N3XOS to create random redirects. Markhat is my wise-cracking fantasy detective. And that's three questions, not two, but you should care because I need the measly five bucks The Broken Bell will set you back.

The thumbnail sketch?

Markhat lives and works in Rannit, the largest city of the old Kingdom to survive the War more or less intact.  You've heard the term 'mean streets' used so often in the detective genre it's become cliche. Well, Rannit's best streets are not just mean, but downright psychopathic, even the ones sporting new sidewalks and cheery freshly-painted mansions.

Oh, there are laws in Rannit, and on paper they apply to rich and poor with equal weight.  In reality, though, justice is available only to those who can afford it.

For everyone else, there is Markhat the finder.

For a modest fee, Markhat will find missing daughters, vanished sons, errant husbands, or straying wives.  Markhat makes his living rooting out the sad truth behind the most well-meaning of lies.

Most of what Markhat finds, of course, is trouble.

There are now six books in the Markhat series.  The Broken Bell brings the whole crew back together, for a single moment that will change them all forever.

For fans of the series, I'll throw out this tidbit.  Mama Hog winds up face-to-snaggletoothed-face with a furious sorcerer bent on her messy demise.  This annoys Mama.  Angers her, even.

I had a lot of fun writing that scene.  I think you'll have a lot of fun reading it.

So scroll back up to the links above and grab a copy of your own.  Or, if you're new to the series, head on over to my webpage and click books and visit Rannit for a bit.  I suggest either Dead Man's Rain or The Cadaver Client.  Both are short enough and cheap enough to give you a feel for the series, and if it's not your cup of arsenic-laced tea then you're not out a fortune.

I hope you enjoy the books!  

DIY Fantasy Art

Sometimes I wish I wrote Westerns or straight-up 1930s detective film noir mysteries or even spy thrillers.  Say I wrote Westerns, for instance.  Then I could hang pictures of horses on the walls and leave a saddle casually draped over the back of a rocking chair and even hang a ten-gallon hat on a peg by the door, and I think all that would help set a mood for writing.

But I write fantasy.  Now, don't get me wrong, there is some fantastic fantasy art out there.  I know, because I own a lot of it.  And I love it.  My study walls are covered with dragons and elves and swords, and that's just the way I like it.

Even so, it's always seemed to me that it's harder to decorate your writing place if you tend more toward Tolkien than Tolstoy.  So much so, in fact, that I've taken to making my own art, based on some of the devices and items in my tales.

Which brings us to tonight's photo session, in which I subject -- er, treat -- you to a couple of things I made when I was, for one reason or another, unable to write.

These are wands, because wands are to a fantasy author what Colt revolvers are to the guy who writes Westerns.  Now, I know the image invoked by the word 'wand' is usually a more or less straight piece of wood, with maybe a few details carved into it.

Not so in my imaginings, though.  Look, if anyone could grab the nearest stick and start working magic just by waving it around and saying "Abracadabra!" you'd have a few millions Dark Lords strolling around any given tract of land.

So I've always imagined that the wands and other implements in my stories are complex, finely-crafted instruments that took hundreds of hours of intense effort just to shape.  Too, I seldom assign my characters one-wand-does all type instruments -- no, if they want to generate heat, they'll need a special wand for that, which won't be the same wand they'll use to stir the wind or call down a few thousand foul-tempered fruit bats.

Even the magic in Markhat's world requires a lot of time and effort, which is the main reason common folk have little or nothing to do with it.  The only piece of magic Markhat routinely carries is his old Army flash-papers, which are just what they sound like.  It's a piece of (by now) ratty paper, inscribed with a hex symbol.  If he tears it in half, and the hex is still active after all these years, he'll release a brief flash of extremely bright light.  That's it.  He can't ever use it again, and the paper burns itself up when the simple spell is activated.  It's not going to reduce whole armies to ashes or knock down city walls.

The magic in Meralda's world is a little more accessible.  I won't say too much about it here, but readers will recognize that her magic behaves much like our electricity.  It can be grounded out.  It can be stored in devices rather like batteries.  It generates (or absorbs) heat when it is manipulated.

But enough blathering, let's look at the wands!

First up is a smallish hand-held wand carved from a nice blond oak.

It's about a foot long (that's nine hundred and eighty seven thousand meters for my Metric friends).  I think I did most of the actual carving in a couple of afternoons; sanding it took much longer.  Both sides look the same.

