by john | Dec 11, 2017 | Promos/Giveaways, Real Life
Hey gang, sorry it’s been radio silent around here for a while, but ye olde brain chemistry had been pretty out of whack and I’ve been struggling to get anything accomplished. But today was a good day, and it’s looking like it might be a good week. Or at least a damned interesting one. I’m being vague, I know, but all will be revealed in the fullness of time, I promise.
But let’s give you an update on Patreon, and what I’m looking at doing starting next month. A week or so ago, Patreon announced that they were changing their fee structure to let the creators keep a larger chunk of their pledges. Great, right?
Wrong.
While we, the creators, will see reduced fees under their new structure, we’re seeing that reduction on the backs of you, our patrons. Whereas in the past, all processing fees and stuff was taken out of my chunk of money before it was sent to me each month, now those fees will be tacked on to your pledges before they are sent to me. So if you are a $1/month patron, it’s now going to cost you $1.38 or so each month to support me. Which sucks. Especially for the ten or so of my $1 patrons who support a bunch of other artists. I had one friend tell me that these changes would add $40 to her monthly pledge budget overall. Because even though Patreon is only getting tagged once for processing the credit cards of patrons, they are tacking the service charge on to every pledge. We call that profit. And shitty.
So while I have no plans to leave Patreon, I plan to change the way that I address Patreon.
Starting January 1, everything that is available on the $1 patron tier will also be available here, on this website, one week later. I’ll find a place to stick a tip jar somewhere in the sidebar of the page, so if you want to drop a buck or two in there every once in a while, you can. But I don’t want my patrons feeling screwed in any way, so if supporting me happens at the expense of dropping another creator, please – drop me first. It’s not that I don’t need the money. I do. But I’ve been selling pretty well the past few months, and I have a couple of things in the hopper that may turn out to be legitimate Big Deals, so I can handle losing a few patrons. Also, a couple of my patrons have either increased their pledges to cover the loss of patrons, or they’ve offered to pay for other people’s pledges. So neither of us is going to lose anything in the long run. I’ll still get the same money, and you’ll still be able to get the same content, just with a slight delay.
Now if you want to continue to support my Patreon, at any level, I will still appreciate the hell out of you. I just don’t want people to feel guilty if they drop me, or to feel like they have to choose between supporting me or another creator.
I will also likely be starting up a subscription service over at Gumroad once they get all their bandwidth sorted. They’ve been a touch overwhelmed the last few days as people seek out alternatives to Patreon.
In other news, it’s probably too late to get autographed books delivered for Christmas, but I do still have a few things in my Inventory Reduction Sale if you want to get some signed stuff before the end of the year. Anything I still have after Christmas will be donated to a local shelter for LGBTQ youth.
And you should all watch ABC this Friday at 11AM. Watch carefully, there may something really cool happening. đ
by john | Nov 30, 2017 | Business of publishing, How to Sell Books
I have a lot of books in my house.
No, I have a shitload of books in my house. Because I do a lot of conventions, and I have a lot of titles. But sometimes, titles get new covers, or get collected into an omnibus, or whatever, and it just doesn’t make sense to keep a lot of these around anymore.
And I need the shelf space.
So here you go – The John/Falstaff End of Year I’ve Got Too Much Shit On My Shelves Sale!
I have a limited number of each of these titles. When they’re gone, they’re gone.
Shipping is Media Mail, US only for $5.
I will ship anywhere in the world, but it’s going to cost an arm and a leg outside the US. Just warning you.
I’ll sign them, I’ll personalize them, I’ll lick the title page, whatever you need (I won’t really lick the title page. That’s kinda nasty).
Here’s what I have –
Hard Day’s Knight – $10 each – 3 in stock
Paint it Black – $10 each – 2 in stock
In the Still of the Knight – $10 – 2 in stock
Calling All Angels – $5 – 1 in stock
Devil Inside – $5 – 1 in stock
Angel Dance – $5 – 1 in stock
Quincy Harker Year One – $15 – 1 in stock (old cover)
Lawless Lands – $12 – 3 in stock (old cover)
Changeling’s Fall – $12 – 1 in stock (old cover)
We Are Not This – $10 – 5 in stock
Get your orders in via email – john@johnhartness.com. I’ll update this page as things sell, and if orders come in while I’m away from the computer, the earliest timestamp on the email wins.
Thanks, and Happy Holidays!
PS – if you want other signed stuff, feel free to put in an order on my Autographed Books page!
by john | Nov 15, 2017 | Business of publishing, Travel
So I’ve now written something like 6,000 words on the different types of conventions, which ones I find to be the most profitable, and how to pick the conventions to attend. There’s one con that I haven’t really addressed, and it’s the biggest one that I do every year, and it deserves its own post.
Yup, Dragon Con.
Dragon Con is the largest convention in the Southeast every year, and one of the largest in the country. With over 75,000 attendees spread out among five host hotels plus the Americas Mart in downtown Atlanta over Labor Day weekend, it boasts a lot of the fun of almost every kind of convention, all rolled up into one.
I treat it like an industry con, because I go there to network with other writers, editors, and publishers.
It is at its heart a fandom con, because almost everyone who works tirelessly year round to make it happen is a volunteer who came from fandom.
You can treat it like an autograph con and drop hundreds of dollars on meeting your favorite celebrity and getting photo ops with them (although you’ll pay less for the privilege at Dragon than at many cons I’ve seen).
If all you want is for it to be an exhibit hall con, then you can spend literally days just shopping the multiple floors of the dealers room.
Or you can treat it like a buffet, and take a little piece of panels, a minute or two of autograph hunting, a slice of networking, and a dollop of vendor room. I would tell people if they could only do one con in a year, do Dragon. It has the mist varied experiences, and the most awesome people-watching of any con I’ve ever been to.
I treat Dragon as two of the major types of con – industry con and fandom con. I have multiple purposes for going to the convention, but I’m not there to sell print books, and I’m not there to get autographs. To be fair, I’m not anywhere to get autographs. Other than signed books and Magic cards, autographs aren’t my thing, so even when I do pop culture or autograph cons, I don’t plop down a pile of money to get my picture taken with someone famous. If that’s your thing awesome, have a ball and I hope that the experience is everything you want it to be. It just ain’t my thing.
I go to Dragon to be on panels, which gets me in front of potentially new fans, and to work the Writers’ Bar. A bunch of us took over the Westin lobby bar a few years ago and staked a claim to it as the Writers’ Bar, and it’s worked out very well. Since it’s a little further away from the madness that is the three “main” hotels (the Marriott, Hyatt, and Hilton are all in a straight line from each other and connected via walkways affectionately referred to as the Habitrails, so those are the most crowded hotels), the Westin bar tends to be a little quieter, and you can usually find a chair. The Westin also houses the Urban Fantasy programming and the Horror programming, which is predominantly where I’m programmed, so it’s really convenient for me, too. I often stay there, as well, although I’ve stayed in three of the five main hotels and they’re all very nice.
I love doing panels at Dragon, because you’re playing with pros, and to a good crowd. The panels are usually stacked with people that are more famous than me (especially since I’m not famous at all), and are experienced panelists. The moderators are almost always excellent, and at their worst, they’re still pretty good. That makes for a good panel. And getting to sit beside some of my writing heroes has made for some incredible experiences for me as a writer. I’ve been on panels with Kim Harrison, Jim Butcher, Laurell K. Hamilton, Mercedes Lackey, and Jonathan Maberry, some of my favorite writers. It doesn’t get much better than that for me. And when I’m on a panel with people that everyone knows, it gives me an opportunity to convert some of their fans into my fans.
