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. 🙂
No, I don’t have a TV deal. But if anyone wants to make one, hit me up. I’m open to the possibility. 🙂
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.
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 Wayland’s chest. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that story now, won’t you?”
“You 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.”
“For an amnesiac, you have certainly not lost a single step in knowing how to twist a man’s 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.”
“Indeed you do,” 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 didn’t mind. Something about her felt…comforting. 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, just…Brother 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 didn’t find it funny, but I don’t 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 Mazy’s 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 horse’s teeth clamp onto my behind. She didn’t 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.
“What are you doing, boy?” he asked. I didn’t have a good answer, so I just shrugged.
“You trying to steal my money, or my food?” 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.”
“I was looking for food, sir.”
“Why didn’t you just walk up while I was eating earlier and ask if I would share?”
“Like anybody’s going to just give me food. I ain’t stupid, and I ain’t looking to trade nothing I got for your dinner.”
“Don’t look to me like you’ve got…oh.” His eyes went a little wide, and he looked me up and down. “How old are you, son?”
“I reckon about eleven or twelve. Ain’t 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.”
“I’m guessing from your speech that you haven’t had much schooling? No apprenticeships? No training in anything?”
“I 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. I’m light-fingered, and quick of foot, and the constable ain’t never laid hand on me. I ain’t bad with my blade, either.” 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 didn’t look nearly as impressed as I wanted him to.
“Well, you’re a regular Jesse James, aren’t you?”
“Who’s that?”
“He was an outlaw from Before. Hell, he’s been dead so long I reckon we could say he was from the time Long Ago.”
“Before? Before what?”
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 didn’t 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.
“Hey!” 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.
“This is not how you want to do things, son.”
“I ain’t your son,” 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.
“Calm down, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you, but I might put you to work if you’re willing to earn your food instead of stealing it.”
“I don’t do that,” I said. I was young, but I’d already long been exposed to men who have ways for young boys to earn things from them.
“I don’t either,” the man said, then crouched down in front of me. “Look 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? I’m bigger, faster, and I’m the one with the gun. You’re a scrawny little alley rat who learned just enough to stay alive in Arkansas City, but not forever. You keep on this path and you’ll be dead before you see sixteen. You’ll either starve, get shot in the back running away from some heist, or some girl’s daddy will string you up for defiling his daughter, no matter how willing she is to succumb to your charms.”
“You ain’t gonna get me killed?” I asked. “And you don’t want a piece of my ass?”
“I have absolutely no interest in your ass, but I can’t 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.”
“That ain’t a real appealing offer, Brother Graveyard,” I said. “I think I’d about rather get shot here where I know everybody than ride around with some troublemaker Brother and get shot in some strange place.”
“I 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 you’ll take an interest and strap on a Colt of your own some day.”
“Don’t hold your breath for that, Brother Corpse. But if you’ll give me a couple square meals a day, I reckon I’ll ride with you until I get a better offer.” 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 Colt…well, 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 that’s 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 it’ll hurt it bad enough it leaves you alone until the moon ain’t 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 man’s gun – it can take down a deer, even a bison if you can find a scope with the glass still in it that doesn’t cost you an organ. A rifle can kill predators before they get close enough to kill you, and it’s a lot more accurate in a fight than a Colt. But it’s slow, and it’s hard to turn with, and there’s 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 didn’t look like much. It wasn’t all that clean, it didn’t 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. “This bullet is tipped with Holy Water, and it is the shield of God, protecting those who need your aid.” 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. “This 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.” 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 wouldn’t be. Gold was much too soft to use in a bullet. “This 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.” I slid it into the chamber.
The fourth bullet had a cross cut into the tip. “This bullet is God’s mercy, and it is the sword of peace that you may someday grant to another.” My fingers trembled a little as I took it. I wasn’t afraid to grant peace to somebody who came back Wrong, but the thought of killing somebody before they Returned wasn’t 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. “This 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.” 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 “shoot the damn Blue-Eyes.” 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 couldn’t make it out until he handed it to me. “This 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.”
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. “Brother Wayland, you are now a Brother of the Gun. Protect the weak, defend the innocent, avenge the wronged. This is your charge.”
“Protect, defend, avenge,” 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.
“Now, you are welcome as a Brother,” The Eldest clasped my hand, then pulled me into a rough hug. It had been a long time since I’d been hugged by anybody, and the warmth of that kind man’s arms around me put a crack in something deep inside me, like a dam starting to succumb to the force behind it.
“Now, we drink,” 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. I’m 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 Alzheimer’s 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 can’t explain it, but my thoughts were now primarily focused on writing this tale of horror. That’s 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 knows…stranger things have happened! I didn’t choose to be an author…it 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 can’t 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. I’ve now amassed a long list of new concepts for tales of the macabre…I only hope that I’ll 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 don’t 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 chapters…while the evil Antitheus has 13!
