It’s so easy to look at the writing community and be amazed at the writers who churn out novels like nobody’s business. A novel per year, two novels, even three! How can anyone hope to compete with that kind of productivity? For those of us just starting out, we may feel a burden being placed on our shoulders. We may feel that we have to “keep up” to be considered good writers.
Well, I say “Phooey” to that. Every writer is different, and we all have different paces at which we write. Some write slow, some fast. And not everyone has a dozen stories to share, or even two. Some people only have one good book in them for their entire lives. My respect to those who publish that one book.
Comparing yourself to other writers, using the accomplishments of others as the measure of your own worth and talent, is a flawed notion. What do you know about the life of those writers? How long have they been writing, and how much time do they have with which to write? And even more importantly, what sacrifices have they made to achieve their output?
I have a day job and other responsibilities. I have friends and a social calendar. As much as a part of me would love to write 8 hours a day every day, the simple truth is that I can’t. I make deadlines, I make an effort to write something every day, but I’m no book-making machine. But I can still be content with my work.
So, if you feel that your worth as a writer is measured by how prolific you are, take a breath and relax. Don’t rush your writing, and don’t seek quantity over quality. A rushed product is messy and rarely 100% of your potential. There is no race, except maybe against the deadlines you set for yourself. Don’t rob yourself of the enjoyment of what you do.
We’re all different. Our writing journeys are different. Figure out what works for you.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
As writers, we are doing something that we love. We also know that writing comes with wearisome but necessary tasks, such as budgeting. This is especially true if you’re self-publishing. As annoying as managing your budget can be, it is vital to getting your book onto the market. Here are a few tips I picked up in the course of publishing my first book.
Set your maximum budget. First and foremost, how much can you spend on your book? Some of us, like myself, write as a hobby. With writing not a main source of income, I need to pinch pennies. If you’re worried about overspending, do some research online to get an idea for the general cost of publishing. From there, set yourself an upper limit you won’t go over. Keeping within boundaries can not only help you keep a firm hand on your finances, it also narrows the field of available options and prevents overloading your brain with too many choices.
Budget in steps. You won’t be spending all your money at once. Getting your book ready requires multiple steps: Editing, cover art, marketing, formatting, and so forth. So, you can create a budget that accounts for each stage. Budget for the editors, and plan for what type of edits you’ll submit your draft for: copyediting, line editing, etc. Plan how much you will spend on cover art, and whether you will have your book formatted as an eBook, hardcopy, or both. How will you market your book, and how much are you able and willing to spend? Dividing up these tasks can make setting the budget much less overwhelming. You put money away for each stage, rather than viewing it all as one big vaguely defined blob.
Do research before you pay. The old adage rings true: “You get what you pay for.” As you look into available services, research company reviews online. What do other authors have to say about their experiences with this or that business? And furthermore, if you find someone offering what seems like a bargain, be cautious. Ask yourself: Are they cheap because they can’t keep any customers? Look around, build up a list of potential candidates, and check them out one by one until you find someone you can trust to do a good job. And remember that the quality options are inevitably going to command higher prices.
Money is a pain. It’s not why most of us write. But it’s a necessary evil, and it’s worth it in the end. The light at the end of the tunnel is seeing your book up for sale and available to the world.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
This is the second half of my short story excerpt from A God Walks Up to the Bar. Go here to view the first half.
—
I walked into a scene right out of a 1930s gangster movie. Five men sat around a table playing cards, cigarette smoke hovering over them like angry clouds. The scent of alcohol wafted from half-empty liquor bottles to mingle with the smoke. Five faces looked up as I entered and stared daggers into me.
It was quite the diverse crew Stauffer had. Sitting closest to the door was a squat, grey-skinned goblin. To his right was a great hulk of a man whose tree-trunk arms cordoned off a quarter of the table as he guarded his cards. Another half-ogre. Across from him sat a man whose face was entirely covered in a bristly black beard save for his red eyes. To his left was a slender, fragile-looking man with ash-colored hair who exuded magical power.
And then there was Arnold Stauffer, seated in his armchair on the far side of the table facing the door. He had a cigar in his mouth and a hand of cards in his thick fingers.
We Immortals are a funny lot. As our kind drifts along time’s currents, watching civilizations rise, rule, and fall, many of us beach ourselves along the way. Some are just too stubborn and irked by keeping pace with changing times. They lose track of the eras and fixate on one specific point. It may be a particular century, decade, or even one notable year. They cling to that time’s fashions for so long that they become walking anachronisms, lodged in attitudes and styles long since abandoned.
Not easy individuals to deal with. It’s hard to negotiate with someone who not only dresses like they’re in the Elizabethan era but talks and acts like it. You want to laugh, but then you remember how easily they can strike you with lightning and plague if you offend their obsolete sensibilities.
