by john | Aug 24, 2017 | Fiction, Writing
I’ve got two new releases this week, and it might get a little confusing for folks, so here’s the deal, just in case you want to buy a bunch of shit. I want to help you with that!
Once upon a time, I wrote several short stories featuring Bubba’s Great-Grandpappy Beauregard, the original family Monster Hunter. These were featured in anthologies and collected into a three-story volume called Moonshine & Magic.
If you bought that, and you enjoyed it, then you should pick up the fourth Great-Grandpappy Beauregard short story, called County Fairy Tale. It’s available for a buck, and has this awesomeballs cover from Natania Barron.
This story was originally published in Capes & Clockwork 2 from Dark Oak Press. The rights have reverted, and now I’m selling it as a stand-alone. You can get it on Amazon here.
It will be available everywhere else, too. I just haven’t done that yet. If you want it, go get it. 🙂
If you’ve never read any of Great-Grandpappy Beauregard’s adventures, then you can get all four short stories in the collection Shinepunk, which also features a cool-ass Natania Barron cover.
It looks like this.
This collection features four short stories, and is on Amazon here. It will also be available everywhere else, I just haven’t done that yet, either.
These four stories are all set in Georgia in the early 20th century, and feature moonshine, ghosts, fairies, explosions, and a redneck Frankenstein.
What more do you want out of life?
Oh, a preview? You want to little taste?
I can do that. Here’s a piece of the very first Beauregard the Monster Hunter short story – Fire on the Mountain.
Fire on the Mountain
“Beauregard Ulysses Brabham, get your worthless ass down here and help me!” The shrill voice rang out over half the valley and Bubba sat bolt upright in his bed. Only he wasn’t in his bed, he was in the hammock out in his back yard, so the motion of sitting up quickly deposited all three hundred pounds of him firmly and swiftly onto the hard-packed earth. Bubba hauled himself up to hands and knees, then crawled out from under the hammock, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. How did I end up in the hammock? He wondered. And where are my pants?
The answer to the second question revealed itself a few moments later as Bubba walked around the house to the front porch. His worn overalls were folded carefully over the porch railing, with an empty quart jar sitting next to them. Well, that explains about everything, I reckon. Bubba thought. Apparently Preacher Mason had come by with a sample from his newest batch of ‘shine and they had commenced to tasting. It all made sense to Bubba now. After the better part of a jar of Preacher Mason’s recipe, the wind through a man’s beard felt mighty fine, and the best way Bubba had to generate wind was to swing as quickly as possible in the hammock. That didn’t explain why he felt the need to remove his pants, but perhaps in his state of mind last night he wanted to feel the wind other places than just his beard.
Regardless, he put his pants on then pulled on his battered leather work boots. He had just stepped onto the porch to go inside and fix up some grits and bacon and maybe see if there was a slash or two left in that jar when Octavia’s voice rang out again, this time sounding even more irritated. “Beauregard! Come here, boy! I need you!”
Godawmighty you’d thing she was my wife instead of my little sister the way that woman abuses me. I need to get her married off so she’ll have somebody else to make miserable, Bubba thought. He sighed the sigh of a man who knew he was ruled by a woman, and started off down the hill to see what his sister wanted this time.
* * *
Octavia was standing on her own porch peering into the woods when Bubba came stumping down the trail. “What in the blue blazes do you want, woman? Don’t you know a body needs his rest?” Octavia was dressed for work on the farm, in a plain homespun dress and apron, with her long blonde hair tied back from her strong jawline. She was what the mountain folk called a “healthy woman,” with “child-bearing hips” and a shelf of bosom that was impressive on an otherwise slender woman. She wore sensible leather boots and had a shotgun leaning on the porch rail beside her, along with a haversack.
She lit into her brother the second he hove his gigantic form into view. “Bubba, it is three hours past the noon meal you worthless layabout, so do not be speaking to me of rest! Now get your fat, lazy carcass down here and aid me in my moment of peril!”
“Moment of peril? You’re on your porch, what in the hell could possibly be periling you?”
“Don’t you swear in my presence, Bubba, for I am a lady. And it is not just my moment of peril, but the entire valley. We are under attack by sorcery and blackheartedness!”
“I told Pap he never should have taught you how to read, Tavvy. Now you ain’t never gone find a man.”
“I neither need nor desire a man, brother dear. Not for those purposes, at any rate. Now are you going to help me or not?”
“You got anything to eat?”
“There’s a rasher of bacon on the table with some grits, a half dozen biscuits and some gravy. Take what you like.”
“If you’ll feed me, Tavvy, I’ll do whatever you need.” Bubba pushed past his sister into the neat little kitchen. In complete contrast to his own, Octavia’s kitchen contained a modern icebox, a stove heated by some strange series of pipes from the wood stove out back, and food. There were also clean plates and no insects to be seen anywhere, both remarkable upgrades from Bubba’s house. Bubba piled all the food onto a serving platter and carried it back out to the porch. He sat down on the porch steps and called Octavia’s hound Buster over. After giving Buster a good scratch behind the ears, he slipped the dog a piece of bacon and started in on the biscuits.
A few minutes later the bacon and biscuits had all vanished, and Buster was licking the last remnants of the grits from the platter. Bubba leaned back on his elbows, let out a mighty belch that rattled the windows in Octavia’s cabin, and lookedup at his sister.
“Alright, Tavvy. What’s periling you today?”
“The children are missing, Bubba.”
“You ain’t got no children, Tavvy.”
“Not my children, you great lummox! The children from the congregation!” Octavia swatted him on one giant shoulder.
“What children?”
“If you would darken the door of our house of worship more than twice a year, you would know these things, Bubba. There are six children missing from nearby farms and homes.”
“I darken the door, Tavvy, I just can’t seem to find my way through it. Maybe if the door was taller I’d have an easier time of it. Where’d them young’uns go?” Bubba asked, sitting up and picking a tick from one of Buster’s ears.
“Nobody knows, Bubba! That’s why they’re missing.”
“Oh. Okay, what do you want me to do about it? You want me to go look for ‘em? I know the woods and these hills pretty good I reckon, but I don’t know where I’d start looking for kids…” He trailed off as he caught the black stare Octavia was giving him.
“You don’t want me to go looking for the kids, do you?”
“No, Bubba. I do not need you to go looking for them. I know where they are, I need your help to go get them back.”
Bubba stood up and snapped his fingers for Buster. The dog crouched beside Bubba’s feet but stayed alert. “Well, let’s go get ‘em! Are we gonna have to carry ‘em, Tavvy? ‘Cause half a dozen young ‘uns is gonna be hard to haul in one load.”
“Bubba, are you the stupidest human being in six counties? I don’t need you to carry the babies, I need you to shoot whatever took ‘em!”
“Oh. Well I can do that. Lemme go get my gun.” He stood and started back up the hill to his cabin, but stopped at Octavia’s exasperated sigh.
