Monday, April 14, 2014

He Dreads The Cold

So I'm in a new anthology coming out and I'm extremely hyped about it.

This is the press release. I did not write it. I did, however, write the story "He Dreads the Cold," which, as you can see, is included.

We don’t have a product page or a cover yet, but we were so excited about Phantasm Japan, our fantasy anthology follow-up to our award-festooned The Future is Japanese, that we just had to share. Check it out:
Gary A. Braunbeck: “Shikata Ga Nai: A Bag Lady’s Tale”
Nadia Bulkin: “Girl, I Love You”
Quentin S. Crisp: “The Last Packet of Tea”
Project Itoh: “From the Nothing, With Love”
Yusaku Kitano: “Scissors or Claws, and Holes”
Jacqueline Koyanagi: “Kamigakari”
Alex Dally MacFarlane: “Inari Updates the Map of Rice Fields”
Zachary Mason: “Five Tales of Japan”
Miyuki Miyabe: “Chiyoko”
James A. Moore: “He Dreads the Cold”
Lauren Naturale: “Her Last Appearance”
Tim Pratt: “Those Who Hunt Monster Hunters”
Benjanun Sriduangkaew: “Ningyo”
Seia Tanabe: “The Parrot Stone”
Joseph Tomaras: “Thirty-Eight Observations on the Nature of the Self”
Dempow Torishima: “Sisyphean”
Sayuri Ueda: “Street of Fruiting Bodies”
We’re very pleased—we’ve got New York Times best-seller Zachary Mason; international fan favorite Miyuki Miyabe; horror legends Gary A. Braunbeck and James A. Moore (I wonder if they share the same middle name); the fiction debut of Lauren Naturale; one of the final short stories of Project Itoh; and an extremely surreal “New Weird” novella by Dempow Torishima, illustrated by the author himself.
Phantasm Japan, coming this autumn! Prepare yourself!

I'm certainly not going to say what the story is about, but as to where it's located, here's a very elusive hint (courtesy of National Geographic.): 

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Captain America: The Winter Soldier

There are likely a lot more coherent reviews out there, but what the heck. Here we go.

First, I loved it. I do not think it's the greatest superhero movie ever. Nor do I think it was better than Captain America: The First Avenger.

Winter Soldier is a mighty fine piece of film. It's got political intrigue, some spectacular special effects, equally awesome fighting sequences and enough pleasant surprises to put a smile on my face.

Remember that I'm a long time comic book junkie. In fact it was the story arc about the Winter Soldier that rebooted by deep love of comics, thanks to a discussion with author and friend Brian Keene. After going on a rant about the things Iwas hearing (I won't mention exactly what because that's part of the storyline and while I do not mind spoilers, most other people do). Long story short, Brian made me see the error of my ways and my love of Captain America was rekindled successfully.

I say rekindled because my relationship with comics is often love-hate. As an example, I love whats going on with the Marvel movies. I absolutely hated The Man of Steel, despite desperately wanting to love it.  I'll get back to that in a minute. First, the Winter Soldier.

The directors and writers said they wanted to do a 70's style spy thriller and that';s what they did. Only, you know, with a serious budget, extra special effects and, yeah, superheroes. This could have been a James Bond movie with the level of political intrigue and doodle dealings. Hell, if Daniel Craig had shown up, I would have probably thrown in a few good cheers.

The story revolves on one level around Steve Rogers, Captain America, trying to deal with a world that is very, very different from the one he left behind at the end of WWII. That is, deep at its soul, one of the issues that has always been there in the Captain America stories. The best of them at any rate, at least as far as I am concerned. And do you know when they had most of those stories in the comics? If you guessed in the 70s you would not be wrong.

That added beautifully to the story. Know what else worked spectacularly well? The Falcon. I was dubious about how they would make him work in the story, but I should't have been. It was handled very well indeed. Anthony Mackie does a fabulous job playing the part of Sam Wilson and I like the interesting twists they made to slide him more comfortably into the role of the Falcon, from his background to the final deign of his wings. Loved it. As Superman said years ago, "You'll believe a man can fly." Man, I want a set of those wings.

There have been statements, more than a few, saying that Scarlett Johannson stole the show. Not at all. She was a well balanced part of a very solid team. I love that she got some serious air time. I also love that she never fell into the role of damsel in distress. That's a lady who can kick some serious posterior. Again, Kudos to Marvel for getting it right.