Stauffer had started his rise to power in 1920, so the period had sentimental value to him. His aesthetic clung to “Prohibition-era gangster,” suits, Tommy guns and all. It was a style that really didn’t fit him. The sharp-cut suit clung awkwardly to his hulking frame so that he looked like an angry boulder wearing a necktie. His pencil mustache clashed with a jagged nose broken in three different places. His slicked black hair was a hilariously tiny patch on top of a craggy, oversized skull.
Stauffer wanted to look a gentleman, but that’s hard to do when you’re a primal incarnation of nature’s fury.
He was a half-jötunn — a descendant of the giants of the north. They were sovereigns of nature’s wrathful aspects. Their kings had shaped mountains, unleashed fire and magma from the earth, stirred up hurricanes, and rained down hail and thunder. And here was Arnold Stauffer, the blood of King Thrym running in his veins and eyes swirling like a storm, trying to conceal that heritage with a side-combed haircut and bespoke suit. Seeing a manifestation of cataclysm dressed up like Al Capone and playing poker? It was surreal. Absurd.
Stauffer leaned back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigar. Smoke billowed out of his mouth as he spoke.
“Mister, I hope for your sake that you’re someone very important.”
I bowed. “Lord Hermes of Olympus, Herald of the Dodekatheon, who speaks with the voice of Lord Zeus to Arnold Stauffer of the bloodline of Thrym.”
Stauffer put down his cards. “Proof?”
I sighed inwardly. There had been a time when this was easy. When those words made people snap to attention. I took off my ring and tossed it to him. He caught it and inspected it for a moment, then he threw it back.
“Lord Hermes himself. What an honor. What a privilege.” He spat the words out like curses. “So, what does the old fart on the mountain have to say? What horrible punishment will he rain down on this old sinner?”
He laughed. His minions half-heartedly joined him but kept their heads down. Only Stauffer dared look me in the eye.
“Punishment?” I raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t about punishment. We’re civilized folk in a civilized age. Lord Zeus recognizes your authority and your bloodline and so is willing to show leniency. We can resolve this matter quickly and painlessly.”
Stauffer said nothing but waved at me with his cigar to go on.
“The message, to wit, is this: For the past six months, you have been expanding your operations in this city. You approached a man named Zachary Jensen, owner of real estate that you desired. This man is a scion of Lord Zeus. You knew this.”
Stauffer watched me with an indifferent expression. His minions shuffled a little in their seats. Their bodies were tense.
“Five days ago, you invited Mr. Jensen to a restaurant under your ownership and offered him money in exchange for his property. He declined. It is understood by Olympus that he refused … harshly, replying with insults against you and your lineage. The following night, when he arrived home, he was attacked by four men and beaten almost to death. Olympus knows it was at your order. Do not deny it.”
“I never did.”
“In harming a child of the Olympians, you displayed gross disrespect towards Lord Zeus. However, he is willing to show mercy as long as proper compensation is made. Namely—”
“I don’t kowtow to old gods!” Stauffer shouted. “I won’t—”
“Firstly,” I carried on resolutely, “you will affirm here and now your intent to abide by the rules of the Contract. Our law forbids Lord Zeus from taking direct retribution against you and your own within New York, a recognized Free City. So, too, does it forbid your organization from laying hands on any recognized demigod.”
Stauffer bared his teeth in an ugly smile. “I was within my rights. He insulted me and so I —”
“Secondly, you will provide compensation for the injuries done to Jensen. This compensation will consist of two million dollars taken out of your organization’s profits.”
At this, the table rumbled with angry mutterings. Stauffer’s defiant grin grew larger.
“In one week’s time, representatives from Olympus will arrive here to collect the money. And finally, the restaurant at which you met Jensen will, freely and by your own hand, be gifted to Lord Zeus. You will hand over the deed and all other necessary documentation to the Olympian representatives, and Olympus will take up management of the premises. In so doing, you will have displayed proper atonement for your crime.”
I saw the anger in Stauffer boil hotter with every word. As I finished, he shot up from his chair and slammed his hands on the table.
“I refuse,” he said. “I will give Olympus nothing. I don’t jump when you bark. I don’t roll over and show my belly. You and your kin, all you so-called ‘gods,’ have no power over me. Over anyone in this city.”
He exhaled a heavy breath, and the smoke billowed out like from a dragon’s den. “Look around you. Look anywhere in this city. Humans, goblins, trolls, satyrs, djinn, jötunn, all of us, we go about our lives without a thought given to you. You’re nothing now but curiosities in museums, characters in comic books. You’re just fantasies. Nobody really remembers you. We’ve moved beyond you.”
He stretched out his arms, inviting me to challenge him. “The god Thor killed my ancestor Thrym, but his successors watched Thor die at Ragnarök and spat on his corpse. They watched all you Immortals bicker and slaughter each other. You destroyed your own empires, and the mortals hated you for it. You thought making your Contract could help you rebuild. But what happened next? Science came and explained you away. Philosophy killed any faith left in your kind. Technology made you obsolete. And what did you mighty gods do when the prayers stopped? What happened when the temples were left to crumble? Nothing.”