This is the kind of wand I picture Meralda carrying, or leaving lying on her work-table.  And yes, in the long-established cinematic tradition of this world, it glows a brilliant blue at the end when it's in use.

Here's a closer shot of it. The symbols carved into have deep mystical meanings, or they just sort of wound up that way, I'll leave that determination up to you.

This wand lives on a pair of hooks that hang it out in front of three mystical runes, which together spell out the eldritch phrase "I'd really like a sandwich now."  I like this wand, and I use it mostly to deter Balrogs and, though I probably shouldn't, heat marshmallows. 

Next up we have a wand in a box!  With a carved sigil on the lid, to wit:

Is that a dragon?  Um, yes, as the runes in the body clearly spell out 'dragon.'  Do they really?

Um, sure.  Anyway.  Check out the box, which I also made.  It's oak, and even the hinges are handmade wood.  I was really proud of those hinges...

As you know, having metal around certain wands is dangerous :)

Now let's open it up, and check out the wand!

Yep, more runes.  These spell out the usual arcane disclaimers -- not responsible for intentional misuse, do not expose to oscillating thaumic aether fields, yada yada yada.

And here's the wand itself, which was carved from pecan ...

Pretty nice!  That's a pure copper sphere in the handle, with copper leads spiraling down into the wand. I drilled and twisted and mounted all that while listening to Pink Floyd while a thunderstorm raged outside.

This is the sort of wand I picture the Corpsemaster from Markhat's world carrying.  Or even Meralda, if she'd had a very bad day and someone insulted her hair.  I can see her whipping this out and dealing a little mayhem in that instance.

So that's the sort of things fantasy authors get up to in order to avoid work, i.e., the writing of new fantasy novels.

My next project will probably have a more steampunk bent.  I may reproduce, using simple materials, a radio Meralda is even now trying to perfect as part of the next book.  That would be fun...yes, FUN...

PS: If you just read this and you have no idea who Markhat or Meralda are, well, they're characters in my books.  Here's a link that will take you to all of them!

Gift Ideas for Writers

Is there a writer in your life, and are you struggling to come up with that perfect Christmas gift for him or her?

If the first part of the sentence above is true, my condolences, because I'm a writer and I know full well what a morose bunch of budding alcoholics we writers usually are.  I'm constantly staring off into space, oblivious to the world around me until the front bumper strikes something solid and the air bags deploy.

That can't be good company.  I know from experience that the Highway Patrol is seldom thrilled.

Every year, it's the same dilemma.  What to give for Christmas?  What will make your writer's eyes light up, or at least open halfway?

As usual, I'm here to help.  My list of suggestions follows, in order of descending utility.

1) BOOZE.  HOOCH. ROTGUT.  That's right, kids, the Demon Rum himself.  Why?  Simple.

A writer's job is to plumb the depths of the human condition, or at least convince a harried editor that he or she is plumbing said depths long enough for the ink to dry on a contract.  And the first thing you'll learn when you start taking a really close look at the much-vaunted human condition is that doing so induces a sudden, powerful urge to have a drink.  Or three.  Or maybe just leave the whole bottle and start running a tab, because right after the urge to drink comes the realization that it's going to be a long bad night.

2) A THESAURUS. Because nothing works better as a coaster for the drinks mentioned above than a really thick book.  I'd counsel against actually using a thesaurus for writing, because no one wants to read sentences in which characters advance, meander, promenade, traipse, or wend one's way across the room.

3) A CAT.  Hemingway had a cat, right?  He had a cat because aside from certain molds and rare fungi, a cat is probably the only creature on Earth which is more vain and self-centered than the average author.  While other more social creatures might feel neglected or ignored by an author, who is probably staring off into space or rummaging in the cabinets for more liquor, a cat is perfectly comfortable being ignored because it doesn't know anyone else is in the room anyway.  The cat's 'I don't care if you exist or not' attitude is perfectly suited to the author's mindset of 'What? Huh? Who?'

4) AN ELEGANT LEATHER-BOUND JOURNAL.  We all know that writers, and I mean serious professional writers with book contracts and everything, are always prepared to whip out a convincing character or a heart-wrenching plot at the drop of a dangling participle. So give your author the most expensive, ornate leather journal you can find, wait a year, drag it out from under the whiskey-stained thesaurus, and give it to the writer again.  They won't ever know, because each and every page will be as blank as it was the day you bought it.  Seriously, people.  I tried the whole notebook by the bed schtick for years, and I recorded exactly two notes in it, which read:

"Char. A sees the thing, intro. other scene w/char B, str. exc. Plot hole & 9 days."
"Why G. not cld/not E?"