All in all, I genuinely loved it, from beginning to the two snippets at the end, about which I will say nothing at all.

I did not like it better than First Avenger. I will not compare it to First Avenger. There is no comparison. You have a good old fashioned World War Two Nostalgia tale in the first movie and you have a high tech super spy thriller in the second. Might as well compare the taste of a key lime to a banana. They are different beasts that happen to star the same main character and that, for me, is a very real part of the appeal of the franchise.

Now back to an earlier statement.

Man  I REALLY wanted to like Man of Steel. I did. But the problem is, and I know that not everyone will agree with me, that wasn't a story about Superman. It was a story about an orphaned Kryptonian who is raised in a small community on Kansas, and who later becomes a reporter in Metropolis, but that's all they have in common. See, Superman would have managed to save the day without letting untold thousands die horribly as collateral damage in his fight. He would have never let his father die the way he did. He would have, by all the is good and right, moved the freaking fight out of the Metropolis City Limits and had his fight with Zod where an entire city with a population of millions couldn't be slaughtered. That's what Superman does. That's what makes him Superman and not just that really stropping guy who can leap tall buildings and is faster than a speeding bullet.

the TV show Smallville did a far better job with a much smaller budget.

I loved the cast. The special effects were brilliant. The storyline was decent. Just a shame that Superman never showed up.

Now, I know someone is going to point out that the Avengers had almost as much damage. That's true. Know what? They did their best to save the innocents. They even stopped a nuke. Yeah, I know the Man of Steel fought on both sides of the planet without any backup. He still failed for me.

Captain America, on the other hand? That man was front and center. He walked the walk, talked the talk and fought the good fight.

In other words, Captain America brought the spirit of the comic books I was raised with along for the ride and Man of Steel left its heart and soul back at the train station.

I hope they manage to get it right by the time Superman Vs Batman makes it to theaters. I will not hold my heath, but I will hope.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Scars (A Seven Forges Story)

So it's time for another short story. This is a tie in between SEVEN FORGES and THE BLASTED LANDS. It's fairly short, but hopefully it's fun.


And in case anyone has forgotten, this is Tuskandu (and also the cover for THE BLASTED LANDS)


By James A. Moore

Wollis March slipped from his furs and breathed a deep and sincere sigh of relief. The feel of fresh, cool air across his upper body was a blessing and he thanked his gods for it.

They had been traveling in the Blasted Lands for longer than he cared to think about. Instead of focusing on the long days of freezing weather and endless windstorms, he concentrated on the rewards awaiting them. There would be gold aplenty to share between the explorers.

Before that, however, there was the matter of getting back to the capital and presenting the maps of the area that had been given to them and introducing the Sa’ba Taalor to their employer. 

He looked over his shoulder as the strangers coming with them followed his example and peeled off layers of furs, leather cloaks and in many cases armor. The great beasts they rode on—he could not decide what sort of monsters they might be, but they were decidedly large and they had claws and fangs—let out a few grunts of approval and shook their bodies, knocking dust and grit out of their fur.

Wollis dismounted from his horse and winced at the flare of pain in his thigh. The scars were deep and the muscles had never quite come back as strong as he’d have liked. Still he could walk and that was a blessing.

It was time to stop for the day. The sun was setting and the cliffs facing them were too steep to attempt in the darkness. There were paths, yes, but they were treacherous even in the light and the men he traveled with and their guests alike carried far too many supplies to make the trek easily. They had to find the Temmis Pass, and that way was nearly perfectly hidden by the surrounding terrain. He would be able to find it tomorrow, he suspected, but not in the night.

He ordered the men to prepare for the rest and began the same duties himself. Within the hour everyone was done with their appointed tasks and the Sa’ba Taalor had several fires working. The strangers believed in cooking and eating meals together and they had invited him to join them. Though he did not speak their language they had done an amazing job of learning the common tongue during the travels, aided their apparent leader, Drask Silver Hand. Drask had gone ahead now, moving toward Fellein’s Summer City, Tyrne. According to tradition it was called the “Summer City” because the Emperors liked to spend the summer there, but the current ruler had not left his palace there in over seven years. It was the new capitol as far as Wollis could tell.

