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You are probably wondering where I have been for the past week or so!  Perhaps you noticed it when you looked outside your window and noticed that there were fewer stars in the sky!  Or maybe you just remarked on how colors seemed less bright, food tasted like ash, that sort of thing.  My presence has probably been pretty staunchly missed as of late!

Basically, there are two kinds of writers and they inhabit the same body.  The first is the one you probably see when you notice me: charming, ruggedly handsome, flirtatious and possessed of a powerful, all-encompassing crockpot of hormones that sends people alight with fear and desire.  This is a man that is available only during those times when I am required to be in public.

The rest of the time, I am the slovenly, slobbering creature behind his desk that you are currently reading.  My eyes are quite bleary, I am not the best smelling and I am sporting a neckbeard that would make Patrick Stewart sigh deeply and wonder why he’s still alive to see this.  This is because I am trying my absolutely damnedest to finish this book and this short story by New Year’s.  It is very difficult, you see, and I am a very lazy man.

But I have returned briefly to share with you some fun links I have discovered because I am that kind of guy.  The kind of guy who will walk out on you and then come back with a bouquet of webcomics and hate and tell you to take me back.

FIRST UP.

Maybe you have listened to the Functional Nerds podcast before?  You might, if you are indeed a nerd who happens to function.  But what you have not done yet is listen to me on it as I gas on about how much I love video games and what kind of a tremendous dork I am.  You have not seen that.  Also there is some Cherie Priest nerd on it, I guess?

This next link is a blog I’ve found to be pretty fun, if only having been introduced to one post.  Jay Kristoff happened to summarize the depressing irony of mass marketing a movie based on defiance of exploitation pretty well.  The rest of his blog is pretty lovely, too.  You should probably check it out!

And finally, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen a new webcomic I’ve wanted to talk about, but hanging out with the goons today showed me this webcomic here.

Derelict, by Ben Fleuter, is a really great webcomic about the apocalypse.  Or the post-apocalypse, anyway.

I tend not to like post-apocalyptic stories in general.  Mostly because I’m pretty burnt out on zombies and society seems to be having trouble conceiving of an end-of-all-things that does not revolve around the dead rising and us being saved by grim-faced, stoic white men who have relationship problems when the world is over.

Derelict, however, is one of a kind.  Amazingly well-paced with a story that lets its atmosphere and style do the talking for it.  It manages to capture everything we love about apocalyptic stories–the despair, the fleeting hope, the sheer desire to survive–without falling to its many cliches.  I love it and you should, too.

So, my good friend Daniel Abraham, author of The Long Price Quartet and The Dragon’s Path published this on SFSignal yesterday.

It is a love letter from genre to literature.  It is quite sweet.  It is quite accurate.  But, to me, it is not accurate in tone.  Personally, I don’t see our relationship as something that would be put down in a love letter.  No.  Ours is a more visceral relationship, filled with love and hate.  The kind that can only be captured by a drunken voicemail left late at night.

And it goes something like this…

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hi, you’ve reached Mainstream Literature.  I can’t come to the phone right now, because I don’t own one.  Please leave a message after the beep.”

BEEP.

“The fuck?  That’s what you’re calling yourself now?  Mainstream literature?  Like, you’re for everyone now?  The main?  The stream?  Like we’re all just little salmons swimming along in your stream and everybody can come have a bite of your fresh-ass krill?  When the fuck did this happen?  Last time we talked, you said you wanted to remain exclusive.  You we’re all: ‘no, no, Genre, we can’t do this.  I must remain faithful to the spirit of my art.’  Like…like that’s a thing?  Like I don’t do…uh…art…’n shit?

“Sorry, I’ve been, like, jamming mead for the past, like, six hours.  Then George came over and he brought a glazed duck and we were all getting fucked up on honey-basted fowl, its delectable juices filling our mouths on tides of ecstasy, only to be smothered again by the crispness of the fresh chestnut salad and finally quenched with another round of the finest honeyed ale and–

“Oh, what?  What?  Was I describing a feast again?  Was I feasting, Literature?  Was that too fucking raw for you?  Well, fucking GET USED TO IT.  That’s what I do now.  I’ve got my own fucking friends now, I don’t need your shit.  I’ve got amigos and we all roll seven legions deep, fuckin’ tossin’ back ale and slammin’ dragon’s blood, yo.  What’s that?  You want to ride with us?  FUCK THAT SHIT.  THIS WARHORSE HOLDS ONLY ONE FUCKIN’ STALLION, BITCH.  OH, WHAT, A STALLION CAN’T RIDE A WARHORSE NOW?  IN GENRE, IT CAN!

“So yeah, this is me, this is me breaking up with you and tellin’ you that you can go–“

MESSAGE LIMIT EXCEEDED.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hi, you’ve reached Mainstream Literature.  Sorry, I’ve been debating how to turn this lemon merengue pie into an analogy for my marriage.  Please leave your message after the tone.”

BEEP.

“-AND YOUR FUCKING DOG, TOO.  FUCKIN’ ACTING LIKE IT’S ALL FUCKIN’ DEEP AND MEANINGFUL BECAUSE IT FUCKIN’ SHIT ON THE LAWN.  OH YEAH, I’M SAYIN’ SHIT NOW.  SHIT, FUCK, PUKE, FART, PISS.  YEAH, IT’S FUCKIN’ REAL NOW.  IT’S ALL THE WAY FUCKIN’ REAL.  LEPRECHAUNS ARE REAL.  DRAGONS ARE REAL.  I’M FUCKIN’ REAL, BITCH.  I’M ALL UP IN YOUR FUCKIN’ GRILL WITH MY SPELLS AND MYSTERIES AND SHIT.  I’M MOTHERFUCKIN’ OSIRIS SLAPPIN’ MY SEVERED PHALLUS AROUND AND THE PEOPLE ARE FUCKIN’ LOVING IT.  LOVING IT.

