Five Days of Awesome!

I’d like to thank everyone who downloaded a copy, posted retweets, and shared my updates on Facebook over the past five days. Because of your help, I gave away over 4,000 copies of Gasher Creek. It charged to number one on the Kindle Store’s list for Paranormal and Western genres, and cracked the top 100 of the Amazon Best Seller’s list. I never could have imagined it would have been so successful, and I’ll be riding on Cloud Ten (which is WAY better than Cloud Nine) well into the New Year.

When I started this, I only expected 100 copies to be given away, so four thousand is mind boggling. I can hardly believe it.  But I do like it! 

Over the last few days, I've received some criticism over offering my book for free, but I feel too good to argue. Instead, I'll just summarize with this:

Money is good, but being read is better. Nothing can equal this feeling of satisfaction. People all over North America and Europe are reading my book! The thought of it makes me smile. And years from now, it'll still make me smile.

That's priceless.

Thanks

It’s been a great year for old man Birch, and I have Twitter to thank for it. It’s amazing what social media can do, especially for writers. Not only have I made a bunch of new friends, but Gasher Creek has been making the “kudos” rounds for a few months now. People seem to really dig it, and that’s made me feel all squishy inside. (At least I hope that’s what’s causing the squish. If not, I should probably see a doctor.)

And it’s not just “kudos” that I’m getting from Twitter. It’s also practical help. Of course, the greatest gift I’ve received this year was the artwork of Tracy McCusker. Her cover art for Gasher Creek (see top left of this page) captures the spirit of the book in a way that I never thought possible. If you are a lover of art and poetry, please check out her website: dustyjournal.com. If you are an indie writer in need of a cover, contact her immediately. Her talent is getting noticed, and it won’t be long before she’s part of the elite.  

I’ve also had invaluable help from other writers such as Antonio Angelo. He took the time to offer some tips for a better book description. I’m still not thrilled with the result, but it’s much better because of his input. Thanks sir!

So, because of all the goodness the Internet had done for me this year, I want to return the favour. From Dec. 25^th to the 29^th, my book Gasher Creek will be available for FREE from Amazon.com and its affiliated sites. Why December 25^th? Two reasons. One, because it’s a Christmas gift (aww). And two, because Quentin Tarantino’s new western “Django Unchained” premieres that day. I’m a huge Tarantino fan, and this is my way of saying thanks to him for keeping the interest in westerns alive.

So, after you’ve seen “Django Unchained” (and you know you will), and you are all fired up for more western adventure (you know you will be), go ahead and download my little western for free. And I thank you for it.

Onward to a new year and a new book!

J.

Bent Blue Hinge

So, I almost quit writing a couple months ago. Close friends know that I almost quit at least once a month, but this time it was serious. After fourteen years, I felt I’d gained no return on my investment. Plus, I had recently made the mistake of reading articles about the publishing industry.

Never read articles about the publishing industry. Either someone is writing about the death of the novel, or they are writing about fat cat publishers, or they are portraying indie authors as a barbarian horde invading the marketplace, getting their grubby fingers and snotty noses all over everything.

To be honest, I think my heart was a little broken. We’re taught that if we “try our hardest” then we’ll achieve our goal. I’ve not only “tried my hardest”, but I sacrificed my twenties (and the first half of my thirties) to the single goal of publishing. Seriously, I’ve spent 99% of my adult life in front of a computer giving myself a headache over the nuances of grammar.

So, on those grounds, I quit. And for a few days I felt a certain kind of freedom. Anger, yes, but mostly freedom. I didn’t have IT hanging over my head anymore. There would be no more plot knots, no more self-appointed deadlines, no more worrying which grammar landmine was going to explode in my face.

I went for a lot of walks during those days. I tried to smooth out the wrinkles of regret. I listened to a ton of music. I stood at the edge of the prairie and watched tumbleweeds race across the plain like herds of buffalo. The wind beat me red, and I loved it. It felt like I was on the verge of something new.

