Tax Tips for Writers, 156th Edition, With Illustrations Throughout

Certain eldritch signs portend various significant turnings of the year. Birds fly south. Or maybe north. Frankly I don't spend much time outdoors with a compass charting the movements of waterfowl.

But even a dedicated indoorsman such as myself can observe the anguished faces on the street, and hear the plaintive cries of agony borne on the night wind (and no, I don't know from which direction the bloody wind is blowing, let's leave that to the meteorologists, shall we?).

Even I can see the chalk outlines left by those poor unfortunates who at last cried 'No more, enough!' before shuffling off their mortal coils by way of extreme over-tanning or a full-on single-sitting read of Snooki's 'A Shore Thing.'

And even I know what these grim signs portend -- tax time.

That's right, gentle readers, if you are a citizen of the US, it's that time of year when Uncle Sam takes you fondly by your ankles and shakes you until every last cent you've seen in the last year falls out of your pockets, because let's face it, war ain't cheap.

Now, if you've made any money off your writing in the last year, I'm here to help. Because if there's anything the US government holds dear, it's the idea that every American is free to earn a profit by the sweat of his brow and the set of his jaw. Equally sacred to the American governing psyche is the ideal that they get a slice of that sweet free enterprise pie.

The first thing writers need to know about filing their writing income is this -- FILE IT. That story you sold to Ominous Bathroom Squeaks and Eldritch Attic Squeals Monthly for 15 bucks? That pair of flash-fiction entries you pawned off on Public Transit Funnies, a Bus Station Free Magazine for three bucks and a coupon for $2.00 off any foot-long club at Subway?

Maybe you're thinking 'Hey, why bother reporting that, nobody knows about those!'

And how wrong you are, Grasshopper.

They know. Maybe it's the Carnivore communication surveillance system. Maybe the CIA has an Obscure Small Press Reporting Division. Maybe that mean-eyed old lady down the street is on the phone with the IRS every day, after she goes through your mail and steams open all the envelopes -- it doesn't matter how, but believe me, they know.

So, the first thing?

Report it.

Now if you've made any serious coin you've been sent a 1099-MISC from the publisher(s). You should keep up with these things. I used to put them in a folder and them lose the folder and then move to Mississippi and assume a new identity as Frank Tuttle when I realized I'd lost them all, but then I got married and she keeps important papers in a brilliant thing called a drawer. I'll bet you have some of these drawers  in your place too. Open them up and put stuff in them, it's an amazing time-saver compared to identity theft.

At the end of the year, you take all these 1099 forms, wipe the tears from your face, and enter them in the boxes according to the helpful prompts on the TurboTax software. When the crying diminishes to a bearable level, proceed.

Next, let's consider deductions. The word deductions comes from the Latin dede, which means 'not for,' and uction, which means 'you.' In tax parlance, deductions are money amounts which everyone but you can subtract from the taxes they owe.

For instance, I write on a PC. I built this PC myself, from components I purchased separately, for the sole purpose of writing.  Now, if I were anyone else, I could deduct the total cost of the machine from my taxes owed, since it's a business expense -- but since I am demonstrably me, this deduction does not apply, and, notes TurboTax, 'ha ha ha.'

See how that works? It truly simplifies filing.

Let's look at some other deductions which you, as a writer, cannot claim:

•  Home Office Deductions. Oh, you have an office, in which you write? Well, let's have a look. It can't be attached to your house. It can't house a TV or other casual entertainment device. It can't possibly, under any circumstances, be even remotely suited for any purpose other than writing, and it can't be very good at that. So you have a detached office which contains nothing but a chair, a desk, and a PC running nothing but Word? But it has a roof?  'Ha ha ha,' intones TurboTax. 'Trying to pull a fast one, are you? DENIED.'
• Office Expense Deductions.  You're a writer, and even the IRS grudgingly concedes that the act of writing might in some way involves putting down words on some medium, be it electronic or paper. Okay, this looks promising. You bought a printer to print out manuscripts. You pay for internet service because 1950 was 73 years ago. These seem to be legitimate deductions, so let's investigate further BUZZ HA HA HA NOT SO FAST, TAXPAYER! Those deductions are only valid in years  where acceptable total solar eclipses occur in northern Peru (see Schedule 117863-E, 'Solar Interruptions, South American Totality Table 167-75E, lines 46 through 78), and guess what pal, this ain't it.
• Other Deductions. Mitt Romney has a 376 page embossed-leather-bound acid-free paper book with gold-gilt edges filled with 'Other Deductions.' Are you Mitt Romney? Didn't think so. Move along.

