If You've Seen My Brain, Please Send it Straight Home

IN WHICH I USE NEARLY 3% OF MY BRAIN

Fig. 1: The author's renegade brain.

As the old saying goes, some days it's simply not worth the trouble to chew through the leather straps and get out of bed.

Today has been one of those days, where writing is concerned. I sat down to write this blog at precisely 2:39 PM. It is now 6:06 PM. I have completed, let's see, 38 words.

Here's my effort laid out in a timeline:

2:39 PM -- Open file. Note that empty white space must be filled with squiggly things.

2:46 PM -- Words. That's what the squiggly things are called. Glad we got that settled. 

2:47 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

2:54 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

2:59 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

3:04 PM -- It is the fingers I use to type with, right? I know I've done this before, but for some reason everything seems foreign right now. Have a I skipped a step? Am I missing a lizard? Is there a song I'm supposed to hum?

3:09 PM -- Close file. Take in deep breathe. Hold, exhale, let the bad air out. Focus. Center myself. 

3:16 PM -- Krampus. I should write about Krampus, the Old World evil companion to jolly old St. Nick. 

3:17 PM -- Right, because there aren't already a zillion blogs out this time of year yammering away about some obscure Austrian tradition nobody outside of Austria has ever heard of. Yeah, THAT would be original.

3:19 PM -- Resolve to simply skip the blog tonight. Better no entry that a bad one.

3:20 PM -- Ha! If you skip post one you'll skip another and then another and soon your blog will join the millions of other abandoned blogs on the Island of Misfit Toys, how could you do that you complete bastard.

3:22 PM -- Is Krampus really that bad of a subject? I mean, it's creepy, there are a lot of cool pics I could post, and there's even a series of hilarious Austrian speed-metal Krampus carols people might enjoy....

3:23 PM -- Shut up about the Krampus! No more with the Krampus. 

3:24 PM -- Fine. Fine. How about you come up with something, Mr. I Know Precisely What The Readers Want to Read?

3:25 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

3:32 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

3:46 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

3:57 PM -- Fingers hang dramatically above keyboard.

4:04 PM -- All bloody right, do the Krampus thing.

4:05 PM -- No. The moment has passed. How about the Voynich Manuscript?

4:06 PM -- You did that already, back in 2012.

4:07 PM -- Darn. Okay, I've got it, I'll post another letter from my Muse, grumpy old whatshername.

4:08 PM -- Those weren't really all that funny. 

4:09 PM -- Are you sure? I thought they were. People seemed to like them.

4:10 PM -- Trust me, they were just being nice. We need something new.

4:11 PM -- We could just play BioShock Infinite.

4:12 PM -- Shut up.

4:13 PM -- Just for half an hour. 

4:14 PM -- SHUT. UP.

5:52 PM -- What? Where'd all that time go?

5:53 PM -- You were staring. See, if we'd played BioShock, we'd have at least fired off a shotgun or two.

5:59 PM -- What if we played BioShock and recorded our session and supplied humorous commentary?

6:00 PM -- Then you'd be Conan O'Brien, and no offense, but you ain't him.

6:01 PM -- Point.

6:05 PM -- Look, I've got an idea. We make a timeline, see, and fill it out. That could be funny. 

6:06 PM -- Should have gone with Krampus.

MIDSOUTHCON NEWS

If anyone attends MidSouthCon, and if you can you should because it's a blast, it can now be revealed that I have been asked to serve as the Toastmaster for the 2015 MidSouthCon 33!

Already, I am assembling my entourage. If you're interested in joining, the following positions are still open:

• Man-At-Arms. Must be of large build and imposing nature. Primary duties include clearing a path to the meat tray in the snack room and, um, okay that's pretty much the only primary duty. Knowledge of Klingon, first aid, and room layout of the Memphis Hilton are required.
• Food Tester. Applicant must sample suspect food offerings to ensure they do not contain healthy, wholesome, or otherwise non-fried components or ingredients. The successful applicant can locate, by smell alone, a sealed bag of cheeseburgers hidden anywhere within a 500 foot radius.
• Sycophants, Yes-Men, and Yes-Women. Position requires a minimum of three skilled individuals who excel at verbal communication. See the movie 'The Fifth Element' and Ruby Rod's associates for model sycophant behavior. Ability to vary verbal inflections when saying the phrase "Yes, Frank, you are exactly right" is a MUST.
• Groupies and Hangers-On. Twelve positions. Successful hires must be able to either play a musical instrument or hum along with my personal theme music (TBD) when I enter a room. Squealing and clapping skills are also required.