I scratched my neck idly as I listened to his rant. I might as well let him get this off his chest.
“You don’t have any power. You’re just tired old dogs bound by your precious rules. Because without the Contract, you’d tear yourselves apart again, wouldn’t you? And you, Hermes, you’re just an over-glorified errand boy.” Alright, that made me perk up. “You lay a finger on me, and you violate your laws. So, all you can do is spout empty threats. Get out.”
He finished and glared at me triumphantly. I nodded as if acceding to what he said, and strolled past the table. I noticed a ratty-looking couch in the corner and sprawled out on it.
“You know,” I said, “I think there’s a fundamental misunderstanding going on here. Olympus isn’t threatening you. I’m not threatening you. I’m stating facts. You made a mistake, and now you have a chance to make it right. Because, you see”— I held up a hand to cut off another interjection— “this isn’t about the rules. This isn’t about intimidation. This is about the balance of power. You can appreciate that, right? Someone pushes you, you push back. Someone rocks the boat, you tie him down to keep it from capsizing. You can’t get away with mauling demigods without some sort of consequence. What sort of bad precedent would that set?”
Stauffer snorted. “New York is a Free City. The Immortals have no jurisdiction here. We aren’t under any pantheon’s authority.”
“You willing to test that theory? True, no pantheon has direct control over a Free City. It’s neutral ground. But neutral doesn’t mean safe. The Contract is fabulously complex. All sorts of loopholes. Oh, and chew on this: If you walk away from this scot-free, then everyone and their mother who hears about it will figure they can, too. Who’s stopping the supernatural community from settling old grudges and maybe starting a few wars? Maybe even come gunning for you. Who’s going to step in and put a stop to it?” I thumped my chest. “Us. The Immortals. Because we keep the balance.”
Stauffer’s eyes wavered for a moment, but his sneer reasserted itself, and he shook his head.
“I know,” I said coolly, “you’re the big boss. You call the shots. Who can touch you? But let’s think back, shall we? Why are you the big boss? Because you got lucky. Your forefathers are still hiding in Scandinavia, ragged and forgotten, because Ragnarök screwed them over just as badly as it did Thor’s family. So here comes a young man, full of ambition, newly arrived in America, with nothing but brawn, a tangled family tree, and a desire to prove his people still matter. And New York had just come out of a nasty gang war among the supernaturals. I remember. I was there. The war left a power vacuum. Lucky you. You put that brawn to good work and filled the hole.”
“Because I was strong enough,” Stauffer replied. “I took what I wanted and I kept it.”
“Spare me, Arnie. If they were still around, the old families wouldn’t even have noticed you. You’ve never known until now what it’s like to compete in the big leagues. But you’re finding out, aren’t you? The Aristocracy is breathing down your neck. You’ve angered Olympus. Suddenly, the dog is facing the wolves, and what does he do? He hides in a backroom playing poker. Where’s that jötunn pride? Where’s the bravado of the people who watched gods die? Let’s see some strength, Arnie, not big talk.”
This had exactly the effect I knew it would. Wounded pride overcame Stauffer’s self-control. Shaking all over, he walked towards me, fists clenched and breaths coming out in ragged gasps. He stood over me, and I knew from the look in his eye he wasn’t going to let me walk away now.
“Say it,” he whispered. “Just say it.”
I frowned. “Say what?”
“Tell me what you think I am. Say it to my face.”
“Arnie Stauffer? Crime lord of East New York?” I counted on my fingers. “Defier of the gods? Descendant of Thrym, who got his head bashed in by Thor like a chump? Tall, angry man looming over me with murderous rage in his eyes?” My face lit up. “Oh! Do you mean back-stabbing, opportunistic, cowardly piece of meat?”
His hands shot out and grabbed me. He wrenched me off the couch and threw me across the room. I landed on the table. Its occupants backed away as I rolled across and onto the floor, taking beer bottles, cards, and poker chips with me.
I wasn’t down for long. I jumped to my feet, fists at the ready, my mind bandying various strategies on how to win. Because I knew I was going to win.
“Kill him,” Stauffer barked.
I sighed inwardly. Thousands of years of hard-learned lessons, yet folks never really learn.
The slender pale man began muttering under his breath and made a sign with his hands. As the spell manifested, his skin turned white as milk and blue runic symbols shone on his skin. A troll.
I didn’t have time to take him out, though, because I felt a sudden searing pain in my left arm. I turned to see the bearded man gripping me with hands glowing red-hot. He opened his mouth, revealing four rows of razor teeth. I chided myself for not recognizing a ghūl when I saw one.