Sadly, that about covers it. You've toiled over every word, you've poured over ever sentence, you've labored long into that good night trying to illuminate a single tiny facet of the flawed jewel that is the human condition.

Or, in other words, you've earned slightly more than minimum wage. 

Bon appetite, my friends!

And for the love of all that is holy, don't miss the filing deadline. 

Mangled Monday Horoscopes

Curious as to what the stars have in store for you next week?


Me neither. Given the obvious ill-will the stars display towards all things Tuttle, I'd just as soon be kept in the dark until the last possible moment, i.e., until I see the muzzle flash. But if you are of a metaphysical bent, and if you do have excellent life insurance, read on.


Me, I'll be down in the bunker, adjusting my Kevlar vest and tightening my flak helmet.


ARIES (March 21-April 20)

Okay, so you don't manage to land the plane successfully. But, on the bright side, next Tuesday's fiery crash into the oil refinery will result in more stringent fire-suppression codes for future petrochemical facilities.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)

Seriously, no one has been killed by a falling piano since 1929. Until you step outside next Thursday.

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)

Yeah, you'd think X-ray machines had fuses, or some way to prevent accidental massive output surges. Maybe they will, after your estate gets done suing General Electric (Medical Division). 

LEO (July 23 - August 22)
All things considered, your brief outburst on Wednesday isn't the worst set of last words ever spoken, despite what the 52% of the commenters on YouTube say.

VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)

On the bright side, they'll never figure out how your frozen body wound up in the Atlanta Aquarium wearing nothing but Abraham Lincoln's famous stovepipe hat.

LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)

Before Monday, there will be no recorded instances of fatal parrot attacks on humans. Even the stars are curious about this one -- just what do you say to that bird, to make it so angry?

SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)
See, what happens Friday at the petting zoo is why you should never tempt grumpy Fate by asking the (usually) rhetorical question 'At least it can't get any worse, right?' 

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)

If it's any consolation, hardly anyone could improvise a working emergency breathing apparatus out of an ice machine and an office supply closet. At least you go down fighting.

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
Turns out they aren't kidding about that pufferfish eat-at-your-own-risk warning. 

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)
Even the coroner will be aghast -- all that blood on the ceiling, from an exercise bike accident?

PISCES (February 20 - March 20)
Look at it this way -- how many people can claim it took two Hearses six hours to convey their remains to the cemetery? At least the radiation levels allowed mourners to watch the burial from a safe distance. 

Frank's Fantastic Free Friday Fiction Free-for-all, With TANTRUM.

Today I'm embarking upon a grand experiment in greed.

Oops. Did I say greed? I meant publishing. Specifically, I've entered a title into Amazon's KDP Select program.

For you, that means Passing the Narrows is free. That's right. Gratis. No charge. You click, and it's yours, delivered via the magic of Amazon, elves, and unicorn snorts.

"But Frank," you opine. "What do you get out of this?"

I rub my furry paws together in an overt display of unseemly glee. Because, dear reader, what I get out of it is exposure. So don't fret, because that might interfere with your clicking. Wouldn't want that, heavens no.

The magic of KDP Select is that I might get a thousand -- nay, ten thousand -- downloads in the next two days. And if people enjoy this freebie, well, they might be willing to part with the modest cost of my other works.

There is a catch, of sorts. Passing the Narrows is only free today (starting midnight March 30) and tomorrow (March 31). After that it resumes its normal price of forty-eleven dozen hundred gazillion dollars.