All salaries are commensurate with experience, and are paid in the internal currency of The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim.

Buy me please

AREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING A BOOK?

Why yes, yes I am.

Progress on THE DARKER CARNIVAL continues. Not today, of course, but I wrote every night last week except the evening of the Christmas parade.

Here's a random couple of paragraphs, right out of the first draft:

FROM THE DARKER CARNIVAL

"Welcome to my world," he said, smiling a toothless little smile. "I am Ubel Thorkel, master of Dark's Diverse Delights. My men tell me you write for a newspaper." He nodded at the paper I clutched in my hands. "May I see it?"

I handed it to him. "I am Mortimer Bustman, city desk," I said. He didn't offer to shake hands and neither did I. "People in Rannit are curious about your carnival."

He sat, opening and holding the paper so that I could no longer see his face. 

"Are they now," he said. 

"Oh, they are indeed," I replied. "Mr. Thorkel, do you have any idea how many Rannites start each day by reading the City Daily? Our circulation is well over twenty thousand, and growing by the week. Why, a half dozen paragraphs in our Diversions section could bring in hundreds of visitors to your carnival, the first few nights alone."

He lowered the paper and stared at me.

"My men suspect you are a tax man, Mr. Dustman."

"The name is Bustman," I replied. "We both know even the Regent of Rannit can't collect taxes on a traveling carnival encamped outside the city walls. I don't work for the Regent. I'm just here to write about your carnival, Mr. Thorkel. We haven't seen a traveling show in years, and people are eager to read all about you."

The walls of the tent shut out noise as well as light. There'd been a gang of workmen hammering tent-stakes into the ground when I entered. I hadn't heard a single hammer blow since passing through the flap.

Thorkel didn't blink. I didn't like his eyes. They looked dry, as if both were glass with irises and pupils daubed on with paint.  

He spoke. "Why don't you tell me the truth, Mr. Bustman?"

"I just did."

He let the Daily fall down to his desk. "You came here to mock. To ridicule. To demean. To print lurid descriptions of my show, for the titillation and fleeting amusement of your vapid, witless readership."

"That's twenty thousand vapid, witless readers, each paying five coppers a week to be titillated and fleetingly  amused."

He smiled.

"Twenty thousand, you say?"

"Twenty-two thousand, by the end of the week."

The carnival master nodded. Amid the masks and the wigs, mirrors hung haphazardly on every wall, and the effect of his nod reflected in so many mirrors filled the tent with the illusion of movement.

"May I ask what wage you are paid, to mock and demean?"

"Five coppers a word," I said. "Six, if I manage to fit in ridicule."

He laughed. The sound was abrupt and dry and harsh. I'd heard jackals once, while my unit camped under the stars at Branach, sand dunes sparkling with hoarfrost in the night. Thorkel's laugh sounded like a jackal's cry, hungry and humorless and cruel. 

He fished in his jacket, withdrew a silver Old Kingdom coin, and tossed it to me.

I caught it.

"Make them good words, Mr. Bustman. Excellent words. Now then. Let us show your magnificent audience the varied and unforgettable wonders of Dark's Diverse Delights, mobile circus extraordinaire."

END EXCERPT

And that's it for today. I shall now relent and allow my renegade brain to do whatever it wants, i.e., alternate between napping and drooling. 

Merry Krampus!

PS -- Brain image at top is courtesy of  © Oleksiy Tsuper | Dreamstime.com

Ho Ho Hum, Or a Holiday Survival Guide for Writers and Their Caregivers

Gift Ideas for Writers

© Simon L | Dreamstime Stock Photos

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

If so, 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 a cat is the only creature on Earth more vain and self-centered than the average author.  While other more social animals 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.

(originally published here December 2011)

The Perfect Face for Radio

Last Saturday I was a guest on the Steve Bradshaw Radio Show. If you missed the live show, the interview (minus commercials!) is now online for your listening pleasure. Click here  and then click on the play icon by by name. My accent is sure to amuse children and calm restless emus. We talked about writing after my accordion audition went horribly wrong.

A Writer's Christmas Carols

© Vlawton | Dreamstime Stock Photos

It Came Upon a Manuscript Clear

(Sung to the tune of It Came Upon a Midnight Clear)

It came upon this manuscript here

Fatal problems with the pace,

Then beta readers bending near

Did make that WTH face.

This plot is contrived, they sang with glee,

the shallow protagonist weak,

Not a theme or an ending anywhere in sight,

Best click SELECT ALL, DELETE.

