The Crow Word for Snake

Tastes just like Diet Coke.

It's been a very busy week, here in the Valley of Unfinished Manuscripts. 

I envy the writers of old, who enjoyed leisurely days of writing interrupted only by rare changes of tweed jacket, trips to town to purchase more pipe tobacco, and delivering the odd Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech.

Which brings us to William Faulkner. Oxford is hosting the annual Faulkner Conference this week, which means the town is filled with Faulkner scholars eager to glean something new about the man and his writing.

There you go, Faulkner scholars. The secret ingredient to 'As I Lay Dying' revealed. Please leave a dollar in the tip jar on your way out.

Rowan Oak, Faulkner's legendary crib. See how I talk just like the young folks?

As a lifelong Oxonian, I've been to Faulker's Rowan Oak. It's a nice old house, and though it's close to Oxford's bustling Square it's so quiet and heavily wooded you'd think you stepped back in time.

Here's Faulkner's writing desk:

I took the pic. I still haven't figured out where he plugged his LED flatscreen monitor in, or what version of Word that old Underwood runs. I was glad to see Faulkner, like all burly he-men, eschewed use of the Mac.

Surprisingly, the elephants were life-sized.

I'm pretty sure that if Faulkner came back from the Great Beyond and saw my writing rig, he'd spit whiskey bottles and dangle participles in sheer unholy envy. The man typed everything, first draft to final, and he did all that before Liquid Paper was even invented. 

Not that ol' Bill couldn't think outside the box. You've probably heard that he was prone to write plot outlines on his walls -- well, he did, and here are the pictures I took of them:

That's the outline for 'A Fable.' The lore claims Faulkner's wife painted over the outline and Faulkner wrote the outline again over the fresh paint and then shellaced it to make sure new paint wouldn't stick.

I suspect the wall wasn't the only thing partaking of shellac during all this, but I wasn't there.

There is a story that Rowan Oak is haunted. The tale hits on most of the haunted house tropes -- star-crossed lovers, a stern father who refuses to grant his daughter's hand to a Yankee, broken hearts, suicide, anguish, all-around bad times. From that, it is said, a ghost arose, to walk the grounds at night.

It's hogwash, all of it. Faulkner himself made the story up just to watch it spread and grow. And, like his other stories, people have enjoyed it so much it persists to this day.

I myself have never written an outline on my walls. That's what Word is for, to preserve carefully-constructed outlines that you ignore in the end. 

THE CROW WORD FOR SNAKE

I like crows. They're smart, they're brave, and they have a certain dramatic fashion sense. I watch them, and listen to them, and over the years I've been able to make out what I believe are a few words of basic Crow.

Seriously, their calls are different. You've got the bored, half-hearted caw they croak out every five minutes or so in the heat of the day. You've got the strident, brief Caw! that I think says 'I see you, other crow.'

And around here, they have a word for snake. 

Look, this is Mississippi in the summertime. Rural Mississippi. Snakes are like clouds -- everywhere, most of the time, and best left where they are and observed from a safe distance.

But crows hate snakes. Let a single crow spot one, and within moments all his crow pals are gathered about, mobbing the slithering fiend in a wheeling, noisy circle of black wings and sharp eyes.

I managed to record a mob of crows circling a rat snake this afternoon. It's a short audio file, less than a minute. Hear what the crows have to say!

http://franktuttle.com/podcast1/crowword.mp3

As long as I'm posting audio files, here's another one. I took this one during the fireworks show on the 4th of July, so it has explosions and crowd noise. I know there are people out there who collect audio clips of such things, and if you are such a person, you can have this one, if you want it. Or, if you're at work, crank up the speakers and watch people jump...

http://franktuttle.com/podcast1/fireworks.mp3

AND NOW, FOR THE FEMURS....

Never gets booked for birthdays parties...

The image above? From the movie, of course. Just one image, without explanation. I will say that is one decidedly un-funny clown. 

It's the big shoes. They make one grumpy, and by grumpy I mean homicidal and deranged. 

As they say in the movie biz, that's a wrap. Got to get back to work, which won't be on a 1912 Underwood typewriter, and for that I am grateful.

A Cast of Thousands!

This was a most unusual week.

As I mentioned earlier, my friend Matthew Graves is making a movie based on a screenplay I wrote. We shot the short film this past week, in a three-day marathon run of night-time shooting.

I've agreed not to post any pics or reveal too many details. I will let it slip that I had a small part in the movie, which meant I got to experience make-up and be on the set for the filming.

It was a blast. One day I will post pics, and you'll get a laugh. But for now, I'll just mention some of the people who worked on the movie.

Johnny McPhail did an amazing job playing  -- oh, wait I can't say. Same with Rhes Low, who truly brought the role of <redacted> to life.

Everyone on the set worked very hard to make the movie a delight. When it premiers on Halloween this year, I'll make sure to provide links. I truly believe you'll love it.