Tusk walked his way with several other members of his people, three women and two additional men. He barely recognized the giant without his skull-like helmet in place, but the scars on his arms were as good as the armor for singling him out. Each and every member of the gray-skinned people wore a veil to hide everything below their eyes, a demand of their gods, apparently. For whatever reason the Daxar Taalor did not believe Wollis or the rest of his people worthy of seeing the faces of their followers. It was best not to question the will of the gods. That much Wollis knew from his own people. And while most of them wore veils without any real decoration there were fine rings of metal covering most of the surface of Tusk’s veil that gave out minuscule ringing notes with each stride the man took. The Sa’ba Taalor had removed the extra layers and now wore what seemed the common clothes of their people, at least while traveling, a few wore tunics but all wore vests over their chests and trousers that they stuffed into their boots. Male or female didn’t seem to matter. It was oddly refreshing after a few of the places he’d been in the past.

Less refreshing were the weapons each of them seemed incapable of walking around without. To the last they carried swords or axes within easy reach of their hands.  On the slim chance that their larger blades might suddenly fly away, there were spare daggers and a few smaller swords strapped to thighs or tucked into the edges of their boots. Fifteen years in the military and he’d never seen any lot more determined to carry weapons in his life.

Tusk pointed to the largest of the fires. “Join us for food?”

“I would be honored.” He smiled at the man. It seemed the safest way not to die a quick and painful death. Merros Dulver, his leader—now also heading off in a different direction on a separate mission—spoke clearly with the group and wanted the relationship they’d started to remain friendly and cordial. Wollis wanted exactly the same thing. Ehnole and Stastha were among the people with him. He recognized both of them even past the veils all of their people wore. Traveling with the Sa’ba Taalor had taught him one thing he had never consciously understood before: the way a body moves is as distinct as the face it bears. Tusk walked with a certain strut that stated for one and all that he was confident. Ehnole swayed her hips in an unconsciously seductive way. Stastha the younger, harder girl, moved like a phantom, her feet never seeming to touch the ground solidly so that she appeared to glide just above the surface rather than touching heavily. Despite her soft tread she managed to move with a cockiness that he found appealing. After months away from home and his wife, he found almost all of the females appealing.

Removing their clothing had revealed one thing about the Sa’ba Taalor above and beyond everything else. They were scarred. To the last of them they sported the signs of previous fights and a hard, violent life.

The meal was the last of the fresh meat the Sa’ba Taalor had provided by killing Pra-Moresh only a few days earlier. Despite his worries from the first invitation to eat with the strangers, Ehnole had proven a very capable cook and the heavy aromas of the spices and herbs she used to season the pungent meat made his stomach rumble.

They sat in companionable silence and feasted on meat and a few odd vegetables brought with them from the valley of the Seven Forges. And when they were done Tusk brought out a pouch of wine that was deceptively potent and tart enough to make lips pucker and eyelids squint.

One of the men around the fire said something in their tongue and made Ehnole chuckle. Wollis was not foolish. He had every suspicion the comment made had been about him and he chose to ignore it.

Ehnole looked to him and spoke softly. “Bromt does not understand the lack of scars on your body.”

He looked at the man who’d spoken. His body was heavy with muscle and his skin was heavier with scars of every sort. There were what looked like tooth marks running along one shoulder. Wollis could actually see the individual shapes of the teeth that had cut through the man. He didn’t begin to want to guess what sort of beast had made those marks in the first place.

Wollis was exactly drunk enough to answer, even knowing that he should approach all conversations here with caution. “I have always found the best way to deal with an attack is to not be where the attacker expects me to be.”

Tusk and the rest laughed and Bromt joined in when the words were translated. Wollis smiled and laughed as well, relaxing a bit. When you got right down to it, there were enough of the Sa’ba Taalor around him that if he accidentally offended them he’d probably be dead before he could regret it, so best just to enjoy himself.

Tusk spoke next. “You walk with a very serious limp. How did that happen, Wollis March?”

“I caught a spear in my leg.” He thought back to the moment so long before. The man with the spear came off a horse and brought the spear down with plans to drive it through his skull. He almost made it. “I dodged the worst of the attack. Man was aiming for my head, you see, but he caught me in the leg and the tip went through my muscles and bone and pinned me to the ground.”

The strangers nodded their heads.

“I’d be dead if not for Merros Dulver. He stood over me and fought off the rest of the attackers until additional soldiers arrived.”

“Did you kill the man who did that to you?” Ehnole asked the question.

“No. I was really very busy screaming. It hurt a great deal, you know.”