I make sure to bring postcards and bookmarks to panels, so that people can have something to remember me by when they get home. I often run out with one or two panels left in the weekend, and that’s the mark of a good Dragon Con for me. I’ve also made some great friends who first met me and read my books because they saw me on panels. And brought me booze. To the panel. Yes, that is a good way to endear yourself to this writer. Bribe me with alcohol. đ
But I’m also there working. This past year at Dragon I got career advice on TV adaptations, had a meeting with  major NY editor, talked about a couple of joint projects with several authors, and recruited several people to write novella series for me at Falstaff. The Mason Dixon Monster Hunter series grew out of a conversation that Eric Asher and I had after a panel, and it’s been a good project for both of us. So I spend a lot of time in the bar, not just because I like to drink (which I do), but because that’s where work gets done. I’ll nurse a beer for hours while I talk to new writers about what’s going on in their lives, reconnect with old friends that I only get to see once or twice a year, and chat with folks about the general state of the industry. In that sense, I treat Dragon like as much of an industry con as any other, even though it’s not designed that way. But when you get that many writers, publishers, and editors in one place, deals are gonna go down.
So if you can handle 75,000+ people in one downtown area over four days, you owe it to yourself to try Dragon at least once. If crowds give you trouble, you should probably stay home. There’s no harm in that, either. Taking care of yourself is one of the most important things to learn about the convention life.
So I hope this little series has been useful, and that some of these tips on picking a convention will help you decide on where your budget needs to go. I generally advise a good mix of the trade show/comic cons with the fandom cons, with maybe one industry con and Dragon Con thrown in there. If you want to do the pop culture cons and autograph cons, go for it, but understand that those are not the place to develop your true fans, no matter how many paperbacks you sling in a weekend.
And that’s what it’s all about – developing your True Fans.
I’ll be back next week to talk about something other than cons for a while, despite the fact that I’ll be at Atomacon this weekend. So if you’re in Charleston, come see me!
by john | Nov 13, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Another chapter in the serial. No, I have no real idea where this whole thing is going. You’re all just along for the ride with me.Â
Chapter 6
I reckon it was a few minutes before noon when I followed Graves out to the courtyard of the inn, or bar, or whatever you want to call it. It was hot enough to melt the leather right off your shoes, and the dry desert heat made the concrete shimmer. âWhat are we gonna do?â I asked.
âWe ainât gonna do nothing. I am gonna talk to the Sheriff, and maybe kill him. Or maybe heâll kill me. Or maybe, just maybe, we can come to some kind of understanding that doesnât leave one of us lying in a pool of blood and brains.â
âBut you doubt it.â
âBut I doubt it.â Graves was dressed as much like a man going to meet his bride as a man going to meet his Maker. He shaved when he got up that morning, something he only did on Sundays most weeks. I still didnât need to shave even that often. He wore a clean pair of pants, with leather chaps and his good riding boots, not the low-heeled things he usually wore when we were in town. His shirt was black, and not the worn-out faded black that clothes get when they spend years in the sun. No, this was a deep, midnight black of dark water at low tide, or a patch of starless sky. He even took special effort to brush the worst of the dirt off his hat, and ran a damp rag along the felt to clean it up as best he could.
Around his neck hung his Bullet. On a black leather cord, his Bullet lay outside his shirt, painted jet black just like his shirt and his boots. Iâd never seen Graves wear his Bullet in plain view like that. Most of the time he kept it tucked inside his clothes, touching his flesh. I asked him why one time, and he said âDeath come to us all, Wayland. It might as well be warm when it gets here.â Ever since that day, I wore my Bullet next to my skin, too.
We donât wear badges. Badges are for Sheriffs and Deputies. Badges are for laws. We ainât about the law. Weâre about justice, which sometimes rides alongside the law, but it ainât never the same thing. But every Brother, somewhere on his person, will have a black-painted Bullet to remind him of who he is, what he has sworn to uphold, and what will someday end him. Graves knew his day was going to end with a bullet, he just wasnât sure who was going to catch it.
I reckon we stood in that baked concrete courtyard for most of half an hour before a string of six men on horses charged in like their asses was on fire and we had the only trough of water. They were all big men, Hybrids every one of them, with the jeweled eyes, high features, and delicate bones of the Voltarr-Human interbreeding. Every one of them wore a badge. They were all men of the law, and I had a bad feeling they didnât give a damn about justice. The Deputies made a ring around Graves and me, their horses pawing and stomping and snorting inches away from our faces. Graves stood like a statue, looking at the mouth of the alley. He wasnât worried about the warmup, he was waiting for the Main Event.
And the Main Event walked down the alley mere moments after the Deputies peeled off from surrounding us and formed up in an orderly rank of six men on the far side of the plaza, The Sheriff, and even before I caught sight of his badge there was no question thatâs who this was, walked down the alley slowly, his spurs jingling with every step like a metronome. ChingâŚChingâŚChingâŚChing. He stepped into view, and even for somebody who spent the last three years dealing with some of the worst sons of bitches in the West, he was an intimidating figure. It was apparent even as he stalked through the shadowed alley that he was a full Voltarr. That put him over seven feet tall, with a delicate face almost like a womanâs, only even finer in the details, and an upswept hairless skull under his black Stetson. His long arms swung down almost to his knees, and each of his fingers was longer than my hand. He moved with a lethal grace, like vids Iâd seen of tigers, almost gliding with every step.
Iâd never seen a full Voltarr before. Most towns have Hybrid Sheriffs, and some just have a Deputy. Some of them are Hybrid, but some are even full Human. Having a trueblood alien as Sheriff said something about the value Carson City held for our occupying lords and masters. His jaw swept down just like his skull swept up, and came almost to a point with his narrow mouth and chin. The dominant feature of his face was the huge pair of emerald-green faceted eyes that were in constant motion, flicking up and down Graves, then over to his men, then at me for half a glance before dismissing me as no threat. ChingâŚChingâŚChing.
He came to a stop ten yards across the courtyard, his cloak billowing royal blue in the slight breeze. âYou were told never to return to Carson City, Brother Simon Graves.â It wasnât a question, just a pronouncement of fact.
âYeah, but I figured since the man who said that was dead, it probably didnât matter none.â My head whipped over to Graves, and Iâm sure the look of shock on my face was hilarious. Iâd never known this man to provoke anyone, and now heâs bringing up the fact that he killed the Sheriffâs father in front of everyone.
âYou were warned about the consequences should you return,â the Sheriffâs voice never wavered, never changed cadence. He just went on with his proclamations like Graves didnât speak.
âNow you are here, and found guilty of criminal trespass, and unauthorized return from banishment, which is the violation of a direct order from a duly appointed Sheriff. You are a lawbreaker, Brother Graves, and I am here to hand down your sentence. Do you have anything to say for yourself before I pass judgement on you?â
Graves stood up straighter, if that was possible, and looked across the courtyard. âI do not acknowledge your appointment, your authority, the authority of these thugs you brought with you, or the authority of the bug-eyed bastards who dropped you off here. I do not give a good goddamn about your laws, or your rules, or your desires. I am a Brother of the Gun, and I bring succor with my left hand and call down Justice with my right. And I will kill you and every piece of half-alien trash youâve got if any one of you thinks to clear leather on me.â
Graves was usually the level-headed one. For him to throw down a gauntlet like that, he had some kind of score to settle with this Sheriff. It didnât matter what kind of grievance he had, through, because his words lit a fire in the Sheriff and his men. They drew as one, and as they reached for their guns, time slowed to molasses. Everything kept moving, but at a crawl, as if my mind sped up and the rest of the world kept right on at its normal pace.
The nearest Deputyâs palm slid into the crook of his gun, the webbing between his thumb and forefinger nestling right behind the hammer on his pistol as his fingers grazed the leather of his holster. Over his shoulder, I saw the man next to him reach across his body for his pistol, slung low across his waist in a fancy-looking cross-draw rig that improved neither speed nor accuracy. Just inside the periphery of my vision, I registered a bunch of faces disappearing from windows and ducking back behind doorjambs as the whores and drunkards took cover.