I twisted my body away from his grip as he tried to bite my arm. With my free hand, I drove a right hook into his head, hitting him hard enough to spin him around. He released my arm, which I promptly used for a jab between the shoulder blades that knocked the wind out of him.
As the ghūl fell to his knees, I felt a constriction around my whole body. The troll was working his magic, weaving cerulean strands of light around me like a rope. I grunted and made towards him, but the bands of light were strong enough to halt my movement. Alright, I admitted to myself, this may be a tad more difficult than I had anticipated.
Then the half-ogre joined the fun.
He rushed past the troll and head-butted me. His skull connected with my jaw and propelled me into the wall with a loud crack of cheap plaster. Still trapped by the troll’s magic, the best I could do in response was an upward kick that looked more like an impression of a flopping fish. The thug threw me to the floor and stomped his foot down — he actually stepped on me! — and drove it as hard as he could into my chest. I think he was surprised that my ribcage didn’t give in.
Enough was enough. The troll was tripping me up with petty magic, the ghūl was regaining enough of his senses to make another go at a taste test, and a half-ogre was literally walking all over me. Time to get serious.
I channeled my own power into breaking the spell. The troll was competent enough but only competent. I envisioned the entangling bands breaking apart. Reality responded to my demand, and the spell swiftly disintegrated into motes of fast-fading light. Several of the motes caught the half-ogre in the eyes. He grunted in pain and backed away as he covered his blinded eyes with his hands.
Able to move freely again, I flipped to my feet in time to catch a bite in the shoulder from that freaking ghūl. I gritted my teeth and elbowed him hard. His head snapped back, taking a nice chunk of my shoulder and jacket with him.
I laid into the half-ogre. A flurry of punches to the stomach softened him up, and a left hook to the hip cracked bone and made the brute double over. I delivered an uppercut that put him back into a standing position before I wrapped a hand around his waist, put my other hand beneath his arm, and lifted him over my head. A flawlessly executed vertical suplex slammed him into the table, splintering it and leaving the half-ogre groaning on the floor.
Incidentally, not many people do their homework on me. They’re so hung up on the “Messenger of the Gods” title that they fail to appreciate my many other admirable attributes. Such as my divine mastery of boxing and wrestling. No man or woman, mortal or otherwise, can beat me in a boxing match. Play fair or cheat, you aren’t going to win.
The troll saw his comrade go down and tried to run. I grabbed him and spun him around to face me. His mouth and eyes formed perfect “O”s when I drove my fist into his chest. He flew across the room into the door. It didn’t break, and he fell down face-forward. He didn’t get back up.
The ghūl was having troubles of his own. He choked and stumbled around as his eyes glazed over. The liquid dribbling from his mouth hadn’t agreed with him. He was quickly learning that the blood of gods was poisonous to mortals. I took him down with an offhand punch.
Stauffer hadn’t budged an inch from where he stood. He was transfixed on me with a mixture of rage, amazement, and stark fear. I turned to the goblin, who hadn’t joined in the fight at all. I lifted an eyebrow. Stauffer also looked at his minion and jerked his head at me.
“You serious, boss?” the goblin scoffed. He jumped over the prostrate troll and bolted out the door.
Stauffer growled a sharp curse.
“You’ll pay for this. You’ve assaulted me on my own property. You’ve violated the Contract, and heads will roll. Mark my words.”
I cracked my knuckles and laughed. “Mark my words, Stauffer, you started this fight. The only head that would roll is yours.”
“You provoked me!” Realization dawned in his eyes. “You wanted this fight to happen!”
“Maybe, maybe not. But it happened. And you started it. You think I’ve breached the Contract, take it up with the High Court. It’s your word against mine.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You do that. Olympus is part of the High Court. My father sits on it. The god you offended.”
His eyes practically bulged out of his head.
“And, I hate to say it, but you are part jötunn. The gods haven’t forgotten what your kind did to Asgard. Take a case to the Court, see what happens.”
“You …You …” He was too angry to form words. Finally, he snapped and charged me.
I was ready. I sidestepped his haymaker, drove my fist into the soft flesh below his ribs, and stuck my foot in front of his leg. He tilted forward ponderously and hit the floor with a heavy thud. He rolled himself over onto his back. He looked up at me, gasping for breath.
“You piece of … You little son of a—”
“Ah-ah!” I wagged my finger. “Blasphemy! Don’t want to add that to your list of offenses.”
I took stock of the scene. The room was trashed, four men were lying on the floor in varying states of consciousness, and I was standing there with my favorite jacket ruined and a piece of my shoulder missing. All in all, things had gone fairly well.
“One week, Stauffer,” I said as I walked away. “You have one week to come up with two million dollars. Olympus’ representatives will be here.” I paused at the door. “They won’t be as polite as me.”
At the sight of my torn clothes and blood — and the sight of my ripped flesh knitting itself back together even as I walked along — the tavern’s occupants looked away from me and became very focused on their drinks. I noticed that Mark was absent. The old man who’d been sitting with him caught my eye and nodded to me with a noncommittal expression.