Watching Johnny and Rhes bring my characters to life was an experience I'll never forget. It's one thing to imagine the characters, to see them in your mind's eye. But it's another entirely to see an actor put on a costume and make-up and assume the role. When those first words come out, it's a genuine thrill.

My time on the set did teach me a few things about being an actor.

FRANK'S TIPS FOR BIG-TIME MOVIE STARS SUCH AS FRANK:

1) The other actors grow agitated if you try to claim the food on the craft table is yours and charge them two bucks a slice for the pizza.

2) Don't giggle and say the words 'the cheese' each time the director yells 'cut.'

3) If you try to make your own fake Screen Actor's Guild card, sharpen the black crayon first.

4) Shakespearean soliloquies are a staple of dramatic presentation, true, but impromptu renditions of the dagger scene from Macbeth are best performed within the actual play, and not during a coffee shop scene in a romantic comedy.

5) Prop toilets don't flush.

6) Keep up morale on the set by spiking the bottled water with LSD. When your finished film turns out to consist of one hundred and eighty minutes of lens cap with an audio track of slurred mumbling, sell it to the SyFy channel, because at least it's not about mutant sharks.

7) When you first arrive on the set, immediately begin shouting orders to the gaffer. The resulting limp, bruises, and swollen right eye will cut make-up prep time for your hospital scene in Act IV in half.

8) Break up tension buy secretly replacing a random page of every script with a page from a SpongeBob SquarePants script. Listen as classically-trained actors attempt to read Squidward as the suicidal failed heavyweight boxer.

And fear not, gentle readers -- my role is small, and non-speaking, so I had no chance to goof things up. I'll wager most of you won't even be able to pick me out.

I'd like to take a moment and thank Karen and Matthew and Melissa and Rhes and Johnny and Cookie Chris and Laura and Greg and Andy and Daniel and Ben and *inhale* everyone else who worked on the movie.

It was a pleasure, and I can't wait for everyone to see the fruits of our labor.

OTHER NEWS: REVIEWS IN THE WILD

Google Alerts let me know my book All the Paths of Shadow got another review! You can see the review by Olga Godim at Silk Screen Reviews. I was pleased, both with the review and the fact that Google Alerts wasn't showing me yet another torrent site where book pirates are stealing my books.

YET MORE OTHER NEWS: THIS YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE

All I can say about the following item is that it is in fact true. I kid around on this blog a lot, but this is no joke.

On Tuesday, I'll be giving a brief presentation at the Center for Intelligence and Security Studies (CISS) here on the University of Mississippi campus. I was asked to speak as an author of speculative and fantasy fiction, and give my take on the uses of surveillance and intelligence gathering in science fiction and fantasy.

Now, at first, you may think to yourself 'What? Surveillance and intelligence gathering in fantasy? Are you into the mushrooms again, Tuttle?'

No. I'm not. I think I'll post the text of my remarks here next week, so you can see what I mean.

FINAL BUT MOST IMPORTANT WORDS

You're a reader. I'm a reader. We're both readers.

And what do readers love?

In my case, whole bags of cheeseburgers, illegal moonshine whiskey, and yodeling. But I'm talking about books. Good books.

Good books for free?

That's enough to make me drop my cheeseburger and spill my whiskey and push the yodeler off the cliff. And you can get some great free books by clicking on the link to Maria Schneider's Bear Mountain books blog, where she is making Under Which Ghost (A Moon Shadow series short) free for you to enjoy!

Please check out the series. They're great -- you've got witches and vamps and werewolves and love, but without all the sappy soap opera filling that is choking Certain Other paranormal outings (I'm looking at you, True Blood on HBO).

Seriously, grab a free copy! Maria is a great writer.

And now I'm out. It's back to work for me, as soon as I get this make-up scrubbed off my face...

The No. 7 Fireworks Embalming Pump Mail-Order Skeleton, And Others!

Find a nice comfy chair, boys and girls, because tonight's blog is one of the long ones.

Fortunately for you, most of the length is composed of photographs. As long-time readers of the blog know, I am fascinated by fireworks, and tend to get excessively camera-happy around the 4th of July.

This year was no different. Indeed, I had three cameras trained on the sky. Two were digital, one was film. The only film processing shop in Oxford is closed until they get parts in for their developer, so you will spared the film photos, at least.

And for a treat, I'm featuring photos taken by a real photographer on a real camera as well as my own amateur offerings. Karen Tuttle, who many suspect may be my wife, took her Canon Rebel SLR to the fireworks show, and got some truly amazing shots.

But before we get to the exploding things, let's take a brief detour into the past. Our vehicle will be a comic book I unearthed while searching for an old solenoid. The comic's cover is gone, so I don't know the name of the series or even the year, but I suspect it to be from around 1969, because that is the year I learned that Life is fundamentally hostile and that no good can come of it.

SKELETONS ARE A BOY'S BEST FRIEND

Direct your gaze onto the advertisement below. Try to see it through the eyes of a bookish six year old who loves all things strange and eerie.

Oh yeah. This is the stuff dreams are made of...