They seemed disappointed. And Wollis frowned. “Have any of you been severely injured?” He asked the question already knowing that the answer was yes and that he was being foolish.

Just the same Ehnole answered, “Yes. All of us.” She opened her tunic and bared her midriff, showing the light gray of her flesh and the darker gray of several of her scars. One long scar in particular was impossible to miss. It wrapped itself around her waist twice and slithered like a serpent.

“What happened there?”

“I tried to capture my mount. They must be caught, you see. They are not tame. We must tame them.” She pointed to the great creature where it lay not far away, looking toward the fire without moving beyond an occasional sigh or a shuffling of the enormous body to find a more comfortable spot on the ground. “Toratta did not want to be tamed. He fought me very hard. I had wrapped the trapping leathers three times around my waist to let me hold on better.” Her eyes smiled. The rest of her face, as always, was hidden away. “Some would say I held on too well, but I won my mount that day.”

“Where do your mounts come from? Are they in the same valley as your people?” Toratta looked in his direction the great eyes of the thing like lanterns in the growing darkness.

For a moment no one answered, and finally Tusk nodded his head.  “They are from the Taalor Valley. But they are not bred by us. They are gifts from the gods.”
Wollis nodded his head, suspecting that he was touching against a subject the Sa’ba Taalor preferred not to discuss. He felt no particular need to push the matter. Instead he pointed to the scar on Bromt’s shoulder and chest. “And Bromt? Is that his name? How did that happen?”

Ehnole translated the question. And then she translated the answer as well. While he spoke, Bromt ran his finger over each individual tooth mark that permanently marred his flesh.

“There are things in the Blasted Lands. We do not see them often and most who do see them do not live to speak of it.  I met one of them. It killed my first mount and bit most of the way through my arm before I killed it.”

“How did you kill it?”

“Well, it bit my arm as you can see. But it also swallowed my arm.” He mimed a mouth opening around his arm and swallowing the whole of it. And as he did so, Wollis could see that the tooth scars ran around the back of his shoulder as well. It had literally taken his entire arm into its mouth. “When it did that, it also swallowed my blade. So I cut it open from the inside and watched it bleed out.”

Wollis shook his head in wonder. The idea was unsettling.

“You really only have the one scar?” Ehnole seemed endlessly puzzled by the notion.

“Well, no. I have more scars, but they aren’t really very significant. I mean, I managed to nick my chin a few times when I was shaving. I’ve a long scar on my finger from when I cut myself when I was sharpening a sword blade and drinking. I’ve certainly never managed anything quite as spectacular as Bromt’s scar or yours. I can see more scars on Tusk than I would have thought possible for any man to survive.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid in comparison I’m rather disappointing.”

Tusk leaned forward. “Not at all. You are merely different. You avoid being cut. I can respect that. The followers of Wrommish use a similar principle in combat.”

“Wrommish is one of your gods?”

Tusk nodded. “Wrommish advocates using the body as a weapon. So the idea of not being struck makes sense. The hands and arms and legs are used to defend against weapons in combat.”

“How does a thing like that even work?” He’d seen plenty of brawls in his life but never once seen one that ended well when the brawler came up against armed men.

Tusk moved his hand in a back and forth motion. “The ones who don’t learn Wrommish’s ways early on seldom manage to learn it well.”

“I imagine that could be a problem, yes.”

He pointed to the south where several of his people had gone with Merros Dulver a day or so earlier. “Jost is traveling with your Captain. She is a strong follower of Wrommish. I have seen her block many weapons with only her hands.” He thought for a moment. “Drask as well.”

“I should think he has an advantage there, what with one hand being metal.” The words fairly jumped past his lips before he could stop them and Wollis had to resist the urge to slap his own hands over his mouth as soon as he was done speaking.

Tusk studied him for several moments. All around him the Sa’ba Taalor were deadly silent.

And then Tusk slapped him on the shoulder with one large hand and roared laughter. The rest joined in and Wollis relaxed. When they had calmed down a bit Tusk looked at him and shook his head. “Of course Drask might well kill you for saying that to him. It would depend on his mood.”

“I didn’t mean to offend….”

Tusk shook his head. “I take no offense. But I am not the one who had his hand cut off.”

“How does his hand work?”

Ehnole answered that one, “He was gifted by Ydramil.”

“Another of your gods?”