Which explains why Hemingway's cat had six toes, for all I know.  But leatherbound notebooks make pretty good coasters too, and if the glasses sweat on them, you can tell people the stains are from a solo hike through Guatemala which you took to 'reconnect to my muse.'

I don't have a Number 5.  You should probably stop at Number 1, because gift-wrapping a cat is nearly impossible and writers can spot a gift wrapped thesaurus from across a crowded room anyway.

Monday, Monday

Well, it's been days since I've been insulted by an employee of Square Books.  I thought about wandering inside the store today, just to see if the smirking hipster clerks would gather behind the checkout counter before launching a barrage of heavy thesauri toward me.

But it was raining, and frankly the smell of that patchouli-scented body wash they favor can be a bit cloying in close quarters.  So I oped for walking indoors, instead.

Yes, I'm still steamed about that incident.  In retrospect, I think I should have raised my voice and made a scene.  At least I wouldn't still be stewing over a completely erroneous statement made by some empty-headed punk only minutes out of high school.

But enough about them.  I shall put aside my ire, yea, I shall bury it deep.  A plague of pimples upon them (hey, that part is working already).

The Broken Bell hits the shelves in just 22 days!  Markhat fans, if you haven't pre-ordered, you can do so from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Samhain Publishing.  I really think you'll enjoy this new outing with Markhat and the crew from Rannit.  I'm still chuckling over one part in particular, and though I won't toss out spoilers concerning my own yet-to-be-released book, I will say that Mama Hog is in rare form this time around.

And please don't forget All the Paths of Shadow!  You can get this in glorious print, if you want, in addition to every e-book format imaginable.  Books make great Christmas presents, ya know -- so if there's a kid on your list, or an adult for that matter, consider a copy of All the Paths of Shadow.

Okay, time for me to get back to work.  And don't you have some shopping to do?  That's a subliminal hint, you know....

I am NOT Self-Published

Blogging while angry is never a good idea.

So I've had my relaxing hot beverage and I've taken the requisite ten deep breaths and I've repeated my Mantra of Peace (Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Larry Moe, Larry Larry) once for every eye-poke in 'Disorder in the Court.'

Hey, you have your rituals, and I have mine.  Anyway.

Karen and I stopped in a certain bookstore during our lunch walk to see if they'd stocked All the Paths of Shadow yet.  After all, they are a bookstore.  All the Paths of Shadow is a book.  I'm a local author, and I've seen this very bookstore promote local authors.

We looked.  They did have a copy of The Markhat Files, another of my titles.  But still no copy of Paths of Shadow.

The helpful young man approached and asked if he could help us find anything.  Karen asked if they had any copies of All the Paths of Shadow.  The helpful young man tapped on his helpful computer for a moment before announcing that he couldn't get All the Paths of Shadow unless the author brought him copies, since that was a self-published title.

A self-published title.  That will certainly come as a bit of a shock to the people at Cool Well Press, who up until this very moment have been blissfully unaware that I own their publishing company.  After all, if I self-publish, and I publish through Cool Well Press, that means I own it, right?

Which means I want all those desk chairs.  And the PCs.  Bwahaha, mine, all mine!

Let me point out a couple of small errors in the helpful young man's statements.

All the Paths of Shadow is NOT a self-published title. Cool Well Press pays its authors.  I've never sent them a dime and they've certainly never asked for one.  Yes, Cool Well Press is a small relatively new press.  That makes it a small relatively new press, not a vanity house.

This was pointed out to the helpful young man, who shrugged and repeated his assertion that, even so, they would only deign to carry my book if I A) brought them free physical copies and B) paid for the shelf space.

In my opinion, that makes this bookstore a tad sleazy.  After all, isn't that the same tactic vanity houses employ? Asking the author to pay?

I won't be giving them any free books. I won't be paying them a cent for their precious shelf space.  They don't want me on their hallowed shelves, fine.  I'm not a huge fan of pretentious douchebags anyway.

But I do object to their toboggan-wearing sales clerks giving out false information.  I wonder how many of my friends and neighbors in this small town have gone into the store, asked for my books, and been told the same thing?

So, local bookstore owners, if you want to dismiss me as a genre hack, be my guest.  Your lack of support won't wreck me.  I won't trouble you again.  Ever.