From my earliest recollections as a young child, I’ve always loved the genres of horror and science fiction, so that’s probably where Antitheus and Trisomy XXI were spawned—from 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 “a person who does not have normal intelligence but who has very unusual mental abilities that other people do not have.” Savant syndrome “is 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.” I do know that I don’t 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 “a person who acquires prodigious capabilities or skills following dementia, a head injury or severe blow to the head, or other disturbance.” 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 didn’t think so), therefore, as long as I can retain this newfound ability, I will continue to write—especially 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 things—I can’t 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 patience—a necessity for any author who wishes to write well. An author must always remember that “The pen is mightier than the sword!” 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).
by john | Oct 26, 2017 | Appearances, How to Sell Books
Welcome to Part 3 of my series on conventions, what they’re about, how to make money at them, all that jazz. Today we’re going to talk about what I call Trade Show Cons, or Exhibit Hall Cons. These are most often your comic cons or your book fairs (where you’re not a big guest, just a schmo with a table). They bring with them a whole new set of challenges, strategies, and expectations.
What is an Exhibit Hall Con? Well. these are the cons where you sit behind or beside or in front of your table all day and work to sell books. I don’t recommend sitting in front of your table. It’s hard to see the books through you. Like your dad used to say when you stood in front of the TV, you make a better door than you do a window, kid. These are often Comic cons (like the Roanoke Valley Comic Con, where I’ll be next weekend or Heroes Con, June 2018), but can also be big book fairs (like the West Virginia Book Festival, where I’ll be Friday and Saturday). Sometimes they’re even outside, like Time Travelers’ Weekend at the Carolina Renaissance Faire (where I’ll be November 11-12). I don’t feel like linking everything. If you wanna come say hi, just Google it.
So I do a fair number of these. By “a fair number” I mean that I have 17 already booked for 2018, ranging in size from maybe 2,000 attendees to 50,000+. So obviously I see some benefit in them. But what are the benefits, and what makes them better than a fandom con?
Well, it depends. This time it depends on you, the person who has to stand there and sell books all day. I’m good at this part. I’ve worked trade shows, conventions, flea markets, and that kind of thing my whole life. When I was a little kid, I learned how to do this stuff by sitting under the table at craft shows reading while my mom sold little stuff she made. So I got a start hand-selling things when I was seven or eight. It’s been my entire life doing this kind of thing. It just feels natural to me. So for me, I get a chance to shake hands, kiss babies, and sell.
I like selling. I see it as a challenge. Somebody walks up to my table and says “I’m not much of a reader.” That’s like waving a red flag and shouting “Toro!” to me. I often look at the folks I’m sharing a table with and mutter “hold my beer.” Those are my favorites, because I have to use all the muscles I trained in two decades of business sales to get somebody to drop twenty bucks on my table and walk away with a new book. It’s a game. If I get the sale, I get a point.
If you hate selling, or hate talking to strangers, you shouldn’t do these conventions. They won’t be fun to you, and people can see when you aren’t having fun. I have a great crew going to West Virginia tomorrow. Me, Gail Z. Martin, Darin Kennedy, and James P. Macdonald. If you get within our orbit, you’re almost certainly leaving with a book, because all four of us are talkers, and we all have fun selling to people. That’s a huge key to these events – have fun. Because as with everything in writing, if you aren’t having fun, it’s not worth doing.
Exhibit Hall cons are probably the single best place for short-term gains. You can sling some paper, and get some green paper in return, and you can usually cover your costs (books, parking, hotel, food, gas) and make a small to medium profit. This of course depends on how many titles you have. With your first book it’s going to be tough to move enough copies to cover a table rental. Table rentals run from $50 for a small comic con to $350 for a big one, and even more. And once you get to a certain level of inventory, you can’t do just one table. At Raleigh Supercon next summer I have a corner vendor booth. It cost a bunch. But I have a ton of titles, not just my own, but by my authors, so I need as much real estate as I can get. And by next summer, we’ll have well over 50 Falstaff titles on display, and that takes a lot of table space. That convention will cost me probably $1,500 by the time all costs are figure in, so I’m hoping to move a fuckton of books.
If you don’t yet have a fuckton of books to move, look around for the small comic conventions in your area, and book those instead. There you can get a table for $50, drive in the morning of the show to set up, buy a $10 convention center lunch, sell ten books and drive home at the end of the day with a few bucks of profit in your pocket. And ten new books out there in the world working to build new fans for you.
I estimate that probably half the books I sell at an exhibit hall con ever get read. So if I sell a hundred books over the course of a weekend (which almost never happens, that’s a BIG number), fifty of them will get read. Twenty of those are by people who are already fans, so that’s thirty new fans. People buy a lot of multiple books, and I do a lot of bundles, so let’s say I pick up twenty new fans in a weekend. That weekend trip probably cost me $500, so I spent $25 per fan.
