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.
Some things are true serendipity, others are more deliberately linked. I’m going with the latter in the case at hand. You see, I’m nearing completion of the sequel to Karl Thorson and the Jade Dagger, and the climax occurs at The Alamo. At about the time I commenced writing that chapter I needed to download a new audio book. Searching for this and that I came across a book I’d heard of before, but hadn’t read, by one of my favorite writers: The Alamo, by John Myers Myers.
“By Mitra, this bird is as plump as a Zingaran concubine,” quoth Conan.
Conan slid his broadsword free of its shagreen wrapped hilt and skewered the turkey. He raised his sword one-handed, hoisting the bird from its silver platter without a tremor of strain displayed on the corded forearm projecting from the sleeve of his royal robe, despite the additional twenty pounds weighing down the three foot length of steel.
“Now, who shall carve this beast?” the king asked. “Certainly not thou, Valeria,” he said, addressing the she-pirate seated to his left. “Carving is man’s work.”