But do not persist in telling the buying public Frank Tuttle is a vanity house victim.  It's untrue, it's unnecessary, and worst of all it's thoroughly unprofessional.

Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Larry Moe, Larry Larry...

Black Friday, Blue Monday, Chartreuse Tuesday

Back in the days of yore, when I was knee-high to a grasshopper and a bushel of dimes only cost a nickel, 'Black Friday' shopping injuries were things that only happened in distant, exotic lands such as Newark and even fabled Oklahoma City.

Last week's Black Friday resulted in a knife fight in our very own Walmart.  I am told that the combatants were locked in a bloody struggle over a discounted set of bedsheets.

Yes.  Bedhseets.  I have to wonder, what battle cry does one shout when charging into a life and death struggle over bedsheets?

Do you yell "Percale!" and then wade in, blade flashing?

Even if you know, don't tell me.  I've never felt very passionate about bedsheets, even if they are selling at a <gasp> fifteen percent discount.

The knife-wielding linen enthusiast will be enjoying the dubious holiday charms of the Lafayette County Detention Center, where I seriously doubt any of the guards dress as festive Christmas elves, at least while on duty.  There, the accused may ponder the error of her ways, and perhaps resolve to shop early at Dollar Tree next year (or in two to five, whichever the judge deems appropriate).

I do not partake in any sort of Black Friday shopping.  Face it, people, aside from a half-dozen strategically-advertised electronic gadgets, the stuff on the shelves is priced the same on Black Friday as it was Routine Thursday and as it will be on Just Another Saturday.  People line up at all hours for the same crap they could have ordered two weeks ago from Amazon without missing a single moment of sleep.

This is why, if I was a betting man, I'd put my money on the cockroaches versus the humans in any kind of long-term existence bet.  You don't see bugs camping out in parking lots because they might save a whole twelve cents on a set of cheap bedsheets.

The Terror of Blogging

Blogging used to be so simple.  I'd suck down a cup of strong black coffee and rave about the first thing that popped into my head.  Badgers. The wind. Pittsburgh.  It didn't matter.  Everything, including windy badgers from Pittsburgh, has made me angry at some point.

These days, though, I take a more measured, thoughtful attitude toward blogging, mainly because it's been pointed out to me that readers might be put off by forth-mouthed rants, and when readers are put off, to be blunt, they spend their lovely lovely money elsewhere.

And we wouldn't want that.  So here I am, trying to think warm and fuzzy thoughts about...um...at this point, anything.

I'm really not very good at being the voice of sweetness and light.  You see a basket of kittens, I see a pile of vet bills and probable contraction of ascaris intestinal roundworms.  You see Newt Gingrich, and I see -- well, I can't say what I see, because in that direction lies the Forbidden Land of the Mad-Eyed Rant.

There are only so many heart-warming tales of whatever it is that warms hearts that I can tell.  And to be honest I can't tell those in anything resembling a convincing fashion.  Anyway, wouldn't increasing the temperature of a heart be dangerous if not suddenly fatal?  "Oh look, I just raised your cardiopulmonary temperature to 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Why are you lying so still?"

Maybe I should write an Overly Literal Christmas Story and post it here.

Hmmm...I like that!  Stay tuned....

Three Wishes, or a Hot Tub?

If you're like me (and let's hope you're not), you'll find yourself obsessing over the most ridiculous things.

Case in point: State Farm commercials.  Specifically, the ones in which anyone can summon a friendly State Farm agent simply by singing aloud the State Farm jingle ('Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there!').

Maybe it's the writer in me, trying to wrap my head around the ramifications inherent in being able to call up a magical, if insurance-obsessed being, just by speaking a few simple words.

I write fantasy, so of course the concept isn't utterly foreign to me.  And there's plenty of mythological and folklorish precedent for such goings-on.  Rub a lamp, summon a genie. Speak the right words, call up a demon, or a ghost.  It's magic, right?

Well, sort of.  But even the most over-used and tired fantasy tropes come with rules.  The genie grants three wishes, and three wishes only.  The demon demands your soul as payment.  Ghosts, well, ghosts pretty much just blather on about family trivia and always wind up being faked by unscrupulous mediums anyway.

But with that State Farm bit, there aren't any rules.  Say the jingle, the agent appears.  Add a few words to the jingle, and that appears too.  In the video, random couch-sitters add 'hot tub' and 'sandwich' to the jingle, and bang, they get them.