“Get in here, Bubba. You don’t need to go get that stupid double-barrel. I got something better.” She turned and went into her house, and Bubba followed. She led him through the kitchen into the rest of the cabin where they had grown up. Bubba took a moment to observe the changes Octavia had wrought upon the old home place since their Pap died just two short years ago. Gone were the spittoons that once nestled in a corner of every room. Gone were the ashtrays on the arm of every chair. Instead the floors practically gleamed, they were so clean, and the windows had been scrubbed spotless and new curtains hung in every one. Bubba thought fleetingly of asking Octavia up to clean his cabin, but decided against it for fear he’d never find anything again.
by john | Aug 23, 2017 | Appearances, Book Spotlight
Here’s a quick rundown on what I’m reading this week (and maybe some of last week, because I forgot to do this post last week).
Currently I’m in the middle of (more like 3/4 of the way finished with) Jake Bible’s Salvage Merc One. I’ve had this on my e-reader for a while, I probably picked it up when it was on sale because I like Jake’s writing, and he’s a good friend. I’m really enjoying it so far. It’s mil-SF, but like most of the stuff I enjoy, and most of the stuff Jake writes, it’s got a fun snark to it, and a protagonist that isn’t a superhero. I like a hero that can (and does) take a beating, and the merc in this one certainly fits that bill! Light-hearted sci-fi with heart and plenty of explosions! Highly recommended!
I’m listening to Christopher Golden’s Ararat, which is old-school slow-burn horror, the kind of stuff that very few people are writing nowadays. Chris can really pull it off, and while I’m not too deep into the book, only 3-4 hours so far, it’s starting to pick up steam and I can already tell that this one will barrel to a hellacious conclusion. His Snowblind was one of my favorite books a few years ago, and this one looks to be a worthy successor.
There would be more, but my internet is being goofy as fuck, and isn’t wanting to pull up books on Amazon for me to link to, so go ahead and Google that shit. Buy the books I’ve listed above, and if you feel like picking up Fireheart or one of my other books while you’re over there, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings. 🙂
If you’re anywhere near Columbia, SC this weekend, come say hi to me, Matthew Saunders, Jim McDonald, Davey Beauchamp, and a bunch of other talented artists and folks at the Soda City Comic Con. We’ll be at the convention center in downtown Columbia Saturday and Sunday, so bring us your hard-earned money, and we’ll turn it into hard-earned books! Or art, in Davey’s case. But anyway, bring us your cash! I’ll be in Artist’s Alley in booth 61. Hope to see you there!
Oh, that picture to the left? Well…there might be a new Great-Grandpappy Beauregard collection releasing this Friday, 8/25. I’ll be back tomorrow with a preview!
by john | Aug 22, 2017 | Promos/Giveaways, Writing
Bubba is trapped in the Winter Court of the Fae, and he’s going to have to battle his way through four rounds of mortal combat to get out! Cold as Ice is coming soon, check out the awesome cover from Natania Barron!
by john | Aug 21, 2017 | Amazing Grace, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
This is the latest chapter of an ongoing serialized novel that I’m working on and posting up here in rough draft form. To read other chapters, CLICK HERE.
28
I pulled my truck off to the side of the dirt road as soon as I saw the lights of the trailer up ahead. It looked to be about a quarter mile away yet, but my big old Bessie made enough noise that if Jeff was paying any kind of attention he already knew we were there. Willis got out of the passenger side and made some kind of gesture to me like he expected me to wait in the car.
I hate to disappoint people, really I do. Except it seems like my whole life has been one long string of disappointments to somebody. I disappointed my daddy by not being a boy he could teach to play baseball. I disappointed my mama by not being the normal little lady she wanted to raise and marry off. I disappointed more than a few boys in high school by keeping my knees together a lot longer than they hoped, and now I was about to disappoint Sheriff Willis Dunleavy, because there was no way on God’s green earth I was staying in that truck.
I opened the driver’s door and got out, leaving the door hanging open behind me. The dome light in old Bessie burned out about seven or eight years ago, and I never bothered replacing it. I left the keys in the ignition in case we needed to get out of there quick, and besides, the number of grand theft auto cases in the woods of Union County are about even with the number of votes George Wallace got in Harlem when he ran for President.
“Get back in the truck,” Willis hissed at me. “I am not taking a civilian into what might an active hostage scene.”
“Then you should have thought about that before you let the civilian use her truck to drive you to the scene. I’m going up there. Jeff and I have always had a good relationship. I might be able to help the situation.”
He glared at me, and I could see the wheels turning behind his blue eyes. I know he was weighing his chances of getting me to do what he wanted, and after a few seconds he came to the right decision – his chances were slim and none. And Slim just left town. I relaxed a little bit when I saw that acceptance come over him, because the last thing I wanted to do was waste time and energy arguing with Willis in the middle of the woods while Jeff was a couple hundred yards away maybe hurting Jenny’s mama.
“Come on, but stay behind me,” he grumbled, starting back toward the house.
I nodded, and reached back inside the truck for the double-barrel 12-gauge behind the seat. I was willing to go into the house, but I wasn’t going in there without a little backup of my own. Just because I wasn’t the son Daddy hoped for didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to teach me how to hunt, fish, and shoot. That old gun hadn’t been fired in months, but I took it out to behind Karen Montgomery’s house a couple times a year and shot up some tin cans to make sure I still knew which end to point toward the target. I cracked the gun open to make sure it was loaded, then slung it over my shoulder and caught up to Willis.
“I thought you told me you kept the shells in the glove compartment,” he said, his voice low.
“I keep the extra shells in the glove box,” I said. “Out here in the country we’ve got a name for an unloaded shotgun.”
“What’s that?”
“A bat.”
He snorted a little laugh, then sobered as we stepped into the clearing around the trailed. It was a single-wide that had seen better days. And better decades. It started life as white with a wide blue stripe around it, but most of that was replaced with rust. The underpinning, if there’s ever been any, was long gone, and what passed for steps was just a half dozen cinderblocks with nothing resembling a handrail. A couple of the windows were gone, and yellow lamp light shone from what I assumed was the living room. I saw a figure moving inside, waving his arms and pacing, and from where we were it looked enough like Jeff for me to decide we were in the right place.
Jenny appeared at my elbow, rising up out of the ground with Sheriff Johnny at her side. “Dad’s okay. He doesn’t have a concussion, so they’re sending him home. Is she in there?”
“We don’t know yet,” I whispered. Willis’ head whipped around at my voice, and I pointed to where Jenny stood, invisible to him. He nodded, then put his finger to his lips. I nodded, and fell silent.
Jenny walked up to the trailer, then through the door. It always strikes me funny, how long it takes for the dead to shake their hold on habits from life. She didn’t need to go through the door, she could have walked through any wall just as easily, but the habit of years had her use the door, even if she was passing through it. I made a mental note to myself to ask Johnny about that when we finished up here. Of course, he was less than half a year dead himself, so he probably still had quite a few hangups from his time walking the earth.
Willis started forward, and I put a hand on his shoulder. I leaned down close to his ear, so there was no chance of my words traveling, and said, “Jenny’s inside. She can tell us what’s going on in there.”
“I hope her mother is still alive,” Willis said.
“Me too,” I agreed. “The poor child doesn’t need to see that.”
Jenny returned seconds later, a worried look on her face. “She’s alive. He hasn’t hurt her, but he’s got her tied to a chair. The place is all made up with candles and flowers, like he’s trying to make it romantic. He keeps yelling at her, telling her how she ruined his life at the prom, how he couldn’t help it when Shelly and me said that to him about going out with him, how he’s sorry, but she’s got to see how much he loves her. He’s crazy. Y’all have got to get in there.”