God Rest Ye Merry Editors

(Sung to the tune of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen)

God rest ye merry editors,

and bless thy weary eyes,

For NaNoWriMo just ended 

Now begin your painful sighs.

The flood of just-completed books 

Shall wing to you its way,

Bringing forth sparkly vampires in love,

vampires in love, and hungry zombies every day!

We Wish You Would Format Correctly

(Sung to the tune of We Wish You a Merry Christmas)

Word's Smart Quotes, your editor notes, 

should never be used, any way.

But even though you turn them off,

they sneak back in to stay!

A global replace will always fail,

Oh Word, why hate me so?

I'm now going line by terrible line,

Smart Quotes, why won't you go?

We Three Writers of Fantasy Are

(Sung to the tune of We Three Kings)

We three writers of fantasy are,

Considering putting out a tip jar.

Sales are slowing, bills are growing,

Yes I think we need that tip jar!

Jingle Bells

(Sung in ragged gasps accompanied by the rending of clothing and the gnashing of teeth)

Jingle bells, bloodshed sells,

Why didn't I write Game of Thrones?

(Song only has these two verses, followed by long bout of inconsolable weeping).

Silent Night, No Email Tonight

(Sung to the tune of Silent Night)

Silent night, no email tonight,

Hope is lost, no sales in sight.

Agents are burning my manuscript whole,

Laughing and laughing at the gaping plot hole,

Why didn't I see it before, oh?

Why didn't I see it before?

Of the songs above, God Rest Ye Merry Editors was inspired by author PN Elrod, whose quips concerning editing are rapidly becoming legendary. 

And may I suggest that anyone who enjoyed my Markhat series should check out Elrod's Jack Fleming series? Great books, with a genuine film noir flair and some fine writing.

Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, Wherever You Are

Remember, every time you buy an e-book, and author gets to eat.

That's it for this week. Thanksgiving put a huge dent in my word count, but the new Markhat (The Darker Carnival) is at the one-third complete point. 

Let's stay safe out there, people!

Into Wildest Yocona

Pretty, right? Don't eat them.  You'll see unicorns, but then you'll die.

On numerous occasions in this blog, I've spoken about the Yocona River, which runs about a mile from where I now sit.

My steamboat in Passing the Narrows is named the Yocona. I've used the woods around here as the setting for Mama Hog's ancestral homeland of Pot Lockney. I even blogged about strange sounds I recorded along the Yocona River a few weeks ago.

Today, via the twin miracles of photography and waterproof boots, I'm going to take you on a journey through fields and forest and right down onto the sandy banks of the Yocona River itself.

While one might not simply walk into Mordor, that's precisely how we arrived at the River. Walking is the best way, at least under certain circumstances. And by certain circumstances I mean this:

That's ice. Shaded water remained frozen all day, which means the nine-foot-long water moccasins with heads the size of piglets are all snug in their winter beds, dreaming whatever it is that venomous monsters dream. 

Which isn't to say there are no perils along the way, even on nice cold days. There are. First and foremost, we have the over-eager deer hunters with their rocket-propelled grenade launchers and their cavalier disregard for property lines. Next on the list are the wild boars, which is what happened when Mother Nature saw an Abrams M1 tank and decided she could do better with tusks and hooves. 

Then we have feral hogs, which can be nasty if they have piglets around, and coyotes, which -- nah, I'm not really afraid of coyotes. I've run into them before and while I got the distinct impression they wanted to sell me something on Craigslist, I'd put their physical threat level somewhere between 'Hay, bales of' and 'cheese, slightly off.'

Even so, I armed myself with the Mantle of Sarcasm and the Breastplate of Snide Remarks, gathered my valiant companions, and off we went.

You can shave off a half-mile hike through the woods by skirting this soybean field. That line of trees in the distance? That's the halfway mark on our journey.

But let's stop here a minute. I acted as expedition leader and Bearer of the Mighty Camera. Lou Ann, self-appointed safari guide and ad hoc legal counsel, took point. Karen armed herself with a stout length of oak and listened politely while I misidentified trees and took on the air of an experienced game tracker, even though I once got lost going to the refrigerator and I'm vague on where ham comes from. 

And thus we sallied forth. 

The first 400 feet revealed my folly in not bringing along a secret stash of Snickers bars. The sun beat down, well, to be honest, like a distant 40-watt incandescent bulb. The wind bore with it a deadly chill. Um. No.

Actually, it was quite pleasant. We saw many tracks -- deer, turkey, raccoon, stegosaurus, Muppet, alien greys, wolfmen, and the Creature From the Black Lagoon. Or maybe just deer and turkey.