Ehnole nodded. “The Daxar Taalor each favor one metal. Well, except for Durhallem. But each favors one. And if they choose to favor someone who has lost a limb, it will always be made of that metal. There is no mistaking which god has granted a favor of that sort.”

“What makes them decide? I mean, do all of your people get replacements if they are wounded?”

“Not at all,” Tusk answered. “The Daxar Taalor choose who they reward very carefully. There are…conditions that must be met. If Drask had not performed to the satisfaction of Ydramil, he would not have been granted a new hand.”

“How do the gods decide?”

Tusk shook his head and leaned in closer. “How do gods decide anything? How do your gods offer rewards?”

“To be honest I have never spoken with my gods and they have never spoken with me.” He shrugged as he answered. “You and your people seem to have a better relationship with your gods than I have ever had with mine.”

Tusk shook his head and though little of his face could be seen behind the veil, Wollis sensed the pity the man felt for him.

To escape that irritating gaze he asked, “How did Drask lose his hand?”

“It was cut off in a duel.” Tusk swung one hand through the air in a chopping motion. “Do you have duels?” he looked closely at Wollis.

“We have formal challenges. They’re put before the magistrate or, if you’re in the capital city they are handled before the representatives of the Emperor.”

“We are not so formal. The man who attacked Drask made his accusations and drew his axe. Then when Drask stood to defend himself, the man cut his hand off.”

“What did Drask do to offend him?”

“I do not know. But Drask killed the man a moment later. The fool was already celebrating his victory.” Tusk shook his head. “Drask drove a knife through the man’s neck and finished the fight properly.” The man turned and called to his people in their own unsettling language—whenever the Sa’ba Taalor talked there was an odd resonance to their words but when they spoke their native tongue it was worse—and Wollis looked at the gathered group as they considered his words and finally the other woman with the group spoke up. Had he learned her name? He couldn’t remember.

Tusk nodded at her words and spoke again, “I could not remember what Ydramil demands. Drask would have taken the body of his defeated enemy into the Heart of Ydramil and made the body an offering. When he was done he would have held his wounded hand to the fires of Ydramil’s heart and asked for a new hand. The god must have accepted his offering, or he would not be alive now to carry on.”

Wollis nodded and considered those words carefully. “The heart of Ydramil, that is in the heart of the mountain?”

“Of course.”

“How did he get there?”

“Likely he walked. If Ydramil was feeling unkind he would have been made to crawl through one of the tunnels that leads to the heart of the mountain.” He paused for a moment and then continued. “The Daxar Taalor do not make it easy to ask favors of them, so he very likely had to crawl and drag his offering along behind him.”

Wollis considered the maps he’d seen and the mountains of the valley. Ydramil was far to the west in the valley, if he remembered properly. The mountains were as different from each other as their names. They were part of the same mountain range but no two looked at all the same. He imagined the climb would have been over harsh, broken stone with little by way of plant life along the sides and slopes. Scaling any part of the thing would be a challenge. Carrying another man’s weight? While missing a hand and bleeding? He doubted it was possible but chose not to say anything of the sort.

“When we lose hands, it is forever.” Wollis shrugged. “When my leg was injured three was no way to replace it. Nothing as impressive as Drask’s silver hand, so it was learn to walk with my injuries or sit for the rest of my life.”

Tusk nodded at him. “I think you made the right choice.” He placed his hands at the small of his back and bent backward, sighing. “My spine no longer enjoys sitting on my mount.”

The silence between them grew longer and Wollis yawned. It had been a long day. “We should find the Temmis Pass easily enough tomorrow. With good weather another two weeks will have us at our destination.”

“Your horses are slow,” Tusk spoke without criticism, merely making an observation. “But I look forward to seeing your Fellein.”

“Have you ever been away from the Seven Forges and the Blasted Lands before?”

Tusk looked toward the north and west, where even at this great a distance the light from the mountain range could be seen as a faint glow.

“Only once. We rode to the north of the Taalor Valley.”

“What did you find there?” Wollis had never considered that there would be anything beyond the Seven Forges. Really, the mountains had always seemed like the end of the world.

“Another time, Wollis March. It’s late. We should rest while we can.”

The man swatted him amiably on the shoulder one last time and strutted back toward where his tent was set up.

There would be no more answers that night.

Monday, February 24, 2014

If Lynn Shephed Cares About Writing, She Should Try it.