If I could guarantee that someone would become a fan for $25 each, I would pay that in a heartbeat. I’d just go to the Fan Vending Machine and put in Benjamins like I was P Diddy at a strip club. Because a fan is worth so much more than $25 over the life of their fandom. That’s how much they might spend with you in one year, so as long as you don’t piss them off or stop writing, that $25 is going to pay dividends far exceeding your initial investment.
So your Per Fan Cost at an exhibit hall show is likely to be greater than at some other cons, but you also have the chance to reach more fans than at fandom cons or industry cons, and the people there are predisposed to spend money. A comic con isn’t like a fandom con, where people save up all year just for the trip and the experience – people come to these things to spend money. When I used to go to Heroes Con, I never went without at least $100 budgeted to buy stuff. So people are predisposed to spend money, you just have to convince them to do it with YOU.
I’ve run long again, so next week we’ll talk about Starfucker Cons, then we’ll move into Table Setup, Elevator Pitches, and Why I don’t sell hard to cosplayers (and I LOVE cosplayers). Until then, I just had a book come out, so go buy something, will ya?
by john | Oct 22, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Chapter 2
“I reckon we need to come up with something to call you,” Wayland said as they chewed their breakfast of tough jerky and tougher coffee. “If you have no recollection of your name, then I suppose you pick any name you like.”
The girl smiled at him across the fire, the denim in his shirt making her eyes blaze blue. “I think I should be called…Elizabeth,” she pronounced with a nod of her head.
“Elizabeth…” Wayland said, rolling the name around on his tongue. “I can get behind that, I reckon. I might call you Liza for short, though.”
“I suppose as how I could live with that, as long as I can call you Way. Calling you Brother Wayland all the time might get tiresome,” she gave him a playful grin, and he grinned back. They settled into an easy silence for the next few bites, then Elizabeth cleared her throat.
“What’s on your mind, Liza?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Well, now we come back to you asking questions that can go in a myriad of different directions. How about you narrow the focus for me a touch, and I’ll consider my answer.”
“What are we going to do about the fact that we are apparently several days’ ride from anywhere to get more food, with one horse, two people, and I am wearing nothing more than your castoff shirt? I think that might be a fair place to start.”
“Those are indeed fine questions,” Wayland relied, popping the last chunk of jerky into his mouth. He chewed on the leathery meat for a long moment, then washed it down with a big gulp of coffee before continuing. “Well, the way I see it, we need to find some shelter, and some provisions, and then look to acquiring a horse. That is, if you wish to travel along with me.” He held up a hand as Elizabeth opened her mouth. “I’m not saying you don’t want to, but I also don’t want you thinking you have to accompany me through the desert. If you should decide you’d rather strike out on your own, I will help you acquire such food and water as I can spare, and you can retain ownership of my shirt. I suppose I can buy another one sometime.”
“I think I should stay with you, at least for now. Since I know neither where I was coming from nor where I was going, nor, in fact, who I am, I think it might be useful to have someone around who is familiar with weapons. I assume that part of your work as a Brother of the Gun does involve the use of one?”
“I have been known to make use of a shooting iron on more than one occasion.”
“Then I think I’ll stay with you for the time being, if you’ll have me.”
“Well, you snore less than Mazy, so that’s good,” Wayland said with a half-grin. “Now all we need to do is find a spring to replenish our water, someplace to trade for food, and some boots for you, and we’ll be in fine fettle.”
“Pants might also be nice,” Elizabeth said, gesturing at her bare legs.
“I can see as how that might be a benefit,” Wayland agreed. “For today, you’ll ride pillion with me on Mazy. She won’t hardly notice the little bit of added weight, and I can roll up a blanket for you to sit on. If we make good time and don’t encounter any interruptions along the way, we can make Pecos in about two days. Shouldn’t be any trouble to resupply there and get you some clothes and a good hat. Until then. Make sure you keep your sleeves down and tie these bandannas around your face so the sun doesn’t scorch you completely blind.” He handed her a pair of faded red squares of cloth, and she did as he said.
Wayland got up and rooted around in his pack, coming up with a pair of tattered jeans. “These are gonna be a might long and big around for you, but it’ll be better than going naked. I dug out a pair of socks, too, so your feet will have some cover. I don’t have anything for shoes.”
“Thank you. This is more than I expected. I’m sure you don’t plan on rescuing half-dead amnesiac women on the road.”
“It’s not an everyday occurrence, I’ll grant you that,” he said, that half-smile flashing across his face again, moving him almost partway to handsome. “Now get your britches on and let’s put this fire out. I’m going to get Mazy saddled up and we can ride.”
*****
Hours later, Wayland snapped the reins and clucked the horse to a stop. “Whoa, girl,” he said, his voice dry in the midday heat.
Liza stirred from where she drowsed against his back, then sat bolt upright. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing back away from him. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“It’s fine, little one,” Way chuckled. “But I need you to slide down now. Mazy needs to drink, and it wouldn’t hurt us to refill our canteens.”