Then, on the way back from one of my walks, I happened to pass this old blue fence. It was weathered and peeled and crooked from too many Alberta winters. And at the end of the fence was a gate. As I passed by, I noticed that one of its hinges had torn free from its post. The hinge (also blue) was bent and curled into the shape of a shoehorn. Beneath the gate, the dirt had been scraped and scooped away.

I wondered: maybe some small creature, like a leprechaun, had escaped from the yard behind the fence. And then I wondered why a leprechaun would escape from a yard. Had someone held him hostage? Why would they do that? And where would the leprechaun go after he’d escaped and...

I paused on the sidewalk. I stared at that hinge. And then I knew. I just knew I could never stop writing.

Not because of the idea (it wasn’t a very good one), but because of what I saw as a result of a bent blue hinge. Most people (those sensible types) would look at the ground and the hinge and think a dog or a cat had dug under the fence and broken the hinge. Or maybe they would think nothing at all and keep walking.

 But not me.

You see, the damage has been done. I’ve moved past the point where writing is something that I “do” and it has become something that I “am”.  Fourteen years of neuroplastic manipulation has left me permanently tripping in Imaginationland. Whether I like it or not, my brain is an idea generator. I’ll always see leprechauns running for their lives. It doesn’t matter whether publishers give a hot damn or not. It doesn’t matter whether I’m read or not. The stories will always demand attention.

I suppose I could ignore it the way that John Nash guy did in “A Beautiful Mind”. Maybe the leprechauns would leave me alone. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Perhaps ghosts and aliens and pirates would crowd my brain until I couldn’t think anymore, and I’d become some kind of babbling moron (moreso).

But that does me no good. If I’m going to babble, I might as well babble on the page. If I’m going to see poisonous apples in trees and robotic crows with knowing glances and graveyards full of shivering corpses then I might as well write about it. 

But that raises a new question, and I can't help but feel unsettled by it:

Am I writing these stories for myself? Or am I writing these stories for them.

Mike Whitacre's The Crimson Wilderness

Introducing – THE CRIMSON WILDERNESS 

I have decided to take upon the arduous task of writing a single, first draft novel for National Novel Writing Month, as many others are doing the same (click the link to find out more about this particular event). And when I decided this, the idea for the novel sprang within me, thus The Crimson Wilderness was conceived. Let me explain: the novel is set in 1877, sometime after the American Civil War, and follows several characters either in or going to a town with No Name. The story begins when several Native American tribes (called Indians in the book and the actual synopsis) are running toward the town, away from a massacre of their tribe. A platoon of soldiers are suspected of committing this heinous act, but nothing is as it seems when a lady in a strange red dress arrives.

Now for a bit of context: The Crimson Wilderness is part of a novel series connected to my Gaze series, dubbed Gaze Chronicles, and instead of volumes, these novels will be described as Epics. The Crimson Wilderness is the first Epic of the chronicles. For those unaware, Gaze is a series e-books that have three short stories per Volume, each story revolving around a city called Red Ridinghood, involving supernatural related crimes. I have released two volumes so far (Magic Blood and Faeries Are My Business, and I hope to release the third one eventually. The world of Gaze is parallel to our world and is very similar, though the supernatural is more a blatant reality than a subtle ambiguous influence. Some humans have abilities they either hone, take for granted, try to escape, or abuse. There are creatures that come from a different realm, called the Spiritual Realm, many good and evil: faeries, pixies, goblins, trolls, demons, and even some that are a mystery even to the residents of this realm. The two realms often overlap and influence one another, causing curses and changing certain humans into tricksters (who can be so morally gray that they can be considered more dangerous than demons). I’m creating the Gaze Chronicles to provide the history why Red Ridinghood is an epicenter for the supernatural, while providing the same action-packed stories I provide for the Gaze Volumes. The Crimson Wilderness is the first Epic that begins the history, and I saw it fitting to use the post-Civil War / Western genre to start it all off.