I drew my Colt and stepped up to Gravesâ side. His pistol was already barking, taking the first Deputy to draw in the meat of his thigh. The man went down with a strangled curse, his gun falling to the dirt beside him. Graves put his left hand out on the barrel of my Colt, pushing my arm down until it pointed at the ground. âThe rest of your men donât have to die, Sheriff. You can just haul the stupid one out of here, patch him up, and pretend like we never saw each other.â
âWhy would I do that, Brother Graves?â The Sheriff asked, his high-pitched voice and heavily accented speech making him sound even more alien than he looked. The voice just didnât fit the body, which fit with what Iâd alway heard about the Voltarr, that they talked like fingernails on a chalkboard.
âBecause youâre a ratfucking alien coward like your chickenshit father, maybe?â Graves said, the smile creeping across his face telling me that he never wanted to avoid violence at all, that he wanted to kill these men â all of them, and nothing I could say would change that.
The Sheriff didnât respond to the latest insult, just drew his own pistol and fired. Graves was on the move before the alien cleared leather, putting bullets in two more Deputies before they even knew the fight was underway. I knew how it was going to unfold, Graves and I had practiced this kind of scenario before, when he was teaching me. He went right, aiming for easier center body shots instead of the more definite kills of a head shot. I went left, taking the side with the downed Deputy, and fired six times in half as many seconds. Two Deputies went down, but the third kept his head, and almost took mine because of it. He led me as I sprinted left, and put a round right in the center of my chest.
I tumbled up onto a porch and collapsed behind a water barrel, prodding at my chest with wondering fingers. I found a bruise, but no blood. The strange vest Graves made me put on before we left the bar had done its job. I was still alive, but from the shooting still going on around me, that wouldnât last long if I didnât do something, and fast. I took a second to reload, then got up on one knee and rested my Colt on the top of the barrel. My ribs felt like Hellâs own fire was burning in my chest, but I was alive.
The scene that greeted me was a grim and bloody one. Five of the six Deputies were dead, and the last one, the first man Graves shot, was on his knees with his empty hands high above his head. Graves stood over him, his Colt leveled at the blubbering manâs head. The Sheriff stood unmoved in the center of the courtyard, unfazed by the carnage scattered around him.
âThese six deaths are on you, Sheriff. These deaths are the legacy your father left you. This blood is the payment for his sins and yours, and it isnât near enough to wash this town clean.â
âI have done nothing, Brother Graves. I am the duly appointed Sheriff of Carson City, just like my father before me.â
âYeah,â Graves spat. âYou are just like your father before you. I could see that from the girlâs face when I rode into this courtyard.â
The Sheriff knitted his non-existent brow. âWhat girl? The Hybrid child? She is not of my get.â
âNo, she wouldnât be. But she is yours, nonetheless. Just like all the others Iâve heard tell of, all through NorCal and even into the cities of Advent. The Sheriff and his Hybrids, for sale or rent. You can do whatever you want with âem, because they ainât human, and they ainât Voltarr, so nobody cares, do they?â Graves almost spat the words, and a fury Iâd never seen contorted his face.
âShe is mine, that is correct. I bought her fair and square from her father. I paid him a good horse and two mules for her.â The Sheriffâs voice didnât even change as he talked about buying that little girl just like heâd buy a saddle. I felt my finger tighten on the trigger against my will as I thought of the girl that took my horse to the stable. She was young, far too young to lay with a man, much less be treated the way Graves was talking. Hybrid or no, she was still a person.
âWell, maybe her papa will come back and haul your corpse to be buried on his fine new horse,â Graves said. âUntil then, every complicit son of a bitch is going to die, then Iâm going to put you down like the dog you are.â
âPlease, mister, I didnâtââ The man on the ground didnât even get a chance to get started groveling before Graves put a bullet in his head. He swung his Colt up to the Sheriff, but another shot rang out before he got the gun up. Graves looked confused, then looked down at his belly, where a darker stain grew on his black shirt.
My gaze flicked back to the Sheriff, but his hands were empty. Then I glanced up, and a man stood up on the roof of a nearby building, rifle in his hand. âI got him, Sheriff!â the man called out.
Graves dropped to his knees, his Colt falling to the dirt beside him. My vision went red and I charged out from behind the barrel, murder on my mind and a pistol in my hand.
by john | Nov 9, 2017 | Appearances, Business of publishing, How to Sell Books
This will be the last of my deep-dive posts on the different types of conventions, and next week I’ll do a wrap-up overview kind of post and maybe go over everything I’ve booked for 2018. Spoiler – we’ve over 20 and it’s not even December 2017! And at some point Dragon Con will get its own post because it’s almost every type of con all rolled into one.
This last type of event is my least favorite, and the type that I will frequently avoid. These are the Autograph Cons, or as I unpleasantly (and perhaps unfairly) call them, Starfucker Cons. You’ve seen them, they are conventions where all the promo materials center on the vast number of celebrities they have in attendance, and the whole event is geared around you paying money for an autographed photo.
Now, I know that there are photo opps at a lot of the pop culture cons, like Awesome Con. I know there’s a huge Walk of Fame at Dragon Con. But while you can attend these events for no other reason than to get an autograph, there is so much other stuff going on that I feel you can’t shoehorn those cons into this category.
No, the ones I’m talking about have 2-3 photo/autograph rooms, maybe 1-2 panel rooms with 1-2 panels going on at a time, and a big dealer’s room. These cons are lots of fun for fans of a particular franchise, but not a lot of fun for a writer trying to make back their table rental.
Let’s look at the challenges you’re going to face as a writer at one of these cons. First, there’s no author or artist’s alley, like you’ll find at fandom cons or comic cons. So you’re going to spend the same money as the person selling swords, t-shirts, DVDs, or any other stuff in the dealer room. This is a big jump in price. Tables for artists and authors are usually under $100 unless it’s a very big con. Dealer hall tables at even the smaller autograph cons are usually $300 or more. So that line item on the budget is now tripled.
Since this isn’t a fandom con, there aren’t very many panels. Since this is a con about celebrities, Hulk Hogan is way more likely to be on a panel than half a dozen writers talking about world-building. There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s how this con is built, and that’s what the people buying tickets want to see. But for a writer, it means that unless you wrote a screenplay that got produced and people cared enough about it to make an entire panel at this con for your film, you are not going to have any panel time. So you don’t have that hour in front of a captive audience to show people how charming, witty, and talented you are. So you aren’t building your brand that way, and you don’t have the opportunity to talk about your work on a panel and make people want to come buy your books.
Since you (and any other writers that happen to be there) aren’t the draw for the event, every sale is going to be work. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes you get the easy ones. One con in particular in Tennessee is famous for having fans that come up to your table with spreadsheets of their book collection and buying everything you have that they don’t already own. Those are the easy sales. “What have you released since BookCon last year?” “These three books.” “I’ll buy them all.” Doesn’t get any easier than that. That doesn’t happen at an event where people are there to get a photo opp with a movie star.
For one thing, photos with celebrities are expensive. The top stars charge over $100 per person for these photos. There’s a whole convoluted process by which they get paid for their appearance and that money comes out of the pictures sold, etc. etc., so don’t go hating on Luke Skywalker just because he charges a bucket of money for his photo. A lot of that is on the con organizer. Even more of it is on the back of the market, because as long as people will pay the fee, people will charge the fee. When $100 photo ops stop making money, prices will fall. But even autographs cost money at these events. You can absolutely have an autographed photo of your favorite star from your favorite show. For a price. And I don’t begrudge these actors their money. They’re lugging around a bunch of expensive photos that they have to buy, so they should get paid for them. But that doesn’t mean you should set up a book table at a con that focuses on autograph sales.
Let’s look at expenses for these cons. Most folks are going to spend a grand or two on their annual vacation, I assume. Back in the day, when I had a “normal” job, and Suzy and I took vacations instead of her just going to a con with me and us staying a day or two longer than the event, it usually cost us about $2k for our big vacation for the year. It’s gonna be $500-800 for airfare, then $500 or so for a few days in a nice hotel, then theatre tickets, eating out every meal, doing some touristy thing, and souvenirs. By the time you get home, you’ve dropped a couple grand on the trip. So if you’ve got a $2,000 budget for a vacation, and this big con is your vacation, here’s how the money is going to break down –
$600 for airfare (ballpark for two tickets)
$500 for hotel ($125/night, four nights)
$400 for food (two people, four days)
That leaves $500 out of your $2,000 budget.