I kept my face next to Willis’ and relayed everything just as it came out of Jenny’s mouth. He nodded, then turned to me. “He’s devolving. We don’t have much time. If we don’t get in there in the next couple of minutes, he’s going to kill her. I’ll go in the front door, you go around to the back. If he draws on me, shoot him.”
“Give me thirty seconds to get back there. It’s dark as the bottom of a well out here,” I said. I took a deep breath, steadied my nerves, and peeled off to the right to creep around the trailer as best I could. I felt like I stepped on every branch and dry leaf in the county walking that fifty yards, and froze in my tracks three times waiting on Jeff to shoot me from a window, but I made it to the back door and up the rickety cinderblocks. The knob turned under my hand and I pulled the door open, sticking my head in a foot or so above floor level. I looked down the fake wood-paneled hallway toward the living room and saw Karen Miller’s back to me. She was tied to a ladder back wooden chair, the kind found in countless dining room sets all across the south.
I didn’t see Jeff at first, but he came into my view a second later, pacing and shaking his head. He was muttering something I couldn’t hear, but to be honest, all my attention was on the pistol in his hand. It was a boxy black thing that I guessed was his department-issued gun, and it looked like a handful of deadly in the light of the small lamp on the end table. Jeff’s head whipped around, and he trained his gun off to his left toward something I couldn’t see, then I heard Willis’ voice cut through the night like the crack of a whip.
“Drop the gun, son. This has to end right now.”
The second Willis spoke, I pulled the back door wide open and stepped up into the hallway. The top step wobbled as my weight shifted, and it threw me off balance. I stumbled forward and crashed into the wall. Jeff spun in my direction and fired his gun, missing my head by inches. The bullet dug into the wall behind me, and I dove onto my belly. My shotgun hit the brown shag carpet and tumbled away from me, leaving me unarmed and sprawled on my face less than twenty feet away from a murderer that I still remembered as a cherubic little boy in my Sunday School class.
I heard another shot boom through the enclosed trailer, and Jeff whirled around, firing his gun three times. There was a crash from somewhere in the living room that I couldn’t see, then Jeff was back in my line of sight, standing right in front of Karen Miller with his gun aimed at her face.
He looked down the hall at me, and as I got to my feet and picked up my shotgun, he got a confused look on his face. “Ms. Carter? What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to end this, Jeff. You need to let Mrs. Miller go and put the gun down,” I said, walking down the hall toward him.
He pointed the pistol at me, but I saw his hand shaking even as far away as I was. I didn’t stop. “You’re not going to shoot me, Jeff. You always liked me in Sunday School, and I always liked you. Now put that gun away and let’s talk about this.”
“I can’t talk about nothing no more, Ms. Carter. I done killed the sheriff, and I killed them two girls, and now I’m going to kill this bitch here. Then I’m going to shoot myself and go to Hell for all eternity where I belong.” Tears ran down his face, and rage mixed with terror at what he had done.
“Jeff, this isn’t you,” I said. “Tell me what happened. We can work it out. We can get you help. You—“
“There’s no help for this bastard!” Karen Miller screamed from the chair. She’d been so quiet to this point I thought he had her gagged, but evidently not. “Don’t you lie to him. You tell him the truth. That he needs to just blow his damn brains out and rot in hell until the end of time for what he did to my baby girl.”
“Mrs. Miller, that isn’t helping,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm while wanting to smack her upside the head with the butt of my shotgun. I looked over at Jenny, who shrugged as if to say “what can I do?”
I stepped into the living room and leaned the shotgun against the wall. “There, Jeff. See? I put my gun down. Now I’m not going to hurt you, and I know you don’t want to hurt me. So let’s talk about this, and see what we can figure out.” I looked past the distraught deputy, sweat stains soaking the armpits and neck of his uniform shirt, his normally neat brown hair disheveled, and tears streaking his cheeks.
Willis lay slumped against the far wall of the trailer, half on the threadbare carpet by the door, half on the worn linoleum of the kitchenette area. His gun was loose in his grip and his eyes were closed. I couldn’t see enough to tell if he was breathing, and the dark shirt he wore hid any signs of blood, but he didn’t even move an eyelid at my voice.
“I told you, there’s no helping me now, Ms. Carter,” Jeff wailed. “It’s just like high school, only worse! I should have never trusted her then, and I should have never spoke to her kid now. These damn women have ruined my life, and now I’m going to kill the last one, and be done with it. I’m real sorry, but since you’re here, I’m going to have to kill you, too.”
He raised the pistol to aim it at my face, and this time his hand was rock steady.
by john | Aug 16, 2017 | Business of publishing, How to Sell Books, Writing
Well, I guess we were going to have this conversation eventually, and now seems like as good a time as any. Last weekend, a bunch of Nazi dickbags staged a march in Charlottesville, Virginia, and one of the aforementioned dickbags murdered a woman with his car. Said dickbag was arrested, but the rest of the Nazi dickbags were not, and many online Nazi dickbags started trying to spin the whole mess to make it look like the dickbag driver was actually a liberal protestor. He wasn’t. There are photos of him in the line of Nazi dickbags earlier in the day.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I am not a fan of Nazi dickbags, or dickbags in general, but I particularly dislike Nazi ones.
As a writer of fiction, and someone with a (very limited) public profile, I am sometimes asked about taking public political stances and whether I think that’s something that writers and celebrities should do. Sometimes this is accompanied by the person asking the question continuing on by saying that they don’t care about Chuck Wendig’s or Orson Scott Card’s or Larry Correia’s or John Scalzi’s politics, they just want them to shut up and make with the entertaining. These folks also often rage about Colin Kaepernick not standing for the national anthem or Susan Sarandon speaking out against the death penalty.
If these people are folks I actually know, and we’re speaking face to face, I call them idiots to their face and tell them that since my art is part of me, and my beliefs are part of me, that I can no more divorce my beliefs from my work than I can painlessly amputate my own nutsack, and am about as likely to do so. If this encounter happens on the internet, I may not call them an idiot, because believe it or not, I’m more polite when people don’t have the opportunity to punch me in the face, not less.
I’m also six feet tall, weigh over three hundred pounds, and look like a day player on Sons of Anarchy. I’m not any flavor of badass, but I kinda look like one. So I don’t often fear people just randomly punching me.
But the fact of the matter is that I am a political person. I’m about as liberal as the day is long, and I’m pretty damn sure that shines through in a lot of my work. There are certain things I’ve written because there were issues of social and societal weight that I want to explore, and my own exploration of race, sexual identity, gender equality, and other issues comes through in my work. Yeah, I use my writing to work through some shit. I hope I take readers along for an enjoyable ride, but sometimes your punching in the face may be accompanied by a side of social justice. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to read it. It’s cool. There are way more people in the world who don’t read my books than there are people who do.
There are probably more people in the world who have never even heard of my books than there are who have.
Wow, now I feel fucking insignificant. Excuse me while I go look at my Goodreads reviews to re-inflate my ego.
Time passes.
Well, that was a stupid goddamn idea. Note to self – if you want someone to blow sunshine up your ass about your writing, call your sister. No, she doesn’t read your books, but she loves you, and will tell you they’re great anyway.