I could bore you with more details, but I’d rather just give you the excerpt to the first chapter of The Crimson Wilderness. Enjoy!

###

Chapter One

Dawn broke in a hot flare as the sun peeked behind the tree laden mountain range, casting it under a red tinted shadow. The bright rays beamed westward onto a small town still sleeping. Cherry’s Saloon was the first to receive sunlight while lying in her bed, and since she never used a curtain to cover her dust-stained window, Cherry woke up as the first rays flashed upon her porcelain face, smooth yet firm with obvious lines of experience. Scrunching her eyes shut, wrinkling her nose, and grimacing, she rolled away from the sun, which was now on her glimmering brown hair. As much as she wanted to fall back into her dreams, Cherry was fully awake and ready to take on the day. Unlike most people, she never yawned during the waking hours, and that kind of annoyed her.

Exhaling a short sigh, she slipped her naked body out from under the covers and into her undergarment. Then she fitted into her faded blue dress, tied on her stained apron, and then put on her worn-out snake skin boots. Turning her head toward a table where a few empty bottles of whiskey and wine stood, along with her hair brush. With a sullen smile, she grabbed the brush, sat back down on her bed, and started straightening out her locks, pulling out the few knots made from the sleeping hours. She took her time, making one patient stroke after another as she stared blankly at the door leading out of her loft.

Finished, she set the brush back on the table then stood up and walked toward the window to grab her empty pale. Before she could grab its handle, something outside caught her attention. She couldn’t make it out at first, so she opened the window and squinted her eyes: noticing several dots running frantically toward her. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what she saw. Then her eyes went wide.

Without skipping a beat, Cherry ran out of her loft and saloon, toward the red sunrise. “Get the Sheriff!” she yelled. “Get the Sheriff!”

The townsfolk woke to her calls, but no one would catch up to her as she neared the group of Indians, who were running from their dear lives. Each of them was blood stained and muddied, and their eyes were filled with a petrifying horror.

***

One Day Later…

Jonathan Darrin walked near the train, heading West and away from the East Coast. He was a tall black man who wore sleek black clothes, black boots, a black hat with a red decorative bow wrapped around it, and he held a long black that could hold a good-sized trombone. A corn cob pipe stuck out of his mouth as he gave a smile toward New York City, before tipping his hat for a final so-long.

Walking on board, he felt a few eyes a sneers going his way, which was more a minor inconvenience to his survival instincts than it was annoyingly awkward. He was more worried about running into a familiar face…

“Howdy, Ichabod,” chuffed the big black man behind him, making the other passengers cringe with fright.

“Let me guess,” Jonathan started, not looking behind him, “you must be Larry, right?”

“Name’s Thorn.”

“Of course it is,” Jonathan sighed, setting his case on the ground before meeting his friend face to face with a big, insincere grin. “My name is Jonathan, though, not Ichabod. Nice to meet you Thorpe.”

“I know who ya is,” spat Thorn.

“Charming.”

“We’ve some unfinished business.”

“No. I believe it’s finished.”

“What seems to be the problem, lads?!” asked a booming Irish voice. Thorn turned his head and John looked around Thorn to see the officer with a curvy red mustache. Jonathan knew him as Officer Dewey McClure, nicknamed “The Iron Fist” in his boxing days back in the old country.

Thorn sneered then huffed, “None at all, Clover.” Looking back to John, he said, “It don’t matter how far ya run, Ichabod. When I find ya, I’ll gut ya.”

After Thorn stomped out of the train, Jonathan picked up his case and started to walk away. “Hold it, Darrin!”

“Indeed… How may I assist you, Officer?”

McClure stood inches from Jonathan so they were face to face, one looking worn-out while the other looked as if it was catching on fire. “Wherever you’re going, make sure my eyes never see your kisser ever again.” Then he exited the train.

Jonathan stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. “Miss you, too.”