I walked up to the bar and demanded a shot of whiskey. The bartender obliged me with all due haste. I downed it, put the glass down, and walked out of the bar. The bartender wouldn’t have expected me to pay, anyway.
I was back in the awful drizzle, a little the worse for wear, but in high spirits. I strolled down the sidewalk, happy to be done with that chore and ready for a night of relaxation and enjoyable company. A night at The Vine sounded like just the thing for me.
It had been an exciting errand, certainly, but not anything particularly special. In the grand scheme of life, of all the things I had done and seen and said, this was a minor event. A petty task. Just another message successfully delivered.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
Well, I’ve talked a lot about writing on this blog, but I’ve never actually posted any of my work yet. I thought today that I would post an excerpt from my first-ever published book, A God Walks Up to the Bar. It’s an anthology of five short stories, connected by a framing story, that details the adventures of the Greek god Hermes in modern day. Read and enjoy!
—
The night was gloomy in that part of New York. There was no glamor here, no joyous nightlife. There was just rain drizzling down half-heartedly, covering the sidewalk in a dirty wet sheen that reflected the glare of the streetlights. It reminded me of how long I’d been putting off that vacation to Aruba, and how nice it would be to lounge in the jacuzzi in my apartment. But, alas, no such luxuries tonight. I was on business. The messenger had gotten his assignment, and like the intrepid mail pilots of old, he must get through.
I tromped through the puddles and arrived at my destination. It was a real hole-in-the-wall bar. Its owner had spared no expense in stripping it of the slightest feature that would impress itself in memory. There was no sign, the windows were darkened glass, and the entrance was a blank gray door at the bottom of a flight of concrete steps. I descended and walked inside.
It wasn’t much more cheerful inside the tavern than out. Battered hanging lamps cast everything in a dim reddish-orange tint. The floor was slick with grease, and the air was sour with the scent of cheap beer. It was well into happy hour, but the clientele was sparse. I counted six men hunched over their drinks and making small talk. A couple of them glanced up and appraised me with cold eyes.
This wasn’t a place where people gathered for a good time. This was where you came when you had to conduct business that was frowned upon by civil society. An unfamiliar face like mine wasn’t welcome here. Still, they did little more than scowl at me as I approached the bar.
The bartender had just stepped out of a backroom lugging an icebox when he saw me. He set down the box and fixed his eyes on me. His voice was brusque.
“What’ll it be?”
“Nothing, tonight,” I replied. “I’m here to see your boss.”
The bartender frowned and tilted his head.
“I’m here to see Stauffer,” I clarified.
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Who wants to see him?”
I set both my hands on the bar counter. I immediately regretted it — the wood was sticky with spilled alcohol — but I wasn’t about to show squeamishness. I pushed my right hand forward and curled my knuckles, displaying the ring I wore.
A gold ring with a seal displaying two serpents wrapped around a winged staff. The Caduceus. My personal symbol.
The bartender’s frown deepened. He recognized it.
“You’re an Olympian,” he said slowly.
“That I am,” I replied with a friendly smile. “Hermes of Olympus, Swift-runner and Wayfarer, Herald of the Dodekatheon, et cetera, et cetera. I’m here to see Arnold Stauffer with a message straight from Lord Zeus. And I fear it must be delivered face-to-face.”
He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Sorry, my lord, but I can’t say I’ve—”
I held up my hand. “Tell you what. Let’s skip the part where you pretend that he conveniently stepped out a few hours ago and you don’t know when he’ll be back. I know he’s here. Does that sound good to you? Good, that’s settled. Now, just point me to his room, and I’ll be out of your hair faster than a Valkyrie can chug mead.”
The bartender gave a short, ugly chuckle. “He won’t see you today, my lord. He’s busy.”
“Oh!” I replied in mock horror. “He’s busy. Olympus forbid.” I leaned farther forward. “If it’s trouble you’re worried about, I’m not here to knock heads and pull ears. It’s a simple message. A communiqué. A heaven-sent singing telegram, if you will. Minus the singing.”
My words didn’t make much of an impression, but as I spoke, I took a moment to throw a casual glance across the tavern. I noted the hallway leading deeper into the building. I turned again to the bartender.
“He in back? Tending to the affairs of his kingdom?”
“He ain’t seeing you. Not my call.”
Stauffer had been expecting someone to show up. No surprise there. He knew what he’d done. And yet, he still thought he could keep me away. Adorable.
I took several meaningful steps toward the hallway. A man sitting at a nearby table slowly got up and stretched in a way that drew attention to his height and formidable musculature. His drinking buddy, a much older fellow than the rest of the barflies, remained seated but watched me carefully.
The standing man looked at me with a face that shone with arrogance.
“Must not have heard the man,” he said in a loud voice. “Arnie doesn’t want to be disturbed. So why don’t you skip out of here, Olympian?”