That really bugs my inner editor, which is deeply troubled every time it sees magic being used without a price.  Apparently, I'm perfectly all right watching the Second Law of Thermodynamics being violated, but I won't stand for frivolous narrative use of arcane summonings.

The implications of the State Farm world-view are staggering.  What if someone sings 'Like a good neighbor, Sate Farm is there, bringing the entire Sun with them?'

Poof, that's what.  Instant planetary incineration.  The entire Solar System thrown into chaos.

Did I kill an entire alternate Earth out there, just now?

So I reject the whole sing-a-jingle-get-an-agent concept.  It's unworkable even in a fictional environment, because it places no limitations on the scope of the invocation.

State Farm, you are dismissed.


As I said, aren't you glad you're not like me?

Rumors, Hearsay, and Unconfirmed Scuttlebutt!

Fans of All the Paths of Shadow will soon have something to be very happy about indeed!  I'm not quite prepared to make any grand pronouncements yet, but I'm very excited about a project related to the book, and I think readers will be too.

I will say that one of the characters from the book will be brought to life, so to speak, in a unique and thoroughly entertaining way.

And that's all I'm going to say about that right now.

Switching gears for a moment, I'm floored by the way the upcoming Markhat book (The Broken Bell, to be released everywhere on December 27) has already been selling as a pre-order.  If I'd known so many people were waiting on the book, I'd have typed faster!

For anyone interested, you can click here to see All the Paths of Shadow on Amazon in Kindle format, or click here to head to Cool Well Press, where you can get any other format.

Want to check out The Broken Bell?  Click here for Amazon, or here for Barnes & Noble, or even here to go straight to the publisher, Samhain Publishing.  Rest assured we have a format for your tastes, including good old print!

Oh, and one last thing, which won't cost you a dime.  I redesigned my website, and I'd love it if you'd go have a look.

Thanks!

Now back to the WIP...

I Quote Myself

Today, in lieu of actually writing anything new, I decided I'd post a list of clever things my characters have said.

Why?

Because, that's why.

"Deception wears many masks. Take care to remove them all, should you undertake to see the face of truth."
-- Wistril the Wizard, from Wistril Compleat.


"The stuff of legends is nothing but trouble to the persons unfortunate enough to make them. On the whole, I’d rather have been off fishing.”
-- Tim the Horsehead, from All the Paths of Shadow


"You know you're having a bad day when vampires drop by to chat and you're pleased by the sudden distraction."
-- Markhat, from Hold the Dark


Okay, this is a not truly a quote, but an exchange between Markhat and Mama Hog in Dead Man's Rain.  


Mama Hog nodded.  "Cards say she's got a hard rain coming, boy," she said.  "Turned up the Dead Man, and the Storm, and the Last Dancer, all in the same hand.  Dead man's rain.  That ain't good."  Mama grabbed another morsel of sandwich, guffawed around it.  "But I don't need cards to see the sun," she said.  "The Widow Merlat is headed for a bad time.  She knows it.  I know it.  You'd best know it, too."


"Dead is dead, Mama," I said.  "That's what I know."


"There's other things you need to know, boy.  Things about the ones that come back."


"First thing being that they don't," I said.


Mama pretended not to hear.  


"Rev'nants only walk at night," she said.  "It's got to be pitch dark."


"Do tell."

"You can't catch 'em coming out of the ground," said Mama.  "It's no good trying.  They're like haunts, that way. Solid as rock one minute, thin as fog the next."


"Sounds handy," I said.  "Do their underbritches get all misty and ethereal too, or is that one of the things man was not meant to know?"


"Don't look in his eyes, boy," said Mama.  "Don't look in his eyes, or breathe air he's breathed."


"I won't even ask about borrowing his toothbrush," I said.


Mama slapped my desk top with both her hands.


"You listen," she hissed.  "Believe or not, but you listen."


"I've got all night," I said.     


"His mouth will be open," said Mama.  "Wide open.  He's been saving a scream, all that time in the ground.  Saving up a scream for the one that put him there."  Mama lifted a stubby finger and shook it in my face.  "Don't you listen when he screams.  You put your hands over your ears and you yell loud as you can but don't you listen.  Cause if you do, you'll hear that scream for the rest of your days and there ain't nothing nobody nowhere can do for you then."


Silence fell.  Only after Curfew do we get any silence, in my neighborhood.  I let it linger for a moment.


I leaned forward, put my eyes down even with Mama's, motioned her closer, spoke.


"Boo."
--Mama Hog and Markhat, from Dead Man's Rain.