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What I Did Today Instead of Working

WHERE ARE YOU

(trailer script)

OPENING

Begin panoramic shot of a vast, unnamed metropolis teeming with life.  As we hover over the skyscrapers, the music begins to build softly, establishing a dark, dire theme.  Voiceover of VELMA and SHAGGY.

VELMA

“So, how are you doing today, Norville?”

SHAGGY

“Huh?”

VELMA

“How are you adjusting to the medication?”

SHAGGY

“Oh.  Right.  I’m good.”

Cut to a scene of the streets, people walking in great bustling crowds.  We settle on a view of a humble building at the corner of a crosswalk.  Music begins to climb.

VELMA

“And the episodes?”

SHAGGY

“Good.”

We enter the building from a first-person shot, walking into an elevator.  Cut to a hallway, settling on a door with a sign reading “DR. VELMA DINKLEY, PSYCHOLOGIST.”

VELMA

“What about the voices?”

SHAGGY

“Good.”

Cut to the interior.  VELMA peers over a clipboard at SHAGGY, sitting in a chair across from her.

VELMA

“And the hallucinations?  This…other personality?”

SHAGGY looks over her head to her desk, upon which sits a colossal, snarling hound, grinning with sharp teeth (SCOOBY).

SHAGGY

“…good.”

Music begins in earnest.  Cut to next scene.  Dark city streets, police tap everywhere.  SHAGGY flashes a dirty badge to cops as he pulls his way under the tape.  A blonde, good-looking detective grins as he shows up.

FREDDY

“Norville, you son of a bitch.  You made it.”

SHAGGY

“Yeah.  Well.  You called.”

FREDDY

“I wasn’t sure they’d let you out of the looney bin so quick, eh?  Thought maybe they’d want to keep you until all the voices in your head stopped.”

SHAGGY looks at FREDDY blankly.  FREDDY laughs and claps him on the shoulder.

FREDDY

“Just kiddin’, man.  You know how we do it.”

SHAGGY

“I used to.  What’ve you got here?”

FREDDY

“A real fucking mess is what I’ve got.”

Cut to flashes of images.  A body draped in a sheet.  A pool of blood.  A face of glistening meat.  Only half a second per image.  FREDDY’s voice dubs over.

FREDDY

“Third one in two months.  Same M.O., every time.  Killer leaves plenty of mess, but takes the face with him when he leaves.”

SHAGGY

“So, you thought you’d share this with me.  You know how I feel about this shit.”

FREDDY

“Yeah, I know that.  Because I know you’re the best at this shit.  We fucking still tell the same stories at the bar about your glory days, Norv.”

Cut to images of newspaper clippings featuring SHAGGY reading: “BOY DETECTIVE MAKES GOOD,” “KILLER UNMASKED,” “GHOST HOAX HALTED.”

SHAGGY

“That was a long time ago, Jones.  I don’t do that shit anymore.”

FREDDY

“You’ll want to do this one, pal, trust me.”

SHAGGY

“What makes you so sure?”

FREDDY

She asked for you, personally.”

Music hits its climax.  Cut to blake manor.  DAPHNE coils over a desk, smiling seductively at SHAGGY.

DAPHNE

“The killer’s striking at people…close to me, Norville.  He’s sending me a message.  I can’t have people like that in my city.”

SHAGGY

“I do this, I’m not doing it for you.”

DAPHNE

“Not even if I give you a Scooby Snack?”

SHAGGY slams his fists on the table.

SHAGGY

“DO NOT.  JOKE ABOUT THAT.”

Pan to several scenes in quick succession: SHAGGY kneeling beside a corpse, weeping; SHAGGY chasing someone down an alleyway, gun drawn; SHAGGY peering into some dark corner with a flashlight; and everywhere, blood, corpses, death.  Music begins to climb.  Flash across the screen: “COMING THIS FALL…”

SHAGGY (voiceover)

“It’s too much.  Everywhere I fucking look, nothing but blood and bodies.  No faces.”

Cut to scene, SHAGGY sitting in a corner, weeping.

SHAGGY (voiceover)

“Everyone around me’s wearing a fucking mask.  I don’t know what’s real or what’s fake anymore.”

Cut to scene, VELMA kneeling down to console him.

SHAGGY (voiceover)

“Everyone says you’re not real, that you can’t talk.  But sometimes it feels like you’re my only friend.”

Cut to scene.  The large, snarling hound stares intently at SHAGGY and smiles.

SCOOBY

“Ruh roh.”

Cut to text: “THE MYSTERY CONTINUES.”

Cut to scenes, SHAGGY chasing down criminal, tackling him to the ground.  Pointing a gun to his head, laughing maniacally.

SHAGGY

“Now, let’s see who’s really the monster…”

Gunshot.

Cut to black.

Plain white text: “WHERE ARE YOU.”

Yeah.  Essentially, Michael Lunsford and I both have way too much time on our hands.

What I Did Today Instead of Working Read More »

D-D-Dragon*Con!

In about fifteen hours, I will be departing for sweet Georgia to attend Dragon*Con this upcoming weekend!

I dearly hope that everyone who is able to will come see me.  And just to make it easier, here’s a few questions that might be on everyones’ mind!

Will you be on any panels?

Yes!  Almost certainly!

Which ones?

I have no idea.

What?

Ah-hah.  See, lazy as I am, I actually did not register until the very last moment, far too late to be considered for most panels.  But spoiled as I am, I did whine considerably to be reconsidered.  Hence, I won’t actually know what panels I’m on until I get to Dragon*Con.

However, information on where I am should be available at the Pyr Books Booth (Marriott Marquis Ballroom, Booth 709, not 209 as previously suggested).

Will there be other authors at the Pyr Booth?

Why, yes there will be!  In fact, here’s a nice little rundown of the schedules for all our signings.