Okay, so it's free, and there's a link right above and another one right here. But some of you haven't clicked the links!  Why?  Reasons include:

• You hate Frank, and are only here looking for incriminating blog posts with which to line the walls of your makeshift lair.
• You bought Passing the Narrows already and you're beginning to think the guy with the makeshift lair has the right idea.
• You are a Tibetan yak, and your attempt to Google 'hairball relief' was hampered by your hooves.
• You aren't sure if you want to read anything about steamboats or the Civil War.

Okay, fair enough. I can't help numbers one through three above, but maybe I can nudge you fours into springing for something free. I did mention it's free, didn't I? I did? Good.

Passing the Narrows is the tale of a stubborn Mississippi riverboat captain and his downtrodden crew of Civil War survivors. Which probably sounds all too familiar, but hang on, this American Civil War was fought with spells and magics along with cannon and cavalry. 

Which makes it a sort of alternate history Southern fantasy. A darkish one, at that.  

Here's a taste of the opening, just to whet your appetite:

PASSING THE NARROWS

The Yocona surged ahead, paddle-wheel churning, cylinders beating like some great, frightened heart.

"Dark as Hell and twiced as hot," muttered Swain from the shadows behind the clerk’s map-table.

A ragged chorus of ayes answered.  The Captain checked his pocket watch; ten o'clock sharp.  Old Swain and his hourly announcements hadn't lost a minute in twenty years.

The Captain snapped his pocket watch shut and peered out into the darkness.  There, to port, loomed a hulking mass of shadow twice the height of any around it -- Cleary's Oak, last marker before the riverboat landing at Float.  "We're an hour from Float, Mr. Barker. Notify the deck crew we'll be putting in for the night."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"She won't like that," said Swain, whispering.  "Fit to be tied, she'll be.  Full of fire and steam."

"Who, Swain?"

"You know who.  The wand-waver.  The Yankee."

"Go back to sleep."

"I heard her talkin’ while the boys were hauling me up the deck,” said Swain, gesturing with the stump of his missing right arm.  “Said she was aimin’ to make Vicksburg 'fore the moon came again.  Said she had orders, and papers, and -- "

"I give the orders here, Swain.  Not any damn Yankee wand-wavers."

Swain cackled.  The Yocona churned past Cleary's Oak, picking up speed as the Yazoo River turned narrow and straight.  The Captain rang three bells, and the thump-thump-thump of the pistons slowed.

The Yocona’s running lamps began to touch the trees on each bank of the Yazoo River.  Shadows whirled and twisted, caught mid-step in some secret dance before fleeing back into the impenetrable murk beyond the first rank of trees.  Some few seemed to run just ahead of the light, capering and tumbling like shards of a nightmare given flesh and let loose to roam.

The shadows reminded the Captain of Gettysburg and Oxford and a hundred other haunted ruins left in the wake of the war.  The Yazoo River was the only safe route through the countryside now, unless you 

were a sorcerer, a Yankee, or a fool.

"Eyes ahead, boys," said the Captain, softly.  "They're only there if you look."

Read the rest here! For free!

MidSouthCon 30 Roundup

MidSouthCon 30 has come and gone, and I'm pleased to say I was there for it.

I'm not going to post each and every photo I took, because A) that's what Pinterest is for and B) you've probably seen more photos of Stormtroopers than you actually need to see in a two lifetimes already. But I will post a few notables.

On the left is Dr. Ethan Siegel, who is a real live theoretical astrophysicist and part-time Spartan warrior. His Significant Other is on the right. He was a Guest of Honor at the con, and I had the pleasure of talking with him about dark matter and dark energy, which is not at all an unusual dinner conversation at an SF/F convention, regardless of how the diners are dressed. That's one of the things that make cons so exciting. The most fascinating people show up!

Fans of Dr. Who will recognize this costume immediately. For everyone else, she's a Weeping Angel. They only move when you look away or blink, and they only move when they're about to do horrible, awful things to you.  It's fun, watching them sneak up behind people and just stand there.