Life-sized monsters. Seven feet tall. SEVEN FEET TALL. That's tall, people. With glowing eyes! Reaching hands! Imagine the terror, indeed.

For a dollar.

Did I absolutely have to have a seven-foot-tall glowing skeleton of my very own?

Why yes. Yes I did.

So I shoved a buck thirty-five into an envelope and checked 'Boney the Skeleton' and the clock on my frantic little life came to an abrupt and screeching halt the instant that envelope hit the bottom of the mailbox.

I'd never wanted anything so bad in all my life. I went to sleep dreaming of the fun Boney and I would have! We'd stroll around town, scaring Hell out of everyone. We'd sit out on the porch and wave to horrified passers-by. We'd be the terrible talk of my tame little town, and if any kid came around with some lame Frankenstein's monster we'd knock his block off.

That is what I dreamed. Such thoughts consumed my every waking moment. And oh, did the moments drag. The ad didn't include the traditional admonition to allow six to eight weeks for delivery. How many hours did I spend, pondering the significance of that mysterious omission? Did the fine creators of Boney the Skeleton rush their sinister creations to the happy owners in a matter of mere days, instead? Was there, even now, a dark, unmarked truck speeding through the night toward Oxford, an eager Boney at the wheel?

Hours dragged. Days crept. Weeks crawled.

Moment by agonizing moment, I waited for my skeleton friend's arrival, forsaking all lesser concerns.

One Week. Two weeks. Three weeks, four. I lost my appetite. Lost interest in all things unrelated to the subtle click of clever bones.

Five weeks. Six weeks. Seven weeks, more. My eyes developed dark circles beneath the lids. I walked with a slump. Dragged my feet. How long, I wondered, so often the very words left paths in my brain. How long must I endure this never-ending sojourn through darkness?

Then, on rainy Tuesday afternoon in September, my mother met me at the door, smiling the smile of a relieved but patient parent.

I knew. I knew without words that Boney had arrived!

He was home, home at last, all seven glorious glowing feet of him! All 206 intricately connected phalanges and metacarpals and femurs and mandibles!

I was alone no more.

I was....complete.

I raced into the kitchen, sure Boney would be seated at the table, waiting to give me a cold but friendly embrace.

Instead, atop the tiny Formica eating table, sat an envelope.

An envelope. Thick, yes, and larger than the usual bills that came to us.

But only an envelope. No more for more than a single toe-bone. If that.

Mom must have recognized my confusion.

"It's from the right place," she said. "Open it! You've waited so long."

My mind raced. All right, I thought, though I'm sure I didn't use those words. Boney's delivery has been delayed. Or maybe they send a letter ahead before the actual skeleton arrives. Yes, I decided, as I tore into the paper. That must be it. It's a warning, so people won't be frightened.

Mom moved to my side.

So she was right there, for that awful moment when I removed the contents of the envelope, watched them unfold in my hand, and realized that Boney, my magnificent life-sized seven-foot-tall skeleton friend, Boney of the glowing eyes and the reaching hands, was nothing more than a cheap piece of plastic with a crude rendering of a skeleton painted upon it.

I do remember quite clearly thinking this:

Life-sized. They said it was life-sized. That means sized like life, with height and width and thickness.

They lied. The lying liars lied.

I dropped Boney on the kitchen floor and started bawling.

The weight of every moment of the long agonizing wait fell over me like a tidal wave. I had to say goodbye to my skeleton pal Boney forever, because there really wasn't any magic at all in the world, not even for a dollar plus thirty-five cents shipping, not even from storied New York.

Mom is gone now. Boney, who I kept, flaked away into bits of dust decades ago. I turned quickly past all the ads in my comic books, because after that I knew darned well Sea Monkeys didn't wear festive outfits and build little cities in your fish-bowl, and X-Ray Specs were just cheap plastic frames with concentric circles drawn on the lenses. No. Those were merely more lies. The world is what you see, nothing more. Jobs and bills and tired Dads and worried Moms and pets that sometimes never came home.

And all that came rushing back when I lifted that old comic book out of a stack of cast-offs and saw that ad again.

I still miss ya, Boney my skeleton pal.  Maybe one day.

Maybe.

This is life before the Internet, kids. Count your blessings.

THE SUPERIOR EMBALMING PUMP No. 7 SPECIAL

As I've mentioned before, my friend Matthew Graves is making another movie. Entitled The Embalming,
it's a macabre little film which will debut during the Oxford Film Festival next February.

I got to build a couple of the props for the movie. An embalming pump will be featured in several shots, as well as the sign on the door of the mortuary at which all the action takes place.

Building weird movie props turned out to be a lot of fun. The pump is actually just an old electrical box joined with a clear dog food tub, some hoses, a few lights and switches, and the contents of my cast-off plumbing parts drawer. But it pumps goo, and it looks appropriately creepy, if I do say so myself. But you be the judge!

There are some stains even Formula 49 won't touch.