The girl looked around, then peered around Wayland’s shoulder. “Where is she going to find a drink? I don’t see anything.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Wayland said. “Take my hand.” She did as he instructed. “Now sling one leg over Mazy’s rump and slide down.” She did, then immediately dropped to her knees in the sand.
Wayland dismounted and looked down at her, a kind smile reaching across his face. “Let me get this old girl unsaddled, and I’ll help you up. For now, just let your legs stretch out a bit. Ain’t nothing easy about your first long ride.” He loosened the cinch and pulled the saddle off his horse, then tossed it onto the dirt. He pulled the saddle blanket off and laid it on top of the saddle, then reached down for Liza’s hand.
She took it and stood, rubbing her thighs and grimacing with every small step. “Where are we going? I still don’t see anywhere to water the horse.”
“You won’t,” Wayland said. “You have to know it’s here.” He led the horse and the limping girl across the broken highway to a smooth patch of concrete and the last remaining wall of a ruined building. The small cinderblock building had crumbled through neglect or malice many years ago, but two four-foot high chunks of wall still rose in a rear corner, marking where the building once ended and the desert began. Now, the desert claimed the entire space, and just a few splintered blocks and a patch of cracked concrete floor marked it as a place of men. Wayland led them around to the back of the building, along the outside wall, and reached down to turn a small valve on a pipe that jutted out of the wall. The pipe coughed, sneezed a brown explosion of water, then after several seconds of spluttering muck across the ground, a steady trickle of clear water ran from the faucet.
“How in the world…?” Liza’s tone held wonder, and more than a little fear. “How did you find this?”
“I didn’t,” Way said, his voice soft. “Someone showed it to me, when I was a young man. He took me through the desert, and taught me the places where water still runs from the Time Before. There aren’t many, and they dry up faster and faster, but this one still has a few drops left for us.”
He knelt, passing his hands under the water and scrubbing them across his face. Lisa stood and watched as he filled his cupped hands once, twice, and sipped long draughts from the stream. “Now you,” he said, standing up. “Might be easier if you just fill the canteen.”
She looked at him, then, seeing no mockery in his face, knelt in front of the faucet. She rinsed her hands and face, then filled her canteen and stood. She sat on the top of the broken wall, sipping the water.
“Drink your fill,” Wayland said, pulling his hat off and placing it upside down on the ground, making a basin for the horse to drink from. He filled a canteen of his own, then stepped away so Mazy could drink from his hat. The horse stuck her head down into the stream, then backed away, spluttering and giving Way a nasty glare. “You know better, you glutton. If you wait until I turn the water off, you won’t get your nose soaked.”
Liza laughed, then looked around, as if surprised.
“What’s wrong?” Way asked.
“I don’t know…I guess it just feels like I don’t laugh very much.”
“You don’t have to lose your memory for that. Nobody laughs very much. Haven’t for a long time, from what I’ve read.” Wayland took another long swig from his jug, then reached down to turn off the water. Mazy ducked her head and started to drink from his hat, delicately keeping it from tipping over.
“She’s a very smart horse,” Liza said.
“She’s pretty extraordinary,” Way agreed. “I don’t say it often, at least not where she can hear it. I don’t want her to get the big head.” Mazy lifted her head to throw a baleful eye at the man, drawing another laugh from Liza.
“Is she…I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask.”
“Enhanced? No, she’s all horse, and all Earth-native, at least as far as I know. She’s just really smart is all. If we’re going somewhere we’ve been more than twice, I can just tell her where to go, and I can sleep in the saddle if I have to. Comes in handy if I’m hurt, too. More than one time I’ve passed out in the saddle and woke up in front of a doctor’s office or hospital. Took me a while to convince her that a vet wasn’t the best solution.” He laughed and looked down at the horse. “She’s a good girl. A good partner.”
“How long have you had her?”
“Almost ten years now. Ever since…” His voice trailed off and he took another drink. “Ever since her last rider, the Brother that mentored me, died.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?” She held up her hands as his face whipped around to her. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I was just making conversation. I don’t have a lot to contribute, since…” She gestured toward her head as if to remind him that she had no memories.
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “It’s just not something I talk about often. But I reckon we’ve got a fair bit of riding left to do, so let’s make sure all out canteens and waterskins are filled, and I’ll give you the whole sordid story once we’re back on the road.”
by john | Oct 20, 2017 | Evolution
My horror novel The Thing in the Woods would not exist if, one night when I was home from the University of Georgia sometime in 2006 or 2007, I hadn’t decided to swing by the East Cobb Borders. There I found a manual for the role-playing game Call of Cthulhu. Although I’m not a gamer I do appreciate the back-stories many games have and I am a big Lovecraft fan. I gave it a read and one of the possible scenarios was the suburbanization of the rural desolation where, in Lovecraft’s work, very bad things went down. The phrase “supernatural Love Canal,” a reference to the building of a planned community and in particular two schools atop an abandoned toxic-waste dump, came up.