Storm Troopers!  Look, I've talked to a lot of these guys, and they're unfailingly helpful and polite. I know, I know, during the week they work for the Empire, but at the Cons they are a force for good.  And they're always happy to pose, and point their blasters right at you, but in this case it's all in fun.  It is all in fun, right guys? Right?

This young woman was later seen using that rifle to keep the hordes of eager fan-boys at bay. 

The lone Ghostbuster I saw Saturday had carried an amazing proton pack. I'm fairly sure it actually worked. 

Gotta love articulated wings!

Oh. this isn't from the Con. This is me, any Monday morning...

I think she was looking for a contact lens.

Now, lest you, gentle reader, decide cons are all leather and steampunk outfits, let me talk about the panels.

Panels consist of a row of editors or authors or publicists or agents or any combination thereof facing a room of festively-dressed fans, writers, and other parties. The experts impart knowledge. People like me sit in the audience and hope to soak up that critical mass of information that will send us skyrocketing from obscurity and onto the Jimmy Fallon Show.

I managed to hit several panels, and had a blast at each. But if I had to pick one panel to call my most valuable, it would be the Marketing panel.

Pictured are AP Stephens, Stephen Zimmer, Janine Spendlove, Mike Preston, and Peggy DeKay. Now, maybe you're thinking "Frank, why would you be interested in Marketing? You're a writer!"

Well, gentle reader, if you're not Stephen King, and I do not appear to be, marketing is a genuine concern in the whiz-bang electrified interweb-activated publishing landscape of the future which is, incidentally, today. 

It's market or die, baby. According to my Amazon rankings, it's mostly die. But we small fry authors have to keep swimming, regardless.

I learned a few things at this panel. Things I'll be implementing shortly. Be on the alert for a weekly podcast, hosted by me and my impenetrable Southern accent. (Side note: Anyone who has a Snowball Blue USB mic they don't want, get in touch. I maka you a deal, no?)

I met some great people at the con. The good Dr. Siegel is both brilliant and a gentleman. Janine Spendlove is both a Marine C-130 pilot and the author of a darned good book (War of the Seasons, Book 1: The Human). And publishing expert Peggy DeKay said my accent shouldn't be an impediment to creating a podcast!

My Con experience was capped off when my book All the Paths of Shadow was named the runner-up to the 2012 Darrell Award for a YA novel!

So that's my MidSouthCon 30 roundup. I enjoyed seeing my Con pals, and making new ones, and joining in the madness that is fandom, just for a bit.

Note: see more pics at my Pinterest account, here.

Frank's Handy Waterproof Guide to Twitter

Oh yeah. I tweet. I have tweeps. I can hashtag and @FF and RT with the best of them, baby.

I'm referring of course to Twitter, where I can be found as @Frank_Tuttle.  I know, it's not the most imaginative Twitter handle going, but as a self-aggrandizing hog for attention I couldn't imagine using anything for my handle but my name. I was deeply saddened to learn I couldn't specify a 45-point bold font, written in letters of animated fire and accompanied by swelling orchestral theme music. I also want that in real life, if any generous multidimensional beings are listening, hint hint.

The people who make up Twitter make it fun. And because the Universe delights in malicious symmetries, the people who make up Twitter also ruin it, at least briefly, several times a day.

With that in mind, here are a few things you probably shouldn't do on Twitter, if your goal is to avoid be loathed and reviled:

1) For the hideous tentacled love of Cthulhu, please stop tweeting ads for your book every 11.72 seconds. Especially if it's the same ad. We do remember these things, you know.  And hey, I get it, I'm a writer too. I want my books to sell. But causing people to mutter SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP from a fetal position while they scramble to find the UNFOLLOW button isn't going to sell any books or win any friends.

2) Do. Not. Tweet. Drunk. It might seem hilarious at the time, but that's because you're drunk. Everything seems funny when you've slammed down 19 warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beers -- climbing around on the roof, driving around on the roof, asking the Highway Patrol from your smoking wreck if they've got a spare bottle opener. But none of it is funny the next day, or to the people reading your tweets and shaking their heads in mild disgust. 