Tickets – $120-200 for the con. This is without any VIP stuff. The earlier you buy the tickets, the cheaper.
Photos – $200 – that gets you a couple of photo ops, or a bunch of autographed stuff.
You have $100 left over to spend in the dealer room.
Getting your hands on part of that $100 is not going to be easy, especially in the early days of the event. By Sunday, people will know what they have spent and what they have left over, but if they have $100, and anything flashier than your books catches their eye, you’re screwed.
So it’s not that people aren’t spending money, it’s just that they are predisposed to spend it with you. This is a great event for people selling t-shirts that relate to the fandom of the show, or other things like that, it’s just a tough weekend for booksellers. I’m not saying I won’t do them. I’ve done Fandom Fest (probably never again), I’ve done Mad Monster Party (not bad), and I’m looking at doing a Supernatural fan event in 2018 (I have a lot of crossover fans). But I’m saying that when I’m building out my year, this is the last type of event that I put into my schedule, and only if it’s local and I feel like I have a good chance of making a return. Because just like the pop culture and comic cons, I don’t have any chance to interact with fans other than talking to them at my table and slinging paperbacks. It’s a long weekend, and it’s usually an expensive weekend. So I need to feel like I’m going to sell a bunch of shit to justify it.
I much prefer the fandom cons, like Atomacon, where I’ll be next weekend. If you’re anywhere near Charleston, SC, you should come see me!
Shameless plug aside, I hope these are helpful. If you have questions, you can reach me through the contact form on the site, you can find me on Facebook, and I also have a FB group. I’m pretty easy to find.
Until next time, I’ll be in the bar.
by john | Nov 7, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Another chapter in the ongoing serial. Sorry I missed posting this yesterday, I had a lot of other stuff going on and it slipped my mind.Â
Chapter 4
It was near to sundown when we rode into Carson City, and Graves looked over at me with a grim look on his face. âKeep your tone civil, boy. The Sheriff in these parts donât take much to the Brotherhood.â
âWhat does that even mean?â I asked.
âIt means that he donât like nobody questioning his authority, and that goes double for people he thinks is likely to take the law into their own hands.â
âAinât we on the same side as the Sheriffs?â I was naive then, no matter how wise I thought I was.
Graves gave a snort that almost sounded like a wheeze. âBoy, ainât you paid attention to nothing besides shooting and whoring the whole time we been riding together?â
I didnât answer that. Mostly because shooting and whoring were my two favorite things, and we both knew it. âSo the Sheriff donât like Brothers. I reckon I donât care. If thereâs a good lawman in town, we most likely wonât have to do nothing anyhow.â Brothers were often called in to act like constables in settlements too small to have a Sheriff or a Deputy of their own. Carson City was the biggest place Iâd ever seen, so I felt sure there were probably a dozen Deputies. I couldnât imagine there would be much for us to do.
âYouâre right, Way. If thereâs a good lawman, we donât have anything to worry about.â I didnât notice it at the time, but he never said what weâd do if the lawnman wasnât good.
We rode along the main thoroughfare, Graves leading on Louise, me following on Mazy. She was excitable around all the people, and between trying to keep my horse under control and whipping my own head around at the bright lights and the paved streets – real, paved streets! I was about useless at paying attention to anything around me, I was so drunk on the sights and the noise of it all.
After a good quarter hor of riding through town, Graves led us down a narrow side street, just barely wide enough for the horses and a person to walk abreast. He slid down off Louise, and I followed suit, keeping tight to him in the sudden crush of people. I stroked Mazyâs neck, whispering calming nonsense words to her as her eyes rolled.
âShe donât like all these tight spaces,â I murmured to Gravesâ back.
âNot much further,â was all he said. But, true to his word, he led us another dozen yards or so, then the alley opened up onto a wide courtyard with a big patch of open sky overhead. Mazy settled right down as soon as she had a clear view of the clouds and open air around her, and I felt my own chest loosen. A dirty-faced child of maybe twelve ran up to Graves and took the reins right out of his hands. I snatched Mazyâs lead back when he reached for mine, and the boy looked up at me, his eyes wide. Thatâs when I realized it wasnât a boy at all, but a fine-boned hybrid girl, slight of build with round, deep blue pupilless eyes that marked her as part Voltarr.
âI sorry, sir,â she girl said, and her voice was scratchy, like her hybrid voicebox didnât work quite right. âI take horses to stable. Louise is old friend here. What is new horse name?â
It took me a second to untwist the stunted syntax, then I just said, âMazy.â
âI take Louise. I take Mazy. To Stable. To Food. To Water. You go to inn with Gravesman.â I handed over the reins without a word, and she stepped right up to Mazy. Even as a yearling, Mazy dwarfed the half-alien girl, but the child showed no fear. She just bumped her forehead right into Mazyâs long nose and snuffled up against her like she was another horse. Whatever she said to the horse in whatever language she said it, Mazy didnât pull away, just went quietly away with the child.
I shook my head and started off after Graves, who was almost to the door of what I reckoned to be the inn. It had a sign over the door with a pair of crossed bottles, and from the rudimentary reading lessons Graves had inflicted upon me, I knew that it said âCOLD BEER INSIDE.â Those were my favorite words at that particular moment, so I hurried across the courtyard into the tavern.
I stepped inside the dim room and blinked, trying to force my eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside. At first glance, it was a typical saloon, the kind every town has a couple of. A wooden bar stretched the length of one wall, with a man behind it moving dust around with a rag that probably held more germs than some hospitals. A pool table sat ignored in a clear space near the back wall, where a pair of doors led to his and hers restrooms. A dozen round tables took up most of the floorspace, with an upright piano abandoned against the wall opposite the bar. I spotted Graves sitting at one of the furthest tables from the door, already set up with a bottle, two glasses, and a vantage point that let him see the entrance and every other table in the place.
I walked over to him and sat down, the hair on the back of my neck prickling as I put my back to the door, but there was no help for it. I took a glass and poured myself a slug of whiskey, then almost spit it out all over his face when I knocked it back. The bitter taste of watered-down tea filled my mouth, instead of the cutting burn of even bad whiskey that Iâd hoped for.
âWhat the hell is this shit?â I asked, leaning forward and dropping my voice so as not to be overheard by the other tables. âIf you paid for a bottle of liquor, that barkeep swindled your ass, Graves.â
He gave me that little smirk he always used when he knew something and I didnât, which happened with annoying frequency back then, and said, âHarrison keeps a special bottle for me behind the bar. He wonât sell that to just anyone, and I hardly ever share. Every man in here knows that, so understand what a privilege Iâm showing you by letting you drink from my bottle, boy.â
I paused in mid-splutter, trying to be subtle as I looked around. Not a soul in the place was looking at us, which told me that every man in the bar was paying very particular attention to every single thing we did and said. I nodded to Graves, poured myself another drink, and sat back to sip it. âI appreciate your kindness, MrâŚ.?â I stopped, unsure what to call him in this suddenly strange new world of subterfuge. Iâd ridden beside this man for half a dozen years or more at this point, but Iâd never seen him be the slightest bit cagey in his dealings with anyone, nor the least bit interested in hiding who he was. But since we rode into Carson City, he had almost been a different person entirely. I wasnât quite sure how to proceed.
âYou can call me Graves,â he said. I noticed he didnât mention the âBrother.â We donât have badges, and we donât have a uniform, so a lot of the time if a man doesnât want you to know he follows The Way, he just wonât tell you. There are a few things that give us away, of course – the stillness most of us have, the way our eyes scan every room when we walk in, the walk of a man whoâs always ready to turn on his heel and draw down. But those things are usually only noticed by other Brothers, or people who have been around us for a long time. For some reason, Graves didnât want it widely known that we were Brothers of the Gun in Carson City, and I was at least smart enough to follow his lead.