“FREESTYLE.  FUCKIN’ DROP A BEAT, FRODO.

“Pfft-pfft-pfft!  Chikka-chikka-yea!

“LISTS!  I’M ON ‘EM.

“SERIES!  I GOT ‘EM.

“RATINGS!  I’M ALL ABOUT ‘EM.

“IT’S GENRE, Y’ALL.  FRESH FROM THE PAGES.

“FUCKIN’ OFFA THE BOOKSHELVES, MAKIN’ KING’S WAGES.

“I AIN’T GOT NO FAERIES, I’M A BIG BOY NOW.

“INCEST AND SHIT AND EATIN’ ROAST COW.

“GOT MY BOOKS REAL NICE, MY COVERS ALL SLICK.

“LOOK AT ME, LIT, YOU CAN SU–“

MESSAGE LIMIT EXCEEDED.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hi, you’ve reached Mainstream Literature.  I’m currently occupied staring wistfully out at the horizon in a period of deep self-loathing.  If you’d like to be involved in this, please get back to me in two years after my research is done.”

BEEP.

“Baby.

“Baby.

“What are we doing here.  What..what are we doing.  Why are we doing this again.  We don’t need this, right?  You don’t need to tell your parents.  You don’t need to tell your friends.  We don’t need this, right?  Yeah, right.  Right.  We can just let this slide.  Yeah, you can just go ahead and delete this and…yeah.  Yeah.

“What?  You want an apology?  Baby, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I know I…I know I fucked up.  I fucked up real bad.  I’m so…it’s just that you make me so…so…Oh.  Oh God.  Oh, fuck.  I didn’t want this to happen.  Shit, look at me, crying and shit.  I know you don’t like that.  I’m sorry, baby.  I’m sorry I called you boring.  I’m sorry I called your friends boring.  I’m sorry I thought the dog was just shitting on the lawn.  Baby, I’m sorry.  You don’t need to tell your parents.  Nah, baby.  We can still work this out.  We can…we can…

“Oh…oh god.  Oh no.  I’m gonna fuckin’ puke.  Look, I’ll bring chocolates back tomorrow.  I’ll see you at work, baby.  If the security guys don’t let me in again, then I’ll just leave them at the desk and then come back and wait for your ca–HURK!  BLARF!  Shit.  Shit.  Oh, god, baby.  Sorry.  Sorry!

“Call me!”

END OF MESSAGES.

You might remember Tiffny Gibson from her great entry in the Draw This Dog section of one of my giveaways.  She has graciously come to me to inform me that I have some of the coolest fans ever.

Hi Sam. You may remember me from such contest entries as Draw this Dog (I drew the black and white close up with you in the eye).

I am a very crafty person and for some reason I decided to make dolls. I’ve never made dolls before, not quite sure why I decided to do so now, but it was…different.

I don’t know that I’m within the deadline for the giveaway contest, but either way I’ve been working on these dolls off and on and meant to send you pictures once they were finished. The contest seemed a good impetus to complete them and I have a friend who I think might enjoy your books (since I already own a copy of both books).

As far as the dolls go, I know they are far from perfect, it was a trial and error project. In particular I had some trouble with Denaos. At first I thought his hair was black but in Black Halo it was described as reddish, so hair replacemnt was necessary. In the end it came out very red, but there was only so much I could achieve with the embroidery thread. I attempted Gariath,but the results were…unfortunate. So, I only have five of the group, made with a lot of hot glue and hope.

Anyway, I think I got at least the idea of each character with the dolls. Let me know if you want them, I could mail them to you. Hope you got a lot of awesome contest entries : )

I have no idea what it is about art that makes us feel we need to label it.

Well, that’s not entirely true.  I have some idea.  I acknowledge, certainly, our need to understand and discuss art and, certainly, were we to simply look at a book or a painting and go “yeah, that’s art, all right” and say nothing more about it, then the only reason to take art history courses would be to see naked cherubs.  Heck, I can even acknowledge the benefit of genre labels as a useful direction (though I maintain that you’d be foolish to use one as a template).

What I don’t get, really, is an obsession with the implications behind the labels.

I happened to be listening to NPR on my way home from a workout and happened to listen to a book review on my way there.  I was only half-listening at that point, mind, since I find that NPR’s critics tend to speak in a way that inspires a flight-or-fight type response that usually translates to sleep-or-brick response (and as such, I can’t quite remember the name of the book, apologies to the author and to NPR), and since I didn’t happen to have a brick on hand, I was far more attentive to the sweat-laden need to consume poultry.  I only really started paying attention when the phrase “this is such a boy book” was uttered.

That gave me pause for a number of reasons.

Of course, it instantly seized my attention as a man who has, occasionally, been suggested to be a writer of “boy books.”  I don’t take this as a criticism, of course; I’m perfectly happy if men enjoy reading my books.  Many of my favorite books have also been written by men.  Many by women, as well.  Which brings me to the second reason I paused: what, exactly, is a boy book?

I mean, I can certainly infer the definition.  A boy book is a book that deals with habits or subjects that would appeal to boys.  Violence, action, bloodshed, bodily functions or, in the case of this book, thinking about thinking.  These are things that appeal to many young men, of course, they could rightly be considered to be subjects that would attract the attention of boys.