3) Don't tweet angry. I watched a full-on meltdown recently, by a writer upset that her sales numbers didn't budge during a promotion. Um, no. Be upset if you must, but do it the way the rest of us writers do it, by slamming down 19 warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beers and then NOT tweeting about it. Don't go online and castigate your followers for not buying the book they probably already bought. That's worse than badgering, which is coincidentally as bad as bearing or beavering. Avoid any activity that can be roughly equated to an attack by an infuriated mammal.

4) Don't tweet a mess of hashtags and abbreviations such as "@FF #mystrangerash will see #runningopensore with AABG #myhalitosis LOL HA SQUEE!" because I'm not C3PO and even if I was I wouldn't bother to translate that mess. One hashtag, *maybe* two, per tweet. And don't expect everyone to know that ACIMPOL is short for "Aircraft Control Interface Media Protocol Online Links," which I just made up and am justifiably quite proud of. 

5) Do check your spelling. Especially if tweeting from a smartphone with autocorrect, because tweets like 'I am  licking Stephen King's new groin' tend to make you temporarily famous for all the wrong reasons.

Follow these five easy rules, and you'll be a better tweeter and an all-around stand-up man or woman.

And then follow me!  There's a link to follow me on Twitter to your right. Or look me up -- @Frank_Tuttle.

John Carter, Fletcher Update, and a Plea for Help!

Good morning, gentle reader!  Sorry for the week-long absence. But it's been a very busy week, filled with syringes and dosages and lack of sleep and of course Tuesday's invasion of the bee men. I hate missing 'Survivor' because I have to build a death ray with old stereo parts, but some days are just that way.

Dog Fletcher continues to do very well. We're still trying to get the insulin dosage right -- we've gone from the initial seven units to nine units, and we'll test him again Thursday to see if that's the right dosage at last.

I saw John Carter this weekend, and despite the lukewarm reviews and box office take I had a blast with it. they took the 1911 version of Mars and ran with it, sticking close to the spirit of the original stories, and while that makes no sense at all from a realistic point of view it made for a fun movie.  There's even a nod, intentional or not, to NCIS, when Tars Tarkus gives John Carter a perfect Gibbs head-thump after Carter makes a particularly bone-headed mistake.

So forget the critics and see John Carter. It's a lot of fun.

Now, finally, I need your help!  Please go to http://www.bookspotcentral.com/2012/03/12/6th-annual-book-tournament-round-1-malazan-empire-bracket/ and vote for my book, ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW.

Please?  You don't have to register or sign in. It doesn't grab your email. I'm up against a big title, and every vote counts, so please, if not for me, for Helium, and Dejah Thoris!

Thanks!

Frank's Handy Survival Guide for Tuesdays, Civil Unrest, or Zombies

Have you stuck your head out the door lately?

If so, you may have noticed a few things. Economic catastrophe. Political turmoil. Weather right out of a 'Mad Max' movie trailer. And that's just the scene in my guest bathroom. I hear it's actually worse outside.

We can no longer pretend that the whole leaning tower of Tinkertoys that is Western civilization  is going to avoid collapse much longer. Various people have numerous theories on precisely what will spark the final conflagration -- some say it will come in the form of a global depression, some say conflict in the Middle East will touch off  World War Three, some say aliens will arrive with an appetite for man-flesh and our sweet, sweet bone marrow.

Me?

I'm going with zombies. That's right, I say preparations are best made against a full-blown zombie apocalypse. The recent zombie movie and TV craze is actually a sign of an ancient racial memory stirring slowly awake, preparing us, in fact, for what is to come.

Face it, all that clear plastic sheeting and duct tape you bought after 9/11 isn't going to do you much good when the zombie horde shuffles to your door. The police? The military? Your Neighborhood Watch?

Do you even watch the movies? The police and the army are the first ones to go, and the few who do survive do so by using you, Joe Citizen, as cannon fodder. No, gentle reader, you are very much on your own -- and that's where I come in.

Stick with me, and together we will emerge from the smoking wasteland as victorious warriors. Well, maybe you will emerge as a victorious warrior. I'm more a skulking stay-behind-cover type. Which is why I'm alive and you were just bitten by a festering, green-skinned librarian.