Friday

1:00 pm                       BOOTHS OPEN 709/711Marquis Ballroom, Marriott 265 Peachtree Ctr Ave NE

 

(2:30 pm Clay and Susan and E.C. Myers on panels)

2:30 – 3:30                   Pyr Rising panel w/Lou Anders, Philippa Ballantine, K.D. McEntire, Sam Sykes, Jon Sprunk, and Andrew Mayer. (possible participation from WorldCon attendees Mike Resnick, James Enge, and Michaele Jordan.Location: Regency V – Hyatt

4:00 pm – 4:45 pm        JOHN PICACIO signing (Planesrunner, Chadbourn trilogies)

4:00 – 5:00 pm  CLAY and SUSAN GRIFFITH signing (Vampire Empire trilogy)
5:00 – 6:00 pm K.D. McENTIRE signing (Lightbringer/Reaper)

5:00 – 6:00 pm  SAM SYKES signing (The Aeons’ Gate)

7:00 pm                        BOOTHS CLOSE

Saturday


10:00 am
                      BOOTHS OPEN

11:00 am – Noon           K.D. McENTIRE signing (Lightbringer/Reaper)

11:00 am – Noon           JON SPRUNK signing (Shadow’s trilogy)

(11:30 am Clay and Susan / E.C. Myers on panels)

Noon – 1:00 pm            SAM SYKESsigning (The Aeons’ Gate)

Noon – 1:00 pm            PHILIPPA BALLANTINE signing (Hunter and Fox)

1:00 – 2:00 pm  E.C. MYERS signing (Fair Coin)

1:00 – 2:00 pm ANDREW MAYER signing (The Society of Steam)

2:00 – 3:00 pm  CLAY and SUSAN GRIFFITH signing (Vampire Empire trilogy)

3:00 – 4:00 pm  JON SPRUNK signing (Shadow’s trilogy)

4:00 – 5:00 pm  E.C. MYERS signing (Fair Coin)

5:00 – 6:00 pm  ANDREW MAYER signing (The Society of Steam)

7:00 pm                        BOOTHS CLOSE

Sunday

10:00 am – 7:00 pm     BOOTHS 709/711 @ Marquis Ballroom, Marriott 265 Peachtree Ctr Ave NE

11:00 am – Noon           SAM SYKESsigning (The Aeons’ Gate)

11:00 am – Noon           JON SPRUNK signing (Shadow’s trilogy)

(11:30 am Clay and Susan on a panel)

Noon – 1:00 pm            ANDREW MAYER signing (The Society of Steam)

1:00 – 2:00 pm  K.D. McENTIRE signing (Lightbringer/Reaper)

1:00 – 2:00 pm  E.C. MYERS signing (Fair Coin)

2:00 – 3:00 pm  CLAY and SUSAN GRIFFITH signing (Vampire Empire trilogy)

4:00 – 5:00 pm PHILIPPA BALLANTINE signing (Hunter and Fox)

7:00 pm                        BOOTHS CLOSE

Awesome!

I know, right?

Will The Skybound Sea be available there?

Yes!  I’m going to bold this part, because it’s pretty important.

All three books of The Aeons’ Gate Trilogy will be at the Pyr Booth for sale cheaper than Amazon.

Mother of God.

Try to control yourself!

Anything else I should know?

Not a thing.

There will be absolutely no surprises, no trickeries, no funny stuff going on.

As far as you know, anyway…

Hope to see you all there!

D-D-Dragon*Con! Read More »

Requiem for a Pile-Up

Quick reminder: I’ll be at Dragon*Con over Labor Day selling copies of The Skybound Sea!  Come on by!

N.K. Jemisin is one of those authors that often makes me feel extraneous.

In a good way, mind you.  She is much like the basking crocodile, lunging out of the river with a spray of froth and a bellowing hiss to seize an important topic between her jaws and drag it beneath the waves, twisting, thrashing and death-rolling it until she prises a great morsel of meat from it.  Satiated, she wallows upon the banks, mouth agape to cool off in the sweltering sun.  While I, the humble oxpecker bird, swoop down to dart nimbly between her teeth, clutching a tiny tidbit of flesh from her mouth before flying away afore her mighty jaws can consume me, as well.

…it would also be like saying I am the Mini-Me to her Dr. Evil, but I liked my analogy much better.

Point being, there’s no shortage of instances where she manages to say things a lot better than I can, but I find myself wanting to chip in, regardless.  The latest scandal surrounding Save the Pearls: Revealing Eden by controversial author Victoria Foyt is one such instance.

Ms. Jemisin has already given a comprehensive run-down, as per the link above, but for a quick summary: a woman wrote a very racist book and got it talked about a lot.  Now, craftier people than myself have already given their input as to why the book is offensive, why the writing is bad, why this is a terrible precedent to set and why the fact that she was talked about in the first place is a very bad thing.  But something I wanted to address, oxpecker that I am, was a common thought I saw voiced in the wake of this scandal.

Think of what this is doing for her publicity, though.

Yes, indeed.  To the layman, it may appear that Ms. Foyt is getting quite a bit of press from her scandal.  There are those that say she stumbled into controversy and there are those that say she planned this all along.  A very surprising number of sources, some of them professional and almost all of them in agreement, suggest that, ultimately, this is a net gain for Foyt.

Scandal is publicity.  Controversy is publicity.  And any publicity is good publicity, so the common thought goes.

And I’m not sure I agree.

I’m certain we’re all quite familiar with the phenomenon, right?  Someone does or says something tremendously stupid, outrageous or off-kilter and gets instant attention.  That’s not too surprising; we’re instantly attracted to things that stand out and nothing stands out like someone standing in a spotlight and screaming at the top of their lungs (and if they’re screaming racial epithets or happen to be on cocaine at the time, they get that much more attention).

People have always paid attention to the loud, the ignorant and the tragic.  You’ve seen this before in Charlie Sheen, in Lindsay Lohan, in the weird kid who ate bugs in school (represent), in any buffoon who has demeaned his or herself for attention.  This is not surprising at all.

What is surprising (to me, at least) is that so many people, many of them people who frankly ought to know better, seem to consider that such public, blanket faux pases are, ultimately, beneficial to the author.

Granted, I’m not at all surprised by their logic.  Publicity equals word of mouth equals sales equals money, after all.  What I’m surprised about is the willingness to embrace, espouse and support the idea that there is no such thing as bad publicity.

There most certainly is, my friends, and I write this for aspiring writers who may be deceived into thinking that stumbling into a controversy (at least, a controversy as stupid as Foyt’s) is akin to stubbing your toe on the Hope Diamond.