The thing is, I don’t know if those subjects are as solidly embroiled in testosterone as they once were, especially when one writes genre.  And I don’t think it’s just boys that consider them worthwhile.

If you pay attention to book discussions at all, you’re probably aware of how much emphasis is put on appealing to women readers.  It’s apparently a tremendous shock to a lot of publishers that many women are given to intellectual pursuits and in possession of their own income.  Regardless, a great deal of fuss is made over the necessity of appealing to women, presumably by writing “girl books” or subjects that appeal to girls.  Which are…what?  Love?  Kittens?  Relationships?  Character interactions?  Rainbows?

The reason I used so many question marks is because, frankly, I’m not sure what appeals to women.  And the reason I’m not sure is because I don’t think there is a set list of items emblazoned in bold lettering hanging on the wall in the halls of some cold authority on what art touches with the header: “THINGS APPRECIATED BY THE HUMAN FEMALE.”  Admittedly, I’m certain that character relationships, interactions (and possibly kittens) are important to women.  As I’m certain that bloodshed, action and farts are also important to women.

And this is kind of my point.

Whenever I get a message of praise, it’s only very rarely along the lines of “I LIKE THAT THERE BLOOD SPATTER WHAT YE DID ON PAGE 25” or “I LOVED THAT JOKE ABOUT NEEDING PANTS” (though, for the sake of intrigue, it’s worth noting that both the times I’ve gotten those, they’ve been from very lovely ladies) and more often along the lines of appreciation for the character interactions, love for the relationships and a desperate hope that Lenk and Kataria end up together (again, for the sake of intrigue, a good number of those requests have been from gentlemen).

“Boy book” and “girl book” are, in my mind, slightly less than relevant terms.  Not because boys and girls aren’t different and we’re all just secretly some gray, androgynous people sans genitals known as “The Muppatos” (I’m pretty sure I only dreamed that), but because it’s getting harder and harder to define exactly what a boy will like that a girl won’t and what a girl will like that a boy won’t.  This goes double for writing in genre, since geek culture tends to be fairly egalitarian and has heroes and heroines in plenty.  But more than that, we’re slowly inching to the point where genre lines–and indeed, most qualifiers–have ceased to become merely blurry and are now becoming as indistinct and intangible as the border between Muppattonia and Badgerville.  And those places don’t even exist.

It’s worth praising George R.R. Martin for pushing fantasy away from exercises in world-building and myth-making and into character-driven stories.  But no one seems to acknowledge the worth that urban fantasists put forth in doing the same.  It’s far too easy to say that urban fantasy exploded because women suddenly found a lot of money and time.  The fact is that it’s not at all a coincidence that stories focusing primarily on character interactions, development, conflict and relationships tended to be what people in general wanted to read.

And yet, I’m not saying a lot of new stuff here, am I?  Yes, gender stereotyping is bad.  Yes, they’re harder to define.  No, you shouldn’t write a book that completely alienates women or men.  This is all rather rehashed stuff and truthfully, the primary concern doesn’t have a lot to do with women or their purchasing power.  Rather, I think the problem lies a lot with how boys are portrayed in the eyes of media.

My good friends at the Book Smugglers once brought up a very good point about how a lot of boys are taught to “fear the feminine.”  That liking character development or wondering if two people are going to get together somehow makes you less worthy as a male than, say, enjoying blood and guts.  It’s not an unworthy theory, really.  I’m not of the opinion that a lot of the books being written today are specifically for women so much as I think that there’s a lot of discouragement for men to read them.

I can’t quite say who pushes this (it is, after all, a combination of a lot of things from culture to media to your cousin who calls you a tool for watching Thundercats even though it’s totally unique and fresh and Panthro now has very real human and emotional problems so you can just SHUT UP, STEPHEN).  Maybe it’s a failing of those who advertise such things as to suggest that there are boy books and there are girl books and never the two shall meet.  Maybe it’s that people prefer the gender lines to be clear cut and in the sand.  Or maybe I’m totally wrong and boys really don’t read as much.

But I don’t think we do ourselves a tremendous amount of good by so easily labeling ourselves to the exclusion of the other gender.  Nor do I think we give ourselves a good reason to read something that puts us outside our comfort zone if we so easily brand it as “not for you, boy/girl, go read something girl/boy.”  What I do think is we should be as daring in our encouragement of others’ reading as we are in our own.

I also think Thundercats is awesome.

So, by the time you read this, Black Halo, the second book in the Aeons’ Gate trilogy, will be out on Kindle, after far too many months of existing in that bleak, horrifying electric limbo where the Virtual Boy and Mavis Beacon have gone to die.  Mind that you don’t keep that information too close to your heart.  If you happen to say Mavis Beacon’s name three times, she comes out of your computer screen and carves typography lectures into your flesh with a nail file.

If you’re reading this a week later than the day it’s been published, or if you are a time traveler (and if you are, you should shoot me your personal contact info.  Me and the rest of the H.M.T.T. are getting together to assassinate Hitler next week), it will also be out on Nook.

…that’s pretty much all I wanted to say, but it feels like there should be more.  The eBook, after all, is distinctly and unpleasantly late in coming.  It physically wounded me to have to say “soonish,” when people asked me where it was, and not just because they frequently beat me with their Kindles afterward.  I know my editor, Lou Anders, and I actually got drunk on occasion and decided to go down there and give them a piece of our minds.  But then we realized we were in Georgia and that was going to take a long time to get there, so we just hassled a guy dressed like an ewok.