He gave me a predator’s grin and glanced at his friend who was still watching me. I sized up the gatekeeper. Tall, stocky, thick-skinned, with a greyish tint to him. Ogre blood. Not to be trifled with. Judging from the way his hands were open and held close to his side, I figured he was armed. Knives most likely. His jacket wasn’t thick enough to conceal a gun. He looked down at me, which isn’t hard to do to a god who’s five feet eight inches tall.
I sighed in defeat.
“Well, that’s a shame. It was worth a shot, though, wasn’t it, Mark? But you’re right, we don’t want to make a fuss. It is Mark, isn’t it?”
The man’s right eye twitched slightly at the casual mention of his name.
“Right, Mark Yeager.” I nodded as if I had just remembered. “You do a bit of leg-breaking work for Stauffer. Real smooth operator. A pawn shop here, a diner there. Very efficient, really rising in the ranks. Even got your own thing going, too, I’ve heard. A bit of burgling on the side when not on Stauffer’s payroll?”
Mark tried to laugh it off, but that telltale twitch in his eye didn’t go away. He wouldn’t make much of a poker player. “What are you trying to do, scare me? I’m a plumber.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I laughed. “That was pretty dumb of me, wasn’t it? You do good work, I’m sure.” Mark smiled mirthlessly at me as I took a step back. The tension in his body drained away, just in time for the gut punch.
“You, uh, did a real good job unclogging the pipes at Ezra Connolly’s place, I heard.”
The comment caught him off-guard. His nostrils flared, and his throat tightened. Jackpot.
“Unclogged his cabinets later that night, too. Pretty slick work.” I waved my hand across the tavern. “The guys must have really been impressed. Not easy, breaking into the home of a member of the Aristocracy.”
“What’s he talking about, Mark?” the white-bearded man asked calmly.
Mark shook his head, trying to shrug off the question. “Nothing. He’s just blowing a load of—”
I cut him off. “And is Stauffer having trouble with the Aristocracy?”
They all remained silent, watching me now with undivided attention. They knew the answer. The Aristocracy was controlled by vampires, a world-spanning criminal empire that suffered no insult. Its network in New York had been harassing Stauffer’s operations for a couple weeks now.
“Didn’t Connolly mention something to Stauffer? Something about being disrespected? About his territory being violated? Hey, Mark, you doing alright?”
The other men turned to observe Mark with acute interest. He wasn’t holding up very well under the scrutiny. His eyelid was practically short-circuiting, and his face was turning a violent shade of red.
I took a step closer to him. “You know how vampires are. Once they get it into their head that they’ve been slighted, they’ll go through fire and water to even the score. Man, I’d hate to be the guy who ticked them off. Vampires have a really interesting idea of justice. It involves lots of sharp, jagged objects. If I were Stauffer, I’d be looking for that idiot who messed up and just hand him over. So, anyway, how is the plumbing business nowadays?”
“Alright!” Mark erupted. “I get it. You think you know stuff.” He glared at me. “I’m loyal to Mr. Stauffer. And you ain’t passing through here.”
The white-bearded man whistled in derision. “He’s a god, you idiot. He’s not trying to force you to stand down. He’s proving a point.” He jerked a thumb. “Step aside.”
Mark shot a look at him. “But—”
“Shut up and get out of his way.”
Crestfallen, Mark stepped to the side, letting me pass. The old man raised his glass to me.
“Well played, Lord Hermes.”
As I walked away, I heard his voice growl, “Sit down, Mark. I think we should talk.”
A key rule of bluffing is confidence. Did I know with dead certainty that Mark was a thief? No. But I knew just enough. I had lots of little birds all over the city telling me things, and this was one of the nuggets they’d dropped me. It was all gossip, truths, and half-lies, and who knew which was which. But I had played this game before. Drop a hint, watch the opponent buckle, and then push him a little more. Never falter, never stutter, and always let them believe you already know everything. I’m a god, aren’t I? Everyone knows gods are all-knowing.
Well, I had gotten that roadblock out of the way. Now, it was time to deal with the big man himself.
There was a solid oak door at the end of the hallway. It was a fancy door, far more ornate than anything else in this place. I felt the faint pulse of magic emanating from it.
I put my hand on the doorknob and was immediately stung by a shock of intense cold that coated my palm in frost. An enchantment to ward off intruders. Clever.
But this was low-grade stuff. I focused my thoughts and pushed back against the enchantment. The magic sputtered and dissipated, and I felt the cold fade away. It took another second to take care of the lock. I opened the door and stepped inside.
To be continued …
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
I must confess to a strange reading habit, one that might shock and horrify you. Do not judge me too harshly, for I shall explain myself.
When I start a fiction book, I like to skip to read the last couple of pages first.
“What?” I hear you cry out. “What is this blasphemy? Why ruin the story for yourself?” Calm yourself, please. Let me clear things up.