We sat, and drank, and Graves watched the door while I got more and more twitchy as time went on. Might have had something to do with all the tea pressing on my bladder, too. I got up and nodded to the back of the room. âIâm going to visit the euphemism. Try not to get too drunk while Iâm gone.â
Graves just nodded, and I pushed my chair back from the table with a loud screech. Silence blanketed the room as my boot heels clumped across the floor, then the shrill howl of uncoiled hinges on the bathroom door filled the air. I went inside, locked the door behind me, and took care of business. A faded and tattered poster of an overblown woman falling out of a few triangles of fabric hung over the toilet. Iâd never seen anyone dressed like that, but as old as the poster was, I figured it was from Before. She was sexy enough, I figured, if you liked blondes with nothing to hide in the world. I washed my hands and looked at the dingy towel hanging by the sink. I looked from the towel, to my dusty jeans, then back to the towel. Finally I shook my hands through the air a couple of times and ran them under my armpits to dry them off as best I could.
I turned around and unlocked the door, but when I pushed against it to step back out into the bar, it didnât budge. I pushed harder, and it gave a little before slamming back into the frame, almost catching me on the nose. I reared back and threw a shoulder into the door, and this time when it slammed back, a voice came from the other side. âKeep your shirt on, kid. We got a few words to share with your drinking companion, then weâll let you out.â
âYouâll let me out of this room now or Iâll start pumping lead through this door,â I growled.
âDo you really think that sounds smart, kid?â The voice replied, a chuckle nestled under his question. âYou ainât got nowhere to take cover in there, and I got a double-barrel scattergun pressed up against the door. You got six bullets, but I got two barrels full of shot thatâll cut you in half before you come close to hitting me. So why donât you just sit back down in there, spend a few more minutes staring at Farrahâs tits, and as soon as my pal is done conversating with Brother Graves, this doorâll open again.â
I backed away from the door, not because he sat he had a shotgun, but because he knew Graves was a Brother. Everything we had done since we stepped into this saloon was to keep that one fact hidden, and he just tossed it out there like a bad penny. I closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, drawing my Colt. I might have to stay in the bathroom, but eventually theyâd let me out. When they did, Iâd make them regret locking me up in the first place.
A couple minutes later, the door swung open a hair, and I could tell the pressure on the other side was gone. I sat for a count of a hundred, giving anyone on the other side plenty of time to get bored or get out of the way, then I stood up and walked out of the bathroom. The bar was empty except for Graves and the bartender, who stood in the same spot heâd held when I went into the crapper, his gaze glued to the surface of the bar like it was the most interesting thing heâd ever seen.
I walked back over to the table with Graves and sat down. âYou want to explain why I just spent five minutes trapped in a saloon shitter because some asshole wanted to have a conversation with you?â I was something of a hothead back in those days, and I felt mighty aggrieved at being trapped in a toilet against my will. Never mind the fact that it was a clean and perfectly comfortable toilet, I just needed something to be annoyed at about once a week when I was a young man.
âI donât,â Graves said, his voice devoid of any emotion. After riding with the man for night on a dozen years, I knew full well heâd tell me, but I also knew that few things amused him more than seeing me get hot under the collar over stupid things. Especially when the stupid thing was me. This time I told myself I was just going to wait him out. Iâd show him that I hadnât just learned how to shoot and ride, Iâd learned how to allow things to unfold in their own due time. I wouldnât rush him, not even the least little but.
But that didnât mean I had to sit there and drink his godawful tea while I waited for him to get his head out of his ass and talk to me. I stood up, walked over to the bar, and said, âHow much for a bottle of whiskey?â
âYou particular about a brand?â
âIâm particular there werenât too many rats floating in the barrel.â
âDollar.â
I slapped a quarter round of gold onto the bar top. The man picked it up, bit into it, looked me up and down, and said âThis is a dollar and half worth of gold.â
âThen gimme a half dollarâs change.â
âYou could leave a tip.â
âI might. But if you donât give me my half dollarâs change I wonât have a half dollar to leave for a tip.â
He looked befuddled by my logic for a second, but handed me back a couple of silver quarters, along with a pair of glasses and a quart jar of brown liquor. I unscrewed the top of the jar, took a deep sniff, and smiled. This was not sour tea. I slipped the money into a pocket, carried the glasses and bottle back to the table, and sat down.
I held the jar out to Graves, who shook his head. Whatever was coming that made him want to stay clear-headed, it hadnât happened yet. I poured two fingers of whiskey into my glass, then screwed the top back on the jar. I sipped my whiskey and looked at Graves.
He looked back at me, unwavering in his silence.
I took another sip, didnât speak.
Graves said nothing.
We went on like that for a good five minutes or more, long enough for me to drain my drink and think better of having another, before Graves leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and began to speak.
âThe Sheriff wants us gone as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. He says if weâre still in town by noon, heâll have us both arrested and hang me at sundown.â
âOn what charge?â I asked. We hadnât been in town long enough to break any local laws, and had no warrants outstanding to warrant hanging. There were a few farmers looking for me on account of some dalliances with their daughters, but those were all a week or more by fast horse from Carson City, and none of those fathers had any reason to hunt Graves.
Graves let out a laugh, a dry, reedy thing that sounded like it didnât get used much. It didnât to be honest. Iâd only heard him laugh half a dozen times in the years we rode together, and they were pretty much always situations just like this – nothing funny at all. âI asked that same question. Sheriff said he had plenty of time between now and noon to come up with something worth hanging me over, and then likened as how heâd probably flog you bloody before he hung me, so I could see you ruined for riding alongside me before I went to see my maker.â
âGood lord, Graves. What the hell did you do to this Sheriff?â I asked, leaning back in my chair.
Graves looked up at me, his grey eyes boring a hole straight through me. âI gunned down his father in the street like the dog he was. Seems the son holds a bit of a grudge for that.â
âWhat are we going to do?â I could already tell running wasnât an option. Graves wasnât a man to retreat, not even if the odds were stacked against him. This time it looked like the whole town was stacked against him, but I knew better than to think that was going to matter.
âWell, come noon I reckon Iâm going to walk out into the center of town and shoot the Sheriff right between his damn eyes. Then weâll see how many Deputies I have to kill to get out of here this time.â
by john | Nov 2, 2017 | #HoldOnToTheLight, Real Life
Yeah, that’s a picture of my wrist.
Yeah, I have a semicolon tattoo.
Yeah, I have lost friends to suicide.
Yeah, I have had suicidal feelings at times.
No, I’ve never attempted suicide.
No, I don’t have suicidal thoughts anymore, nor have I for several years.
No, this isn’t a “cry for help,” or any other random way of me looking for sympathy for my past, current, or future issues with depression, bipolar disorder, or anything else.
This is me talking about my tattoo, who it’s for, why it’s there, and what wearing it has meant for me.
This tattoo is for my uncle, who took his own life while his wife folded laundry on the porch. This tattoo is for my actor friend who survived not only the suicide of his father, but also his twin brother, and grew up to be one of the strongest, most talented motherfuckers I know. This tattoo is for my pal Logan, whose demon won the fight one dark night. This tattoo is for every writer on the Mid-South con circuit who woke up one morning thinking “What could I have done to make it better?” This tattoo is for my friend Dave whose life caught up with him and overwhelmed him. This tattoo is for my poker buddies who sat around a table with me wondering “How could he?” then listened in shock as I explained exactly how he could, and what it felt like on the inside of that struggle when everyone around you is completely unaware that you’re even fighting.
If there’s anyone that’s a better liar than an addict, it’s a high-functioning depressive. And if you want to talk about a dubious fucking honor, that’s one right there.