…that guy was a real ass, though.  He had it coming.

Regardless, there’s not a lot I can say.  Circumstances conspired unduly and left no one involved in the production of it happy about when it came out.  It feels as though I should apologize for it taking so long, but I can’t see that accomplishing much.  It certainly was no matter of sloth, neglect or malice that made it out so late.  Certainly, both my editor and I wanted it to come out much, much earlier than it did.

All I can really say is that I really hope you’ve enjoyed it.  If you’ve been waiting for it to come out on eBook, I’m glad it’s there for you.  If you were rightfully impatient and bought the paperback, then I’m forever in love with you.  Let’s run away and live on a desert island and harvest monkeys for the rest of our days, it’ll be just you, me and Mavis Beacon.

…wait.  Did I just say her name two times or thr

So, to headline stuff quickly: books for the giveaway are going out, sorry I’ve not been around, this is a tough week for me as I don’t really have a shitton of time to do anything but be a pal of pals.

In general, I’m both a fan and not a fan of this time of year.  While I utterly adore being busy and I have tremendous fun being at two of my favorite cons of the year, I have one of those weird feelings that time is passing in a blur and not a lot is getting done, like one of those montages where people are getting older and turning to dust as you watch a tree grow up into a beautiful bounty of green apples and then the apples fall and shrivel up into old man balls and then the camera zooms out and they actually are an old man’s old man balls and they turn to dust and it pans up and the guy is staring at you and his face is turning to dust and you see a child laughing in the reflection of his dull, rheumy eyes before they turn to dust and there’s an aging farmhouse in the background and you’re all “what the hell just happened” and your date is all “shut up it’s totally artistic” and you’re like “no, it’s stupid, I wanted to see Lord of the Rings” and she’s all “we’ve watched that movie twelve times” and you’re like “which” and she’s like “what which?” and you’re like “it’s a trilogy, Sophie, you have to say which” and she’s all “the one with goblin” “who the hell is goblin” “the little goblin” “his name is SMEAGOL, SOPHIE, GOD DAMN IT.”

…sorry.

Anyway, I’m back from two different conventions back-to-back, both of which were exceedingly fun but bore a pretty interesting contrast.

I note that, when people who are not published (but have aspirations to be), they generally experience two different fantasies of what it’s like.

One is the artist: frequently frustrated, often starving (or at least suffering from poor nutrition), downing cups of coffee as droplets of sweat pour down their furrowed brows to stain the keyboards as trembling, caffeine-laced fingers gingerly type out six words in the span of twelve hours before recoiling with a gasp and looking up at the ceiling to reminisce about how cool it would be to have a really messed-up relationship so  you could write about that.

The other is the businessman: the person for whom the term “schmooze” is less of a verb and more of a rare form of martial art, going out to social events with suits and ties and hobnobbing with people who discuss contracts and royalties and say “how’s that baby of yours doing anyway, Johnson” as they sip expensive wine and pretend everyone around them is wearing deodorant and titter politely at jokes that colleagues make before quietly talking about how you loathe them so when they turn their backs.

It may be because I used to get beat up by the math club at school, but I’ve never really had a head for numbers and, subsequently, I’ve never had a real fantasy for being business-like…businessesque.  I don’t wear suits, since I don’t like owning more than three pairs of trousers at a time.  I hate babies.  My titters tend to be manly grunting sounds and I think it’s dishonest to wait until a person has left to talk about how much you loathe them, so I frequently interrupt people mid-sentence to tell them I hate them.

It’s possible I’m doing it wrong.

In summation: I like World Fantasy, but I don’t frequently go there to talk business.  So I don’t have a lot to tell you beyond the fact that these three men are all liars and you should never listen to anything any of them says ever about anything.

I will say this, though: don’t fantasize about business.

I can certainly understand the allure.  The idea of high-stakes deals, agents in heated negotiations and movie deals flying through the air like paper cranes can be enough to set many people a-quiver.  The words “luncheon meeting” can inspire strange and confusing emotions in many people.  Indeed, these things may very well happen.  Indeed, they may be happening right now.

But it’s a dangerous road.  Because I find the type of people who fantasize about the business of writing often become obsessed with numbers.  They fantasize about the number of lists they’ll be on, the number of awards they’ll get, the kinds of amazing things that will happen to them once they get published.  I think even the most battle-hardened writer thinks about that.  I don’t think any of us ever stops thinking about that.

The difference between fantasy and reality, though, aside from the disappointing lack of dragons and the ability to solve your problems by stabbing people, is recognition.  Specifically, the recognition that careers, especially in this industry, are like rivers.  They ebb and flow.  They rise, they fall.  Some of them become overfished and collapsed.  Some just drift away.  They may twist alike, but no two ever twist in precisely the same way.  The only way to succeed at being a river is to flow the way you want to flow.

Before the torture of that metaphor gets me imprisoned for war crimes, I’ll summarize by saying this: no matter how much business gets done, no matter how many luncheon meetings you aspire to have, it will always come down to the art and the art will determine everything you do.

When the art clicks with people, it will create the success.  And when the times are difficult, it will be your love of the art that keeps you going.  Fantasy is lovely.  Ambition is to be applauded.  But recognize what you can and cannot affect.  You can’t affect how the future will play out.  You can affect what you write and what you continue to write.  That’s the kind of fantasy you can thrive on.

I’d go further, but I think anything else at this point can only be said if I were a big lion floating in the clouds.