Lou Ann amused herself by bathing in a slew, much to Karen's dismay, as the water did not smell of hyacinths and lavender.

Lou is at my feet this very moment, and her fragrance is redolent of rotting leaves, pond-slime, and the subtle hint of something best not explored any further. I'm sure among dogs, such a thing is equivalent to Chanel No. 5.

Soon, we entered the woods.

As you can see, many of the leaves haven't fallen yet. It's beautiful, though.

I wish the photos showed the true scale of these trees. They're very large. Tree-like, I suppose. Most, er, arboreal.

And if they're not monsters, they're close together. It's slow going, because briars are the fashion accessory for forests everywhere this season!

So far, so good. We encountered no boars. Took no artillery fire from Bubba and crew. A pair of shifty-looking coyotes did try to sell me a pair of speakers from the back of a van, but I know that scam, so we kept walking.

You know how you're getting close to the river? Pick one:

A) You fall in and drown.
B) You see the first line of bamboo.

B. Always pick B. And there it is, bamboo amid the briars. Perfect for cutting a fishing pole along the way, if you must. We must not, since this is a a scientific expedition and anyway I'm looking forward to a Red Baron pizza for supper.

Here's another amusing aspect of hiking near the river. Beavers are busy, and they're everywhere, and here is what they leave behind:

So if you do find yourself falling, don't fall flat. Those things are sharp.

Keep walking, being careful with your footing (the pics don't show it, but the ground is full of exposed foot-catching roots and hidden holes left by rotting stumps), and soon you'll see the Yocona River itself.

There it is, muddy and lazy, meandering along like it has all the time in the world, and I suppose it has just that.

What you're seeing is the River from atop a twenty-foot bank. Your next task is to descend down to the water without descending down into the water, and that is a critical distinction. The river still has two pairs of Tuttle eyeglasses, and it wants a third, I just know it does.

As usual, Lou led the way, scampering down in an instant while the clumsy humans climbed and slid and leaped.

At last, we all made it. The sand bar is covered by leaves, but it's the same sand bar I fished from as a kid. I'm 50 now, so that's quite a few years ago.

I've changed. The River hasn't. Make of that what you will.

It's still a peaceful place. Of course in the summer, we'd have heard frogs and crickets and a hundred, a thousand other critters, but with ice on the ground, the river is silent.

Above you see the adventurers triumphant, nattily dressed in their Day-Glo PLEASE DON'T SHOOT ME gear. Note Karen's Stick of +5 Striking, and my Haircut of +7 Feral Pig Intimidation.

The above photo is the result of asking Lou to pose for a picture. Note her immediate charge toward the lens.

Finally got it, though! Note the head of the Loch Ness Monster emerging from the water to Karen's right.

And what good is a river if you can't swim in it? I declined, as I was wearing my good socks.

Cryptozoology is dirty work.

Did we find anything strange on our trip?

Well, there's this.

Tracks in the sand. Look, the river is home to all kinds of critters. Beavers. Coyotes. Nutria. Bobcats. Rabbits. Raccoons. You name it, and they all come here to drink, sooner or later.

So something made these marks in the sand. They can't be more than a day old because it rained hard Friday and there was loose sand in the bottom of the impressions.

My guess is a coon or a possum was digging for grubs. But I can see how other opinions might vary.

Finally it was time to head for home. Lou Ann took a last swim. Then we made the climb back up the bank and marched back into the woods.

A red-tailed hawk wheeled overhead when we emerged, probably laughing at all the trouble we were having pushing through the briars.

And that, my friends, is the photographic record of the 2013 River Expedition.

Sadly, the above image of big feet is the only such image I can offer, at least today.

WRITING NEWS

I had a pretty good week, all things considered. I didn't quite hit the magical 10K word count, but that's okay. I taught my writing class Thursday evening and I was in Memphis as a guest on the Steve Bradshaw Show, talking about my books, so that was time well spent.

I'll close with a brief excerpt from the work in progress, THE DARKER CARNIVAL. In the book, I've established that what they call a 'riding wheel' is what we call a Ferris wheel. Big wheel with seats and lights and no apparent purpose, smells of corn dogs? That clear? Everyone cool with it? Good.

The riding wheel flared to life. A man climbed it, leaping from seat to seat, finding handholds in the rusty iron frame. If he cried out, we never heard it.

Something leaped onto the wheel below him. At first I thought it a man, but when it began to climb, it used too many legs. It scuttled up the wheel effortlessly, leaped on the climbing man's back, and after a moment of awful stillness it flung his limp body to the ground and climbed down after him, moving like some monstrous eager spider.