I put this semicolon on my wrist earlier this year. My buddy James R. Tuck did it, along with other tattoo work. James is my brother from another mother, a helluva writer, and a good man. When he asked me which way I wanted the tattoo to point, I didn’t know.
“Is it for you, or is it for other people?” he asked.
I didn’t know the answer. But in the moment, I said “For me.” And he oriented the tattoo so that every time I look at my wrist, I’m reminded that I’m still here because I have shit left to do. I’m not finished, and I’m too arrogant and stubborn to think that anyone could carry on my projects without me. So I guess I’ll stick around.
All of that still holds true. But since I put that tattoo on my wrist, a funny thing has happened. Funny, and heartbreaking at the same time. When they see mine, they show me theirs. It’s like we’re part of this odd club – the survivors. I’ve had gas station cashiers roll up their sleeves out of the blue, waitresses hike up their uniform pants to show me an ankle, and more than one person at a con give me a questioning look before showing me their ink.
Yeah, I’ve been there. I love and hate that I’m part of this club. I love it, because there’s a network of people wearing this tattoo and talking about their pain and their issues. I love it, because every time we have an open conversation about mental health it helps erase the stigma associated with it, and that can lead to someone getting the help they need before they become another statistic. I hate it, because it means that a lot of other people have spent a lot of time hurting, and I really wish that weren’t true.
But if I can bring more attention to the fact that a lot of people have earned their semicolons, whether they have a tattoo or not, then it’s worth a sometimes-awkward conversation. If you aren’t familiar with Project Semicolon, their website is here. It horribly ironic that the founder of this website and movement lost her battle with depression and suicidal ideation, showing that it’s a never-ending struggle.
I’m okay. This has been a good week, following a good month. Not a great month, but a good one. I’m consistently hovering around a 4-7 out of 10 on my personal wellness scale, where 10 is amazeballs and 1 is dead. My lowest in recent history has been a three, which is pretty good. My highest has been a nine or so, which is awesome. Most days I’m on the high side of the scale, which is great. So I’m okay. But if you aren’t okay, please understand that there are people out there who have been there, who give a shit, and would like to see you around for a long time. So if you need help, find help. There are a lot of resources out there, and a lot of resources on the #HoldOnToTheLight website.
You story isn’t finished yet; keep on writing it.
by john | Nov 1, 2017 | Business of publishing, How to Sell Books, Travel
This is kind of a new phenomenon in the past decade or so since geek chic has been a thing. I know, several of the cons I’m going to talk about have been around much longer, but they morphed from comic cons into a Pop Culture Con. Many of them still bill themselves as Comic Cons, but only tangentially hold onto that premise.
When I talk about a pop culture con, I’m talking Sand Diego Comicon, NY Comicon, AwesomeCon, Spooky Empire (although it’s a little more horror-centric, it’s still a big pop culture thing, just with a horror slant to it) – that kind of event. The kind of con where there is a big vendor hall, with lots of vendors, some artists, maybe a few authors sprinkled in, a metric butt-ton of autograph guests, and a decent panel schedule. These almost always take place in major cities, and are almost always in major convention centers.
These behave a lot like the smaller comic cons and vendor hall cons in that your purpose there is to sling paperbacks. This is a place where everything is expensive, so you’d better bring a bunch of inventory, and be ready to sell, sell, sell. And that might get you a return on your investment, but don’t hold your breath. I did NY Comicon several years ago, split a booth with two other writers, and sold a thousand dollars worth of books.
I almost broke even.
And that’s with me sleeping in a friend’s guest room and splitting the booth three ways. Shit was expensive. That said, I did AwesomeCon in DC last year, and sold quite well. I also didn’t have a plane ticket to deal with, and the booth was way cheaper. So it’s a balancing act.
These are the only cons I do not recommend new authors do. If you only have one title out, you’re going to have such a hard time moving enough product to break even that it’s almost impossible. Also, with only one book, you don’t have any potential for followup sales the week after the con, because the people who meet you will have already bought all your stuff! I wouldn’t look to hit these bigger events until I had three or more books under my belt, unless I could sit in a booth with someone for free, and I didn’t have to pay for any travel expenses.
The signal to noise ratio at the pop culture cons is challenging, because there is just so much going on in the vendor hall that the number of people who say they’ll come back and actually do is even lower than normal (and normal it might be 20%). It’s such an uncommon thing that Stuart Jaffe and I even remarked on how surprised we were that people at AwesomeCon actually did come back and buy things later in the weekend. It happened to us several times over the three days of the event, much more frequently than we expected. So, good on you, DC fans!
Another challenge with the pop culture shows is that you’re the last thing on the fans’ wish list. If they showed up specifically to get Stan Lee’s autograph, then that’s $100 that’s going to Stan the Man, and you’re never seeing it. After they spend $20 to park, $20 on lunch, $50 on a badge, and $100 on Stan’s autograph, it’s going to be difficult to pry $15 for a paperback out of them. So while there’s a lot of money walking around the show floor, getting any of it into your pocket can be difficult.
This probably sounds like I don’t like pop culture cons, and don’t want to do them, and that’s not correct. I don’t want to do them every weekend, or even every month, but I do want to do 2-4 each year. These big destination cons give me a chance to hit large cities that I might not get to each year, and I am at a point now that I have fans in most major metro areas in the US, so I’ll have a few people come out and say hi even at the biggest events. In 2018, I’m doing Emerald City Comicon for the first time, and I’m looking at AwesomeCon and C2E2. That’s three, and that’s plenty of those for me. Maybe after my TV series hits and I’m getting flown around to all these cons like the cast of Arrow, I’ll reconsider. But if that ever happens, I’ll have plenty of things to reconsider. đ
No, I don’t have a TV deal. But if anyone wants to make one, hit me up. I’m open to the possibility. đ
I think pop culture cons can be an important tool in an author’s toolbox, but like every tool, you have to be judicious in the use of them. They take a lot of money, and a lot of energy, and they often run longer than just the weekend, so they can eat into your writing time. All of those things lead me to recommend that newer authors only do one or two of these a year, and don’t try to vend at them until you get at least three books out. Obviously, your mileage will vary, but that’s my general recommendation for folks.
Next week we’ll talk about the dedicated autograph shows, and then I’ll wrap up with a post on the con to end all cons – Dragon Con, which touches pretty much every different type of con, while remaining something entirely unique.
Until then. if you’re going to be in Roanoke, VA on Saturday, November 4th, come out to see me at the Tanglewood Mall for the Roanoke Valley Comic Con, which will be slightly smaller than NYCC.
by john | Oct 30, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing
This is the third chapter of an ongoing serialized novel that is currently in progress.Â
Chapter 3
A quarter hour later, with their thirst quenched and their canteens filled, they were back on the road, Liza sitting with her arms around Waylandâs chest. âI suppose youâll be wanting that story now, wonât you?â
âYou did give your word, after all. I fear that you would undermine the integrity of your brotherhood were you to lie to me, and that is a mighty heavy burden to lay on a poor memory-starved child out here in the wilds with no recollection of herself.â
âFor an amnesiac, you have certainly not lost a single step in knowing how to twist a manâs words against him. But a promise is a promise, and since you have laid the integrity of the entire Brotherhood at my feet, I suppose I have to hold up my end of the bargain now.â
âIndeed you do,â she said, leaning forward and pressing her cheek to his back. Her face felt warm between his shoulder blades, moreso even that the sun beating down on his neck, but he didnât mind. Something about her feltâŚcomforting. Wayland gave his head a tiny shake, as if to gather his thoughts, then began to speak.
Graves and the Bandit Boy
His name was Graves. No first name, justâŚBrother Graves. I always teased him about that, once I got to where I could tease him. On account of he said his whole purpose was to preserve life and make it better, but his name was Graves. He didnât find it funny, but I donât think he minded much. He found me south of Wichita, in a little town called Arkansas City. I guess caught me would be a better way to tell it, since I was rifling through his saddlebags in the stable where him and Louise had bedded down.