And you’re no goddamn Simba.

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself…

I want to begin by saying that this job gets harder every year.  Even though my heart shrivels a little more with each passing day (owing to the deal I brooked with a witch long ago to make all my first borns hale and hardy, as they have all been thus far), you people…you people manage to make choosing a victor ever-harder and consequently make my heart swell with joy and sorrow for the decision I must make.

I’ve done giveaways before and I’ve never received such an outpouring of willingness or creativity.  The entries that came to me were all intense and nary a murmur of “gimme or I’ll poop on your dresser” was to be found.  For this, I (and my many fancy shirts) thank you.

Seriously, thank you so much for your interest.  I delayed this day for awhile, just because it was super hard to choose.  And because it was hard to choose, I would like to implore you all who entered: Please send me your mailing address and I will ship you a free pair of bookplates to accompany books you have (or may come to acquire).  You deserve it, champ!

But choose I had to do.

And choose I did.

David Lindop sent me this email:

Dear Mr. Sam

Here’s why you should send me a signed copies of your books…

As you can see from the attached photos, my offspring has taken a strong liking to your first book… over and above Rohan’s ‘Anvil of Ice’ AND Abercrombie’s ‘The Blade Itself’.

I know it’s not exactly responsible bedtime story material for one-year-olds. But whatever — he can handle it.

Now here’s the clincher.

Since my delightful little spawn seems to like destroying my books with malicious abandon, I’ve decided to move all my books to ebook format — keeping only my signed or first copies (you see where this is going, don’t you?). These special relics will remain unassailable from my destructive larvae, and will be displayed on the highest shelf, where upon each day, at the appointed time, a ray of sunshine will stream through the window and illuminate your name.

If this story fails to touch your heart, I am at a loss.

It is true that I am typically not moved by words, possessing an aforementioned heart of stone (shriveled stone), but then Mr. Lindop followed up with this…

These books are for you, kid.  Read them when you’re older.

The next entry is for the late, great Kai Mundwiler…

Kai was an ever gregarious person who no one would ever call shy.

His parents, Steve the hirstute Burt Reynolds look alike, and Laurie the reformed hippie, had him back in the glorious days of the early eighties, sporting their polyester and bad haircuts, but darn it if they didn’t strike gold on May 5th when they had Kai.  They tried to replicate it another seven times over the next seventeen years, but the jury is still out on if they ever duplicate their debut album.  There were shades of Rockyesque glory early on, his Napoleonic height providing an ample target to the Dutch behemoths while attending grammar school, but he rose time after time with a glare that brought a smile to even the oldest of farts and a chuckle to the lungs of the venerable lunch ladies.

“He was….special.  You can define what kind of special.”  Laurie Mundwiler – mother

His parents got a taste for adventure and screwed up in their choice of how to find that adventure when they up and moved the family to Effingham, Illinois in the mid nineties.  Why wouldn’t you though?  It was the home of the Flaming Hearts and oh was it a grand time living in the moderately hickish streets of Southern Illinois.  After four long years, Steve got a transfer and the family was heading back up to Michigan.  These were the days that Kai always attributed to murdering his modesty and social decorum.  How could they not?  Switching 5 schools in four years is either going to shell shock a kid into ultimate shydom or going to throw him so far out of his comfort zone that it leaves it a crumbling wasteland to never return to.

After that was the rest of high school and then time in college where alcohol and Robert Jordan were found.  Great recipe for grades, but it did result in an English and Writing degree that was used only after work hours and a job in IT that paid the bills.

“He always just said ‘when in doubt, reboot’, don’t know how that qualified him for a job,” Ken McFadden – coworker.

Kai got lucky and batted way above his average and wrangled a smoking hot wife in the form of Kate Mundwiler.  Pretty sure he died with a smile on his face and God Bless him, he should have.

He is survived by his understanding and loving wife, his two parents, and a seven siblings that always struggled between fond affection and a feeling that inspired cracked teeth and anal fissures.

“I think I got more bruises from him than smiles over the years.  He could be a real bastard,” said Caleb Mundwiler, brother to the deceased.  “He was good guy though, he left me all of his books.”

Kai was an avid reader and his biggest joy was finding new and promising fantasy authors.  He often said there wasn’t a book he couldn’t read if it involved a little magic and a lot of blood and guts, especially if it had names that sounded like they were products of a bad acid trip.

“His last wish was to get some new book by some author that loved monkeys.  Sam Pikes or Sicks.  Sykes, that’s it.  Sam Sykes.”  Kate Mundwiler said.  “Too bad he’ll never get that chance.”

Honestly, I said these were hard to choose from, didn’t I?  These are super hard to choose from.  People are dying, guys.  DYING.

The final entry, though, positively blows everything…and everyone away.

Michelle Goldsmith wins.  For obvious reasons.  Read on…if you dare.

Night of the Psychic Pug-Velociraptor-Stalker: A Precautionary Tale

It was a mild midsummer night and all the world was quiet and still. Sam Sykes had taken advantage of the weather and chosen to walk home after a rather enjoyable evening spent at his local bar, requesting odd cocktails based on abstract concepts, obscure celebrities and emotional states. He’d decided to leave earlier than usual in the hope of getting some writing done before his roommate came home. Hopefully he’d even manage to work in that chapter he’d written regarding the troubles faced by a ‘single Mother Deep’ in her quest to find a mate who would look past the purely physical and accept her for who she truly was. Just because she has 13 hundred children and may have put on a little weight over the last few centuries doesn’t mean she doesn’t have needs like everyone else, damn it! Ahem..