That seemed like a good idea for a story, so I started developing one. Although my memory for the details is getting a little fuzzy I’d started writing it in May 2007, soon after I began work for The Griffin Daily News. It started out as a short story, but the tale grew in the telling. What ultimately became a novel is set in the fictional town of Edington, GA, located in the southern rim of Metro Atlanta. Although Griffin, McDonough, and Lovejoy are referenced as being separate towns located nearby, many details from those places made it into Thing. Edington has a Best Buy like McDonough, there’s a long north-south road with car dealerships on the northern end and middle-class neighborhoods located south of the main drag like in Griffin, and the Edington library resembles Griffin’s Flint River Regional Library. A Griffin official introduced me to the term “pipe farm” (an unfinished neighborhood with foundations and plumbing but no actual houses), something that was quite common during the Great Recession. Although I never saw a pipe farm in Griffin, I did see one while biking on the Forsyth County Greenway, and that imagery appeared in Thing as well.
The Thing in the Woods fell by the wayside as I focused on other projects and it sat dormant for years. However, when I was in graduate school at Georgia State University, I sat down and binge-wrote, at one point writing 4,000 words in a single day, and got that sucker done. I finished the first draft in very late 2013, with a writing-group meeting to discuss the finished product delayed by the big snowstorms that afflicted Atlanta in early 2014 and caused me to miss at least one or two classes at GSU. I was at the very tail end of working on my masters when I went to the 2015 World Horror Conference in Atlanta to pitch it to publishers, although I didn’t submit it to Digital Fiction Publishing, which ultimately published it, until sometime later.
So The Thing in the Woods began in college and finished in college, with my planned sequel The Atlanta Incursion taking place around Georgia State for good measure. One of my two undergraduate degrees is in history, as is my masters, and history plays a big deal in the story, so it’s appropriate.
by john | Oct 18, 2017 | Appearances, Business of publishing, How to Sell Books, Travel
Last time I talked about Industry Cons, like World Fantasy Con, World Horror Con, RWA Nationals, and other pro-centric cons. The greatest benefit of these cons is often the networking, as they are light on fan attendees and heavy on pros. They can be a great place to make or renew relationships, to meet people who can have a real impact on your career long-term, but you should never go into a conversation with someone just thinking about what they can do for you. That’s not networking, that’s being an asshole. Real networking, the kind that will actually do something for you, is relationship-building, making friends, being genuinely interested in what people are saying and doing, because people are generally pretty interesting. You will get more out of the favor you do for someone else than you ever will from asking for a favor. So just go hang out with people, meet them, and be nice. That will come back to you in spades over the long haul.
But this isn’t a blog post about networking, it’s a blog post about fandom cons. What I refer to as fandom cons are the heart and soul of science fiction and fantasy cons all over the US and the world. These are the small to mid=size cons that aren’t run by some giant media or entertainment company. They are cons with anywhere from 200 to 5,000 people in attendance, and they are generally non-profit organizations run by volunteers, or sometimes a very tiny paid staff. Usually people are paid in badges, hugs, and pizza.
These are honestly my favorite type of convention to attend, because they press a lot of buttons for me as far as things I enjoy doing. Fandom cons usually have a fair amount of programming, from panels and games to discussions and workshops. Being a pompous ass that I am, I love being on panels. When I’m feeling gracious about myself, which is most of the time, I tell myself and the world that I enjoy panels because it gives me the opportunity to pontificate and scratches the itch that I had when I used to want to be a teacher.
Don’t worry, I got over that one when I realized that my reflexive response to stupid statements by people in authority is to say “Go Fuck Yourself” loudly and often. I decided that reflex wasn’t conducive to a long teaching career, so I should either learn to shut my cake hole or look for a new career path. I chose to not shut my cake hole. Pretty much ever.
But anyway, fandom cons. They have a bunch of panels, and usually a dealer room or author’s alley, or some other opportunity for me to set up a table and sell books. So I get to sit on panels with people who are much smarter than me, make a few dick jokes, and then sell books after. Or maybe I get on a panel with people where I make valid points about the at hand and participate in a lively discussion. Or dick jokes. Either way.
Why do you want to be on panels? Shouldn’t you just rent a table in the dealer hall and sell books all day, every day? Well…remember Uncle John’s First Rule of Sales? Of course you don’t, because I almost never refer to myself as Uncle John (although I am an uncle, have been for 40 years at this point, and I have a lot of grey in my beard, so I may just begin referring to myself as such) and I’ve never codified this idea into a “rule,” at least not in writing.
Uncle John’s First Rule of Sales – People buy shit from people they like.
I know. Rocket science, right? Well, that’s why this is all free, and real sales courses cost a fuckton of money. I just realized that I swear more in blogs that I write while listening to Jason Isbell. He’s a goddamn genius, and frequently Wendig-level profane.
But the point of this is – if you’re on panels, you get to show off your sparkling personality o everyone in the room, and you get to show off what a smart writerly motherfucker you are. Don’t spend too much time talking about your book, though. That looks dickish, and like you’re just there to sell shit. You kinda are, but you are also there to answer the questions the moderator and audience bring to you. So unless your book really relates to the question, don’t mention it.