I'll end on that note. Take care, everyone, and if you're in the US I wish you and yours a happy Thanksgiving.

Just Another Stormy Sunday

DEEP IN THE WOODS, THE TERROR WALKS....

Another monster?

Nah, that's me before coffee.

Last week's blog entry included a recording of a creature we couldn't identify. Thanks to everyone who commented and e-mailed; we're still trying to identify the call. If and when we get a definitive answer, I'll post it here.

Haven't heard the sounds again, but I'm keeping the Zoom recorder handy just in case it makes an encore appearance.

BACK ON THE AIR!

I'll be making another radio appearance, this time on THE STEVE BRADSHAW SHOW at 1:00 PM CST next Saturday (November 23). If you're in or around Memphis, you can listen by tuning in to 990 on the AM band, or you can listen to the show's live web broadcast by clicking here.

We'll be talking about books, writing, Bigfoots, Bigfoots writing books, and how hard it is for a nine-foot-tall cryptid to land an agent in today's chaotic publishing industry. Seriously, that may come up. Steve's show topics include everything from fringe science to traditional forensics, so be prepared for anything!

WRITING UPDATE

I logged an amazing (for me) 10,987 words this week.

I know there are writers who churn that out in a day or two, but I'm not one of those writers. I'm much slower. Think a sloth after downing a pawful of Benadryl and washing it down with Nyquil. I'm slow. Ten thousand words in week is a goal, sure, but it's one I rarely meet.

How did I do it, you ask? Well, here are my newly-minted tips for breaking the 10K-a-week barrier!

TIPS FOR THE SLUGGISH AUTHOR

1) When you insert the coffee IV, make sure you hit one of the big veins. And forget messing about with surgical tape to secure the needle -- duct tape is cheaper, stronger, and holds up better to all that thrashing about when you forget you have an IV line connected to the Keurig and the whole works gets tangled up when you walk.

2) Reduce your time-consuming social interactions by joining a Trappist monastery. Well, okay, the monks wouldn't have me, so I joined a more liberal organization (we're called the 'Highway Hellions,' and man does all this leather chafe). I find that the highly-structured routine of the gang is conducive to maintaining a writing schedule, and also I pay a guy nicknamed Slaughterhouse to enforce my two-hour writing session every night.

3) Keep your writing space separate from your living space. For instance, I write at a desk, and I never shave marmots or retool my vintage airplane engines at this desk. Now my keyboard is marmot-fur free, and I don't have pistons from the 1921 Curtiss-Wright rotary V12 falling in my lap. Of course you also want to make sure you actually own your writing space; take it from me, most neighbors don't have enough respect for the artistic process to let you continue renovating their upstairs bedroom.

4) Set realistic goals. I woke up every morning this week by saying aloud 'I will write 2000 words today.' This amused the deputies, but saying the words out loud made me feel accountable for carrying through, despite what my cellmates Tater and Mean Pete said.

5) If you fail to meet a goal, don't beat yourself up. Look, life happens. Cars break down. Work gets rough. That grave you dug by the interstate gets exposed during a rainstorm. There are times when you simply run out of hours in the day, not to mention moves for dismissal based on lack of evidence. Sometimes you just have to shrug it off and resolve to do better tomorrow, especially when picking out remote, easily-dug locations for, um, herb gardening.

6) Get the right tools. If you're serious about woodworking, you buy certain tools. You can't get by using the steak knives as a circular saw, or the icepick as a drill press. Writing is the same -- you need a computer, you need word processing software, you need internet access. Heck you may even need image processing programs and a web host and a good HTML editor, too. My point is this -- don't hamstring yourself by cheaping out. Get the latest version of Word. Get a machine capable of not merely running Word, but running the crap out of it. Oh, and if you're still burying things, don't get the shovel with the flat blade across the front. You want one that curves to a nice point. Otherwise you're going to be out in the woods all night.

7) Write what you know, but change the names. Too, remember that statutes of limitations vary from state to state.

8) Don't respond to negative reviews. You know who wins internet flame wars? I do, that's who. Not because I engage in internet flame wars, but because I laugh and laugh and laugh while reading them. I laugh at both sides, because no one wins, ever, and it's far easier to tank a writing career that it is to repair the damage. So don't do it. Close the page, and move on.