But back to politics, or when to be political at least. I don’t advocate that everyone drop a bunch of heavy-handed preachy-preachy bits in every book they write. I actually had a conversation with a writer friend not long ago where I told them that too much of their religious views were seeping into the work and undermining the narrative, and they needed to cut that shit out. I’ve done the same thing with my work, telling editors “look at this section and tell me if I need to pull it back.” But to all the people who say “entertainers should entertain and not have political opinions,” I say, “go fuck yourself.”
But there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it.
I’m not going to wear a “Fuck Trump and the horse he rode in on” shirt to Dragon Con. I don’t own one, and wouldn’t wear it in public if I did. That gains me nothing. It’s attacking, and by extension it’s attacking everyone who voted for our sitting President. That gets me nothing. I have in the past, and if I ever lose more weight, will happily again wear t-shirts promoting equality and LGBTQ rights. That promotes something positive, rather than attacking someone. I’ve heard many times that people in authority should never punch down, meaning that I shouldn’t slag on new writers or writers with less success than me, and Jim Butcher shouldn’t pick on me so much (Jim has never been anything but nice to me, he’s a very kind dude in every encounter we’ve had). I actually amend this to tell people not to punch up either. Taking potshots from the bottom of the ladder at someone higher up than you only makes you look small, bitter, jealous, and petty. None of these are traits that will attract readers.
So it’s better not to punch at all. Except Nazis. What’s good for Captain America is good for everyone.
So I try not to attack individuals for political stances. I try not to let the politics or the issues overwhelm the narrative, because that is our job – to tell a good story, and any teachable moments that come along with that are a bonus. And I try not to let my political beliefs color the way I interact with fans, which I hope is always polite (or at least funny) and approachable.
And if people want to avoid my politics entirely, they can follow my Facebook Author Page, join the Facebook Group, or follow the Falstaff Books website, which have appearance and publication updates, but nothing about my personal life. This blog is my personal blog and predates my professional writing career. My Facebook page is my personal page, and it’s wide-ass open. I approve most friend requests that aren’t obvious fake profiles, but you better understand that you’re getting unexpurgated Hartness on there. The Facebook group is a 100% no-politics zone, and anything political there gets pulled immediately. So there are places that I don’t mention politics, but I don’t try to keep it out of my work, and I sure as shit don’t keep it out of this blog or my personal FB page. that’s my personal balancing act, which I think gives people that liken my words but don’t agree with me politically (some of them are my real-life friends, even!) an opportunity to keep track of my work without getting constantly reminded that we are polar opposites on many things.
So that’s what I do. Does it work? I don’t know. But I have to write the stories I want to tell, and I’m not going to hide my beliefs. So that’s the compromise I can figure out.
by john | Aug 15, 2017 | What I'm reading
Hey gang – I decided that I should share some of the awesome stuff I’ve been reading recently, so I’ll try to keep y’all updated. I don’t do the whole Goodreads thing, and Amazon doesn’t like writers reviewing other writers’ work, which is fine, because I won’t be doing any reviews. I’ll just post images and links every once in a while to stuff I’ve read that I enjoyed.
Let’s start with this one.
I’m not a huge mil SF guy. I just haven’t read a ton of it. But I really enjoyed Cartwright’s Cavaliers by Mark Wandrey. It’s got a great sad sack turns tough protagonist, with a lot of heart, and I found the book to be very enjoyable. It’s a tight, fast read, without a ton of subplots, but there’s plenty of behind the scenes machinations going on to keep stuff moving. It’s set in a world that is well-established, but I had no problems getting everything I needed to know about the world (and universe) without reading anything else in the setting. I think Mark knocked this one out of the park and I really enjoyed it.
I’ve mentioned on Facebook that I’m totally addicted to Melissa Olson’s urban fantasy stuff right now. I’ve been kinda off reading UF for a little while because I felt like I’ve read it all before, but these series push back against that mold for me. They’re very “closed-world” in that the supernatural beings want to keep their shit secret, at any cost, which I like, and the protagonists are well-rounded women with flaws and issues, but they aren’t totally broken (always), which is another trope that gets a little old. These are tough, strong women, but not heartless, and not cold. I really like the characters a lot. There’s some romance, but not much, just enough to where you feel like people can like each other, which is nice. I’ve read the first three Scarlett Bernard books, and moved on to the first Boundary Magic book. There will be more. Oh yes, there will.
My favorite book I’ve read in months is the first Soulwood book by Faith Hunter. Holy shit, Betty, this is a kick-ass novel. It’s so very Southern, and so very Faith, and so very tough, and has soooo much heart. I really love this character – there’s something so sweet and childlike about her that I adore. I can’t wait to read the next books in the series. For real, I’m late to the party on this one, just like with Melissa’s books, but goddamn this is a killer novel. I’ve read a bunch of Faith’s work, and this is the best thing I’ve read by her. Seriously fantastic blend of Southern Gothic with Urban Fantasy. I love it.
And yeah, because I’m a huge whore, I won’t hesitate to remind you that I have a new book out, Fireheart, which is very different from anything else I’ve released. It’s a YA standalone with dragons, and kissing, and a love triangle. Maybe even a little bit of a love rhombus. But I’m pretty proud of it.
by john | Aug 14, 2017 | Amazing Grace, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
This is the latest chapter of an ongoing serialized novel that I’m working on and posting up here in rough draft form. To read other chapters, CLICK HERE.
PS – It’s my birthday – buy me something pretty. Or just buy something I wrote. Either one.
27
Willis and I left the Miller house not long after, after Willis directed Larry to take Jenny’s dad to the hospital and left Chuck at the house in case any calls came in about ransom or anything else. We didn’t expect the phone to ring; we both knew exactly what was going on here. I sat in the passenger seat of the sheriff’s patrol car while he got on the radio and ordered dispatch to call in the auxiliary deputies. There were half a dozen or so men and women that were deputized in case of missing children or elderly folks, lost hikers, or any large-scale emergencies. Jenny rode along to the hospital with her dad, unseen and unheard, but there to see he was taken care of.
Willis opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. “Everybody will meet us here in a few minutes. I’m going to station two of them in the house, probably Gene and Clyde. They’re old enough and trustworthy enough to babysit the place while Mr. Miller is getting checked out. I’ll have Chuck start the canvass in one direction, and get Ernest McKnight to head down the other side of the street.”
“You think that’s gonna work out okay? This is still South Carolina, Willis. Some people see a black man knocking on their door in the middle of the night, they’re going to answer with a twelve-gauge before they ever look to see if they know him.” Ernest McKnight was a respectable businessman, one of the best mechanics I’d ever seen, and about six and a half feet tall and blacker than the ace of spades. I did not want to see that gentle giant killed by some nervous homeowner while trying to help the police.
“I’ll send Irene Middleton out with him. Make sure she does the knocking, and Ernest can ask the questions. He’s been an auxiliary deputy for a long time, and was an MP in the army, too. He knows what kind of things to look for.”
“You know they ain’t going to find anything,” I said.
“I know we have to try everything we can think of,” he growled.
“I’m not arguing that, Willis,” I said. “I’m just saying that…well, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I can’t help none with the living.”
“You’re helping me, Lila Grace. This is my first real case in this town, with these people. I need somebody to be my touchstone, to keep me grounded. That’s why you’re here – because I trust you, and because everybody here trusts you.”