That was your first mistake, being seen.  Learn from it.

Here are more tips:

GUNS: When you hear the howl of an undead mob for the first time, you'll probably think to yourself 'I wish I had a really big gun.'  But if you look closely at the shambling horde, you'll see that quite a few of them had guns, big ones even, and despite that they're now jonesing for some delicious fresh spleen.  Guns, my friend, aren't the answer, because here is the question -- "How can I shoot a thousand zombies in the head before they surround and overtake me?"

See? The answer isn't "Gun." The answer is this -- run like the devil at first sight of them.

In fact, I find this is a perfectly valid survival strategy right now. I saw my banker at lunch, and when he saw me, I had two choices -- barricade myself inside an abandoned farmhouse, or run, run away, as fast as I could.  In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have run into traffic, but I'm here, and the cast doesn't itch that much.

So remember, he who turns and runs away lives to run another day. He who stops to fire his gun will give the zombies bloody fun. It's a nursery rhyme for the post-necrotic wasteland!

FRIENDS: Do any of your friends live inside heavily-fortified compounds filled with military-grade weapons and trained soldiers?

I didn't think so.  Here's another question -- how many of your friends could you call, right now, knowing they'd drop whatever they were doing to help you administer an emergency enema to a rodeo bull?

Yeah. Okay. So, Hallmark cards aside, your friends are neither A) the 82nd Airborne nor B) Chuck Norris. So don't waste a lot of time sitting around expecting them to come and rescue you, because odds are they'll show up all right, shambling and drooling with the rest. So be prepared to be alone, just as you were in high school. You can always fill your bunker with store mannequins later, which will pass for chic after the fall of civilization anyway.

If you do join forces with other survivors, do so only based on how handy they are with a machete and how quickly they can pick a lock or hot-wire an Impala.  In fact, you should start collecting such associations right now, because Craigslist and Match Dot Com will be among the first websites to vanish, leaving you with little opportunity to quickly make new friends.  I'd suggest hanging out in biker bars as a good start. Protip: Never play Cindy Lauper songs on the jukebox. Bikers will cut you for that.

LEATHER PANTS: I know, I know, half the people in post-apocalypse movies run around in black leather. Take it from me, though, tight black leather pants are NOT the garment of choice for running and scavenging in the New Wastes. Cotton or denim is the way to go, because it breathes, and that's not only important but vital when baths are as far apart as Leap Years. Sure, the world may have ended, but nobody, not even the zombies, need the kind of funk constantly-worn leather britches exude.

SHELTER: First, do not attempt to establish a base in the mall. Mainly because it's cliche, and who wants to have their Cause of Death listed in the Akashic Records as 'Death by Cliche?' But also because it's stupid.

All that glass? All those doors? A nice big parking lot for the zombies to gather?

Ditto for hospitals and big-box bulk sales stores.

Instead, look for a pawn shop. See how the glass is armored? See how the doors are reinforced? If you're lucky, you'll find a place with roll-down steel shutters and iron bars on the doors.  If you're unlucky, the owner and his pals are already in there, and they just opened fire on you, because they didn't read my bit about guns.

Find one that's empty, though, have your ex-con pal (who is probably named Little Jimmy or Poptart or something equally humorous) pick the lock. Once inside, wait out the worst of the zombie uprising while working on your golf swing. Because that is the ultimate anti-zombie weapon -- a good solid driver with a big titanium head. Quiet, efficient, and it never needs reloading. And there isn't a pawn shop anywhere in the Universe without a set of clubs on display somewhere. You can find a battered set of mis-matched golf clubs in pawn shops on worlds that don't have golf, bipeds, air, or grass. And even then, the set is always overpriced.  It is one of the Great Mysteries of creation.

TRANSPORTATION: Your first instinct will probably be to snatch up that huge black Hummer just sitting there empty at the corner.