If your initial reaction was 'yuck,' I've done my job. Now imagine the fluid tank filled with a bubbling concoction of syrup, old coffee, soup, and maybe just a dash of clam bits. Add bubbles, and presto! Instant gag reflex.

The stains are actually a mixture of mineral spirits and hardened mahogany wood stain, with some splashes of melted black crayon and floor dirt rubbed in. Not sure if you can read the label in this pic, but it claims the pump was made by Superior Embalming Pumps of Arkham, Massachusetts, as a shout-out to H.P. Lovecraft.

The guts of the device. I know, real guts would have been more impressive, but Karen says they stink up the place.

That's the pump that makes the whole rig work. My cordless drill powers it, so even if my lines spring a leak mid-shoot no one gets electrocuted.

And here's the sign!

I'm proud of that sign. I did the text, the fonts, the graphics, and had them printed on a clear vinyl decal (thanks Vistaprint!). The frame is wood, and aged to look a bit weathered, but better maintained than the pump.

Sorry for the reflection in the image!

But now, let's see some THINGS EXPLODE IN THE FREAKING SKY!

THINGS WHAT EXPLODE IN THE FREAKING SKY!

First, Karen's pics, because she has a good eye and a good camera. I have a good eye too, but I keep it in a jar in a safe deposit box.

That Canon Rebel never ceases to amaze me. Look at the detail it captured, without a hint of blur. Go on, blow it up -- incredible.

Same here, and here. The optics can capture so much so quickly.

Karen really needs her own webpage of pics. I think she said she shot 800 during that single fireworks show.  I'm just not that fast. Speaking of which....

AMATEUR HOUR

I took my cameras, too. I've got a Fujifilm S1000that I put on a tripod and set for long exposures. I've tried this before, with no success, but this time I captured a couple of images I liked.

Here's the first one:

Boom.

The smoke, the flash, the colors -- okay, it's not National Geographic worthy, but it's pretty cool.

Below is another one from the S1000:

Neat, huh? Not everything is in perfect focus, but I like it anyway.

I had friends on that Death Star!

My other camera is a much older 5 megapixel box I've had for years. But it takes great pics. Here are a few it captured.

Boom. Hope you enjoyed the fireworks, sorry about the skeleton, and wash your hands thoroughly after each use of the Superior Embalming Pump No. 7 Special featuring High Pressure Cavity Inject.

Shooting for the movie starts this week, so expect some pics from the set next weekend!

Until then, don't pin your hopes on mail-order skeletons, son, because they'll burn you every time...

Markhat is Grinning Tonight!

Fig. A: Inside the author's mind, which is almost always in a tree.

I have some very good news!

My fearless beta reader, the tireless and eagle-eyed Kellie, has read the first draft of the new Markhat novel.

Her verdict: It's a good book. The word 'loved' was used.

You may have heard my sigh of relief all the way from Mississippi.

I was terrified the series was going the way of so many others and getting stale. She said The Five Faces  avoids that entirely, which is exactly what I intended to avoid. She saw what I doing, even though I didn't tell her beforehand, and that makes me very happy indeed.

So. I'll make another thorough pass while reviewing her comments. If I feel another passes (or ten more) are required, I'll make them too. But hopefully The Five Faces will be off to the publisher for their consideration very soon.

I won't lie to you. Every time I finish a story or a book a mean little voice starts whispering from the cluttered corners in the back of my mind. "Oh, they'll all see what a fraud you are this time, they will," it says, in Gollum's voice, of course. "Know you for the poser and the no-talent hack you are, they will!"

"Why do you sound like Yoda?" I ask. That usually shuts it up for a few minutes, but by then the damage is done.

I'm not alone in harboring persistent doubts. Every writer I know endures that same little voice, from time to time.

I keel you! I keel your career!

After all, what we do is so very subjective. It is entirely possible -- heck, it's inevitable -- that one will find intelligent, educated, tasteful people who will love Book X, and persons with the very same qualities who will loathe Book X.

Which doesn't mean Book X is bad, necessarily. Or that it's good, for that matter. It simply proves the old adage 'you can't please everyone.'

There are plenty of good books which are despised by many. Any Harry Potter title, for instance. And plenty of bad books which are much beloved -- I'm looking at you, Fifty Shades of Grey, and by the way put some pants on.

I understand that. I know not everyone is going to love my books. And that's fine. I don't rail and shout and argue when I get bad reviews.

If the reviewer has a valid point, I try to remember it, and do things better the next time around.  TEACHING MOMENT, for my writing class students: Don't EVER argue with a reviewer, particularly online. Don't even respond, not even to say thanks, because (in my opinion) the review area is for readers, not writers.

Your baby, your book, is on its own. Let it stand on its own two metaphorical feet. Let it fight its own mighty battles of analogy.

You, the writer, should be so consumed by work on your next project you're barely aware of reviews anyway.

Isn't that right, writing class peeps?

But I digress. The little nattering whispers of negativity I'm talking about tonight come from inside.

Those, you must absolutely ignore.