Let’s do a little exercise briefly.  Answer the following questions as honestly as you can.

Do you want Tom Cruise’s money?

Do you want Tom Cruise’s success?

Do you want Tom Cruise’s fame, house, cars, sexual potency and beach volleyball scenes?

Now…do you want that if it means you have to be Tom Cruise?

Most of the people I talk to will answer “yes” with great enthusiasm until that last question.  The concept works the same with Foyt’s scandal.

See, it’s one thing to be known for being controversial.  It’s an entirely different thing to be known for writing a book in which the main character dons blackface.  And the difference is that controversy is not a bad thing; it’s mutable, it changes, it has many aspects.  If you’re known for being controversial, then we can know that your future works will cause controversy and that is not an awful thing at all.

But if you’re known for having written a book in which the main character dons blackface, then you’ll be known for writing a book in which the main character dons blackface.

Whatever you do from now on, whatever you write, whatever you put out there, you will always be the author who tried to legitimize blackface.  When people talk about you, they will talk about how you had your main character be extolled for spewing racial slurs.  When people discuss you, they will discuss what a weird and awful thing you did.  When people think about you, they will think about many things: the controversy, the discussion, the argument, the condemnation…

…but not you.  And certainly not your work.

And that’s the problem with trainwreck publicity.  You’re only as famous as your disaster.  And disasters eventually fade from memory.

Controversies do not, though.  Stories do not.  Books do not.  Books are immortal.  As are their authors.

Some controversies are great.  Many books gained in fame, renown and importance by being controversies, by challenging the norm and by one person pushing against society.

Foyt’s controversy is not a great one.  It is one person pulling society onto herself.  Regardless of what sales come her way, however many books she writes, whatever else she does from here, she will always be that person who wrote that racist book.  Will it make her rich?  Maybe.  Will it make her publicized?  Definitely.  Will people remember her name?  Probably.

But not in any way you’d ever want to be remembered.

Requiem for a Pile-Up Read More »

The Impending Disasters

Hi.

Yes.  I’m back.

Scotland was lovely.  Amsterdam was lovely.  London was lovely.  Then Scotland was lovely again.  I drank literally everything: ciders, whiskies, beers, vodkas, gins, tonics, some kid’s juicebox, an orangutan, Parliament and then philosophical concepts like love and hope.

I drank them.  I guzzled them.  I grew heady off the delight that came from swallowing in great gulps the desires and sweet aches of a man smitten by a woman who had never before known that he has never forgotten the winter’s day when she sighed and leaned against his shoulder and he smelled the blend of ash and bargain shampoo and has always wept a single tear at the aroma of crushed cigarettes and shower spunk.

Suffice to say, the wedding was a success.  My sister is now a missus.  I have an in-law.  I am now irrevocably linked to several brash and joyous Europeans that I simply could not get enough of.  I’ll spare you the details–such as the adventure in which I was arrested for smuggling in London and had to escape in three days’ time by earning the trust of the female bounty hunter who brought me in and learning the ways of the mute Korean that was my cellmate.

Because HEY, LOOK AT WHAT WAS IN THE MAIL WAITING FOR ME.

Yes!  Those are copies of The Skybound Sea!  Finished and ready for print and so very close to waiting to be purchased by your eager, greedy little hands!

Coincidentally, this news links up well with my other announcement.  While it may come as a shock to no one else, I will be attending Dragon*Con for the third year in a row now!

And yes, that absolutely means that copies of The Skybound Sea will be available to buy at the Pyr Booth at the Marriott Marquis Ballroom (booth 209, if you’re really interested).  And yes, literally all of them, and anything else you could possibly want, will be signed by me.  Or any of the other awesome Pyr people who will be at the booth (of which there are limitless multitudes).

All you need to do is come by the booth!  With a big smile upon your face, I would like you to say: I’ve got a Real Red Wagon!

That will do absolutely nothing.  I just kind of want to see if you’ll say it.

I dearly hope to see you all there.

But this does present another problem.  I’ve been puttering through my various items and sundries when I discovered this.

That is the last of The Skybound Sea Advanced Readers’ Copies.  One I didn’t end up doing anything with.

What the heck am I supposed to do with this, guys?  In a few weeks, it won’t mean a lot.  Do I give it away to someone?  Do I try to milk more precious fanart out of people for it?  Do I hold it in reverential awe against the twin I hold in my private collection?  Do I use it to bludgeon ornery toddlers under the vague and ominous justification that doing so will somehow make them smarter?

What?

WHAT DO I DO WITH IT?

The Impending Disasters Read More »

Sam Sykes Exposes Himself to Europe

Have yourself a seat.  Get really settled in.  Feel the fabric betwixt your cheeks.  Because what I’m about to say will knock your socks off.

This will be the last blog post from me for two weeks.

If this were another author’s blog, this statement would probably shock you.  If this were Joe Abercrombie’s blog, it’d probably be followed by a professional urge to depart on research for the next impending slaughterfest book.  If this were Brent Weeks’ blog, it’d probably be followed by joyous news about familial tidings and good will.  If this were Scott Lynch’s blog, it’d be followed by some very powerful insight into the human condition followed by a need to do some serious scourging of the soul.

But this is not their blog.

This is Sam Sykes’ blog.

And so that statement is followed by the fact that I will be drunk for two weeks straight.

Yes, in fact, my sister is getting married to a fellow of excellent stock and verbose litanies.  Said fellow is also Scottish, which merits a long trip to Amsterdam, London and ultimately Edinburgh to see my dear sibling wed.  I’ll be departing in a few hours and will likely be away from most forms of communication for awhile.

Will I be doing any author appearances, you may ask?  Sadly, no.  As such appearances usually rely on the myth that authors are gentle, respectable people prone to bouts of sobriety.  And most of my time will be spent attempting to ruin that myth for absolutely everyone.

I do hope you’ll be able to cope for awhile without me.

To ease things along, have a few pictures of concept art for my next project, done by the very excellent Ashley Cope and Michael Lee Lunsford, respectively.

Sam Sykes Exposes Himself to Europe Read More »

Skybound Sea: ARC Giveaway Winners

Yes!