It’s true that I’m not sensitive to spoilers. I really don’t mind when plot twists are brought up in casual conversation. But this habit is more than just wanting to know how things end. Really, without context, knowledge of a story’s ending doesn’t have a terribly great impact on me as a reader. I have no grasp of the import of the scenes and dialogue. What I’m really interested in is catching a glimpse of the finished jigsaw puzzle, then going back to the beginning to see how the pieces fit together.
Rather than starting a book with no idea of how things end up, I know exactly how it ends. And so, the fun of the read shifts from the “what?” to the “why?” Why is this the ending? And how will my initial impression of it change as I get more pieces of the bigger picture?
I suppose I’m interested in perceiving the author’s mind. How do they assemble the various elements of the narrative into its final shape at story’s end? How are these characters and events inserted into the story? In short, how did we end up here?
Pieces click into place as I read on, and the ending’s significance becomes clearer. Sometimes, I feel like a detective solving a case in reverse. I already know whodunnit, but the howdunnit isn’t so obvious.
And I do it because I’m quirky and it’s kind of a fun exercise to try out. I neither recommend it nor warn against it. Reading style is a matter of personal preference. It’s up to you.
And there you have it. The true confessions of a skipper.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
You ever think about how traits and habits can shape a character? Everyone has their own flavor of mannerisms: body posture, repeating gestures, facial expressions, verbal expressions, nervous habits. For the sake of simplicity, let’s call them “quirks.” They’re the little details that don’t play a part in the unfolding plot, but simply help flesh out the world you’re creating. Being visual cues, for the most part, they also aren’t always the easiest thing to describe in writing. Movies love them, though, and they can definitely help liven up a scene and make characters more relatable.
It’s all about humanizing your characters. Real people have habits and tics. They do or say things on a regular basis that are uniquely a part of them. You – yes, you – have habits and gestures of your own that make you, well, you. The devil is in the details, but so is good writing. Experienced authors can make even a bit character memorable by throwing in a couple of notable traits and letting those emblazon themselves in readers’ minds. Movies have it even easier. Being visual by nature, a film or TV show can display those quirks without pausing to describe them, letting such details blend more seamlessly into the narrative.
Mostly, quirks are all about worldbuilding, aren’t they? Not necessary to the plot, not vital to understanding the hero and supporting cast. They’re like sprinkles on ice cream. They’re a little something extra.
Or are they?
Quirks can be used as plot devices and can even deliver good payoffs. Someone recognizes her long-lost lover because of the specific way in which he twirls his hair. A secret agent’s habit of spinning his knife causes him to drop it and nearly trigger a motion-sensor alarm. A villain always unconsciously taps her fingers at the prospect of playing a game. A protagonist with OCD compulsively touches and counts poles on the sidewalk. He misses one and goes back for it – just in time to miss being run down by an oncoming car.
These are all examples taken from real movies and TV shows. Can you figure out where they come from?
Do you want your story to feel real? Do you want your characters to feel like people you might actually meet on the street? Or maybe you just want to challenge yourself with producing something a little more creative than past works? Consider using quirks to ad spice to your story. How? Well, take a look at the people you already know. Watch them carefully (but don’t be weird about it). Look at how they act and talk and move. Real life is good inspiration. Everyone has quirks.
Are there ways in which you have used quirks in your writing? Please feel free to share!
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
You ever see someone walking down the street with an easy stride, good posture, and a sure expression on their face? You think to yourself, “Man, they’ve got it together. They know they’re going places in life.” You ever question if they actually did know what they were doing and where they’d end up? After all, if they look like they know what they’re doing, they probably do, right?
Well, maybe not.
How often did you ask mom and dad questions about the world when you were a kid? And you took their answers as gospel truth. Parents always know why the sky is blue, and why the moon disappears during the day, and how car engines work, and when Santa is coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve. They were the all-knowing arbiters of wisdom.
Then we grew up and figured out that our parents were barely keeping it together. Blazes if they knew the right answers to a young child’s innocent curiosity. We become parents ourselves and end up playing the same part, only to discover that we can barely manage a coherent sentence in response to our children’s relentless torrent of questions.
But our parents always LOOKED like they knew what they were talking about. And because of that, we never thought to question anything they said. They could have told us the world really was black and white with no color in the 1950s, and our young selves would have believed them.
What about the inverse? An expert – in mathematics, let’s say – lectures in front of an audience. He’s giving one of those TED talks or what have you. He knows exactly what he’s talking about. He’s foremost in his field. But he stutters. He’s nervous being out in public like this. Consequently, he can’t explain the concepts very well. He has a nervous laugh and shuffles his feet. An expert? Sure. But we aren’t inclined to take him seriously. Not like Dad, who has no idea how photosynthesis works, but is able to bluff his three-year-old with a bold smile and a ready answer.