Writing is a lot like walking a high wire, except of course most writing is not done with one's feet. Once you're out there on the line, you've got nothing to keep you going but your wits, your balance, and most of all your nerve. If you start focusing on the whispers that tell you your next step is your last, you are going to fall.

Sure, you're not on a wire stretched hundreds of feet in the air, and the worst thing that will happen physically is a dropped participle, but your act comes to a screeching halt in both instances.

I've learned to all but silence that nasty little voice while I'm working on a project. But once I'm done, here's how my mental processes usually proceed:

Stage One: Euphoria. The book is done. Done, and I love it. I am clearly a genius. A prodigy. Future generations will praise my name and sell Frank Tuttle bobbleheads in the Tuttle Writing Museum Gift Shoppe. Another novel complete. Parades, confetti, and the really expensive Ramen noodles with the added flavor packets all around!

Stage Two: Evaluation. Sure, the book is done, but is it any good? Frantic re-reads. Edits. Re-writes. Repeat of Step One, if the book is deemed worthy. Adoption of air of quiet confidence.

BOOK SUBMITTED HERE

Stage Three: Night of the Panics. OMG what was I thinking? Did I really send that manuscript off? Is it too late to recall the email CANIDESTROYTHEENTIREINTERNETTOPREVENTITSRECEPTION where are my PILLS where are my PILLS AAAAAAGH.

Stage Three usually only lasts about half an hour, but it always occurs at 3:33 AM and is accompanied by an inexplicable apparition of Isaac Asimov shaking his head at me in profound disappointment

Maybe I should stop picking my own mushrooms.

Anyway, I am now firmly in the midst of Stage Two with The Five Faces. I am bolstered by Kellie's appraisal of the book; while my cruel little voice freely questions my judgment, it cannot dismiss hers.

So ha ha, little voice. Maybe the Markhat series will someday jump the shark and lurch to an unseemly end, but that day is not today.

WARNING GRAPHIC IMAGERY AHEAD

Well, sort of.

I'm building a prop for a friend of mine, the talented and lovely Mr. Matthew Graves, who makes documentaries as well as movies. Matthew needs an embalming pump for use in his upcoming film The Embalming, so I'm whipping one up from bits of this and chunks of that.

Now, when you see the picture you'll probably think 'Yuck what a disgusting object. It's filthy. I hates it, I do, nasty Hobbitsess with their thieving little handses..."

And I'll point out that we're both far too familiar with Gollum-speak.

But yes, the pump is dirty. It's supposed to be. There's an art to making things look dirty, by the way. I use a thin film of Elmer's Glue, spread by hand, followed quickly by a liberal dumping of a just-filled dustpan on the housing. Blow off the big stuff, let the dust stick, and viola, instant dirt (the glue dries clear).

Soon, the pump will be bubbling with a disgusting fluid, which shall be a viscous mixture of water, clam chowder, black coffee, syrup, and tomato juice. The soggy grey bits of clam -- oh, they add so much delightful texture, as they whirl past in the clear tank...

I plan to use hand-pumps to make the mixture flow and bubble. Matthew said he could add a mechanical whir in post-production.

So, without further adieu, the prototype pump, still under construction:

Not UL Approved.

Finally, and on a wildly unrelated note, let me share with you a comment made by one of my writing class students, who yawned as I expounded on the merits of showing, not telling, and then explained herself thusly:

"Sorry, Mr. Tuttle, but I stop listening when you start monologuing."

So let that be a lesson to me. No more monologuing! Instead, I shall speak from the heart, and also carry a small but powerful taser, because no one likes absolute honesty.

That's all for this week. Take care, people, and remember -- if you can't get real congealed blood from a rotting corpse, syrup and black coffee will suffice.

Walk Like an Egyptian

First of all, gentle readers, allow me to introduce a new member of the Tuttle writing team.

Bear Kingsley, seated center, says hello.

Now, long-time fans already know Mr Bones (seated, skeleton right) and Mr. Skull (resting left). Please say hello to new bear Kingsley, who came to me all the way from the UK courtesy of my friend Sue Sadler.

Sue, please know that Kingsley is quite happy in his new home. Mr. Skull and Mr. Bones are thrilled to have someone new to talk to, and it turns out even British stuffed bears have remarkably melodious accents. So thanks! I need all the inspiration I can get!

Speaking of Egypt (yeah, we weren't, but clever transitions are the first to go when I've got a headache), there is disturbing news out about the place. No, I don't mean political unrest -- I mean the old gods awake from slumber, plagues of locusts, a hundred days of darkness kind of disturbing. 

I refer to this news item, which reports that a 4,000 year old Egyptian statue has been observed turning in circles inside its sealed glass case.

That's right, people. The Curse of the Mummy's Tomb is awake! It will not rest until it has VENGEANCE!

Or until they slip some rubber vibration dampers under the case. Or VENGEANCE! You've got to admit that's more dramatic than simple motion transfer. I suppose if one wanted one could combine the two, and assert that the angered statue is seeking vengeance by turning in slow circles inside its case when heavy traffic passes by, but that lacks a certain Old Testament flair.

