Author or Salesman part II: How to show an author love…

Posted on February 16, 2015 by Sean T. Smith

We writers are an odd breed. We drink coffee into the wee hours, hunched over computers in small rooms and carved out spaces, getting up early to work day jobs and burning our candle at both ends. We leave our blood and heart on the page, dreaming characters, plot, and conjuring worlds in our minds. That’s the fun part, the creating, the honing, the story-telling. At some point, we set our work free to roam cyberspace, hoping that someone reads it and feels something true.

After it’s live on Amazon, then comes the anguished part of the process. We log onto our author page and check our sales rank, and we look for reviews. Good reviews make our day, and a bad review can cast a pall over a week. I’ve been told many times not to read bad reviews, but it hasn’t stuck yet. I read them, and I try to learn something from them. The general thinking amongst the author community is that 4 and 5 star reviews are good, and anything less is bad. Potential readers will often read the negative reviews, too, looking for a common thread. Also those 3 stars tend to give a little more credibility to the other reviews on the page. It’s a numbers game; the more reviews an author gets, the more books he or she is going to sell.

Indie authors must promote themselves, which is a nuisance for both the writer and for their friends, who grow weary of chest-thumping and begging and pleading. Writers don’t like doing it and people generally don’t like to hear about it. I understand. I apologize. There is no other way, unfortunately, for a writer to break out among the millions of other voices, attempting to be heard. So we blog, and we tweet, we Facebook, we Google Plus, we join groups on Linkdin and we post on Tumblir and Instagram, doing what the industry people who are far more savvy at marketing call “building your brand,” and equally important, “building your platform.”

An author’s brand is essential. If someone says, “I’m about to read a Tom Clancy book,” I know what they’re talking about. Clancy built a brilliant brand of military techno-thrillers. The brand is the author’s name in association with the books he or she writes.The reader has a certain expectation of the kind of book the novelist has produced, and will decide to buy based upon that prior knowledge.

The platform is just as important, if not more so. An author’s platform is how we are able to reach people. Social Media is the foundation of this platform, but it also includes book signings, radio show appearances, press releases, networking with other writers, and anything else we can dream up to find readers. For new authors, it’s maddeningly difficult to build a platform.

As a relatively new novelist, I’m familiar with these woes. There is the feeling of a tree falling in snowy woods when a book is released. A muffled, quiet sound at best. My publisher is a big believer in “soft releases” which lead to a “long tail.” I’ve not yet quite figured out exactly what that means. I guess that the hope is word of mouth makes a novel or a series take off, and this takes a long time. In the meantime, authors have to keep writing, keep producing, not relying on one book or three.

Here’s where our friends are so important.

If you’ve got a friend or family member is an author, please buy their books. (Hence the begging!) For less than the price of a Starbucks Latte, you get eight hours of serious entertainment. Less than the price of a movie ticket. And folks, the book is always better than the movie.

After you read the books, please leave honest reviews. (more with the begging.) Reviews matter because they drive sales. The more reviews we receive, the more Amazon does it’s thing promoting our books to a wider audience. We’re more likely to qualify for promotional tools like Bookbub, which can potentially make or break a novel. I know it’s a pain to log back onto Amazon and crank out a review. But it really makes a difference to all of us who are striving to entertain a wider audience, those of us who dream of quitting that day job and sitting down at the computer both during the day and in the middle of the night.

If you enjoyed the book, tell people about it! Share a post every now and then, pass out a business card, or simply mention the book if you’re having a conversation about books. If you’re in a book club, throw it in the ring. People listen to what you have to say, and that word of mouth recommendation is crucial. It means more to us than you know.

No one told me I had to be a writer, no one insisted that being an author was the only right path for me, and that’s how it is for all of us, we crazy writer folk. We chose this path because we felt drawn to words, this need to create, and deep down we believe that we have something worthy to say, and emotion to impart. Whether it’s pure entertainment or something profound, we want to move people.

If we have moved you, please leave us reviews! And you will have succeeded in moving us.

amazon.com/author/seantsmith

understand.

Am I an author or a salesman?