The train horn squealed into his ear as the conductor boomed, “All aboard!” Straightening up, he found himself an empty seat, found a good hiding space for his suit case, and then sat down before lighting the tobacco in his pipe as the locomotive chugged along, from slow to fast, towards his new beginning.

***

Late Afternoon…

Sheriff Anthony Birch scratched his dirty-blond beard impatiently as he kept his eyes pointed to the hills. Everything about him was unkempt: from his mess of hair to his calloused fingers to his disordered clothes to his boots that were ready call it quits. To his left was the Town Hall, where Mayor Timothy Smith usually did his business, sending telegrams to Sacramento and San Francisco, but right now, he stood in the entrance to the small building, looking like a penguin the Sheriff saw once, drawn in a newspaper.

“You could stand there all day, Birch,” said the Mayor, “that won’t undo the fact he was the only person available to handle the matter.”

“I know,” Anthony assured as he took out tin case from his pants pocket, opened it, and pulled out the only pre-clipped cigar left inside. “There’s just something about that Marshal that rubbed me the wrong way,” he added then put the cigar in his mouth as he put the case away and pulled out a box of matches.

While he lit the cigar, Smith shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t presume to know one way or another when it comes to U.S. Marshals. He seemed to be older than the others that have passed by here.”

“Hmm,” puffed the Sheriff. “Maybe I’ll see how Cherry and those Injuns are doing. Should have a better view of the range from there.”

“One of these days, Tony… Just try to go easy on yourself. It’s going to be a long week, after all.” Then the Mayor walked awkwardly back into the building.

“Yeah, right.”

He took out his cigar to spit then put it back between his teeth as he began walking toward Cherry’s Saloon. Nearing the saloon, he saw Cherry walking out looking frantic and busy minded, yet there was something about her that caught him off guard.

“Cherry!” he called out to her.

She directed her attention immediately to him then smiled. “Good to see you, again, Sheriff,” she greeted. “I was on my way to see Mr. Brown.”

“I told you to call me Tony,” he said, standing a foot away from her. “How’s the guests?”

“They won’t say anything, but they’re not hurt too bad. Seems like they barely made it out of whatever hit their tribe. The doctor says it’s a bit odd they’d all be in a daze. Usually, there’s at least one person who’s a little together in the head after a traumatic experience.”

“During the war, I knew a man who lived through an amputation and didn’t speak any for a whole two years.”

“Hmm… Would a gentleman, like yourself, mind walking me to Brown’s place?”

“Wouldn’t mind at–.” He stopped himself when he saw the Marshal coming in on horse back, pulling five soldiers – each on their respective horses – rope-tied behind him by the wrists.

Cherry saw the scene, too and gasped. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Sure am,” Tony confirmed, letting his cigar fall to the ground, squishing it with the toe of his right boot. “This’ll be a long night.”

***

Pittsburg, Pennsylvania…

The sun began to set over the horizon, casting a dark glow over the city landscape. In the distance, a train horn squeals, forewarning its arrival. Gareth Vanderbilt looked through the window, inside his gun shop, and saw the locomotive exhaling black clouds from its smoke stack. He didn’t look as old as he was, still had a nicely combed head of brown hair along with his mustache, but his teal eyes usually gave that part about him away to anyone willing to look for it. “Not sure why you’re going all the way out West,” he said as he pulled a box of .22 caliber revolver bullets from his shelf, unable to divert his attention away from the train chugging toward the station. “Then again, I haven’t been sure of anything since you returned out of nowhere, asking me for weapons and ammo. After that, I began hoping you wouldn’t come back, every time you left my shop.”

A woman in a red dress, with a red sash covering her head and face, waited and listened patiently behind the counter, while the train came closer. Like the many times before, she kept herself quiet, even though there were many things she wanted and needed to say. But since that day… she just couldn’t bare to explain all that happened.

“Since you’ll actually be gone for good, however,” Gareth continued, finally looking away from the window, the train almost in full view now, “I feel obligated to ask the important things, even though we barely know each other, even back then… Did you meet up with your folks? I hope you did, but something tells me you didn’t. If I was you, I’d think it’d be better off them thinking I was dead, but I’d regret it for the rest of my life, ya know?”