“Everybody here is scared shitless that I might really be able to talk to their dead relatives and find out all the dirt on them.” I was grumbling, but Willis’ words made me feel good, like I was useful.
“Well, there’s probably a little of that, too,” he agreed, and I slapped him on the arm. We both laughed, then headlights appeared and he was out of the car to give instruction to the new arrivals.
I waited patiently for about three seconds, then started to fidget. I got out of the car, knowing full well that if I sat there much longer I was going to start messing with the switches and buttons on the dash. The last thing any of us needed was me firing up the siren on Church Street in the middle of the night. Not that anybody within a mile of us was asleep. If there’s one sure way to wake up small-town folk in the middle of the night, it’s turn on some police lights.
I felt a chill on my arm and looked to my left, starting a little as Sheriff Johnny looked at me, his hand on my shoulder and a worried expression on his face. “Good Lord, Johnny, you scared the fire out of me!” I said. “What’s wrong? I mean, more than what I already know about, that is.”
Johnny didn’t speak. Johnny never spoke, except for that one time a couple days ago. He was a quiet man in life, and death hadn’t loosened his tongue any. Some ghosts are just barely different from when they were living, but some are mere shades of their former selves, no pun intended. Johnny seemed to be fading the longer he was around. I had a fleeting worry that he needed to cross over soon, or there wouldn’t be anything left to pass on to the other side.
I don’t know what that means, what waits for anyone after they leave our world for the next, but my faith tells me that even though some souls wander the earth for a time after their bodies die, eventually they move on to a better place. Well, not all. Young Jeffrey was very quickly getting relegated to the list of people I wanted to see go to a much worse place.
“What is it, Johnny? Did you find something?” He nodded, and motioned for me to follow him. I did, walking down the sidewalk several houses to the Terrance house. I knew that Jackie and Mike Terrance were in Michigan for a month, visiting their new grandbaby, so I wasn’t sure what Johnny wanted me to see there. He stopped at the mouth of the driveway and pointed down, but of course O couldn’t see anything. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight app, shining the bright LED beam down at the ground. There, in the mud built up in the dip between their driveway and the street, was a set of fresh tire tracks. There was no reason for anyone to be at the Terrance house with them gone, and it had just rained a few days ago, so these tracks were almost certainly from tonight. Which meant they were Jeff’s.
“Well, what about it, Johnny? We know he drove here. Are you telling me there’s something about these tracks that Willis needs to know?” He nodded. “Alright, then. Let me text him, and we’ll see what we can figure out.” I took a photo of the tracks with my phone and texted it to Willis, telling him that Johnny pointed them out at the Terrance house.
“Stay there. Don’t touch the tracks. Be there in 5.” Was the reply I got, so I went over and sat down on the retaining wall Mike Terrance built out of rocks he picked up out of the Broad River last summer. A few minutes later, Willis came walking up, his own flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the dark night.
I got up and walked over to the tire prints. “Here you go. I don’t know what good this does us. We knew he drive here. It ain’t like he was going to carry Mrs. Miller off over his shoulders.”
“It tells us he ain’t in his squad car,” Willis said. “The treads don’t match the department-issue tires. And these are big tires, not like the car I’ve seen Jeff drive around town. These are from a pickup, or an SUV. Maybe something with four-wheel drive. From that, I’d guess he had to do some off-roading to get to wherever he’s holding Mrs. Miller, or at the very least, down some rough dirt roads.”
Johnny was nodding so hard I thought his head would pop off. Obviously Willis was saying what Johnny was thinking, I just couldn’t figure out all the connections. I wracked my brain, trying to remember anything from Jeff’s childhood about hunting cabins, or favorite spots in the woods, or…
“That’s it,” I said. “That’s got to be where he took her.”
“Where?” Willis asked.
“I’m not real sure, we should probably ask Cracker, but I seem to recall there being something about Jeff’s daddy having a little piece of property over on John D. Long Lake, with a trailer or a fishing cabin, or something like that. I think his daddy called it his quiet place. Jeff talked one time in Sunday School about going with his daddy to the quiet place, and how much he liked it there.”
“That sounds like the perfect place to take somebody if you don’t want to be seen,” Willis said.
“And it’s not far from where he dumped Shelly’s body. Do you think he might have…”
“I don’t know,” Willis interrupted me before my thoughts went too far down that path. “Her body was in the water too long to know if there was any kind of sexual assault, so don’t think about that right now. Just think that if he’s got some kind of deranged fantasy playing out in his head, that Mrs. Miller might still be alive.”
“As long as we can find that place and get to her fast enough,” I said.
“Welcome to the wonders of the internet,” Willis said. “Let’s get back to the car.” We can look up property records online with the computer in the car.”
I followed him back to the car and slid into the passenger seat. He tapped a few buttons and looked annoyed.
“Nothing under his name. I know he rents the house he lives in from Clint Maxwell, but whatever other place he’s got oughta show up in the tax records.”
“Maybe it’s under his daddy’s name still?” I half-asked, half-suggested. “Try Richard Walker.”
He tapped the keys, then grimaced, shaking his head. “What’s his mother’s name?”
“Serinda Walker. Her maiden name was Cowen. Try that, too.”
A few more taps, more head shaking, then more tapping and more scowling. “Nothing. How does a person as transparent as Jeff keeps something like property hidden. I wouldn’t think he was somebody that would think like that.”
“I wouldn’t think he was somebody that would kill two teenagers and kidnap a woman, either,” I said.
“We don’t know that he did, Lila Grace,” Willis said, a cautious tone to his voice.
“Don’t use that policeman tone of voice with me, Willis Dunleavy,” I snapped. “You know as well as I do that boy is our best and only suspect, and if he don’t have that woman in his fishing trailer, wherever the hell it is, we ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting her back. I looked into that man’s eyes and I promised him we would bring his wife home. He’s already lost his little girl. That woman is the only thing left keeping him in this world, so if we can’t do that, we might as well put a bullet in his head when we give him the news.”
Willis’ eyes were haunted, and he wore the face of a man who had told too many families their loved ones weren’t coming home. “I know, Lila. I know.”
I felt a little twinge in my chest. “Nobody calls me just Lila,” I said.
“I do.” Those two little words, in the middle of the night, sitting in a police car hunting down a murderer and trying to bring Karen Miller home safely, rang deep inside me. This was not a man who planned on just visiting in my life. He was part of me to stay. I took a deep breath, realizing I liked that feeling, then turned my attention back to the task at hand.
“Try Dargin Feemster,” I said.
“What the hell is a Dargin Feemster?”
“That’s Jeff’s granddaddy. He’s liable to have never switched the deed over when his Pap died, just kept paying the tax bill every year. The county wouldn’t care, as long as they got their little piece of money, and Jeff probably never thought anything about it.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Willis muttered. “There it is. A little six-acre plot on the lake, a couple miles from the main road. Ain’t no way to get there in a car, but I reckon that old Bronco of Jeff’s would do just fine. It’s got about fifty yards of frontage onto the lake, just enough for a little dock to fish off of.”
“If he’s anywhere, that’s where he’ll be,” I said. “We ain’t getting there in this Chevrolet, though. We’ll take my pickup. It’ll get us through about anything.”