It is nearly an entire month after I said it would be!  But I have finally chosen the victors of The Skybound Sea ARC Giveaway Contest!  Anyone who knows this blog knows that lateness is as much a tradition as the giveaways themselves, because traditions are based on consistency, and the fact that Sam Sykes is a terrible, lazy being is definitely consistent.

Truth be told, though, I wanted to give everyone possible a chance to contribute.  And I definitely got my share.  A lot of people put in a lot of effort for these ARCs and it’s truly flattering how many people signed up.

So much so, in fact, that I had to relegate the choices I put up for the creative writing portion of the contest to only a few.  I hope no one will take offense if their entry didn’t get posted.  I loved and appreciated every single one, but if I put them all up, we would likely drown in text!

So, without further ado, my top picks…

Martin Cahill

How Nelkath the Netherling Used Logic and Scare Tactics to Win The Day

Nelkath the Netherling had a boatload of problems and that was no joke. Here it was, invasion time, and she had been given the only problem she couldn’t punch in the brain.

The prisoner shuffled from foot to foot, his eyes flicking in every direction, seeking escape, of which there was none. The soldier sat on a nearby rock, sharpening her blade, itching to stick it into the prisoner. The sikkhun struggled at its tight, leather leash, gripped steadily inNelkath’s hand, eagerly seeking out fresh meat.

Sheraptus had ordered her to get all three of these onto the ship, which was bobbing in the water only three hundred feet away. Her shipmates were pacing the boards, waiting for her and her cargo to come aboard.

But she couldn’t just march ahead, all three in tow. The sikkhun would try and eat the prisoner, or the soldier, or herself, or anything else. The prisoner would end up running away, and end up falling off a cliff. And the soldier didn’t have enough brains in her head to rub together, that convinced Nelkath she wouldn’t just miss the boat all together.

What to do, she wondered. And she groaned and gnashed her teeth at the unfairness of it all. What glory was there in this? This peddling of flesh and blood . . . the herding of three stupid sheep onto a boat was beneath her! She was a warrior of the Nether, the sword of Sheraptus himself! Her sole drive was murder, her love was mayhem! All she was good for was punching things in the brain and dancing in their blood. It was what she loved, and what she was most excellent at.

A sudden grin came to her face, as wicked as a dagger and just as cruel and sharp. Well, she thought, they always told me to stick to what I’m good at.

With that, she elbowed the sikkhun right above the spine, driving it to its stomach, and into unconsciousness. With that, the soldier looked up, just in time to see Nether’s immense, purple fist wallop her upside the head, instantly banishing consciousness to a small and dark corner of her brain.

Turning she looked to the prisoner, who had wet himself in fear. ”Are you going to be a problem?” she growled.

Shaking his head, the prisoner quietly got on the ground and lay down, and helped up his rope. Taking it into her hand, Nether held that, the sikkhun leash, and threw the soldier over her shoulder. With a deep breath, she began to walk to the boat, dragging them all behind her.

Every few steps, she could hear the prisoner moan in pain.

She smiled. It was a grand time for an invasion.

Levi Stribling

Nelkath the Netherling has a problem!  It’s invasion time and she has to get a warrior, a prisoner and her flesh-eating sikkhun to the nearby boats so Sheraptus has a sword, cannon fodder and a flesh-eating horror for the invasion.  But she can only take one at a time.  If she takes the prisoner, the sikkhun and warrior will fight.  If she takes the warrior, the sikkhun will eat the prisoner.
How is Nelkath the Netherling going to solve this problem?

Nelkath does have an issue, but it isn’t one that we should quite label unsolvable yet. I’m not so easily deterred as to look at above scenario and promptly get on the phone with Robert Stack – not gonna happen. We’ll make sure Nelkath gets all the assistance needed to complete this task without canceling out any of the aforementioned resources.

The obvious answer here, which is laid out nicely for us in the write up of the issue is to take the sikkhun across first, leaving the warrior and the prisoner behind. All she would have to do is bind and gag the prisoner to a tree naked and knock him out. Nelkath would then instruct the warrior to beat the prisoner if he wakes up and gets out of line.This way the warrior doesn’t have to chase the prisoner down nor will the warrior get aroused as he will find the prisoner’s naked flesh revolting and want to kill him or broad-sword-whip his ass if he gets out of line.
Then, she starts by taking the sikkhun over first, comes back for the warrior, and finally recovers the pansy-ass prisoner last.

But that’s too easy and, Sam, really, you’ve probably already read that scenario once or twice in some watered-down version already – so let’s be like Emeril Lagasse and kick things up a notch.

This becomes easy when you think of things like a genius.

First, Nelkath spends ten minutes writing something on a piece of paper. She folds the parchment up and instructs the warrior to carry it with him as if his life depended on it. He’s a warrior and he’s all kinds of loyaly-bound and shit like that so he’s down. He slips the folded parchment in a secret slot in his chest armor.

Next, she instructs the sikkhun to eat the prisoner. The flesh-eating monster is all like, “Fuck yeah!” and takes that cowardly sinning rat piece-by-scrumptious-piece down his gullet and in his monstrous tummy. The warrior has to look away. He’s a warrior and there’s a ‘right, just, and honorable’ way to go about killing something and what he just witnessed was not it.
Nelkath knows that for a very short window of time after the sikkhun eats a human, its anus flares to unspeakable proportions (some wacky evolutionary factoid there). Nelkath seizes the opportunity and bends the sikkhun over and instructs the warrior to get it. The warrior is a bit shocked, but is also one to follow the orders of its liege so it obeys. Once the warrior is snugly sitting in the large puffed anus of the sikkhun, the hole slowly closes, and the sikkhun is able to again stand erect.
Now that all three bodies are one, she (Nelkath is, of course, a girl) can safely escort the beast to the boats. She gets to the boats and takes a short ride across the river to meet Sheraptus.
With Sheraptus’s help, the two have the sikkhun bend over again and they pull open the beast’s anus. As the sikkhun had not recently eaten, the anus doesn’t flare on its own and needs a bit more muscle to pry it open. Finally, the anus unfolds and the warrior steps out. The warrior smells awful, like sikkhun shit, but it’s cool because Nelkath only needs him for one thing.
Nelkath asks the warrior to give the parchment she wrote to Sheraptus. Sheraptus receives it and opens it. Everything’s written in a language that he doesn’t understand. Nelkath tells him that everything will make sense if she could just borrow a wand from one of his witches.
Sheraptus, of course, sends for a witch who shows up a short time later with a wand. Nelkath grabs the wand and shoves it point first down the sikkhun’s throat, causing him to puke up every bite he had enjoyed of the prisoner’s flesh. It’s all bubbling there on the ground in a puddle of foul sikkhun puke. Nelkath gives the wand back to the witch and tells her to cast a spell on the puddle of puke and read the incantation on the parchment. The witch does as Nelkath instructs and points the wand at the puddle. A blaze of white engulfs the puddle and the prisoner is regenerated and revived. He’s covered in a nasty liquid when it’s all done, but he’s there.