So yes, you want to get on panels. You want to get on panels, and be witty, or funny, or brilliant, or charming, or dazzling, or professional, or whatever pieces of all of those that make up your shtick. Then at the end of the panel, remind the audience that you have a table in the dealer room, or you have books in your briefcase, or you’re doing the Broad Universe reading at 7PM, or whatever. Give them a reminder to come see you, and to bring money when they do.
Fandom cons are also great places to make solid connections with people way up the food chain from you. Typically a small (500-3,000 attendees) will have 1-2 “name” guests, who get their hotel and travel paid for. These folks are usually award winners, best sellers, legends in the field, or all of the above. I’ve done very small conventions with Guests of Honor such as Rachel Caine, Joe Haldeman, Timothy Zahn, Ben Bova, Patrick Rothfuss, and many more. The size of the event and the fact that you’re there as a guest as well gives you a level of access that may be greater than most folk. And some folks just like hanging out. I sat in the bar listening to Joe Haldeman tell stories for several hours one night. I’d never met him before, and I was just an attendee at the con. I bought my badge just like every one else. George R.R. Martin is well-known as a lover of room parties, and a few years ago at ConCarolinas GRRM was in one room talking to fans at a room party, and in the room next door David Weber was chatting with fans at a different room party!
This does not happen as often at huge cons. It’s just harder to find folks. But that, as well as the ability to hang out with people in the bar or restaurant and get to know them, can create long-lasting friendships. There’s a group of 40 or so writers that endured what we often refer to as SweatFest, the year the FandomFest AC broke in Louisville, Kentucky in July. It was godawful. It was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever put up with. But I met some people that I have done business with ever since, and some of them are my dearest friends. Those kind of stories are why we do the fandom cons. They become a badge of honor, and a shorthand that people use to refer to events, and the relationships forged while sitting at a table next to someone in a deserted dealer room may not pay your hotel bill for the weekend, but you can certainly make some lifelong friends.
Just a few people that I met for the first time at Fandom cons –
Faith Hunter, Misty Massey, Emily Lavin Leverett, Sarah Joy Adams, Gail Z. Martin, David B. Coe, A.G. Carpenter, Nicole Givens Kurtz, Allan Gilbreath, Andrea Judy, Bobby Nash, Edmund Schubert, Natania Barron, Michael G. Williams, Tally Johnson, S.H. Roddey, Alexandra Christian, Kalayna Price, Rachel Caine, Laura Anne Gilman, Seanan McGuire, Brandon Sanderson, Patrick Rothfuss, Mike Stackpole, Eric Flint, Dr. Jerry Pournelle, Larry Niven, Timothy Zahn, Barbara Hambly, john Scalzi, Robin Hobb, Ernie Cline, Jim C. Hines, Cat Rambo, Kimberly Richardson, and the list goes on for hours. Some of these people I’ve hung out with, some I’ve published, some have edited with me, some have edited me, some have bought my books, some have sold me books, but every one of them I first met at a little fandom con.
That’s why I go to fandom cons. Because I meet amazing people.
by john | Oct 16, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Here’s the next chapter of that serialized thing I’m working on. Let me know what you think.
Chapter 1
She jerked awake, sitting bolt upright with her mouth wide open. Silent at first, she drew a breath to scream, but he was there with his hand pressed tight to her lips.
“That would be very bad,” he whispered. “There are things out there in the dark that I cannot save you from, cannot save myself from, either. So in order to keep us both alive long enough for me to answer your questions, you must be very quiet. Can you do that?”
She nodded. He took his hand from her mouth and moved a few feet away, far enough to let her feel less threatened but not so far away that she had room to escape, should that be on her mind. She looked around, at the rough campsite that was nothing more than his bedroll, the spare blankets and clothing he had scrabbled together for her, a small cookfire surrounded by rocks, banked to glowing embers and dug deep enough into the sand as to be invisible from more than a few feet away, and a metal pole jammed into the ground with a ring atop it. His horse was tied to the ring and stood staring at her, as if waiting to see if she was going to be interesting, or edible, or both.
Other than the three of them and his meager belongings, there was nothing to see but the night sky. The moon had set, or perhaps had yet to rise, and stars dotted the dark like some demented toddler had thrown a bucket of glitter into the blackness, with little clumps and streaks of shininess blinking overhead. The moon was down, but one of the blinking Voltarr motherships hung huge in the sky, too small to be a moon, but obviously too large and close to be a star. It could only be one of the orbiting homes of the invaders. Turning her head past each shoulder, the girl saw no lights in the distance to indicate the presence of a town or city, or even fires to show some sign that they weren’t the only people in the world.