Anyway, here's a link to the story of the moving statue, and since the source is The Sun, you know it's the unvarnished truth.... 

NEW FEATURE: NAME THAT HAIRY BUG!

Many claim Nature is filled with multitudinous wonders.

I say Nature is full of bugs.

Think I'm wrong? Turn over a rock. Look under a log. Leave a pristine fried egg sandwich out on a clean white plate for 30 seconds. I don't care if your plate rests on a table inside a sealed nuclear confinement chamber deep inside a super-secret Shadow Government Doomsday project, a fly will land on that sandwich even if it has to crawl through sixteen miles of hot glowing magma to get there.

Because that's what bugs do.

I was out with my camera earlier when I spied a white fuzzy crawling thing making its way up the trunk of the massive silver birch tree in the backyard. I watched the white fuzzy crawling thing for a moment, because MY LIFE IS TRULY THAT BORING, and maybe some bug sixth sense warned the caterpillar it was being observed because it ducked beneath a piece of bark.

I set my trusty Fuji for near-field and took the following shots:

Bloody paparazzi, can't crawl anywhere these days...

It seems Mr. White Hairy Bug has friends! They watched me watching them, waving their antenna in what I can only assume was a friendly greeting.

Despite my expert wilderness tracking skills (I once found an open Wendy's burger joint without using a GPS, in a light misting rain), I couldn't name these creepy-crawlies. So I went to the net, and found that we are viewing a cluster of common caterpillars called F. Horriblis Terriblis, which will spend 120 days in the caterpillar stage before entering a cocoon and ultimately emerging as:

Yeah, a can of Raid isn't going to work here...

On the upside of having a monster gestating in the backyard, that really should end our mole problem once and for all.

BEHOLD, THE SUPERMOON!

Nature isn't all about deadly bugs who seek to consume our tender, tasty flesh.

It's also filled with enormous celestial bodies careening towards our fair planet, intent on smashing it into molten, lifeless bits.

Even the Moon gets in on the act, now and then. You see, the Lunar orbit is, despite what you've been told, wildly variable. Sometimes the Moon comes within sixteen miles of the Earth's surface. Sometimes it veers off course and threatens to hurl us screaming into the sun. It has even been known to hit your eye like a big pizza pie (what astronomers call 'an amore').

That's all according to the History Channel, at least. Which should be re-named the 'Aliens Are Here to Kill Us All' Channel, and should be put next to 'Dim-Witted Rednecks With Too Many Regressive Genes' channel (formerly TLC) in the lineup.

The truth is that this weekend's so-called 'supermoon' was basically indistinguishable from your run-of-the-mill Joe Six-pack workaday moon. Yes, it was at its orbital near point to us, but we're talking a truly small measure of near.

But hey, it was a clear night, so I stepped outside with 35 billion biting, stinging, gnawing bugs and had a look.

I even took photos, as seen below, in the stunning image NASA DOESN'T WANT YOU TO SEE!

Bonus points to anyone who can correctly explain the significance of this genuine, un-retouched image! Heck I'll send a signed copy of THE BROKEN BELL to the first one to email me with the name of the pipe-smoking man in the image. 

Maybe the next supermoon, I'll remember to adjust for the Moon's inherent brightness, so I won't wind up with 62 pics of a featureless white disc. Nice going there, Frank!

MYSTERY SOLVED!

A few of you may recall mention of a local 'best of' contest here in my hometown of Oxford, last week.

Here's a link back to the blog entry concerning that.

But that's not the end of the story! It seems that a number of Oxonians, upon reading my name in the local paper as winning the Best Local Writer title, called and emailed the local paper's editor asking just who the heck this Frank Tuttle character is.

There was, it seems, suspicion that I am not even real.

Face it, there's something fishy about this Tuttle character...

That suspicion stems from an old episode of the TV show MASH. In that episode, Hawkeye and Trapper created a fictitious captain named Frank Tuttle and diverted all his pay to the local orphanage. 

All was well until the Army press caught wind of the selfless and heroic Captain Tuttle. Hawkeye and crew then faked the Captain's death to get out of the mess they created.

So naturally, forty years after that episode aired, a few of my fellow citizens decided I was nothing more than the long-planned realization of that TV trope.

The editor of the paper (The Oxford Eagle) called me and we had a good laugh verifying my existence. You can see the start of the story that ran last week here.

So that mystery, at least, is solved. I am me, and I have the paperwork to prove it. 

Unless I forged all that too....bwahahahahaha.

In writing news, well, I have plenty. The first draft of the new Markhat is out with my fearless beta-reader, who is even now probably trying to think of a gentle way to tell me I jumped the shark on Book Number Eight.

The new Meralda and Mug, which is entitled All the Turns of Light, is officially underway! So I beg just a little more patience from fans of that series. I promise it won't be long!

That's all for this week. Be sure to tune in next Sunday for more awe-inspiring pictures of things I find crawling around and inexcusably overexposed images of Earth's closet neighbor, the planet Krypton.