Don't do it, because if you do some other guy is going to find the Hummer sitting there empty where you left it as the zombies dragged you out of it.  It's bigger than a Prius, sure -- but when you may need to run down an entire gated community at once, you need one thing, and that is mass.

Instead, find yourself a garbage truck. Oh, wait, you're being picky?  You don't like the smell, Princess? Well then find a nice lime-green two-seater Fiat and have fun being party snacks.

Because a garbage truck has what you need, and has it in spades. Mass. Huge thick tires. Lots and lots of torque. A diesel engine. And even a good safe place to store supplies and even ferry your nefarious band of miscreants around, as long as you keep your hands off the COMPACT NOW lever.

Okay, since this is the apocalypse, go ahead and paint the thing up with teeth and flames and devil eyes.

Oh, and a garbage truck in full sail is one of the few things that will make the biker gangs think twice about relieving you of your supplies. In the eternal battle of Harley versus Garbage Truck, the latter always wins.

I drive a garbage truck now, just to be prepared.  Parallel parking is a chore, sure, but there's nothing quite like having a pair of dumpster-grabbing arms on the front of your enormous monster truck. Did you know a Prius weighs about the same as a fully-loaded dumpster? Neither did I, or that jerk who cut me off.

So let's recap for a moment. You aren't counting on guns to save you, you're wearing nice breathable cotton, you're living in a pawn shop, driving a garbage truck, and carrying a club. All your friends are short-tempered felons. If you think about it, it's just like living in Detroit, only without all the violent crime.

You're well on your way to living what's left of the American Dream. The only limits to your ambition are your pluck, your moxie, and of course the endless sea of shuffling corpses bent on stripping every last morsel of flesh from your still-twitching bones.  Which isn't drastically different from working in the hotel or entertainment industries, so buck up, little camper, and let's turn this smoldering wasteland into a land of opportunity!

Just keep that nine-iron handy, and your garbage truck, which you refer to as 'The Beast,' fueled and ready. Especially if you have to flee through Detroit. Man, even zombies avoid that place...

Doggie Update

Fletcher is home!  Home, and resting comfortably in his usual spot below the TV.

Max is happy to have his buddy back.

We gave him his first at-home insulin injection just a short time ago.  Karen did it, and did a great job!

Hopefully, we can all get back to normal around here now. I could certainly use some normalcy.

Thanks for all your emails and posts and words of concern. We really appreciate all of them!

Frank, Karen, Fletcher, Max, Lou Ann, Thor, Petey, Lamar, and Jake.

Close Calls and Old Dogs

It's been a worrisome week here at Casa Tuttle.

As many of you know, dogs outnumber humans here by a ratio of more than two to one. Mister Fletcher is our most senior dog, being somewhere around ten years old.

We got him from a shelter in Olive Branch, just south of Memphis, when his number was nearly up. I still don't know exactly how I knew Fletcher would be such a great dog. He's not a purebred anything. He's exactly the kind of dog that all too often goes unnoticed in a shelter -- big and brown with a black muzzle. Nothing cute of fuzzy about him.

But something about his big goofy mug in that tiny pic caught my eye.  Dog Max needed a buddy, since the other dogs were all so much older than he was. So we took Max up to meet Fletcher, to see if they'd hit it off or snarl at each other.

They bonded instantly.  We brought Fletcher home the next day, and he's been with us for nine years. He's Max's best friend and protector. Ours, too.

Fletcher is the house watchdog. He counts people in rooms. He patrols. He has excellent situational awareness, even though he's a bit past his prime.

Monday morning, what had been a bout of lethargy turned serious. He could barely walk. We could look in his eyes and see something was wrong, so to the vet he went.

You don't take a dog that old to the vet without a cold grip taking hold of your heart. Especially a dog that can no longer hold his head up. We feared the worst.

But Fletcher's weakness was discovered to be the result of diabetes. I didn't even know dogs got diabetes. But they do, and he did, and if we hadn't taken him to see Dr. Sullivan he wouldn't have made it.

He's a trooper. Two days of IV fluids and insulin injections have left him thinner and still weak, but this afternoon he walked and wagged his tail and licked out hands in greeting.  If his numbers stay stable throughout the night and day, we'll be bringing our man Fletcher home tomorrow afternoon.