And Sheraptus has his sword, his cannon fodder, and his flesh-eating horror. And he’s sure to conquer as he also has the genius mind ofNelkath.

Hilary

Nelkath pondered her problem, the solution was not long in its arrival. Nelkath told Sikkhun that he would go first, but he insisted that one of the others went first and refused to go. Totally pissed off Nelkath punched him square on the jaw, his balance lost it only took a nudge to start him of in the direction of the boats. Still rubbing his jaw and cursing under his breath Nelkath left him at the boats to return for the next one. On her return the prisoner suggested that the warrior go next as if he went Sikkhun would eat him. Hum! This is true said Nelkath but you are a prisoner and if I say you go next you will go next, now move! With a knife to his back the prisoner walked slowly toward where Sikkhun stood waiting. By the time they arrived he was already drooling at the thought of the feast he would have when Nelkath left them. Any thoughts of feasting were swept away to be replaced by confusion and disappointment when Nelkath made him return with her to where the warrior stood. Looking behind him at the flesh-eating horror and laughing all the way, the warrior walked with Nelkath back to where the very relieved prisoner stood. Tired with all the walking and arguing Nelkath sat down and took a long swig from her water skin and looked over to where Sikkhun stood and was convinced she could see steam coming from his ears. With a chuckle she got up and went to fetch him so their happy troop could once more be, if not united, reunited.

But I think my favorite might be the one I ultimately selected as winner, as offered by Steve…

“Don’t rightly know if she’s still among the living” Rach muttered. He still felt the years of pressure to never look directly at his slave mistress. Pressure and scars across his back. Rach absentmindedly scratched a louse from his beard, pondered it between calloused thumb and finger and screwed up enough courage to look up once again.

Nelkath was a pale-skinned, dark haired terror of a beauty. Tall and athletic. She was wound in black leather straps with shiny silver accents all twisted, jagged and pointy. It was a proper uniform for a Nether slave mistress – a symbolic garb designed to incite lust among the simple Freed and fear with those enslaved. Nelkath wore it and the whip on her hip oh so well.

Rach reckoned that Nelkath was a beauty all right. But years of abuse at her hands had stripped any of those thoughts from his mind. That and she wasn’t so beautiful with the purple raging face and her bulging eyes. The twitch might have taken her down a notch, too. That stream of drool he could live with, Rach thought absently, but those fecking eyes. Just weren’t right. Enraged to the point of bursting, they were.

Something had snapped in Nelkath and, aside from the twitch, she had been frozen standing there for the past 20 minutes. Hands on hips and statuesque. Well, if statues had blood vessels burst in their brains, then she’d be called ‘statuesque’.

“Witch was good with that whip o’ hers, but was never good at math” he mumbled.

The argument continued just as it had for the past hour. His fellow slaves, Sayum and Chalk yelling and waiving their arms at each other over a pile of Spikey Things for Murderous Purposes crates.

“Look. ‘Ere we need to get these six crates of STFMPs down to the ole S-pus afore noon. There’s three of us, excluding the mistress, and each of us can only carry one half of one crate. It’s clear that we should send two of us down while the mistress stays behind to whip the third. We then return to fetch another crate – leaving one behind yet again for the whipping. 15 minutes down and 15 back for a total of three hours. It’s the most efficient answer!” Chalk chopped his hand through the air as if the past hour of arguing meant nothing

Sayum towered above Chalk and launched into what was likely the 20th response. “If’en we each drag one down to the mighty Sheraptus while the mistress whips all three of us, we should be down-n-back in an hour and a half. That gives us another 1.5 hours to each drag the second STFMP crate down for a total of three hours AND we all get a taste of the whip along the way. Much, MUCH more efficient than your convoluted calculations!”

“Gnnaaaaa!” countered Chalk. “The calculation simply doesn’t work out! If I were to believe you, then the STFMP dragging process would involve sliding the crates over an even surface. Cobblestones and the occasional cat would surely delay us 11% between here and the wharves. I even factored in the frictionless benefit of 3 chamber pots emptied per block along the way – it simply DOES NOT WORK!”

Sayum raised a giant fist as to pummel the smaller Chalk. Instead he snatched a nail from a ceiling beam and began to scratch out complex trigonometry on the warehouse wall. “My estimations show a 23% decline in productivity per slave left behind to the 30 minutes of whipping. Understanding that the mistress would surely be tired of the blubbering, bloody first slave, she would want to switch one of us out.” Sayum carried the four. “Then the remaining two would lose their efficiency advantage, causing Sheraptus to surely run the healthiest one through with his mighty broadsword. The surviving slave would then limp back in shame – leaving her with two limping slaves to finish the work.” He punctuated the final word by driving the nail through his final calculation by brute force.

Rach had heard it all before and he was immune to their mathematical jousting. Numbers were like a day without whips for Rach – unimaginable. Nelkath, on the other hand, fancied herself a thinkin’ kind of boss. She had raised her seven-headed whip she called a “Cat o’ Nine Tails” in anger when Chalk and Sayum began their efficiency argument. That should have been the first warning for her that math was not part of her world.

Then the wicked, beautiful fool tried to comprehend. Anger mixed with confusion. Confusion with rage. Rage with calculus and something snapped. For the last 20 minutes she simply stood there – all bug eyed, twitching and red. As if something burst in her head as Sayum and Chalk worked through their convoluted calculations.