“It’s not just that,” she spoke, voice barely above a whisper. Out of the window, the train nearly flew on by as it’s breaks let loose whiled, metallic shrieks.

“Probably not.” Then he set two boxes of ammunition onto the counter and said, “Two dollars… You better hurry. It’s un-ladylike to miss a train, after all.”

She smiled, took the boxes, put them in her basket, and then she slung her rifle’s strap over her shoulder. “Thank you, Gareth.” Then she gave him a bag of coins.

“Take good care of your weapons and make sure that knife I gave you stays sharp. Oh! And come back when you get a chance, Rosie Rhodes.”

Rosie didn’t say anything in response, just kept her smile when leaving the shop. She headed for the train station to go West, where something important was going to happen, though she was unsure as to what. She was compelled to find out, drawn out to an area that was, to her, undiscovered country, and wherever she ended up, she knew she would be needed.

### 

Sanity Vacuum -- Cover art revealed!

Hey everyone, here's a sneak peak at the cover art for Thea Gregory's upcoming new novel, 'Sanity Vacuum'. Great writer, fantastic cover art, intriguing synopsis. Read more below!

Release date: December 6th, 2012 

Vivian Skye just finished university, and qualified for her first-choice internship. Not many would consider the distant and isolated Extra-Galactic Observatory cushy, but it’s a dream come true for Vivian. Hailing from the low-tech planet of Aurora, she studied hard for this opportunity—and to leave her old life, and planet behind. 

Her assignment is simple: perform a routine upgrade for the station’s supercomputer, quIRK. Her reception isn’t a friendly one, and eccentric quIRK becomes her only friend. However, the station’s administrator, Bryce Zimmer is obsessed with quIRK—he suspects that the station’s computer may have achieved sentience, something explicitly prohibited by the ABACUS Protocol. Compounding their issues, Bryce’s traumatic and privileged past makes him distrust Vivian from the beginning. Desperate to keep control, he sabotages quIRK in order to eliminate Vivian. But, his plan threatens to consume the entire station and send them into the unknown void of intergalactic space. 

Vivian must struggle to survive not only Bryce’s megalomania, but also the emerging artificial super intelligence that is quIRK. Can Vivian and quIRK learn to trust each other and work together, before it’s too late? 

Sanity Vacuum is book one of The ABACUS Protocol.

 Thea Gregory is a farm girl from English Western Quebec, a total nerd, and she loves science fiction, zombies and physics. Between marathon cooking sessions, her clerktastic day job, and part-time studies, she manages to find time to write. Author of the Zombie Bedtime Stories, her debut sci-fi novel, Sanity Vacuum releases December 6th. Thea's blog can be found at:    http://nerdygnome.wordpress.com

Web Absent II - The Next Generation

Hey everyone. Apologies for the length between posts. Despite rumours of a zombie attack, I am still very much alive. Lack of Internet + editing has kept me away from the blog. But the Net is back, so I now have a chance to update you all on the progress of the new book.

I finished the 4^th draft a few days ago and am twenty pages into the 5^th draft. The experience has been both frustrating and educational. I’ve discovered a few new editing tricks, and I’ve remembered a few that I had forgotten. Plot knots plagued me early in the 4^th, but I managed to unravel them (I hope). If all goes well, the book should be finished sometime in December. That will make it about a year and a half of total production time. My first novel (unpublished) took six years, and Gasher Creek took three and a half, so I must be getting better at this editing thing!

I’m already growing nervous about the reception of the new book. It’s very different than G.C., but not to worry—there will be enough twisted, dark moments to identify it as mine.

I've also started studying promotion in the hopes of attracting new readers to the western. I thought about offering a free colt peacemaker with every download, but then I remembered that there were laws about guns. Apparently "The Man" doesn't want just anyone carrying one around. Crazy rules, am I right? 