Not Bad For an Old Dude

Fig. 1: The author.

As you can see, I'm holding up quite well, despite just turning fifty. Could use a manicure, but Mrs. Chan just screams and runs when I enter the nail salon these days. Must be my new hairstyle.

A few weeks ago, the local paper (the venerable and always informative Oxford Eagle) ran a contest to name the 'best of' Oxford in various categories. One of the categories was writer.

Oxford is home to a number of renowned authors, both living and dead. William Faulkner lived, worked, and drank here, usually simultaneously. John Grisham was an Oxonian for a long time before moving away. Barry Hannah was a instructor on campus. Ace Adkins lives not far from me. These are big names with powerful followings, so I never expected to be mentioned.

But the votes were counted, and somehow I won the thing!

I'm not accustomed to seeing my name appear in a larger font than that of John Grisham. So, to all the locals who voted for me, THANK YOU! And I'd also like to point out that my status as a living author has been confirmed by the professional press. So put the mallets and the wooden stakes away. I'm just pale, people. And a lot of men wear capes nowadays. Fashions change.

The first edit of the new Markhat book continues. I hope to wrap it up this week. I'm eager to finish it and get started on the new Meralda and Mug book, All the Turns of Light.

ON THE TURNTABLE

But Frank you ask, in a stunning non sequitur of a transition, what music are you listening to right now?

Glad you asked, because I have a new album to rave about! See the cover below...

Yep, if you thought you recognized the name, you probably did -- Natalie Maines is/was the lead singer for the apparently dormant country group The Dixie Chicks.

I'm not a huge fan of country music. But some voices transcend genre, and Miss Maines is one of those rare talents.

Mother is a solo album, and of course my favorite track of the album (and I mean album as in vinyl, baby) is her version of Pink Floyd's legendary Mother.

But that's not to say the other songs are less worthy. Each is a tour de force. Maines can sing anything -- rock, folk, country, it doesn't matter. She sounds amazing just standing there silent. Yeah. That good.

The last time I was this happy with an album was when I first heard AA Bondy's brilliant When The Devil's Loose.

Look, I'm one of those hard-core nutjobs who believes vinyl recordings capture some magical essence of music that digital media simply misses. Mother is loaded with that special kind of musical magic. The songs soar. They march. They float effortlessly. They resound.

Gargoyle and Dragon approve!

The moods range from happy to melancholy to wistful to sad and back again. The quality of the recordings is top-notch. Listening to this record is akin to being hot and filthy and exhausted and being treated to a sudden cool rain. Or a sandwich and a beer. I'm trying to say it's a genuine journey, laid down with soulful sounds.

Do I recommend this album? Yes. Yes I do, in the strongest possible terms. If you have to crawl through swamps and bite snakes in half the whole way just so you can use the carcass to swat away giant leeches while fighting off mutant flaming crocodiles do so and get this album. It will be worth the effort, and anyway I for one could use the exercise.

I hope another album is in the works.

Natalie Maines, it's good to have you back.

I should get back to editing now. So all you crazy kids go listen to some good music while you read a good book, and I'll see you back here next Sunday!

A Post Five Decades in the Making

© packo michael | Dreamstime Stock Photos

I turn 50 tomorrow.

The rational part of me realizes any birthday is simply an arbitrary and entirely artificial milestone that has no relevance beyond the realm of cheesy birthday cards. My fiftieth birthday? It's just a number. I'll be no different tomorrow than I am today, on any meaningful level.

The irrational part of me (roughly 89% of my makeup) is running in panicked circles screaming bloody murder because I may no longer count myself among the young.

Sadly, I resemble both images.

Face it, man, when you start getting those AARP membership forms every couple of weeks, the needle on your YOUTHFUL TIME REMAINING METER just fell into the red, hit the zero, spat gears, and started smoking.

Too, I'm attracting a lot of interest from buzzards lately. I get the feeling they're eyeing me with regards to how much oregano they need to have handy.

© Odm | Dreamstime Stock Photos
So what do weigh? 190? 200? Just asking, no reason...

Of course there are upsides to growing older. Really, there are. I'll list them all below:

• Yep. Ought to be something written here.
• Here too.
• This is a lot harder than it looks.
• I give up.

Now, if anyone wants to give me a birthday present, go to Amazon and review one of my books if you haven't already. Especially Brown River Queen. That would be so awesome of you I'd start rocking faster in my squeaky old rocking chair.

Grim reminders of impending mortality aside, I do have one bit of news for Markhat fans. Drumroll and fireworks please:

Boom.

The first draft of the new Markhat novel, currently entitled THE FIVE FACES, is finished!

Finished. Done. Complete. Yes, it's only a first draft, but it is done.

The village mob seems pleased.

Now, if anyone believes that a completed first draft is subjected to a cursory spell-check and then shipped straight to the printer, I have bad news. Because that's not at all how the process works. 