Louise was his horse. She was Mazyâs dam. Graves and Louise were asleep in the stable, a big low building that used to be a firehouse in the time Before. At least I thought they were asleep, but not ten seconds after I reached into the first saddlebag, I heard the click of a revolver and felt a set of horseâs teeth clamp onto my behind. She didnât bite me, not really. She just kinda latched on and let me know that if I tried anything else stupid, it was going to hurt. So I put my hands in the air and turned around. Standing there in the shadows, his featured masked from the moonlight but the gleam of his Colt shining clear.
âWhat are you doing, boy?â he asked. I didnât have a good answer, so I just shrugged.
âYou trying to steal my money, or my food?â I thought for a second about how best to answer that, because we were still in Kandaska, and it was perfectly alright to shoot a man for trying to steal from you, no matter what he was trying to take. Since I was just as likely to get perforated for one answer as the other, I decided to tell the truth.â
âI was looking for food, sir.â
âWhy didnât you just walk up while I was eating earlier and ask if I would share?â
âLike anybodyâs going to just give me food. I ainât stupid, and I ainât looking to trade nothing I got for your dinner.â
âDonât look to me like youâve gotâŚoh.â His eyes went a little wide, and he looked me up and down. âHow old are you, son?â
âI reckon about eleven or twelve. Ainât got nobody to tell me true, so I just kinda figured that up against other boys what got mamas to keep track of such things.â
âIâm guessing from your speech that you havenât had much schooling? No apprenticeships? No training in anything?â
âI know how to do lots of stuff. I can ride, I can shoot, I can get in and out of just about anywhere without anybody hearing me. Iâm light-fingered, and quick of foot, and the constable ainât never laid hand on me. I ainât bad with my blade, either.â To prove my point, I slipped the small hunting knife from under my shirt and twirled it around my fingers. I managed not to drop it, but Graves didnât look nearly as impressed as I wanted him to.
âWell, youâre a regular Jesse James, arenât you?â
âWhoâs that?â
âHe was an outlaw from Before. Hell, heâs been dead so long I reckon we could say he was from the time Long Ago.â
âBefore? Before what?â
He holstered his gun with a sigh. I reckon he decided I was too ignorant to be dangerous. He was right, but I was too ignorant to see it. I saw the gun find leather, and I turned to bolt. I didnât get far, especially since Louise still had a good grip on my hindquarters. She bit down, and I yelped, trying to reach around behind and swat at her. I took one swing with my blade, thinking to graze her nose and make her let go, but the tall man stepped up and slapped the knife out of my hand.
âHey!â I yelped, turning to swing at him. He backhanded me across the jaw, and I dropped to one knee. I glared up at him, and he shook his head down at me.
âThis is not how you want to do things, son.â
âI ainât your son,â I snarled, and sprang at him. At least, in the movie in my head I sprang at him. In the real world, I stood up and found his foot in my chest. Then I fell right back down onto my butt in the straw.
âCalm down, boy. Nobodyâs going to hurt you, but I might put you to work if youâre willing to earn your food instead of stealing it.â
âI donât do that,â I said. I was young, but Iâd already long been exposed to men who have ways for young boys to earn things from them.
âI donât either,â the man said, then crouched down in front of me. âLook at yourself, boy. Then look at me. Do you think for a second that you could stop me from doing anything I want to you? Iâm bigger, faster, and Iâm the one with the gun. Youâre a scrawny little alley rat who learned just enough to stay alive in Arkansas City, but not forever. You keep on this path and youâll be dead before you see sixteen. Youâll either starve, get shot in the back running away from some heist, or some girlâs daddy will string you up for defiling his daughter, no matter how willing she is to succumb to your charms.â
âYou ainât gonna get me killed?â I asked. âAnd you donât want a piece of my ass?â
âI have absolutely no interest in your ass, but I canât promise that riding with me will lead to a long life. I am Brother Graves, a Brother of the Gun. We do not often live to see old age, but we try to do some good before we leave this world.â
âThat ainât a real appealing offer, Brother Graveyard,â I said. âI think Iâd about rather get shot here where I know everybody than ride around with some troublemaker Brother and get shot in some strange place.â
âI will feed you. I have biscuits and fatback left over from my supper that you are welcome to. You will not eat like a king, but you will not go hungry riding by my side. Who knows, maybe youâll take an interest and strap on a Colt of your own some day.â
âDonât hold your breath for that, Brother Corpse. But if youâll give me a couple square meals a day, I reckon Iâll ride with you until I get a better offer.â I said it with all the worldliness a preteen could muster, which is to say not very much. I had no idea how the world worked, but I thought I understood everything. The next few years would prove very enlightening.
We chased the sunrise out of Arkansas City the next morning with me riding pillion on Louise, much as you did on Mazy today. Brother Graves was good to his word; I never went hungry the time I rode with him, and I never lacked for at least the same meager shelter he lived under. We rode together for a many years, long after he got tired of me crowding him in the saddle and got me a scrawny little horse to care for. Then along came Mazy, and I raised her from a foal into the cantankerous old lady who sits under us now.
I thought I knew how to shoot, but Graves taught me what it meant to hold a gun, to carry death on my hip. A rifle can be used for hunting, for protection from wild animals, yes, even to kill a man. But it has other uses. A ColtâŚwell, a Colt was made for one purpose, and one purpose only. A Colt is a gun meant to kill men, and that oughta be a burden that weighs on a man like a heavy mantle. Graves taught me how to shoot, but he also taught me how not to shoot, and thatâs more important a lot of days. I carried his shotgun for years before I strapped on a Colt. I kept an eye out for rattlers, for poison lizards, coyotes, even Wolves. Two barrels full of silver shot might not kill a Wolf, but itâll hurt it bad enough it leaves you alone until the moon ainât full no more.
After carrying his scattergun for a year or two, he bought me a Winchester. A fine gun, and I still keep it slung beside my saddle to this day. A rifle is the working manâs gun – it can take down a deer, even a bison if you can find a scope with the glass still in it that doesnât cost you an organ. A rifle can kill predators before they get close enough to kill you, and itâs a lot more accurate in a fight than a Colt. But itâs slow, and itâs hard to turn with, and thereâs no surprise when you put a rifle on a man – he knows where that conversation is going, sure enough.
I reckon I rode with Graves for ten years before he gave me my first Colt. We were in Phoenix, at the Brotherhood enclave there, and there was a whole ceremony. I took a test, to show I could handle a shotgun, then a rifle, then a pistol. I shot clay disks out of the air, and straw men, and glass bottles that a Younger Brother tossed up in the air end-over-end. I drew on Graves, and the Younger Brother, and several full Brothers – unloaded draws just to test for speed. After a full day of shooting, the Eldest Brother of the enclave came out with a battered old Colt laying on a black velvet pillow and held it out to me.
The gun itself didnât look like much. It wasnât all that clean, it didnât have fancy pearl handles, and if there had ever been any kind of pretty scrollwork engraved into the cylinder or barrel, that was long gone. This was not a gun made to impress gunslingers and trick shooters. This was not a gun that made a saloon girl sit up and take notice of the handsome stranger that just walked through the doors. No, this was a gun meant to kill men, and I could almost feel the chill of death run up my arm as I picked it up.
Graves stepped up behind me and reached around my middle, fastening the gunbelt on me. I held the Colt in my right hand as the Eldest Brother handed me six bullets, one at a time.
The first one he dipped in a basin of water, then handed it to me. âThis bullet is tipped with Holy Water, and it is the shield of God, protecting those who need your aid.â I flicked the cylinder open with a snap of my wrist and put the bullet in the gun.
He handed me another bullet, this one painted red around the cartridge. âThis bullet has been passed through Fire, and it is the flame of a vengeful God, meting out justice and striking down those who would hurt the innocent.â He passed me the bullet, which looked just like the first one, and I put it into the chamber.