 

It wasn’t long before Sam found himself at the end of his street. Minutes later he stood in the dark at his front door of his apartment block. Apparently the porch light was broken again. He made a mental note to fix it, but not until after he’d committed to the page a stirring dance number known as ‘The Frogman’s Lament (or In the End Every One of Us Will Croak)’.

Key in hand, he reached for the place where he knew the lock would be. He found nothing. Puzzled, he ran his hand over the wooden surface. It was completely smooth. No lock, no doorknob.

“Damn knob thieves!” he muttered. “They think they’re so damn hardcore but we all know they’re just compensating for something.”

He momentarily put aside his disgust at the state of humanity and resigned himself to entry through the side gate. As Sam drew nearer to the gate he felt a prickling sensation run down his spine. The night was too quiet. Not even the sound of distant traffic or barking dogs broke the oppressive silence.

Strange

Thankfully the latch opened easily enough and the gate appeared wholly untampered with. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he stepped into the yard.

“I can’t believe I let those stupid kids unnerve me,” he inwardly admonished.

A sudden movement drew his gaze. The trees in the yard appeared to begun swaying on their own accord despite the lack of breeze.

“Someone really needs to prune those,” thought Sam. “They’re getting a little feisty.”

Determined to ignore any additional distractions he made his way past the in-ground pool and towards the back enterance.

Too late, he felt something cold and slimy wrap around his ankle, tripping him and sending him sprawling on the ground.

“What the —?”

His breath caught in his throat as he noticed the hulking shape crouched approximately where the pool should be.

Wings unfurled and tentacles flailed.

“Oh come on!” cried Sykes. “The knob jokes and now Cthulhu? This is just getting ridiculous!”

Indignation apparently served as no deterrent to the Elder God and Sam found himself forced to roll quickly to the side in a desperate attempt to avoid a barrage of swatting tentacles.

Sparing a moment to commend himself for remembering to leave the dogs inside, he jumped to his feet and faced his attacker.

He felt his famous bear wrestling rage building to a killing edge within him.

It seemed that the time was nigh for the ultimate showdown, the battle to end all battles, that inevitable clash of the titans, Sykes vs. Cthulhu.

Sam prepared to charge, letting forth a barbarian battle cry and tearing open his shirt, Hulk style.

Suddenly, an icy voice echoed through the night, freezing both parties in their tracks.

“Leave him,” it hissed.“That one is mine to deal with.”

Sykes looked at Cthulhu. Cthulhu looked back at Sykes. The Lovecraftian horror raised its claws and shrugged its shoulders in the universal gesture for ‘Oh well, whatever’ and sunk back into the murky depths of the pool.

“I really should clean that,” thought Sam, shaking his head in disbelief.

Without further ado, he made his way to the door, stepped across the threshold and made his way to his apartment. Home at last.

 

Two dogs came bounding to greet Sam as he entered. One was large, one was small. However, neither one was a pug.

“Otis?” he called as he bent down to pat the other two.

“Otis! If I find you asleep in my underwear drawer again..”

Still no pug appeared.

“Where has he got to?” wondered Sam.

Becoming worried for Otis’ safety, especially given the apparent monster plague and other bizarre happenings, Sam began to scour the building looking for him.

Room after room he searched, yet found no trace.

By the time he reached his bedroom Sam was rather frantic, all thought of writing long forgotten.

He pushed open the door.

Unfortunately the sight that greeted him was not his missing dog, although it promised to provide some clue to his whereabouts.

The bookcase against the wall had been pushed to the side. In the place where it once stood was revealed a large hidden doorway. This doorway appeared to provide access to a dark, damp stone staircase leading down deep into the earth.

Although he knew the presence of such a hidden passage made absolutely no logical or architectural sense whatsoever Sam was only mildly surprised. After all, it was just one more entry on the long list of ‘weird shit’ that had occurred in the last few hours. However, it did nothing to appease his worries as he was 87% sure Otis hadn’t been renovating recently. Besides, the pug’s taste was far more refined than this dank dungeon.

 

He entered the passageway and began his descent. The staircase was seemingly endless and lit only by the occasional wilting candle.

Just as he begun to entertain thoughts of despair he found himself faced with a large oaken door.

It had a large brass handle shaped like a pugs head.

“Maybe it is him after all,” Sam thought. “Only one way to find out!”

He grasped the handle and pulled open the door.

 

The door opened onto a lavishly appointed chamber, decorated in rich reds and browns and abounding in oak panelling.

In the opposite wall stood an enormous ornate fireplace, logs crackling and flames dancing within.

Nevertheless, Sam’s eyes were immediately drawn to what stood before the fireplace. A large black leather swivel chair, facing the opposite direction.

“Otis?” he asked.

The swivel chair slowly turned in response, stopping only when he and its occupant stood face to face.

“Looking for someone?” said the figure seated within.

Sam couldn’t contain his surprise.

“You?” he cried.

“Indeed,” came the reply.

Sitting in the chair, slowly stroking the pug that sat nestled in her lap was someone he had never expected to see in real life (although, to be fair, she did give ample warning).

It was Michelle. Yes, ‘that’ Michelle. The reviewer from The Ranting Dragon and professional Sam Sykes stalker.

Recovering quickly from his horror, Sam launched an offensive in the form of a barrage of (quite reasonable given the circumstances) questions.

Here they are listed, and with some of the more colourful language emitted:

“What is this place?!”

“Why are you in my house?!”

“What are you doing with my dog?!”