“Then let’s go bring her home.” Willis said, putting the car in gear and tearing off on a ghost-fueled rescue mission.
by john | Aug 8, 2017 | Business of publishing, How to Sell Books, Promos/Giveaways
A lot of people have asked me how I can find the courage to promote my work without feeling like an asshole. Well, I can’t tell you how to do that, because I can’t help how you feel. I can’t even tell you how to promote your books without other people thinking you’re an asshole, because I can’t help how they feel, either. No matter how often I ask my cat to build one for me, I don’t yet have a functioning Public Opinion Control Ray Gun.
And I should never, ever be trusted with such technology. With great power, comes great potential for hilarity, and I think I would do lots of funny shit with that, but not very much good.
But I digress.
So there are two kinds of writers – the kind who promote their shit, and the kind that don’t make any money. You decide which one you want to be, and behave accordingly.
That is, of course, a vast oversimplification. But let’s take a look at some ways that you can promote your book without being an asshole.
1) Promote to your mailing list – I might have mentioned before on this blog that mailing lists are pretty damned important. These are people who already want to read your shit, and are inclined to give you money for the privilege. Let them. Take their money. They want you to have it. Do not be ashamed of taking their money. Instead, think of what a favor you are doing these poor people who have too much cash, and need some way to spend it. Be a giver. Give them the warm fuzzy feeling of spending money with you.
Some people post to their mailing list every week. I think that’s a little too often. Some people post to their mailing list only when they have a new release. That’s probably not often enough, unless you release a book every single month. I think you should probably communicate with your mailing list at least once a month.
“But what do I say?” “I don’t have anything to say!” “I’m booooooring!”
Well, you’re probably right. But if you are, then what are you saying on Facebook all the damn time? Are you going to a convention next month? Newsletter. Are you releasing the audiobook of the book you released two months ago? Newsletter. Did you just sign a contract for four books? Newsletter.
The point is that you can come up with something relevant to your writing career once a month, unless you just aren’t writing anything, aren’t releasing anything, and aren’t doing anything to promote yourself. If that’s the case, then you’re not a writer, you’re someone who talks about wanting to be a writer, and that’s not who I’m talking to here. I’m writing these posts for people who actually want to sell books. If you want to talk about being a writer, or want to writer for the love of it, that’s fine. But you’re not the audience for these posts. You should read my serialized fiction every Monday and buy all my other shit.
So yeah, you need to send out a newsletter at least once a month. Some folks like to send out serialized fiction once a month in their newsletter. This is a great idea and it gives you potential readers a reason to sign up and stick around. I personally don’t do it, but I’m serializing two novels right now, so I think I give away enough writing. The first one is on this site every Monday, and the other is on my Patreon.
So by sending out newsletters, you are communicating with people who have already said they want to hear from you, thus – you are not an asshole.
2) Post to your Author FB Page – You do have one, right? If you have at least one book out, you need to have a presence on Facebook. If you use Facebook at all. Don’t do it if you hate Facebook, but if you have any use for FB, you need to have an author page.
Then you need to write shit on there. Frequently. Like, all the fucking time.
This is just like a newsletter. The people who like your FB author page want to hear about your work. If they don’t, they won’t follow the page. I feel like you should promote each thing you have out in the world once per day on your author page. Got an ebook? 1 Post. Got a newsletter? Another post. Blog? Another post. Audiobook? Another post. Before you know it, you can have a dozen things that you’re promoting on your Author page.
Don’t get all shy and awkward about posting there, because 1) the people who like this page are still predisposed to give you money, and it’s rude to turn them down, and 2) FB throttles your feed so much that only 10-20% of your friends and followers see the things you post. So it’s entirely possible that if you have eight posts on your FB wall, any given person who likes your work may only see two of them. So while you think you’re blasting the universe with a million bits of spam, they think you’re super-restrained and only post a couple times a day,
It’s okay, I won’t tell them.
3) Post things with cute pictures – When Natania Barron got print copies of her new novella, she posted an adorable picture of herself holding them. People love that shit. They love seeing you get excited about shit. So post pictures. Take your new book on a tour of the country, and post with it at landmarks. Or ask your FB tribe to send in pics of them holding your book in various places, and share those pics. Images are awesome on the internet, and funny pictures are even awesomer. That’s why I use the pic of the grinning chimp for all these posts. That, and it’s not a terrible likeness. 🙂
4) Post in threads where people ask for people to post what they’re working on – A bunch of folks will make posts like “Tell me about your new release.” DO IT. FFS, they’re asking you. They’re begging you to provide content and engagement with their page, and they’re offering promotion in exchange. Take them up on their kind offer.
Same for blog posts. Remember, I offer a guest blog spot every Friday for people to send me stuff about their new books. Just write up a post around 500-1,000 words on where the idea for your book came from, and send it along with buy links and a cover image. You’re reading this, so obviously somebody sees this site, right? Take advantage of the opportunities that people offer you. Because if you provide them content, they will link you, and give you a shout out, and make sure generally your guest post is at least somewhat promoted, because they want you to see value in it for you as well as for them.
There’s a few ways to promote without looking like an asshole. Some of these are easy, some are less so. They all take a certain amount of getting out of your own head to do. But they all pay dividends. So get your ass to writing, and send me a post for Evolution!
by john | Aug 7, 2017 | Amazing Grace, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
This is the latest chapter of an ongoing serialized novel that I’m working on and posting up here in rough draft form. To read other chapters, CLICK HERE.
26
I explained Tara Miller’s history with Jeff as we sped over to the Miller home. When I added the details of Shelly teasing Jeff, Willis shook his head. “Stupid kids,” he muttered. “Messed with the wrong man, and now they ended up dead because of it.”
Jenny was frantic in the back seat, flitting in and out of the car and cursing her friend Shelly with every breath. “I knew she was being a bitch, but I didn’t do anything to stop her. Dammit, Shelly, why did you have to mess with his dumb ass?”
I didn’t bother trying to point out the beam in her eye while she fussed about Shelly, because this wasn’t the time to tell the poor dead child that she was as much to blame for her situation as Shelly. And honestly, neither one of them was much to blame. Sure, they didn’t need to torment poor Jeff, but that still didn’t give him cause to go murdering people, neither.
We pulled up on front of Jenny’s house less than ten minutes after Willis first banged on my door. It ain’t like it’s that big a town, after all. Reverend Turner was sitting on the front porch, a Bible in one hand and a flashlight in the other. There was a pump shotgun leaning against the wall behind him, and I wouldn’t put it much past the good Reverend to turn that scattergun on anybody he thought to be intruding on the Miller’s hour of grief.
“Reverend,” Willis said as we approached the bottom step.
“Sheriff,” Reverend Turner said, standing up and setting his bible down in the seat of the rocker he’d vacated. “Lila Grace,” he nodded to me. It was the most polite greeting he’d given me in better than ten years. I reckon our little heart-to-heart the other night had some effect.
“Reverend Turner,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Miller appreciates you being here for him.”
The preacher looked a little ashamed, but gave me what passed for an appreciative nod. “David isn’t a regular member of our congregation, but Karen is one of the leaders of the church. I felt that if there was anything I could do, I should be here.”