She looked at him, sitting cross-legged by the fire. His wide-brimmed leather hat lay on the ground beside him, and he watched her with a steady gaze. His eyes, reflected flickering crimson in the dancing light of the cinders, tracked her every move like a wolf staring down a rabbit. His face was narrow, with chiseled jaw and cheekbones covered in greying stubble, and the creases in the corners of his eyes seemed like they came more from squinting against the sun that any tendency to smile.
“Wh-whe-“ she tried to speak, but couldn’t force the words out through sun-scorched and desert-parched throat. He tossed her a battered metal canteen, and she looked at it for a moment like she’d never seen such a thing, then twisted the cap off and took a sip. Clear water flowed over her teeth, quenching her mouth and throat. She gulped, raising the bottle higher and letting the glorious liquid dribble from the corners of her mouth and down her chin. She lowered the bottle from her lips and took a breath, then raised it again.
“Careful,” his whispered voice sliced the night like a razor, and she stopped, hand halfway to her lips, and stared at him.
“You’re dehydrated,” he said. “If you drink too much at one go you’ll throw up. Then you’ll be even more dehydrated, and I’ll be out a half day’s worth of water. I don’t think that’s something either of us wants.”
She looked back at the canteen in her hands, longing writ large on her face, but she screwed the cap back on and extended it to him.
“Keep it. You need to drink, just don’t drink the whole thing at once.”
She nodded and set the round canteen upright in the sand beside her, leaning it against her leg so it didn’t fall over.
“Where am I?” She asked.
He chuckled, an unexpected sound that rolled across her in the darkness and warmed her fingers and toes. “That’s an interesting question, miss. How do you want me to answer that? Do you need your location, because you were set upon by bandits, or reavers, or sand dogs and don’t remember how far you ran? Do you think you are dead, and this is Hell? Because you surely wouldn’t be the first to think that, although I must unfortunately notify you that we are most definitely alive, and this is no more Hell than a piece of Oklexas dirt can be, which I will acknowledge might be closer to Hell than I care to admit. Are you a Traveller? Which I doubt given that I found you with no tech and practically no clothes, much less anything to indicate you are from anywhere other than Earth. Or are you purely a creature of philosophy, and my correct answer would be ‘here?’”
The girl stared at him for a moment, then took another small drink of water. “Could we start with the first one, please?”
The man laughed an almost silent laugh, then said “We are currently four days’ ride west of Amarillo on the edge of northern Oklexas. I was planning on crossing into Nueva España tomorrow morning and heading to Albuquerque from there, but you might be throwing a little wrench into that plan.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said, and he realized for the first time that she was very young, or at least very innocent. He struck a few options off his mental list of things that may have brought the young woman out into the wilderness on her own, and this raised even more questions.
He stared at her across the fire, his one spare shirt swallowing her gaunt form. The rag she wore as a shift fell almost to dust when he picked her up and tossed her across Mazy’s back to carry her to camp, so when he found a spot he thought looked defensible enough to make camp for the night, he dressed the scratches on her back and stomach, put aloe cream all over her face and arms, and wrapped her in his spare shirt. Now he could see how small she was, how slim her figure, stirring emotions in him he thought were long dead. Not lust, no, she was too young for him that way. Just…feelings.
“Where are you going?” She asked.
“I might ask you the same thing,” he replied. “But let’s start with the less important things. What’s your name, child? I’m Brother Wayland.”
“Are you some kind of priest?”
“Some kind,” he chuckled. “I’m a Brother of the Gun.”
She looked blank. “I don’t know what that means, I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t really seem to know anything.” Her brow knit and she closed her eyes. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what a Brother of the Gun is, I don’t even know my name. I don’t know anything!” Her voice climbed in pitch and volume as she spoke, so Wayland moved to her side.
He put an arm around her, and she clutched at him, trembling. Way felt her ribs through the shirt, reached inside his pocket for a handkerchief, and passed it to the girl. She took it, dabbed at her eyes, then wiped her nose and held it out to him.
“Keep it,” he said, hiding his smile in the darkness. “If you really can’t remember who you are, it might not be the last time you find yourself in need.”
“What is a Brother of the Gun?” she asked again when she had herself more composed.
Wayland fixed her in place with his steady gaze. His eyes were cold, light grey like sun-bleached steel, and spoke of long days in the saddle. “We help people. We deliver justice in places where there often is none, and we offer protection to those who would otherwise be defenseless.” The words sounded old, like something memorized long ago, but also heartfelt. Brother Wayland meant what he said.
The girl sat, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She looked across the fire at Wayland. “So who am I?” Her voice trembled a little, but she didn’t cry. The bulging muscles along her jaw told of the effort that required, but she held her emotions more tightly than she clutched her knees against the cool desert air.
“I have no idea.”
“Why am I here?”
“This is as far as I could carry you from where I found you.”
“Carry me?”
“You were laying out there in the desert, half-covered up in sand and scorched from being out there for at least a couple days. I found you, and brought you here. I thought to put you on Mazy and take you on to Nueva España with me, but you ain’t got the strength to ride yet. So here we are.”