“And why is there an elder god in my goddamn swimming pool?!”

“So many questions,” sighed Michelle. “I thought the answers would be obvious!” “Nevertheless, I will humour you for the sake of this narrative and answer them in the order I feel will most increase dramatic tension.”

Sam stared incredulously.

“As to the first two,” she said, “they are rather simple. Clearly this ‘place’ is my secret lair and obviously I’m in your house because that’s where I’m most likely to find you. I needed to speak with you.”

“Likewise,” she continued, “Cthulhu is here providing security. My original choice, Ulbecetonth, is on a date tonight and I didn’t want us to be interrupted when we had this conversation. By the way, would it have killed you to come home earlier? You wouldn’t believe how much that guy charges!”

“And Otis?” asked Sam.

“That is somewhat more complicated,” said Michelle, “However it pretty much comes down to the fact that I’ve been watching your every move for many months through my psychic connection with your pug.”

“Otis! You betrayed me!” cried Sykes, “How could you!”

Otis whined sadly and refused to meet his gaze.

“How does it even work! This psychic business!”

“It’s quite simple really,” stated Michelle, “We all know pugs are psychic aliens and I happen to be ¼ pug. I’m also 1/8 Velociraptor. Don’t ask.”

Sykes forcibly pushed any emerging thoughts from his mind.

“Wait you said you saw everything? Absolutely everything?” he said.

“Yes. It was…interesting viewing to say the least.”

A moment of awkward silence followed this revelation.

Finally, Michelle broke it with a gleeful declaration.

“But now that I finally know everything about you. I have all the information I need to become you! Now I will be Sam Sykes!”

She leaned back in the chair, overcome with maniacal laughter.

Sam thought he saw a flaw in her plan and grasped at it.

“Won’t people notice?” he asked. “There’s got to be some physical differences!”

“Easily solved,” said Michelle catching her breath, “As well as being a rare human-pug-velociraptor hybrid I also happen to be a shape-shifter with bookseller super powers!”

“Oh. This looks pretty bad for me then,” came Sam’s reply.

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” said Michelle, “but you have to understand. This never would have happened if you’d just given me one of those signed copies of Black Halo or Tome of the Undergates.”

Realisation hit Sykes like a sledge hammer. An unforeseen epiphany.

“You’re right!” he cried. “What was I thinking! I should have just given you those books! Is there any chance I can just give you one now and then we can just forget this ever happened?”

“No,” said Michelle sadly, “Unfortunately that is no longer possible. I have committed myself to identity theft and there is no going back. But if it’s any consolation your bicep looks really good today.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, “it really does doesn’t it.”

They laughed amicably for a moment as if one had not just pronounced the doom of the other.

“Oh, and don’t worry,” said Michelle, “I’m not a complete monster. I found you a brand new identity as well! You even still get to be an author! Well, sort of..”

“Ever heard of Robert Newcomb?”

In fact, you may recall that I said the winners for THE MOST GIVINGEST AWAY EVER would be announced today.  I must confess to you that I am, indeed, a big, fat liar whose pants are ablaze with untruths and falsehoods.

Well, that’s half-true.  In truth, I am not particularly fat, though I am quite large.  And in fact, my pants have been on fire since I visited Honest Betty down on Washington Street who warned me, but I just wouldn’t listen.  Regardless, I am still at least a big liar with pants on fire and for that I deserve to be punished, which will be just fine by me, so long as it’s not Honest Betty and you wait until I finish this blog post.

I’m certain I’ve ranted about the Surrey International Writer’s Conference before, with specific details picked up about what a tremendous opportunity it is for young writers (and indeed, what a tremendous opportunity it was for me), as well as how great it is to introduce people to the worlds of networking, publishing and editors and, of course, how awesome it is to be able to meet and draw from the experience of so many great authors available at the conference.

Did I not?

Well, there, I just did.

It doesn’t count?  Gosh, you’re picky.

Well, what if I told you that I’ll be present at said conference this very upcoming week and will, in fact, be one of those great authors you can draw experience from?  Does that soothe your fevered brows?  That should be glorious, I think, and more than make up for my ineptitudinal ability to count giveaway entries.

So, I do hope to see you there.  Be sure to bring me a snack.

Arigato!

So, I’m tallying the final votes for this here giveaway.  If you’re just hungry for a pair of signed copies of Tome of the Undergates and Black Halo, you might do your best to shoot me a good reason/bribe why you should get one before the next blog post.

This particular blog post is not going to be about winning, but rather about video games.  I think it’s been ages since I last did a review of any sort of video game and for good reason.  I don’t really feel qualified on talking about a lot of things other than story and how it appeals to me, especially when others can do it a bit better than I can.  But in this particular case, I kind of wanted to talk about it while it was still at least somewhat hot.

So, let’s have a chat about Gears of War 3.

If you are even remotely aware of video games, you have probably heard of Gears of War. The semi-flagship series for the Xbox 360, the Gears franchise has been running for a few years and has come out with some games that are widely acclaimed for their brutal, gritty style, square-jawed manly man protagonists who excrete testosterone from every unshaven pore and, most importantly, their revolutionary impact on the shooter genre by doing for cover-shooters what Steve Jobs did for computers (made it accessible and fun and caused a lot of people to go into angry fits because that jerk, Steve, in the dorm room across the hall thought they were cool now).

And yet, no one ever really touts the story.

In a lot of ways, this is a shame.