Confidence is a funny thing. It’s no guarantee of truth or accuracy, but it is such a vital component of how others perceive us. We trust confident people. They at least have the decency to look like they know what they’re about. And hey, if they trust their own skill, why shouldn’t we? Well, that way lies potential catastrophe, but that’s the point. We follow those who look like they know where they’re going. Confidence is no substitute for competence, but it is an important ingredient in leadership and successful undertakings.
Writing your book is one thing. Selling it is another. The Internet is full of ways to advertise, but if you don’t believe in the product yourself, why should others? If you don’t have the self-assurance that your story is worth reading, how are you going answer the question, “Why should I care?” If you don’t have any confidence, any trust in your book’s quality, people notice. And who wants to read a book that even the author doesn’t think is very good? Have a little faith in your work!
We live in a superficial world. Sad, but true. People look at our appearance and how we carry ourselves. Before they get to know us, they spot little details –shirt stains, unkempt hair, untied shoelaces. And thus, our self-presentation impresses itself on people’s memories for far longer than a good conversation or a well-informed lecture. Likewise, if any aspiring writers are trying to convince someone to read their book and looks nervous and withdrawn when discussing the thing, that’s what our would-be readers will remember, not that we actually wrote a good story that they’ll enjoy.
Is that fair? Not really. But it’s real. Writing requires skill and practice and patience. But to get people to read that story? That requires the belief that the story you told is worth sharing with others. It requires confidence to say that your story is worth the effort.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Having gotten halfway through the first draft of my second book, I look back on the progress I’ve already made and have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I’m fairly confident my skill has improved somewhat since my first book. On the other hand, I see the myriad flaws still there and wish I could write a perfect book straight out of the gate. But writing is a feat where one plays the tortoise more than the hare. Slow and steady wins the race.
Also, the first draft of anything is going to be garbage no matter how hard you try. It’s just the nature of the beast.
In fact, I’ve come up with a nickname for first drafts: the vomit draft.
The first bout of writing isn’t necessarily pretty or neat. In fact, it can be downright ugly as you not only try to type out a coherent story, but also struggle with phrasing, dialogue, vocabulary, writer’s block, and coming to the grim realization that your story’s direction is slowly but surely veering away from your original vision. It’s a beautiful mess.
Knowing this, my goal in the first draft isn’t to write a masterpiece. It’s to just get all the words written. Spewing them out as they come to mind, as it were. Hence, the vomit draft.
We got to start somewhere, right?
Sometimes, I get frustrated and think that the garbage I’m writing is going to stay garbage regardless of rewrites. Sometimes, I go through a brief existential crisis as I wonder if being a writer is even my calling in life and maybe I should just stick to my day job. Sometimes, my mind struggles with even the most basic words. Who will want to read this?
But that’s not what the vomit draft is about. Making your story readable comes later. Right now, just get it all out. No holding back, no second-guessing, no graceful prose. Just write something to fill in the pages. It’s the foundation for what comes later. Every beautiful building is built upon a pool of poured cement. It’s not pretty, and it isn’t supposed to be.
Fortunately, nobody ever has to see our vomit drafts except ourselves. And we get a small consolation in knowing that this sorry state of affairs can and will become something much, much better.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
“Cuddling up with a good book” is a phrase that invites images of coziness and comfort. It’s like being a rabbit holed up in your burrow, safe and secure. And we do like being comfortable. The same predictable genre or series over and over is a safe choice for when we get the itch to read something. But we are not rabbits. We humans benefit greatly from trying new things. Sometimes, we need to climb out of our burrows and take a close look at the landscape. A new book, a new genre, a new experience.
It’s not easy to do something we’ve never tried before, even with something as seemingly trivial as trying a new book. But it’s not trivial, is it? For some of us (myself included), it can be very daunting indeed. Reading is a time investment. Sinking time into something we might not even enjoy is time forever lost to us. Dare we take the risk?
I say we should. Life is short enough without limiting ourselves to a narrow view of it. Stories grow us and expand our perspective on the world. And who knows? You just might discover something new to love in literature. Trying new things is its own reward, and challenging ourselves to grow is always beneficial.
Rabbits are nervous, wary creatures. But rabbits can’t read and know the joy of encountering a new tale, of being lost in a new world of words. There are so many worlds out there, contained in the pages of a book or imprinted in the code of an eBook, and they’re all there for us to visit whenever we want. Why shouldn’t we try to explore as much as we can?
Alright, I’ll be honest. I’ve read books I didn’t enjoy. I’ve tried things recommended to me that I didn’t get much of a thrill doing. But, as they say, you never know until you try. On the other hand, I discovered some of my favorite franchises thanks to a friend or family member. And sometimes just from idle curiosity.
Whether you’re a writer or not, if you love literature, than never stop exploring its many corners. Leave your burrow and go out and see what there is to see!
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Jake W. Powell 