Remember that I call my Blog "Genrefied." I do that because I genuinely believe that writers should write what they want to write and then do their best to sell it. I've written and sold horror, science fiction, comic books, roleplaying game rules and fiction, young adult fiction, and several fusions of all of the above. I am currently writing a crime novel with co-author Charles R. Rutledge, writing an apocalyptic sci-fi piece for one publisher (It hasn't actually been announced yet so I'll avoid dropping names), editing a media tie in novel for the Alien Franchise, waiting on line edits for a THE BLASTED LANDS, my latest Fantasy novel, Working out the final scenes for a weird Western, and am in negotiations for a third book in my Subject Seven Young Adult series. I've written advice columns and have a book of non-fiction essays under consideration right now.

I'm kind of all over the place and I rather like it that way.

So when I see someone called on doing exactly what I think we should all be doing, I pull out my soapbox and make a quick statement. This is one of those moments and the person I'm defending most assuredly does not need my help but she's getting it anyway.  Why? Because I admire J.K. Rowling and the article I'm disagreeing with annoys me.

I'm not a massive force in publishing and I'm the first to admit it.

Would I like to be? Absolutely. Will it happen? No idea, but I'll keep trying….

What I will NOT do, however, is resort to the sort of whining diatribe offered by Lynn Shepherd (Who has apparently written a couple of novels that are in print and more power to her) offers up as justification for why a successful author should bow out and make room for everyone else.

Here, take a break and read the Huffington Post article if you haven't already. It isn't overly long and I can wait. I work under the assumption that this is an editorial piece.

I'm sure that Ms. Shepherd is well-intentioned, but honestly, what a load of fecal matter. The gist of this seems to be that, because J.K. Rowling has achieved a phenomenal level of success, because the demand for her books is staggering, she best selling author should quit writing and allow more room for other authors.

I believe one suggestion comes down to Ms. Rowling knowing her place, and trying to contain her writing to things she writes for children and things she just writes for herself. How very rude of her to want to write in other areas.

Again, what a load of fecal matter.

Doubly so because Ms. Shepherd makes this (suggestion? demand? desperate plea to let her play at the big writers table?) in the same breath where she admits to having read none of Ms. Rowling's works.

I'm a mid list writer. I can accept that. I am a fan of writing. I love reading books. I love a good story. These are things that make me happy, and a lot of what I read might be obscure, but you can bet I can enjoy a well-written best seller with the best of them (and can throw aside a best selling piece of tripe, too.).

Know what I do when I hear about a writer that no one can resist? I go buy a book and read it. A lot of times I'm pleasantly surprised, though I'll also admit that there are plenty of occasions where I'm disappointed. It's the curse of being a writer, I think, that we're obligated to read with a critical eye and often find ourselves wondering what the hype is all about. It's also a delight when we run across books where the flaws are either minimal or easily ignored. Tom Monteleone once compared the writer's ability to read a book as roughly the same as a mechanic's ability to enjoy a good car ride. There's a need to pop the hood and checkout the inner mechanics to understand what makes that beast run so well or why the engine ticks and stutters. I don't think he's at all wrong.

What I don't do. What I don't ALLOW myself the luxury of doing, is whine about how somebody else got all the breaks or how that person's good fortune is somehow kneecapping everyone else.

I've never met Ms. Shepherd. She might be a mighty fine writer in her own right and she might have the very best of intentions with her article. I just completely disagree with her sentiment.

My advice? Go buy Ms. Rowling's books, any and/or all of them and find out what makes her a phenomenon. If that's too much effort, go the Hollywood route and Netflix the movie adaptations. Rowling shows more depth in her characters than a goodly number of successful writers and she also does what every writer should strive to do: She evolves as a writer.

Or, barring that suggestion, sit down and write another novel. Do your very best to make it amazing and  then do your very best to sell it. Then try promoting it and hope for a larger piece of the proverbial pie. In other words, EARN your way, the exact same way that Stephen King, J.K. Rowling Tom Clancy and dozens of other best sellers have managed over the years. The same way mid-listers have been doing it for as long as there have been publishers of popular fiction.

The results are probably going to work better for earning your place as a writer than whining about how somebody stole your seat at that big writers table.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Release Dates

So the dates have been firmed up and it's gonna be a fun summer.

THE BLASTED LANDS is due out in early July

ALIENS: SEA OF SORROWS is due out on July 22nd.

Thursday, February 6, 2014


Here's that cover, and a link to where you can read what I have to say about that cover. Aside from, "Man, that's pretty."