She looked at him, fire kissing his jawline and painting him orange and yellow. He had a strong jaw, a narrow face, and a short beard. Mostly brown, but with a few touches of grey popping through to catch the firelight different. “I…thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet, little one. It won’t take much time in the sun for you to realize I didn’t do you any favors keeping you alive, and if some of the predators in the night get ahold of you, well…then I reckon I’ll have done us both a disservice.” He scooted away from her, creating space between her bare leg and his denim-clad one.
The girl picked up her canteen and looked across the top of it at Wayland. “You said I…threw a wrench in your plan. What does that mean?”
Way looked at the girl, her wide eyes, dirt-crusted hair and sunburned face. There was no hint of irony or guile in her. She honestly didn’t have any idea what he meant by the common expression. “Well, I reckon I meant that since you can’t ride yet, or couldn’t at least, that I probably won’t get to Albuquerque in three days like I expected to. That, coupled with the fact that I only carried water for one, means that I’m going to have to some refiguring of my plans to keep us both alive long enough to get anywhere that’s anywhere. As opposed to here,” he said, gesturing to the wide expanse of empty desert. “Which is about as close to nowhere as anything I can imagine.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said. Her voice was thready, weak, as if she could barely move enough air to cause a sound. Way couldn’t tell if she was trying to keep quiet, or was just that broken down by whatever left her lying under the sand.
“Don’t be. I couldn’t just leave you there to die. Nobody would do that.” He didn’t bother to tell the child that a fair number of somebodies had obviously done just that. The road between Amarillo and Albuquerque wasn’t heavily traveled, but Way had met at least a half dozen riders or wagons since he’d left the last outpost in Oklexas. At least some of them had to have ridden right by the child lying by the roadside, slowly being bleached to bone in the scorching sun.
“Then thank you,” she said, stronger this time. “I…I think I need to pee.”
Wayland waved his hand off to the right. “It’s pretty safe as long as you stay within sight of the fire. I have no interest in watching you relieve yourself, so you don’t have to fear me peeking.”
She stood, legs wobbly, and Wayland scrambled to his feet to help her stay upright. After a minute, she took a tenuous step forward, holding her arms out to the side for balance. Way held her elbow to steady her, and after a few more shaky steps, she shook him off. “I think I’m fine now.”
“I think you’re a long way from fine, child, but I reckon as how you can manage to go to the bathroom by yourself. Call out if you fall or need help.”
“I thought you said things out there would hear me?”
“They might, but that’s a sight better than something finding you out there helpless. And I don’t have a light, so I won’t be able to find you without some kind of help.” He watched as she walked out of the circle of firelight, wobbly at first, but gaining confidence with each step. Way went over to his pack and pulled out a few strips of jerky, tearing a hunk off one and chewing it as he stared out into the night.
Who was this child?
What was this child?
What did it mean, finding her out here like this? It all means something, it always did,
What kind of Hell was he calling down upon his head, helping her?
by john | Oct 11, 2017 | Real Life
I know, it’s Wednesday. I know, this is when I’m supposed to do a How to Sell More Books Blog Post.
We’ll get back to that next week. This is more important. One of my best friends had a kid, and he’s got some health issues. This is your chance to get rewarded for helping somebody out.
Wesley’s Story
See that cute little bastard in the photo? That’s my little buddy Wesley. He’s my friends Rich and Kat’s kid, and he need a new liver. Now, I know, a lot of us need new livers, but that’s because of our poor life decisions. Wesley hasn’t had time to make any shitty life choices yet, so he needs a hand. If you could find it in yourself to donate something to Wesley’s transplant fund, I’d really appreciate it.
I’ll even sweeten the pot.
Donate $5 – I’ll send you an ebook of Redemption Song, my Quincy Harker Short Story
Donate $10 – I’ll send you an ebook of Amazing Grace, my new novel release.
Donate $20 – I’ll send you your choice of collected Harker or Bubba ebook (Year 1, Year 2, Year 3, you get the idea).
Donate $50 – I’ll name a faerie after you in the Bubba book I’m working on right now. Plus choose an ebook reward from a lower tier.
Donate $100 – I’ll name the big monster of this Bubba book after you. Plus choose an ebook reward from a lower tier.
Donate $250 – I’ll send you, anywhere in the world, a signed hardback first edition (you can tell it’s a first edition because there’s a typo on the back cover! There were only two of these ever printed) of Harker Year One. This is a limited offer of ONE. UPDATE – This reward is already gone, because people are AWESOME! But don’t let that stop you from giving. I’ll come up with something excellent for you, I promise!
You can also just donate without asking for anything in return. Tell me about it when I see you, and I’ll give you a big-ass hug.
If you choose to donate, please email your receipt to me – john AT johnhartness.com, so I know you did a cool thing.
Thanks, and feel free to share. We’ll get back to our regularly scheduled pimping and promotion soon, but for now, I wanted to try and help a Junior Adventurer.