As a primer: Gears of War is a story about…Gears…in war.  On the earth-like Planet of Sera, the Coalition of Ordered Governments (COG.  Gears.  Get it?) has spent most of its short existence battling over the energy-rich subterranean source of power known as Imulsion.  With humanity vastly diminished, the COG was ill-prepared for the attacks of the subterranean horrors known as the Locust: hulking, testosterone-laden manly men (except scaly manly-man with extra deep voices, so you know they’re bad) who burst out of the earth and shoot a bunch of people.  That’s where we start.  Two games later, Imulsion has poisoned the land and is creating things called Lambent, which are more hulking manly-men, but they glow a bright sparkly yellow, so you know they’re extra bad and also a hit at 8-year-old girls’ birthday parties.

I’m leaving out a few details, but honestly, not a lot.  The main thrust of the story is: “They bad.  Shoot them.”  That’s about it.  Gears of War doesn’t really do anything exciting.  It doesn’t really push a lot of boundaries.  Whatever moral ambiguity exists is clear-cut, unchallenging, unintelligent and not very interesting.  Character development is mostly limited to ham-handed emotional pulls that are specifically and shallowly designed to tug at your heartstrings and/or cussing a lot.  It’s not daring.  It’s not imaginative.  It’s not really well-fleshed-out.

And I thought it was really, really good.

I possess kind of an adoration and envy for how bullheaded this game’s story is.  It is completely aware of what it wants to be: a story of survival in which giant dudes fight other giant dudes in explosions of gore and gunfire and it moves forward with this really well.  The plot isn’t complex, but you don’t really have to be when you’re fighting giant, city-sinking worms.  The atmosphere and alien design, but it doesn’t really need to be when you can go from this to this.  The characters are shallow and uncomplicated and, as I said, their emotional pulls are very crass and very obviously intended to be an emotional manipulation.  But sometimes, that just works.

Gears of War 2 was one of my favorite games for this reason.  It decided, very early on, that it was going to be about giant men shooting the shit out of giant aliens.  And then it decided it was going to be the best damn man-on-alien-shit-shooter it could possibly be.

Hence, the envy.

Gears of War 3 is not one of my favorite games for the same reason.  It decided, very early on, that it wasn’t quite sure what it wanted to be.  And then it decided it was going to be the best damn I’m-not-sure-what-I-want-to-be it could possibly kind of sort of want to be eventually at some point.

There are new characters that never get introductions.  There are new plot devices that are just accepted as given.  The world has changed entirely and no one really seems to feel the need to comment on it.  The biggest threat to the world is the Lambent.  No wait, the Locusts.  The Lambent again.  No, zombies.  Now it’s a tender story about finding a father.  No, wait, it’s about saving the world.  No, hang on, now it’s about sticking it to the man.  Wait, now it’s humanity’s last stand.  Now there’s Locust.  Sorry, Lambent.  Sorry, what?

You don’t really need to know the details of the story at this point, if you’ve never played the game.  I’m not even sure of the story, either.  And that would seem like harsh criticism if it wasn’t followed by this next part.

This is the game where a straightforward muscle man shooter gets slightly daring.  And also horribly confusing.

At times, you get moments of incredible poignancy from the game.  Such as when Augustus Cole, former thrashball superstar, sees a cardboard cutout of himself and asks wistfully: “Do you ever think you died and everyone just forgot to tell you?”  And you start to think that maybe this game is about more than just shooting people and planting bombs.

And then you get this (2:30).

And then later, you get moments of almost heartbreaking atmosphere.  Such as when you tread through the city of Char, ground zero for the Hammer of Dawn, the orbital laser used to fry friend and foe alike in a last bid attempt to destroy the Locust.  The city is a macabre pantomime of itself.  The people who tried to flee the laser are preserved forever as hollowed-out, perfect casts of themselves in ash.  It’s an area too sacred to let war tread upon and the hulking soldiers who thought nothing of violently barreling through walls of stone and flesh alike tiptoe so as not to disturb the hallowed and fragile dead.

And then five minutes later, Ice-T’s cameo calls you a punk-ass bitch. (7:00)

All told, Gears of War 3 strikes me as a very confused individual.  It’s reached the point where it wants to reach out to something more, but is still hesitant and clings to its bitch-ass ways.  But it tries.  It evolves.  It puts a higher emphasis on story, even at the expense of the tried-and-true method.  In this, I find a little hope.

It used to be that shooters were the anti-RPG.  They were light on story, heavy on action and generally considered to have inattentive, hyperactive players.  But I don’t think that quite applies any longer, no more than the concept of an RPG player as an irate, overweight dude who dresses up in wizard robes in his spare time and hexes the neighbor kid (you stay the fuck off my lawn, Tommy).

Shooters, I think, are making the same concessions that RPGs are making.  While RPGs can’t really subsist on the stat-based, dice-driven, slow, methodical action that celebrated Baldur’s Gate, shooters can’t really stick to having their story be condensed to two paragraphs in an instruction booklet anymore.  I feel we’re slowly moving to the point that story will take precedence and will be the driving force of a lot of games, to the point that we’ll gush about Marcus Fenix with the same gusto as we gush about that dreamy Jaime Lannister and his fabulous golden fist.

And as we begin to hit the point where novelists of today are game-savvy, such as Abercrombie and myself, it wouldn’t at all surprise me if fantasy and sci-fi novelists start finding new opportunities in gaming industries as major players.  I do quietly sit with eager glee that one day, a writer’s name will be as prominent as the designer’s name in the end credits as we listen to the soothing sounds of Terrible Terry Tate unironically rapping to his own voice.