Feck it, Rach thought as he undid Nelkath’s coin purse and stepped out to hail a cart team in the street. He counted out coins and directed the Freemen load the crates for delivery to Sheraptus at the wharf. “These fecking Spikey Things for Murderous Purposes aren’t going to move themselves.”

Super cool!  Thank you all for showing up and offering your stories!  As I said, there were so many, it took a long time to sift through them all and decide!  But I’m so glad so many people put so much effort into it!  It’s really gratifying, you know?  Gets you right here.

I’m either pointing to my heart or my butt.  I’ll leave that to you to decide.

Onward, to the MAKE THIS FACE category!

Here is Navi rocking a good Dreadaeleon face!

A pretty good one!  And here is Neila with a growly Gariath and dog!

The one I chose, ultimately, though, was this one from Carl.

…if only because I’ve always wanted to know what Kataria would look like with dreads and a beard.

Carl also wound up giving a lot of entries to the Fan Art section of the contest!

All pretty cool!  But Hannah’s entry was no slouch, either!

Ultimately, though, and I think you’ll agree, Neila probably wins this one…because holy crap.

mother of God.

Well, thank you all for participating once again!  Sorry for the lateness, once again!  And I hope you’ll participate in the next ARC Giveaway we do very soon!

Love,

Sam

xoxox

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Skybound Sea Excerpt: Gariath and the Greenshict

Busy, busy lately!  Between all the work and panic, you thought I’d forgotten you, didn’t you?  Well, maybe you’ll accept this excerpt from the upcoming The Skybound Sea as penance:

And his foe, all seven green feet of him, stared back.

Another pointy-eared human, he recognized. A pointy-eared green human. A pointy-eared green human with hands for feet and what appeared to be a cock’s crest for hair.

There had to be a shorter word for it. What had the other pointy-eared human called it? Greenshict? She had carried their scent, too.

This one was taller, tense, ready to spill blood instead of teary emotions. The greenshict’s bones were long, muscles tight beneath green skin, dark eyes positively weeping scorn as he narrowed them upon Gariath.

He liked this one better already.

At least until he looked down to his foe’s hand and saw, clenched in slender fingers, a short, stout piece of wood.

“A stick?” The fury choked his voice like phlegm. “You came to kill me with a stick?

The shict snarled, baring four sharp teeth. Gariath roared, baring two dozen of his own. The stones quaked beneath his feet, the sky shivered at his howl as he charged.

I WAS EATEN TODAY AND YOU BROUGHT A STICK?

He lashed out, claws seeking green flesh and finding nothing as the greenshict took a long, fluid step backward. He flipped the stick effortlessly from one hand to the other, brought it up over his head, brought it down upon Gariath’s.

It cracked against his skull, shook brain against bone. But this was no cowardly blow from behind. This was honest pain. Gariath could bite back honest pain. He grunted, snapped his neck and caught the stick between his horns to tear it from the greenshict’s grasp.

The stick flew in one direction, his fist in the other. It sought, caught, crushed a green face beneath red knuckles in a dark crimson eruption. Bones popped, sinuses erupted, blood spattered. A body flew, crashed, skidded across the stones, leaving a dark smear upon the road.

Therapeutic, Gariath thought, even as the blood sizzled against his flesh. It hurt. But he couldn’t very well let the greenshict know that.

“I AM RHEGA!”

Yelling hurt, too. Possibly because his teeth still rattled in their gums. A trail of blood wept from his brow, spilling into his eye. The greenshict had drawn blood—with a stick.

Impressive, he thought. Also annoying. He snorted; that hurt. Just annoying.

The greenshict did not so much leap as flow from his back to his feet like a liquid. He ebbed, shifting into a stance—hands up, ears perked, waist bent—with such ease as to suggest that he had simply sprung from the womb ready to fight.

Suggestions weren’t enough for Gariath. He needed more tangible things: stone beneath his feet, blood on his hands, horns in the air, and a roar in his maw as he fell to all fours and charged.

And again, the greenshict flowed. He broke like water on a rock, slithering over Gariath, sparing only a touch for the dragonman as he leapt delicately over him and landed behind him. Gariath skidded to a halt, whirled about and found his opponent standing.

And just standing.

He didn’t scramble for his stick. He didn’t move to attack. He just stood there.

“Hit back,” Gariath snarled as he rushed the greenshict once more. “Then I hit you. Then you fall down and I splash around in your entrails.” His claw followed his voice, twice as bloodthirsty. “Don’t you know how this works?”

The greenshict had no respect for Gariath’s instruction or his blows, leaping away, ducking under, stepping away from each blow. He never struck back, never made a noise, never did anything but move.

Slowly, steadily, to the floating corpses.

The next blow came and the greenshict flew instead of flowed. He leapt away and up, hands and feet finding a tether and scrambling up. Hand over foot over foot over hand, he leapt to the fresh netherling corpse and entangled himself amongst its limbs, staring down at Gariath.

Impassively.

Mocking him.

“Good,” he grunted, reaching out and seizing the tether. “Fine.” He jerked down on it. “I’ll come to you.”

Hand over hand, claw over claw, he pulled, drawing his prey and the corpse he perched upon ever closer.

One more hard pull brought him within reach and Gariath seized the opportunity. His claws were hungry and lashed out, seeking green flesh. That green flesh flew again, however, leaping from the corpse. The flesh his claws found was purple and wrapped around a thick jugular.

That promptly exploded in a soft cloud of blood.

Engulfed in the crimson haze, he roared. His mouth filled with a foul coppery taste. His nostrils flared, drank in the stench of stale life. No sign of the greenshict, no scent of the greenshict. Annoying.

But merely annoying.

At least, until the shark.

He saw the teeth only a moment before he felt them as they sank into the flesh of his bicep. He had seen worse: steel, glass, wood. That was small com- fort when this particular foe was hungry, persistent. Its slender gray body jerked violently, trying to tear off a stubborn chunk.

Gariath snarled, struck it with a fist, raked at it with a claw. The beast tightened its grip, snarled silently as it shredded skin, growing ever more insistent with each attempt to dislodge it.