9) Don't stifle your inner muse. When my inner muse asks for chocolate or ice cream, I oblige. When she asks for a gallon of Absinthe and six hundred dollars of imported Russian caviar, I stall for time and hope she'll be satisfied with Harp Irish Lager and Hot Pockets. So far I owe her an estimated sixteen thousand dollars in menu items alone. Please buy a book. Muses don't mess around, during end-of-year accounting.

10) Maintain a cheerful, positive attitude. Yeah, I'm screwing with you now. Every writer I know is a fragile amalgamation of neuroses, depression, and substance-abuse issues. If you see us being cheerful and positive, that's probably the mushrooms talking, and we should be gently steered away from the car, the bank, or the liquor store.

LAST WORDS FOR THE WEEK

If I manage another 10K in the coming week, that would put my rough draft of the new Markhat book somewhere between 20% and 30% complete.

If I manage to achieve unpowered flight by flapping my arms, I would still be less surprised than if I maintain my 10K a week surge.

But we'll see.

Catch me on the radio, if you can! Until then, take care.

The Wild Man of Yocona Bottom

Fig. 1, The author before shaving

Well, I may be the world's most inept ghost hunter, but last night we captured, purely by accident, some audio that I believe will raise the hairs on the back of your neck.

Let me set the scene for you. It is Saturday, November the 9th, at around nine o'clock in the evening. Karen and I spent the day doing the usual chores -- housecleaning, fence-mending, the thousand little things that any homeowner has to do sooner or later.

While I was outside, I gathered up fallen limbs and laid the makings of a fire in the chiminea on the patio. It was a cool, cloudy night. There was no wind to speak of. About eight, we pulled a couple of chairs close to the iron chiminea and lit the blaze, because yes, we are really that boring, even on a Saturday night.

We live in rural Mississippi. About a mile south of our house, across several fields and a dense, boggy stand of old growth trees, the Yocona River runs more or less east and west. 

The Yocona isn't particularly large, but it is old and winding and treacherous. The banks are sheer drop-offs thirty feet high in places. Woods line the river on both sides; navigating it in daylight is a chore, and doing so at a dead run in the dark would be suicide. 

Oh, and since the woods are composed of approximately equal parts leaves, copperhead rattlesnakes, and water moccasins as big as Nissan Sentras, you couldn't force me back there after dark with a gun and threats of forced listening to a Kesha album.

So. That's the scene. Dark south-facing patio. Impenetrable woods. The moon a mere shifting glow behind a thick haze of hurried clouds.

Now, typically, we'd be regaled by two sets of amateur vocalists. The coyotes usually start, announcing their presence just behind the first line of trees. The dogs respond, and the back-and-forth goes on until one side or the other gets bored or spots a rabbit.

But last night wasn't typical.

We heard dogs. Several of them, baying and barking, close to the river. 

And then we heard -- something. Look, I grew up right here. I've heard it all -- dogs, cows, bulls, coyotes, bobcats, even one of the last panthers in the area, 20 years ago. But what we heard last night didn't sound like any of the local critters.

So I grabbed my good ghost-hunting recorder, a Zoom H1, put it on a fence-post, and got a little over twenty minutes of what I'll just call an unidentified vocalization.

In the clip below, I've isolated a single call, added some very gentle amplification, and looped it. It's short; click and listen, if you will.

Single Call Looped

I have no idea what could make that kind of call. It sounds almost like a word. And whatever it was led the dogs on a merry chase.

Here's a longer clip, with dogs for context. You might want to crank up the volume for these:

Short Excerpt 1

The big dog you hear is Lamar, our big black lab, who added his voice to the proceedings. 

Here's another excerpt, also short:

Short Excerpt 2

And this:

Short Excerpt 3

Here's a single call, with background noise removed and amplification applied:

Amped Call

Finally, here's the entire recording, with no effects applied.

Complete Recording

The big question, of course, is what was making those sounds?

I don't have a definitive answer for that. I can say certainty what it was not. It was not a coyote. Or a cow, or a bull, or a bobcat, or a boar, or a feral pig.

I can also say I've never heard it before.

Yocona, Mississippi is not exactly a hotbed of cryptid sightings or activity. Which isn't to say people haven't seen strange things in the woods. They have. A local lawyer swears he went to sleep while hunting and awoke to find a tall hairy biped looking down at him (he fled, leaving his expensive rifle behind). Just this weekend, a local's mare stumbled home injured, both her foals gone.

Does all this suggest something unusual lurking in the woods barely a half a mile away from where I sit?

Heck if I know. I'm a fantasy author, so of course I want the world to be filled with all manner of strange creatures.

But this is the first time I've gotten a long, clear, detailed recording of something I can't readily explain.

