The tide of Yule is ebbing this annus horribilis. (Has the near match between annus and anus ever been more appropriate?) Good riddance, I suppose. Still, I’ve made the best of it. I hope you have as well, dear reader.
Is there a more appropriate book for this year than Boccaccio’s Decameron? Not that I’ve personally holed up in a countryside villa to ride it out. I’m one of those who still goes into the office everyday. But I understand there’s quite a bit of that sort of voluntary seclusion going on. Read even just the first story of The Decameron: duplicity, corruption, malfeasance rewarded. Timely, right? (I figure I can make such a nebulous comment without offending anyone; it’s applicable enough that you can assume I’m referring to the bugaboos of your choice.)
Anyways, I thought I’d toss that out in case you’re looking for a book recommendation. That’s about all I have time to write today. I’m busy. I’m trying to finish the second draft of my third Karl Thorson novel by the end of next week. Then I hope to complete the third draft of my Cesar the Bravo novel by around the New Year. I generally take Sunday off to write this weekly post, but I can’t do it if I’m going to meet my self-imposed deadlines.
Have a good week.
I thought I’d offer a change of pace this week. Something different from my usual blathering. I’m offering a snippet from my novel Thick As Thieves. I hope you get a kick out of it.
What are the best taverns in fantasy? Where do you imagine yourself sipping a pint in rather unusual company? The genre is full of these joints, though most, sadly, go nameless. Of course, some of these you’d probably just as soon avoid, like a den of merriment in Arenjun’s Maul, in Zamora.
Whether we’re facing a world-changing pandemic, or not, I’m still working. Not just at my day job; I’m also still producing books. I expect to have another book out early in April, perhaps by the first. Specifically, Captain: Falchion’s Company Book Two, the sequel to Boss.
Falchion is back, now running his own mercenary company. I think you’re going to like this one.
I got the rights back to Thick As Thieves. I’m considering just putting it out myself, rather than shopping it around to another publisher. That way I’ll have a book out between Captain, in April, and Warlord, in July. What do you think? Sufficient distance? Too much? Not enough?
If you’ve read Thick As Thieves, do you have an idea what you think the cover art should look like? Or was the first edition’s cover on point?
The sequel to Karl Thorson and the Jade Dagger is off to the publisher. I’m waiting on comments. Of course, I hope it is perfect as is, without the need for more than, say, a proof read. There is a first time for everything, I suppose.
So, if you’re “sheltering in place” and in need of entertainment, I’m doing my best to keep you supplied.
I understand there is some sort of kerfuffle going on in the world. People panicking, going into lockdown mode. I’ve been sitting on the beach, sipping cold beer, and listening to the waves come in. We all react to existential threats in our own way, I suppose.
When I first started writing, years ago, it was primarily as a challenge. Could I get a story published? Then, how about a few more? After a while, I wanted to see if I could get a novel published. That accomplished, I discovered I had more novels I wanted to write, that it wasn’t enough to have a published book under my belt.
At the moment I find myself dealing with multiple projects in various stages. I’ve got the word mines running, and the words must flow. It is gratifying. It is also time consuming for someone with a profession that already demands most of his nine-to-five hours.
I hope to cram in a number of items in today’s post. A mishmash of topics. A salmagundi, if you will.
The first baked potato went down nicely. It always did. Loaded with all the toppings, the pillowy starches glistening with melted butter, white hummocks of sour cream speckled green and brown with chives and bits of bacon. He chased it with another before switching to a plate of au gratin for a change of pace, just warming up for the main event: the steaks. He figured he’d have one of each cut, maybe experiment with different levels of doneness. A delay occurred between the New York cut — rare, dripping red with succulent juices, nearly fork-tender — and the medium-rare filet mignon. He filled it with another appetizer, shrimp cocktail, each little coral-hued morsel slurped down noisily. So good. At intervals he swilled a glass of red wine — a chateau something-or-other, he could never be bothered to remember the appellations, simply trusting the sommelier, waiter, or bar-tender to recommend the appropriate accompaniment — swishing each mouthful vigorously to dislodge any stray bits of protein or strands of vegetable matter.