It was only when he felt the stick lash out and rap against his skull that he remembered there was a reason for trying to fight off a shark on dry land. He staggered out of the cloud, his writhing parasite coming with him, his suddenly bold foe right behind him. The corpse went flying into the sky and the rest of the sharks flew for the easy meal. Not his. He would have to get the only shark with principles.

The greenshict leapt, stick lashing out like a fang. It struck against wrist, skull, leg, shoulder, anywhere that wasn’t a flailing claw or a twisting fish. The pain was intense, but it wasn’t as bad as the insult of being beaten with a stick. Gariath fought between the two, dividing his attention between the shark and the shict and failing at fending off either.

A choice had to be made.

And the shark was only acting out of hunger.

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Reviews and Renditions

You may have noticed I don’t post a lot of reviews of my work on my site.

It’s generally considered good business sense to link positive reviews; though, to be perfectly honest, I’m of the opinion that my work is best experienced first-hand because I’ve had plenty of trouble explaining them (maybe I should run a contest on best way to summarize The Aeons’ Gate?)  And, indeed, I love giving people who love my work recognition.  I also enjoy linking critical reviews, even if they are a little negative, because I enjoy taking something from them and I like giving credit to people who go out of their way to be thought-provoking.

But I don’t go looking for them.

That’s not to say I’m particularly displeased to find them.  And in fact, if people email them to me, twitter me about them, put them on my facebook, whatever, I generally put them up or bring them to other peoples’ attention, even if they’re negative.

But the days of me googling my own name and desperately scanning the lines of text like purple and blue bruises against the bloated pale flesh of a corpse long cold are far gone.

And that’s because, when I first started out, I was not at all prepared for anything even remotely like what I found.

I’m not sure anyone is when they first get published, in fact.  But I wonder just how much my journey echoed everyone else who came before me.  I would google myself obsessively, updating it frequently, picking the lines apart like a carrion bird desperately trying to find the last scrap of meat on a long-dead beast.  Every negative review I received (and there were plenty) would rip me apart, sending me moping for days and quietly harboring wishes of vengeance against those who spoke ill of me.  Every middling review I thought was evidence of my mediocrity, true proof that I was the dullest, most bland person alive and I would die alone in obscurity.  Strangely enough, every positive review I got made me happy for, like, twenty minutes and then I was back to being miserable.

I leaned pretty hard on Joe Abercrombie, Brent Weeks and a lot of other authors back in those days.  They had been through it themselves and it really helped to have people like them around to walk me through the emotional highs and lows.

Because, truth be told, that’s kind of part and parcel of being a published author.  When you’re in the public eye, someone’s going to hate you for being there.  When you put something creative out there, someone’s going to take issue with it and point out its flaws.  And when you’re at all artistic, you probably get way, way too much pleasure out of treating every single setback and issue as the end of the world.

In a lot of ways, authors go out of their way to make themselves miserable.  Some of us find a lot of strength in adversity (even if we’re whining and crying about it).  Some of us just need the emotional outlet of being able to pour all of our hate and frustration into a bad review.  Some of us benefit from the input, even when its aim is to harm rather than help.

Regardless, most authors come out of the gauntlet better for it.  Maybe thicker-skinned, maybe better able to see what criticism is helpful, whatever.  Negative reviews shape an author, like positive reviews, and the author is generally better equipped for having done it.

And I’m kind of wondering if that agonizing, endless hell of negative reviews isn’t just beneficial, but necessary.

You probably knew from the moment I mentioned reviews that we were going to talk about The Stop Goodreads Bullying controversy.  I’m linking John Scalzi’s blog there because he has the most thorough collection of responses yet and a quick look through his post will tell you what’s what.  But basically, a group of well-intentioned readers on Goodreads is out to stop what they perceive as harassment and bullying of authors via negative reviews by outing people who give them such reviews.

I’m generally inclined to believe the good in people.  As such, I’m generally inclined to believe the people who are trying to “out” negative reviewers are driven more by a desire to help than harm.  I won’t go any further into speculation than that.

I will, however, say that this sort of thing needs to stop.  People need to be able to say what they think about a book.  Not just because you can’t apply censorship selectively without it resulting in a huge intellectual crime, not just because a belligerent stance toward negative reviews will eventually silence all reviewers for fear of being outed and not just because silencing conversation about a book is ultimately harmful to a book’s publicity.

But authors themselves need that kind of negative attention now and again.

Authors need to be given the opportunity to look at a bad review and develop a thicker skin.  They need to be able to look at a negative review and learn what they can ignore and what they can use.  They need to be able to look at criticism and decide if they can use it or not.  They need to be able to look at the outright hatefulness that some reviewers are capable of and be able to dismiss it for the tripe that it is.  And most importantly, they need to realize how to act toward a negative review, lest their inevitable public meltdown be plastered all across the internet for everyone to see.

It’s true, authors will often feel terrible after reading the reviews.  But they need that opportunity to learn how to pick themselves back up and keep going.

It’s true, authors will occasionally find a review that’s unjustly hurtful or aggressive.  But they need that opportunity to learn to recognize the difference between a hater and a critic.

And it’s true, I, too, went through it all.  In my darker days, I would have wished for a movement like this, someone to finally take it to those big, cruel reviewers who dared to speak their minds about my book.  Hell, there are still some truly unfair reviews of Tome out there that probably deserved to be called out on it.

It’s kind of ironic, really, that I don’t go looking for reviews of my work now that I’ve developed skin thick enough to tolerate most criticism.  And it’s also kind of a shame.  There’s a blogger out there who straight-up called me out on a lot of the more tactless humor in Tome of the Undergates revolving around violence against women; and she was right to do so and I wish I could remember how I saw her review, because she really deserves credit for it.

That’s just one of the ways I benefited from a negative review.  I’ve also learned how to recognize juvenile hate from a worthy point that would strengthen my writing.  I’ve also learned that any discussion about a book tends to ultimately help book sales.  And I’ve learned that there is no cooler feeling in the world than seeing someone say “this book sucks” and seeing a dozen people step up and say “you’re flat out wrong, buddy.”

And I love it when people do that.  Don’t get me wrong, that’s probably the coolest thing I’ve ever had happen to me and if you feel like disagreeing with someone who hated a book you love, then by all means, do so!  But realize that, just as you’re doing the author a favor, so too might the negative review.