“Daddy always says he has an important meeting every Sunday morning, at the intersection of Pillow Street and Blanket Avenue,” Jenny said. “But it means a lot that Reverend Turner would come out in the middle of the night like this.”
I reached out and patted the man’s shoulder. To his credit, he barely flinched at my unclean touch. Maybe he really was thawing towards me a little bit. Or maybe he was just too sleepy to fight. “I’m sure he appreciates it, even if he don’t say it, Reverend.” I said, moving past him into the house.
The Union County Sheriff’s Department ain’t exactly what you would call bustling, and there ain’t a whole lot of manpower allocated to Lockhart most nights. So it wasn’t a big surprise that there were only two people in the house when we stepped in. I recognized Larry Carter, the night shift man in the speed trap down on Highway 49, and a reedy little fellow ducked into the kitchen as soon as the sheriff walked in, but I was pretty sure I recognized the flaming red hair that couldn’t be anybody but Chuck Blackwell. Chuck was a good man, but lazy as the day is long. I knew if he was in that kitchen, it was because it was far from any possible crime scene, and close to any casseroles the grieving family might have left out on the counter.
“Larry, what do we know?” Willis asked.
“Not much, Sheriff,” the dark-haired man answered. “The call came in about half an hour ago, and I called for backup as soon as I got here and heard saw David had been hit upside the head. Told Ava to call up everybody she could find, but Chuck was the only one who picked up the radio.”
“What about Jeff?” I asked. Willis shot me a sharp look, but it was the only real question we were interested in, especially after my talk with the grapevine ghosts earlier.
“Ava said he had him a long weekend, talked about getting out of town. She didn’t even bother trying to reach him. Said when he went off the grid, he went whole hog about it. No radio, no cell phone—nothing. I reckon we won’t see him until Tuesday morning.”
I thought there was a good chance I’d see Jeff before that, but I didn’t want to say anything to Larry about it. “What does Mr. Miller say happened?” I asked.
“Not much, Ms. Carter. I talked to him, but he don’t know a whole lot.” He nodded at the despondent man on the sofa by the big picture window in the den.
I walked over to where David Miller sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees. He was hunched over, a man curling in on himself to keep the world out. The past week had been enough to break most people, and now his wife going missing on top of his daughter’s death had him wearing the haunted expression of a man who didn’t know if he had anything left to live for.
I didn’t wait for Willis to give me the okay, I just sat down on the couch next to Mr. Miller. I put one arm around his shoulders and pulled him tight to me. He was a grown man, not used to having somebody able to give him comfort, but I’m an old woman, and in a small town in the South that means I’m halfway to being everybody’s aunt. I’m not bound by the laws of normal manners. Besides, everybody already thinks I’m crazy, so I get to do anything I want.
“I’m so sorry you’ve got to go through this, Mr. Miller. We’re here, and we’re going to figure out what happened, and bring your Karen back to you. I promise,” I said. I saw Willis and Larry both stiffen and look at one another when I said that. I know, you ain’t supposed to promise somebody something you don’t know you can deliver, but I’m not a cop. I’m an old woman who hates to see people hurting, so I did what I could to help the man with his pain.
He shook in my arms for a minute, then I heard him take a long breath. I felt his shoulders tighten, so I relaxed my hold on him, and he sat up.
“Thank you, Lila Grace,” he said. “I appreciate it. I know you can’t really promise that, but it means a lot anyway.”
“Well, I promise to try my damnedest, how about that?” I said.
“I’ll take it,” he replied. “Now what do I need to do to find Karen?”
Willis stepped forward. “I know you’ve already gone over this with Officer Carter, but why don’t you fill me in a little bit on what happened tonight, just so I can hear it fresh?” He sat down on the coffee table, positioning himself directly in front of Mr. Miller. I knew full well this didn’t have a damn thing to do with him hearing anything fresh, and everything to do with making sure the man’s story stayed straight. I was sure that Jeff took Jenny’s mom, and I’m pretty sure that Willis was, too.
But I knew full well that the first suspect in any case was the husband, so it made sense to look at Mr. Miller while we got all our information together to go after Jeff. Besides, there might be something new that came out of his story, something he left out when he talked to Carter.
I stood just out of Mr. Miller’s line of sight, but still in the room. I didn’t have any real business being there, but since the sheriff led me in, nobody else was going to have the guts to throw me out. Jenny’s dad had an ice pack wrapped in a dishtowel pressed up against the back of his head, and a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone just under his right eye. Whatever happened, it wasn’t pretty.
“I heard a noise,” he started. “I was upstairs asleep, and something woke me. I don’t know what it sounded like, just that it woke me up. I laid there in the bed for a minute, listening to see if I could hear what it was, thinking maybe it was Jenny going down for a glass of water. Then I remembered…well, then I remembered, and I got up, moving as quiet as I could manage without turning a light on.”
“It sounded like somebody was trying to move through the house being real quiet, but they didn’t know where all the furniture was. Hell, with all the people that have been in and out of here the last week, I barely know where the chairs are supposed to go. So I heard another sound, like somebody walking into a chair and it scraping across the floor, and heard somebody cuss real quiet, like they couldn’t help it.”
“What did the voice sound like?” Willis asked, leaning forward. He was all cop now, attention focused like a laser.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Miller said, rubbing his bruised face. “It sounded like a man, but that’s all I can really remember.”
“Okay, that’s fine, David, just tell me everything you can remember,” Willis said, reaching out and patting the distraught man on the knee.
“I looked around the bedroom, but there was nothing there I could use as a weapon, really. We don’t keep guns…I mean, there’s a shotgun, but it’s over the fireplace, and I don’t know if it’ll even shoot. It was my granddaddy’s. I’ve never even shot the thing. So I kinda snuck downstairs as quiet as I could, and when I got to the landing, there was a man coming up at me.”
“He must have been as surprised as I was, but he reacted faster. The dude charged up a couple of steps and slammed me into the wall. My head cracked into the drywall behind me, and I saw stars. Then I felt something heavy hit me in the face, and I fell down. I got hit on the back of the head, and I passed out. He took me out in just a few seconds. I was useless.” He put his face in his hands and I saw his shoulders shake with sobs.
“Mr. Miller, I’m sure there’s nothing more you could’ve done,” Willis said. “But I need you to think for me, David. Do you remember any details about the man’s clothes? His shoes, his pants, his face?”
“He wore a mask. One of those ski masks, with one big hole cut out for the eyes. His shirt was dark, I didn’t notice really anything about it.”
“Okay,” Willis prodded. “What about his pants? When you fell to the ground, did you notice anything about his shoes?”
“His shoes…he wore boots, like work boots, but black. Blue jeans, I think, maybe blue work pants…I don’t know. Black socks, I guess. They didn’t stand out. I’m sorry, I can’t…my head really hurts.” A tear rolled down his face as he clutched his skull.
I looked around and say Peggy Barnette standing in the doorway. Peggy was one of the local EMTs, a stout woman who was every bit as capable of driving the ambulance and manhandling an unconscious adult as she was putting a bandage on a child’s skinned knee. I raised an eyebrow at Peggy, and she came over.
“Mr. Miller, I need to check your eyes.” Peggy knelt in front of the distraught man and pulled a small flashlight from her shirt pocket. She flicked it across his face, and he jerked back. She turned to us. “I think he may have a concussion. His memory might be a little foggy, and he needs to go to the hospital and get checked out.”