Of course, he'll need twice-daily insulin injections, special food, and a strict diet and feeding regimen thereafter. But that's fine.

The thing about dogs is this.

They'd charge a herd of rhinos without hesitation to protect their people. They'll lay at your feet and snooze all day, if that's what you want, or they'll walk until their paws bleed. They'll stick with you for every moment of their lives, for better or for worse, and they'll do it all for nothing more than a pat on the head and an occasional 'good boy.'

Which is why I'm tempted to throat-punch people who hear about Fletcher and say something like 'I'd never go to all that trouble for a dog.'

Those people don't get it. Fletcher would walk through fire if he thought I was in trouble, or Karen. Maybe he's not such a whiz at math. Maybe he does not, and will never, wear pants.

But he's still an old and dear friend, who has literally spent his life at our side, never asking for a thing, always willing to give all.

So hurry up and get well, Fletch.  We miss you.

Good boy.

Care for a Quickie?

Gird thy loins, gentle reader, against this brief but patently self-serving blog post, in which I hawk Passing the Narrows.

If you're an Amazon Prime member (and if you bought a Fire in the last 30 days, you are), you can get Passing the Narrows for free, but only for the next 30 days.  Yes, I said free. Gratis. No charge.

I'm pricing Passing the Narrows at just 99 cents for anyone who isn't a Prime member but who might want to read it anyway.  Just click here to grab a copy for less than a buck.

What is Passing the Narrows about, you ask?

It's about the steamboat Yocona and her crew of defeated Confederates, who are forced to dare a haunted stretch of the Yazoo River on a dark and moonless night.  It's about loss and letting go, about triumph and redemption. It's about 5000 words, so you can read it in a single sitting.

Still not sure?

Here's the opening to Passing the Narrows:


      The Yocona surged ahead, paddle-wheel churning, cylinders beating like some great, frightened heart.
     "Dark as Hell and twiced as hot," muttered Swain from the shadows behind the clerk's map-table.
     A ragged chorus of ayes answered.  The Captain checked his pocket watch; ten o'clock sharp.  Old Swain and his hourly announcements hadn't lost a minute in twenty years.
     The Captain snapped his pocket watch shut and peered out into the darkness.  There, to port, loomed a hulking mass of shadow twice the height of any around it -- Cleary's Oak, last marker before the riverboat landing at Float.  "We're an hour from Float, Mr. Barker.  Notify the deck crew we'll be putting in for the night."
     "Aye, Cap'n."
     "She won't like that," said Swain, whispering.  "Fit to be tied, she'll be.  Full of fire and steam."
     "Who, Swain?"
     "You know who.  The wand-waver.  The Yankee."
     "Go back to sleep."
     "I heard her talkin' while the boys were hauling me up the deck," said Swain, gesturing with the stump of his missing right arm.  "Said she was aimin' to make Vicksburg 'fore the moon came again.  Said she
had orders, and papers, and -- "
     "I give the orders here, Swain.  Not any damn Yankee wand-wavers."
     Swain cackled.  The Yocona churned past Cleary's Oak, picking up speed as the Yazoo River turned narrow and straight. The Captain rang three bells, and the thump-thump-thump of the pistons slowed.
     The Yocona’s running lamps began to touch the trees on each bank of the Yazoo River.  Shadows whirled and twisted, caught mid-step in some secret dance before fleeing back into the impenetrable murk beyond the first rank of trees.  Some few seemed to run just ahead of the light, capering and tumbling like
shards of a nightmare given flesh and let loose to roam.
     The shadows reminded the Captain of Gettysburg and Oxford and a hundred other haunted ruins left in the wake of the War.  The Yazoo River was the only safe route through the countryside now, unless you
were a sorcerer, a Yankee, or a fool.
     "Eyes ahead, boys," said the Captain, softly.  "They're only there if you look."

If you want to keep reading, just go here.  It's a good story.  And free or 99 cents, you can't go wrong.

Enjoy!