Thanks for the continued support, everyone. Back to work!

Of All The Luck

On May 11^th, 2011, I published my first novel Gasher Creek. This was a labour of love that took over three years to write and edit. It was a long, exhausting process. Nine previous attempts to write a novel resulted in nine “practice sessions” that fizzled into frustration. But Gasher Creek was different. It continued to evolve until, to my own amazement, a complete story had emerged.

Finally, I had a novel ready to be published, to take on the literary world!

Well, almost. As I neared completion of the book, I realized that one crucial element was missing: a book cover. This was a problem because a.) I am not a visual artist (even my stick men don't look like stick men), and b.) I didn't know where to find a visual artist. 

What a daunting task. I mean, it took me twelve years to finally finish a book. How long would it take to figure out all this new stuff?   

Luckily, my mother has a talent for drawing and agreed to create a cover. And although the cover was functional, it didn’t quite capture the essence of the book. Readers kept commenting on its “vagueness”, and vagueness is not the impression any author wants to make.

So I started looking. And looking. And looking. I scoured the Internet, asked my friends for leads, sent out e-mail queries which resulted in lukewarm promises of definite maybes. Every opportunity fell through.

A year passed…

And then I received a tweet from designer and poet Tracy McCusker. She'd read a blog post of mine and took a chance on my book. And she loved it! Of course, I was thrilled with her response—but then it got better. She liked it so much that she wanted to donate her time toward the creation of a permanent book cover.

I was floored. A cover designer wants to work with me? What luck! I spent the rest of the day feeling very thankful for Twitter and blogs and the Internet in general.

Over the next few weeks, she carefully laid out a series of ideas, each of them brilliant. I was amazed, not only with her visions for the book, but also with the methodical way she examined each idea. Her sketches were provocative and precise. She suggested various fonts, colours, and themes that might resonate with readers. Clearly, I was working with a professional. Finally, it felt as if a real book cover was on its way. 

And then it arrived yesterday—and it’s brilliant. Using a simple image, she’s captured the essence of the book in a way that I didn’t think was possible. It stunned me. I’m still stunned. That cover is now up on Amazon.com. 

As a writer, I should be able to conjure up the appropriate words to express my gratitude, but it’s difficult. I’ve already thanked her about a thousand times, but thanks doesn’t seem to do it justice. How do you properly acknowledge someone who suddenly appeared out of the Internet ether and delivered a solution to a year long problem? How do you show appreciation for a work of art that’s surpassed every expectation? Unfortunately, I'm not that good of a writer. All I can do is continue to thank her. Again. And again.  

Thanks, Tracy.

If you want to learn more about Tracy McCusker’s art and poetry (and you know you do), please visit her website: scienceofdeduction.org

Disconnect

BUY MY BOOK! BUY MY BOOK! WANNA BUY MY BOOK? HEY, BUY MY BOOK! YOU! BOOK GOOD! BUY!

Does this look familiar? If you’re a writer on Twitter, this is probably what your timeline looks like on any given day. Hundreds of writers, trying desperately to convince you to BUY THEIR BOOK! And why not? It’s only 10 cents, and their cousin Bob gave it five stars, so it’s gotta be good! Wanna buy it? Not now? Don’t worry, the exact same tweet will appear again and again and again and again (and again and again) in case you change your mind. Come on, 10 cents. Buddy, spare a dime?

I don’t know about you, but I joined Twitter so that I could connect with other writers. After all, meeting a writer in real life is a rare occurrence. I think I’ve spotted Bigfoot more often.

(To clarify: by writer, I’m not talking about “writers”, those folks who fancy themselves literary because of one poem they wrote in high school. There are, at present, about 100 bazillion “writers” in the world. No, I’m talking about real writers, people who study and practice the craft of writing on a daily basis.)