The next bullet was tipped with what looked like gold, but I knew it wouldnât be. Gold was much too soft to use in a bullet. âThis bullet is cast from the golden treasures of the Brotherhood, and it is the bulwark against those who would steal from the smaller and weaker.â I slid it into the chamber.
The fourth bullet had a cross cut into the tip. âThis bullet is Godâs mercy, and it is the sword of peace that you may someday grant to another.â My fingers trembled a little as I took it. I wasnât afraid to grant peace to somebody who came back Wrong, but the thought of killing somebody before they Returned wasnât pretty. The bullet clicked against the side of the cylinder as I slid it home.
The fifth bullet had a reddish glow about the tip, and I knew it for what it was immediately. Vanadium. The most precious element in the world, and the whole reason the world was the way it was. The thing that brought the Voltarr here more than a century ago. âThis bullet is of the Earth. It is for the Earth, which you are pledged to defend from those who would harm her, be they native or alien.â I had always heard rumors that the Brotherhood hated the Voltarr, but everybody hated the Voltarr, so that came as no surprise. What did surprise me a little was the Eldest pretty much coming right out and saying âshoot the damn Blue-Eyes.â He held my gaze for a long time before he gave me that bullet. I slammed it home without even looking down. He nodded, and picked up the last round.
This final bullet was painted jet black, and I could see some tiny writing on it, but I couldnât make it out until he handed it to me. âThis bullet is the one we all know is out there. This is the bullet with your name on it. Some day, Brother Wayland, you will fall. You will fall with your gun in your hand, and with a bullet in your body. You will likely fall in defense of another, and hopefully you will fall with honor. But nonetheless, you will fall. This bullet represents the one that will kill you.â
I took it, and my fingers trembled as I did. It was cold, and felt strange to the touch. I held my death in my hand, and stared at it. I slid it into the last open spot in my Colt, and snapped the cylinder closed. I nodded at the Eldest, and he nodded back at me, casting an appraising eye over me under his bushy white eyebrows. âBrother Wayland, you are now a Brother of the Gun. Protect the weak, defend the innocent, avenge the wronged. This is your charge.â
âProtect, defend, avenge,â I repeated. I holstered my Colt, and it hung heavy on my right hip. The words the Brother spoke over every bullet echoed around in my head, and gave a new weight to the iron on my belt.
âNow, you are welcome as a Brother,â The Eldest clasped my hand, then pulled me into a rough hug. It had been a long time since Iâd been hugged by anybody, and the warmth of that kind manâs arms around me put a crack in something deep inside me, like a dam starting to succumb to the force behind it.
âNow, we drink,â Graves said behind me, clapping his hand on my shoulder. And drink we did, until the sun crawled over the horizon and send us scurrying to our beds.
We rode along good for several years after that. Two full Brothers, riding together, looking after those weaker than ourselves and holding the world to a higher standard of justice than the Sheriffs could or would provide. We helped farmers hunt down Wolfpacks, helped towns defend against roving hordes of the Wrong, destroyed the occasional nest of Nightwalkers, and put the fear of the Gun and God into more than one small-town bullyboy who thought to set himself up a little fiefdom.
Then we rode into Carson City on the wrong day, and everything went to shit.
by john | Oct 27, 2017 | Evolution
Truth is stranger than fiction, they tell me. Iâm a believer in that adage, because it happened to me and it has changed my life! This is how my new novel, Antitheus, and my debut novel, Trisomy XXI, came into being. Antitheus, which will be released October 16, 2017, is a dark, supernatural tale of horror that takes Good versus Evil to a whole new level. The way in which Antitheus and Trisomy XXI came into being is even more surreal than their storylines. Let me start from the beginning. A few years ago, I was rear-ended by a speeding, drunk driver, which totaled my car and landed me in the hospital emergency room with a closed-head injury. As a result of this devastating accident, I was left with memory loss and aphasia, resulting in problems with expressing my speech and communicating with others.
After numerous visits to a neurologist and months of taking medication used by patients afflicted with Alzheimerâs Disease, my injured brain slowly began to mend itself. But when the damage to my brain finally healed, I noticed something very different in my thought patterns. Now, I had this overwhelming urge, this compulsive desire to put on paper a fascinating story that my mind had mysteriously created. I canât explain it, but my thoughts were now primarily focused on writing this tale of horror. Thatâs how Trisomy XXI was born. One could only surmise that the damaged neurons in my frontal cortex had rearranged themselves into a different pattern, thereby enhancing the creative elements of my brain. God only knowsâŚstranger things have happened! I didnât choose to be an authorâŚit chose me. Weirdly enough, it was a car accident that was responsible for my newfound passion for creative writing (a true story, even though it sounds like something conjured up from the twisted mind of Stephen King).
Prior to my accident, I had neither the desire nor the ability to write anything of a creative nature. It was only after my brain had healed from the closed head injury I sustained that a number of dark tales spontaneously erupted from my newly-acquired neuronal network. I canât put it into words, but these story visions came to me from out of the blue, much like an epiphany, or something spawned de novo in my mind. Iâve now amassed a long list of new concepts for tales of the macabreâŚI only hope that Iâll have the time to write them all! Antitheus, like many of my other ideas for stories, appeared to me while writing Trisomy XXI. As soon as I finished penning Trisomy XXI, I immediately started composing my second novel, Antitheus. Like Trisomy XXI, Antitheus was written in a stream of consciousness-like manner, taking me around three months to finish. I donât use any outlines or notes, and my writing inexplicably flows in a freestyle fashion, starting with chapter one and ending upon completion of the novel. Coincidentally, when I finished writing Trisomy XXI, it ended up having 21 chaptersâŚwhile the evil Antitheus has 13!
From my earliest recollections as a young child, Iâve always loved the genres of horror and science fiction, so thatâs probably where Antitheus and Trisomy XXI were spawnedâfrom the deepest reaches of my inner mind. As a result of my savant-like experience, I am now able to pen novels in a  freestyle fashion, almost in a stream of consciousness, relying on no outlines, formats, or templates for any assistance. Fortunately, the narrative is able to flow freely from my vivid imagination, ending up with a thrilling storyline that contains an ordered sequence of events for its reader.
The definition of a savant is âa person who does not have normal intelligence but who has very unusual mental abilities that other people do not have.â Savant syndrome âis a condition in which a person with a mental disability, such as an autism spectrum disorder, demonstrates profound and prodigious capacities or abilities far in excess of what would be considered normal.â I do know that I donât have savant syndrome, because I am not autistic, and my IQ has been measured at 161. Another form of savantism, known as acquired savant syndrome, is attributed to âa person who acquires prodigious capabilities or skills following dementia, a head injury or severe blow to the head, or other disturbance.â According to medical studies, acquired savant syndrome is an extremely rare condition, affecting very few people in the world. This is apparently what happened to me. I consider it to be a gift (though at the time, I didnât think so), therefore, as long as I can retain this newfound ability, I will continue to writeâespecially since I do have a passion for it!
Because of the strange happenings associated with the head injury I sustained and the resultant ability to write creatively, it appears that my surreal experience is indeed a part of the whole scheme of thingsâI canât wait to see what comes next! As a result, I have developed a passion for writing, which is now a labor of love for me. Writing has also allowed me to connect with others through my stories, hopefully stirring up those emotions that will bring excitement and entertainment to all of my readers. Penning a thrilling tale of horror provides peace of mind, a sense of accomplishment, and teaches me patienceâa necessity for any author who wishes to write well. An author must always remember that âThe pen is mightier than the sword!â My goal in writing Antitheus and Trisomy XXI was to produce a thrilling tale of mystery, horror, and science fiction that would mesmerize, enthrall, and horrify its reader. If readers derive enjoyment from my book and are unable to put it down, then I will have accomplished my mission!
ANTITHEUS by G.A. Minton on Amazon: www.amzn.com/B0744XJ11K (Kindle), www.amzn.com/1629897620 (Paperback), or www.amzn.com/1629897647 (Hardcover).