If anyone has any ideas concerning what made those sounds, please comment! And if anyone lives near me and has heard anything similar, please say so!

MARKHAT NEWS

I realize I announced this earlier, but typing the words is so much fun I'll do it again.

The new Markhat book, THE FIVE FACES, has been accepted by Samhain! We're looking at a June release date.

I think you'll enjoy THE FIVE FACES.  I'll say this much, and no more -- in this 8th entry in the series, Markhat goes face to face with a killer who taunts his victims with drawings depicting the time, place, and manner of their murders. Once the drawing is received, no one survives, no matter the measures they take. So when Markhat's drawing arrives, he has mere hours to avoid the hand of Death itself...

The new Markhat book is also underway. The working title is THE DARKER CARNIVAL, although a line in the story itself has suggested a possible new title I'm kicking around. I only hesitate because there's a Rob Zombie song of the same name (LIVING DEAD GIRL).

What do you guys think? THE DARKER CARNIVAL or LIVING DEAD GIRL? Keep in mind all the Markhat books have 3 word titles, so it needs to be one or the other. Being a writer, I'm superstitious about altering the three word rule, because of course the first time I use two words or four words or anything but three words the sky will bleed and the walls will fall and I'll certainly be rejected, and we can't have that.

Here's a brief excerpt from THE DARKER CARNIVAL. It doesn't contain any spoilers, so throw caution to the winds and read without peeking through your fingers.

The sun was more than an hour from rising. Curfew was still in effect across Rannit, which meant anyone a peckish halfdead caught outside was fair game for breakfast, and I was standing in the street with both my shoes untied.

But I had a vampire revolver in my right pocket and a ten thousand year old banshee holding my left hand and I’d walked with the slilth not so long ago.

Boots scraped cobbles nearby. My hand found the butt of my revolver.

Buttercup giggled and pointed down the street before vanishing.

A man walked out of the night and into the dim, wobbling glow of a street-lamp.

I relaxed my grip on the revolver, but didn't pull my hand away. I could tell at once my fellow Curfew-breaker was no halfdead. He shuffled, for one thing, walking slowly while dragging a noisy burden on a wheeled contrivance behind him.

Like any breed of the rich, halfdead seldom roam the streets their own carts. Too, this man's hat was a shapeless, baggy lump, not one of Breed Street's starched, rigid offerings.

The man saw me, halted, and waved.

"Good morning to you, friend," he said. He pitched his voice carefully, so that it just reached my ears, but wouldn't carry much further. "Might I inquire as to whether you live hereabouts?"

I wasn't sure he could see a head-shake, so I took a half dozen steps ahead and spoke.

"Nope," I replied. "I'm just a man out for a stroll."

He nodded, smiling. "Well, count your lucky stars, man out for a stroll. They call me Shango. Shango the storm-sniffer. I've walked all night, following a stink. And it leads right to yonder door."

He pointed out a door. My door. Of course it would be my door.

I sighed.

"I'm guessing you sell lightning rods."

He shot up and stood straight. "Indeed I do," he said. "But not just lightning rods. No, friend. I sell the kind of lightning rods even the rich cannot often buy."

"Good for you," I said. I started walking, hoping he didn't notice my damned traitor shoes weren't tied. "Now if you don't mind I always take my breakfast with the Regent."

He laughed, but he kept the sound low. "Won't you at least have a look, Mr. Markhat? Won't you at least have a look?"

I produced my pistol and let him see it.

"I didn't tell you my name."

"But I told you mine," he said. If the thick black bulk of my vampire-built revolver gave him pause, his dirty face didn't show it. "Shango. I smell storms. I can't hold back the winds, friend, but I can turn the lightning." He nodded back at his cart, a leaning, man-high bulk covered by a sooty tarp that waited in the shadows, hunched as if ready to pounce. "No man should lack protection from the fickle wrath of Heaven."

"I've got all the protection I need."

"No," he said. His eyes, which I still hadn't seen beneath the bushy ridge of his brow, glittered just for an instant as the moon briefly peeked out from the clouds. "I tell you plain, Mr. Markhat, that you do not."

"Get out of my way."

"I'm not what's in your way, friend," he said. Then he stepped aside, sniffing at the air. "I'll be working these parts for a while, I will. Ask for Shango, should you change your mind. Ask for Shango."

I put my gun back in my jacket pocket.

About the time the squeak of his cart's wheels bit into the silence, Buttercup took my hand again.