When I first joined Twitter, I immediately found what I was looking for. Writers! Real, honest to goodness writers striving toward a similar dream. I connected, made new friends, and traded frustrations. And trading frustrations felt so good. I wasn't alone in my struggles any more. I wasn’t the only one who worried about fictional people. I wasn’t insane! It was quite a relief. I finally fit in somewhere. 

And then, gradually, everything started to change.

Writers who used to chat and discuss their careers suddenly became...well...spam bots. Gone were the tweets about first draft blues. Gone were the discussions about character and plot. Instead, BUY MY BOOK ads sprung up like weeds and crowded my timeline. It was as if all these bright, intelligent writers had been assimilated by some kind of marketing Borg. Resistance was futile.

So far, I’ve managed to resist assimilation, but that’s probably because of my innate loathing of advertising. Ads suck. Who likes an ad? They’re intrusive. You can’t watch a thirty minute TV show without sitting through 29 minutes of ads. Ads pop up on virtually every web page, and it’s always for the same crappy poker site. And now Twitter is no different, except it’s being perpetuated by writers.

Now, you may be thinking: “Dude, how else am I going to promote my book? I don’t have the money to hire a marketing team. I have to get the word out!” And you know what? I agree with you. You DO have to get the word out. But I think you’re forgetting one very important weapon in your arsenal:

You.

One of the greatest opportunities of the e-book revolution has been the ability to connect, one on one, with readers. Thanks to sites like Twitter, we can promote ourselves to readers by making an honest connection with them. Most of the copies of "Gasher Creek" I’ve sold have been to people who like talking to me. They didn’t buy my book because of some repetitive ad, or because they were attracted to its temporary cover design. They bought a copy because they discovered the person behind the book. I made a human connection, not a marketing one.

And you know what? It works both ways. I’ve purchased a few books from authors I’ve met on Twitter, and I plan on buying more. I want to support writers with as many nickels and dimes as I can scrape together because I know they need the support. And I know this because I’ve spent time talking to them. I’ve listened to both their dreams and their frustrations.

We as writers should support each other, not barrage each other with mindless spam. We’re all reaching for a prize with a 99% fail rate—that kind of struggle requires reassurance. What we do is hard—damn hard, and it takes years of study and patience and persistence to even make an attempt. That’s a tough road to walk alone.   

But if you want to continue being a Borg, that’s your business. Maybe telling a million people to BUY MY BOOK will result in a couple sales. But may I make a suggestion? Try stopping by every once in a while to say hi. It doesn’t take much to make a connection. I don’t need to become your best friend, I just need to know you’re a real person. Most writers (including myself) tend to be introverts, but we still have that human desire to share—after all, we are storytellers.

Web Absent

Hey everyone, thanks for the patience (and the steadfast twitter support) over the past 4.5 months. I’d love to say that my disappearing act was due to fighting evil in some faraway galaxy, or perhaps finally deciphering the appeal of Stephenie Meyer, but I’m afraid it was much more mundane than that. Basically, I moved from one side of Canada to the other and stayed for some time in the middle of the middle of nowhere. Once there, I had no access to the Internet (no stable access, anyway). But now that I’m in the city, I have regular access once again.

What have I been up to in my web absence? Mostly looking for cover art and editing. I finished the 3^rd draft of my latest novel and hope to have the rest finished by the summer. If I didn’t have to job hunt, I’d probably finish it much sooner, but the “man” says I need to work. Pfft…stupid bills and rent and food and clothing…like those are important. Imaginary people need my attention!

As for cover art—ugh—the search continues. Now that I’m living in a larger city, I hope to be able to find someone to take an interest in Gasher Creek (plus my new book).  

As for the rest of 2012, I’ll be working on a few projects: cover art, formatting for print versions of my novels, working on a new serial novel and also working on a weekly web series. Both the serial and web series are going to be experimental—they could either sink or swim. Hopefully people will like them. Then, in 2013, I’ll be working on another historical mystery. I thought I was finished with the 19^th century, but it doesn’t seem to be finished with me. I have three concepts which take place around the late 1880’s.

Onward and upward, friends!