Love thy neighbor as you love thy books: obsessively.

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Fools and Money

When I was a young man in high school, I wore almost exclusively dirty jeans, dirty shoes and a dirty shirt under another dirty shirt.

It was the sort of fashion statement that would make Gail Carriger stare endlessly into nothingness, possessed of such depth that, were you to look into her eyes, you would see a mind desperately trying to find a reason to still consider this world worth living in and failing badly.

Now, I can’t say what made me dress this way.  Maybe it was because I was trying to hide how heavy I was.  Maybe I wanted to be left alone.  Maybe I just spent more money on video games than clothes.  All these are technically true.  But I have now lost about 75 pounds.  I enjoy making fashion a part of my repertoire.  And though I still spend far too much money on video games, I also have enough that I can spend far too much on clothes, as well, thus solidifying my total lack of conscience for anything non-material.

One of the best parts of being a writer is that you can wear essentially anything you want and not be called out for it.  A lot of my shirts come from threadless.com.  When asked why I wear have an entire subset of my closet devoted to garments with penguins on it, I can say “I’m a writer” and people say “ah.”  I’ve recently developed a fondness for obnoxious shoes.  When people ask me who I think I am that I can wear purple sneakers to a wedding, I can say “I do creative things for a living,” and then I splash a merry jig in the pool of tears left by the weeping bride as I destroy her most precious day.

Such flamboyancy and total disregard for anyone else has driven me to purchase the following:

I’m not sure if, in my wild praise of webcomics, I’ve ever told you about my deep, undying love for The Gun Show by KC Green (warning: strips frequently NSFW), but he’s the kind of man that’s hard to praise.  Because reading his comic is a lot like watching one of those movies where a crazy genius scratches formulae upon the walls in feces and you think he’s totally nuts but you punch a baby or something and the judge assigns you to community service and you have to watch the old guy as he makes poo poo formulas and then you realize he’s actually super crazy, but also pretty smart and you’re like “woah” and he’s like “yeah i know totally but now i’m dead because this movie is poignant.”

Anyway, that’s about it.

KC Green is the kind of man that’s made me realize I don’t like Tim Allen.

I didn’t like him when he was an angry suburban husband desperately trying to scale the tower of mediocrity that was the 90s sitcom, upon the top of which sat firmly ensconced Bob Saget, who later actually turned out to be kind of funny.  And I don’t like him now that my most recent memory of him is a shitty sitcom which revolves around the joke “women are crazy and men are dumb.”  I don’t like him enough to buy a bracelet stating that I don’t like him.

And because I have, then maybe this world is good again.  Maybe Gail Carriger can go back to living her life, riding swan boats across the lake, oared by a genteel octopus.

Maybe.

This bracelet cost $20.  I bought a bracelet that said “Fuck You Tim Allen” for $20.

I can do these things because I cannot be questioned.

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Where I’ve Been

So, you’ll note I’ve been absent for a bit.

There’s not a tremendous amount of excuse to it save for the fact that, surprisingly, getting a book ready to go into print can be pretty difficult stuff.  Hence, these past few weeks have been putting the finishing touches on The Skybound Sea.  And, as such, I’ve detailed the editing process below.

STEP ONE: FINISHING THE BOOK

This is where the real editing gets started.  Your relief at finishing the book is immediately counteracted by the certainty that you have just written seven hundred pages of complete nonsense.  This is confirmed as you peruse through it, turning each error and clumsy sentence into a scourge with which to flagellate yourself.  Your beta readers tell you it’s great, your sentences hold up under scrutiny and your editor likes it, but you know it’s bad.

You…you just know.

STEP TWO: LINE EDITING

Your editor chokes back the bile you’re certain he feels for you (even though he keeps buying you drinks and telling you you’re awesome) and sets to work finding the most glaring errors and telling you what works and what doesn’t.  And even though he says it’s all really good and doesn’t give you a lot of notes, you know that’s because it’s so horrible he actually went blind halfway through and didn’t want to impose upon you.  Never mind that he’s got awards for editing and actually knows a good story when he sees one and that publishing a terrible story would be very bad for his business.  He’s just too nice to tell you how bad it all is.

STEP THREE: COPY EDITING

The copy-editor is a person who is around to remind you that you once wrote a sentence that read: “He smelled all of her smells and felt himself a blood.”  She will mention this, maybe once, and then you will never forget it.  Of course, weird sentences come to everyone, especially when you work late at night, and even though you know what you meant and can correct it instantaneously, you know in your heart of hearts that this sentence is your subconscious returning to torment you.

STEP FOUR: GALLEY EDITING

Galley editing is your last chance to change anything in the manuscript.  It comes after three rounds of editing and you can make only minimal changes.  This is roughly the point when you want to change everything.

STEP FIVE: THE AFTERMATH

Everything is set as well as it could be.  You calm down, have a drink, maybe take a day to reflect on what’s gone on thus far, and realize that your self-criticism is actually your quality survival instinct.  In the same way that we possess suspicion and wariness of strangers as a matter of instinct, your senses as an author will scrutinize and analyze everything you’ve done.  And since you’ve begun from a position of passion, energy and strength in writing this, sniffing out weaknesses and finding out what experiments didn’t work is the logical path to improving as a writer.  You quietly accept that what you wrote initially is the product of hundreds of mistakes you’ve made before and, after three books, you’re actually pretty good at what you do and the next book will be even better because of it.

And then you put your drink down, open up a new document, and begin writing something you’re going to hate a year later.

In all seriousness, we have just finished the final pass on The Skybound Sea, with the help of our very good reviewer, Mariel Bard.  It’s taken some time, but we finally did it.

In contest-related news, I’ll be announcing the winners of the writing-portion later this week.

IF YOU ARE AN ARTIST, PLEASE CONSIDER DOING AN ENTRY FOR THE CONTEST.  We’ve gotten a few, but I must have more.  The ones that have come in thus far are really neat, but I really hope I have more to show off.  And thus, I hope that you’ll consider submitting a piece of work.  A few people have asked for an extension, so I’m pushing the deadline back to mid-end July.  Hope to see your entries soon!

Thanks!  And have yourselves a nice day!

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