“And I need to find out everything I can about his missing wife,” Willis snapped. Peggy scowled at him, but didn’t reply.
I tugged on the sheriff’s elbow and pulled him up with me. “We might as well go upstairs and see if there’s anything up there,” I said. “He won’t be able to tell us anything useful, he’s too upset.”
Willis sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s frustrating, is all.” He waved Larry over. “Deputy Carter, accompany Mr. Miller to the hospital. Sit by his bed in case he remembers anything. If he thinks of anything, no matter how small, you call me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Larry said. He walked over to where Peggy was examining Jenny’s dad and bent down to speak to her.
Willis headed up the stairs, and I followed close behind. There were pictures all along the wall going up the stairs, smiling family photos from Christmas, Disneyland, a couple from when Mrs. Miller was pregnant with Jenny. We got to the top of the stairs, and I stopped, looking at Jenny. She hovered just outside the door to her parents’ bedroom, as if she was afraid to set foot in the room.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I spoke softly, so the folks downstairs wouldn’t hear me. Didn’t need any crap about the sheriff dating the freak.
“I…I’m scared, Miss Lila Grace. I haven’t been scared this whole time, even though I’ve been dead. I guess it’s like there’s nothing left to be afraid of now. But this…she’s my mom. I don’t know what’s happening to her, I just know that he has her, and he hates her, and…” She turned away from me, her face in her hands. I reached out to her, but my hand passed right through her shadowy form.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “I wish there was something I could do.”
She spun back to me, a fury on her face, and I could almost feel the anger rolling off of her. The pictures on the wall shook, and I heard a muffled thud from inside the bedroom as one fell off the top of a dresser. She looked at me, her eyes blazing, and said, “There is. Find her. Find my mama, and make that son of a bitch pay.”
by john | Aug 1, 2017 | Business of publishing, How to Sell Books, Promos/Giveaways
So, we all know that reviews are critical to a book’s success. The more reviews a book gets, the more action there is on the book’s Amazon Page, and the higher it appears in Amazon’s mysterious “search algorithms.” The rumor is that 20 reviews is a benchmark, and that after 20 reviews, the book gets a bump in discoverability in the Amazon search engine. The rumor continues that you get another bump at 50, and another bump at 100. I have no idea if this is true, because I don’t program search engines for Amazon’s site, and the people that do aren’t talking. So anything anyone says (unless they can specifically tell you “I worked for Amazon and know this to be true”) is pure speculation. And even if they worked there, if they left more than six months ago, it’s probably speculation.
But anyway, reviews are important to a book’s success, regardless of whether or not they affect the ranking in the Amazon’s searches. Reviews from consumers are more and more how people make decisions in purchasing items. With so many things out there, and so little time to fuck around with figuring out what the best fit for you will be, user reviews of everything from washing machines to books are critical. Word of mouth is still the best way to sell a book, period.
So how do you get reviews? Especially if you’re self-publishing or working with a small press, it can be tough. Your marketing budget may be small or non-existent, and you may not have enough name recognition to get people excited to read your book when it first comes out. So what are you going to do?
1) Build an engaged and excited fan base – This isn’t easy, and it isn’t quick. But it is the best way to get a bunch of reviews on your books. You need to find your fans, and you need to tell them how important reviews are. Eric Asher has released two awesome novellas for Falstaff Books this year. He’s writing a spinoff series to my Bubba the Monster Hunter books, featuring a Monster Hunter based in Missouri named Mason Dixon. The books are great, and you should totally buy them. The first book, Mason Dixon – Monster Hunter, has 45 reviews after an April 21 release. By comparison, my book that released in February, Calling All Angels, has 16 reviews. Eric kicks my ass in soliciting reviews. Eric also has about triple the number of people on his newsletter list that I do, and has worked very diligently in building his email list and his street team over the past few years.
The Past Few Years. I wasn’t joking – it takes that long to do it right. Eric does it right. He promotes other people, does newsletter swaps with people, and builds his list. Sometimes these newsletter swaps result in a bunch of people getting free ebooks and then instantly dropping off the list. That’s fine, because out of every ten people that sign up, you’re probably only going to get one superfan, and that’s if you’re lucky. And those superfans are who you convert to your street team, and your ARC team, and you engage with them. A lot.
How do you engage with your fan base? You talk to them. You don’t just send out a newsletter when you have a new book. You send out a minimum of one per month. I’m building up to twice a month, but I’m also terrible about staying organized, so I end up doing them whenever I or Falstaff has new releases. That’s been a lot lately. A LOT. But you have to stop thinking of a newsletter as spam. This is something they have signed up to receive. Something you have probably given them a free book to lure them into your lair. They may have signed up for your list because they bought your ebook. They WANT to hear from you. So talk to them.
In addition to newsletters, you can blog. You know, that thing that I’m doing here. This series of blog posts was originally created in my role as Publisher of Falstaff Books (yes, we are open for submissions. Yes, the guidelines are on the website), but it’s open to anyone. So this is another way that I’m talking to potential fans. I try to post a minimum of twice a week here. On Mondays, I put up a chapter of a book that I’m serializing, called Amazing Grace. I do these posts on Tuesday. On Friday, I have an underutilized marketing opportunity for other writers to write a blog post about where their idea came from and promote their book. Not many people take advantage of this opportunity. But you can start a blog. Yes, it feels like screaming into the void at first, but that’s okay. Your writing is screaming into the void, until someone reads it. So anything that points someone to your books is a good thing.
Have a Facebook author page. Have a Facebook Group for your fans. ENGAGE with people. Emily Dickinson died without selling anything, because she was a recluse. If you’re a recluse, you might, too.
2) Blog tours – There are a bunch of services that will send your book out on blog tours, where you can write on a shitload of book blogs for a month and hopefully get some traction. This worked great in 2011-2012. I don’t think it’s worth a flying shit now. Save your money.
3) Solicit Book Bloggers – This is still very good. But you have to pick the real book bloggers, and preferably book bloggers that will cross-post their reviews on Amazon, BN, Goodreads, Apple, somewhere. But you really want Amazon.
4) Solicit reviewers – Look at the reviews that other books in your genre have gotten. See if any of the reviewers have “Vine Voice” by their name. These are the top reviewers on Amazon, and they review a shitload of stuff. You can click on their name and hit them up, ask them if they’d like a copy of your book to review. Frequently, they’ll say yes. After all, they already are in the habit of reviewing a shitload of stuff.
These last three are good, but the first one is the best. You have to get out there and chase down fans. Get them on a newsletter list, then make a separate list for your ARC (Advance Reader/Review Copy) team. Send them the book for free before it comes out, so they can review it. Once the book is out, send out another newsletter a couple weeks later reminding folks if they’ve bought the books and enjoyed it, to leave a review. You have to ask. You have to remind people. You have to get out there and solicit reviews. People will only review a book if they either love it or hate it, the 4-star reviews are the ones you have to go get.
I hope this helps. Leave questions in comments, and I’ll try to answer them. And if you want a shot at joining my ARC team, first you gotta subscribe to my newsletter. If you want to know about awesome books by a ton of other great authors, sign up for the Falstaff Books email newsletter, too! You’ll get free shit just for signing up.