This first draft, beloved though it is, is flawed. Deeply flawed. It's full of typos and poorly-chosen words and scenes that don't work and plot holes I can nearly shove my old-man electric mobility scooter through. 

My work on it is far from done.  

I'll start by doing a cold read, beginning to end, making notes as I go. Then I'll address plot holes and big issues. Once that's done, I start again, this time looking for scenes that don't work. Again, to check dialog. 

Then again with spelling and word choice.  

By this time, I'll be so sick of the book I'll need to pass it off to my fearless beta reader Kellie, who will wade into the fray and no doubt laugh at my authorial shortcomings.

Only after that will the completed manuscript get anywhere near an editor, because A) I'd rather publishing industry professionals not realize the true depth of my incompetence and B) See A.

But, even with all the work that goes into editing and revising, completing that first draft is all-important. Without the first draft, without all its warts and faults, there can never be a final book.

So, as I look back on a half-century of life, I can at least say I wrote a few books. I hope people have enjoyed them. 

Well, I'm off to start the edits. Here's to another fifty years of avoiding prosecution!

Cheers, all. Have a good week!

Found Money and Lost Plots

First of all, a yellow-green ladybug perched on a flower!

I attempted to interview the ladybug, but it turns out they aren't fans of social media. Who knew insects could even make that gesture?

If you read last week's blog, you may remember the bird I couldn't quite identify. Well, I got a good close look at her this week, and she's a mockingbird, complete with distinctive wing-stripes.

The first draft of the new Markhat book is nearing its end. We're talking the last ten thousand words or less, which means it's time for the big dust-up and the aftermath.

I'll certainly finish up this month, and get a good running start on the next book, which will be the sequel to All the Paths of Shadow. I plan to finish it within the year as well.

I'm eager to wrap up the last few scenes of The Five Faces (the new Markhat book) and do a re-read from start to finish. I have a nagging suspicion this book is going to go down as the darkest in the series thus far. I'm not sure why it wound up that way, but it certainly has. All necessary, of course, because this book deals with some intense subject matter -- Markhat is forced to relive some of his experiences as a dog handler during the War, for instance. He and his dog Petey explored Troll tunnels, hunting owl-eyed giants down deep in the dark. There's absolutely no humor to be found there.

An exploration of free will versus pre-ordained fate also crept into the plot. I won't even give you a hint as to where I land on that.

Oh, and here's a hint for my writing class -- don't EVER write yourself into a corner that requires you to solve the 'Grandfather Paradox.' Talk about a headache! But I believe it was worth it, because it really lent the ending quite a punch.

A start-to-finish cold read of a newly-written novel is necessary for a number of reasons. My primary mission on my first read is to seek out and resolve instances of what my friend Denise Vitola calls pocket amnesia.

Denise describes pocket amnesia as it relates to writers in her blog Thomas Talks to Me. Her entry on pocket amnesia describes the phenomena as akin to unexpectedly finding a twenty dollar bill in a jacket pocket. Yes, you left the twenty there, and yes, it was important (because to all the writers I know, a twenty dollar bill is something that happens most often to other people), and yes, you completely forgot about it as soon as you took off that jacket and stored it away for the winter.

Think of chapters as jackets, and the twenty as a plot element, and then wipe that smile off your face because the literary form of pocket amnesia isn't nearly as much fun as the money-finding kind.

It's like this. Say I state in Chapter Five that my hero, Markhat, is allergic to shellfish, but in Chapter Ten, I sit him down to a lobster dinner.

That's a simple example of pocket amnesia. That one is easily fixed; either omit the allergy reference altogether, or serve beef in Chapter Ten.

The danger, of course, lies in not catching the problem in the first place, and winding up looking careless and inattentive to your editor. In extreme instances, you might also find yourself facing an insurmountable plot conflict -- what if I established, in Book Two, that vampires can always tell when a human is lying, but the pivotal scene in my current book, Book Eight, relies entirely on all-too-human Markhat successfully lying to a vampire?

You can't go back and re-write the previous book. Gutting your current book is tantamount to applying sandpaper to your own tongue. But despite the work and the pain involved, the problem has to be fixed.

Not that I suspect I've done anything quite that disastrous. But the fear is always lurking, a constant companion on that perilous first reading of a first draft.

What if I've neglected to address some fatal plot flaw? What if this entire intricate plot is about to collapse, flying apart like a house of cards in a whirlwind?

And people wonder why we writers are such a morose, glaring bunch. It's because we're always just a few words, a single turn of phrase, between fame and infamy.

Okay, that's a bit melodramatic, especially in light of the irrefutable fact that most of us are so far from actual Fame we'd have to buy time on the Hubble Space Telescope just to get a distant glimpse.

It's either Fame or Fomalhaut, either way, I can't make out much detail...

But we are always at risk of losing that precious unspent twenty-dollar bill.

And for the modern writer, that's a sum we can ill afford to gamble.

Wish me luck this week! I will of course post a bonus IT IS FINISHED WOOHOO post as soon as I type the last word.