“Let’s go get some breakfast,” I said, and with Buttercup skipping beside me I walked all the way to Cambrit, without a lightning rod of any kind to guard me from the fickle wrath of Heaven.

Never read a Markhat book? Well, here's a link, if you care to get started:

ALL OF FRANK'S BOOKS
     
Speaking of books, I should get back to work.

If I get any more strange recordings, I'll share them here too!

Update: The New Markhat Book, THE FIVE FACES, slated for June 2014 release!

I know it isn't Sunday, but I have news, and again it's good.

The new Markhat book, THE FIVE FACES, will be released next June. It was originally scheduled for a September release, but the good people at Samhain bumped the release up by a full three months.

I'm already at work on the 9th book in the series, which I'm calling THE DARKER CARNIVAL.

Mug and Meralda? No, I haven't forgotten them. Their next adventure, ALL THE TURNS OF LIGHT, is also underway.

Which means I'd better get back to work!

Just wanted to keep you folks in the loop.

Good News, For a Change: New Markhat Book is Accepted!

Fireworks, for the new Markhat book THE FIVE FACES has been accepted!

That shriek you heard today was me, upon reading an email from my lovely editor at Samhain. The new Markhat book, THE FIVE FACES, has been accepted.

Edits and second edits and yet more more edits (i.e., work) will soon begin, but now it's time to emulate Snoopy and do the Jubilant Dance of Selling a Novel.

This will mark the 8th entry in the Markhat titles. What started as a novella  in the long-since defunct print magazine Adventures of Sword and Sorcery is now a full-blown series, complete with supporting characters, an overall story arc, a chronology that gives me fits, and the opportunity to write as many Markhat books as I can until A) I die or B) the publisher says 'no.'

I dug out my tattered copy of the Adventures of Sword and Sorcery featuring the original Markhat story, The Mister Trophy. There's a man and a Troll on the cover, although it's not an actual scene from the story, and anyway my Troll knees are jointed backwards from ours.

But it was a big deal, seeing my name on a cover. And there was interior artwork!

Which pretty much demonstrates that in Markhat's world, Trolls trump vamps every time.

The art was by George Barr, and he's probably most famous for his work illustrating Dungeons and Dragons manuals. But his art has also graced a multitude of books covers and prints, so scoring a George Barr illustration was a real honor.

That story also saw the first sighting of a Markhat witticism. In the story, a Troll shows up looking for Markhat, and naturally the Troll finds him in a bar.

The Troll proceeds to describe his long, arduous journy from Troll country and through the devastated Kingdom of Man and finally to Rannit and Markhat. Because that's how my Trolls talk -- a Troll would never come out and say 'I am here on urgent business.' Instead, the Troll would describe the many obstacles he faced just getting there to tell his story.

Markhat knows just enough about Troll culture to understand this. And he knows to respond in kind. After all, the Troll weighs a ton and half and stands ten feet tall and could pull the bar down to the ground without any real exertion.

But Markhat is Markhat, and he can't resist the urge to tweak even a Troll's nose, so his reply to the Troll's retelling of his journey is this:

Which the magazine editor, Randy Dannenfelser, saw fit to stick in a page-block. Because he thought it was funny.

I mention this because Randy taught me an important lesson here, and the lesson is this:

If you can make a harried, hard-bitten editor laugh at a line of dialog, you can get paid for it.

And of course it goes farther than that. The Markhat series deals with some heavy themes -- loss. Guilt. Rage. Betrayal. Death. Addiction. Aging.

But Markhat keeps the wise-cracks coming, even when facing down Troll five times his size. Why does he do that?

Because Markhat sees all the bad, and it weighs on him, every moment, every day. But he's not quite ready to give in to the emptiness. So when he gets the opportunity, he looks the implacable, unbeatable world square in the eye and he tells it what it can do with its dreadful algebras and inescapable losses.

I think that's why the humor works. Because he's mocking awful things, and they deserve to be mocked, right up until the end.

So now that THE FIVE FACES is sold, I can reveal the working title of the Markhat work-in-progress. Drumroll, please:

THE DARKER CARNIVAL

Yep. This time Markhat visits a traveling carnival in search of a runaway daughter. And if you think the traveling carnival is merely a rag-tag collection of happy misfits plying their trade from town to town for the innocent amusement of their visitors, well, you haven't read much Markhat.

If you haven't read much Markhat, please click here to get started.

This has been a rough few weeks. Getting good news felt so refreshing, I will close today with this:

A CAVALCADE OF COVERS

And now, coming soon, THE FIVE FACES!

Please feel free to join me in a heartfelt WOOHOO!