Posted on February 3, 2015 by Sean T. Smith

I’ve spent more than twenty years as a writer who bangs on doors. Literally knocking on doors in neighborhoods like a vacuum cleaner salesman of old, while figuratively attempting to break into the publishing business, sending out manuscripts and queries, song demos and attending parties thrown for other people. I’ve stayed up all night, pounding out the words and the melody, believing that one day, someone might hear something I wrote and it might matter to them in some way. A smile, a tear, a memory, a truth. The next morning, I’m grinning and pretending to be impervious to the nasty looks from folks who don’t want to see me shivering on their front porch in the pouring down rain.

When I signed my first publishing contract for a song, I thought my ship had come in. I was wrong, two decades ago. When I signed a three-book publishing contract, I believed that at last, the tide had turned in my favor. That was two years ago. I was knocking on doors about an hour ago. Sad but true.

One would think that a career in sales would be helpful to launching a book, utilizing lessons hard won for a higher purpose. Nope. Not for me, at least. Because the thing is, I hate sales. Always have. I enjoyed the freedom of setting my own hours and a reasonable standard of living, although in recent years that has declined with a direct correlation to the number of hours I spend writing novels and thinking about plot and wishing I wasn’t ringing somebody’s doorbell.

I hope I’m a better writer than salesman. The trouble is, to make a living writing, an author has to sell. People have to know what we have to offer, must see the need for that product, and then make the decision to purchase it, that wonderful click on Amazon. I hate to think of it in those terms. I’d rather believe that it’s something other than that, but that’s what it is.That’s not to say that the quality of the next great American novel isn’t important. Every now and then, there is a story about a writer who rockets to well deserved stardom and acclaim because whatever she wrote was so good it couldn’t be denied.I love those stories.

I used to believe in the theory that the “cream will rise to the top.” But I’ve known too many killer songwriters who died unknown and destitute, read countless brilliant books by obscure authors, while watching hordes flock to the Kardashians and Fifty Shades of Gray and listen to country-rap music. (Oxymoron) Yet all of those things are hugely successful. The creators of those endeavors birthed empires from vapor, and that’s some damn good salesmanship. The thing is to sell something that people want to buy, and let them know it’s there. I’ve struggled with that concept for as long as I’ve been writing and selling, and for me there has been a dichotomy. Writing is writing. Selling is selling. I want to write true, but I also want to make a living. I hope the two aren’t mutually exclusive for me. I’m still dreaming, still believing, writing hard and close to the bone.

I’ve got three book releases this week, and I’m a crummy salesman. If you read my books, I think you will smile, perhaps cry, and certainly be transported to places you’ve never been. I’d consider it a kindness if you’d “click.”

For the most part, what a salesman hears is “I’m not interested.” I hear it every day, and it wears me out now more than it did only a few years ago.

Three Releases this week!

Posted on February 1, 2015 by Sean T. Smith

In a cool confluence of events, I’ve got three releases going live on Amazon this week. The conclusion to the Wrath trilogy, Wrath and Redemption is available for pre-order now, and will be available on Feb. 3. In this sweeping finale, readers will get a better sense of what has happened beyond the United States in the years following The Fall. From the Saharan desert to Siberian tundra and the streets of Rome, the Foxes struggle to keep evil at bay. In this novel, Crystal is actually one of my viewpoint characters, along with Russian general Leo Petrovitch, Ryder, who is now full grown, and of course, William Fox. It was hard leaving these characters and this world behind, but I think this book wraps the series up nicely.

Also releasing on Tuesday Feb. 3 is my novella Sunshine Patriots, set in Stephen Konkoly’s newly minted Perseid Collapse Kindle World. Following an EMP attack by China, the eastern United States is hurting. A family still reeling from loss finds themselves under attack and fights to survive, from the sweltering FEMA camps to the mangrove swamps of the Florida Keys. This is a page-turner, I think, and very fast paced. I’m deeply honored that Steve invited me to be a part of this project, which features some of the best post-apocalyptic writers in the business.

The third release is a horror anthology, At Hell’s Gates (volume 2), which features a short story I wrote a few years ago. The great thing about this collection of short stories is that all of the proceeds go to benefit the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund, a great charity that helps veterans and their families. There are some fantastic stories in this book, written by some top indie horror writers. My contribution is a weird science-fiction piece about a castaway on a far-flung planet.

I’ve got a fourth full length novel which I plan to publish sometime this spring, The Tears of Abraham, which is about the next American Civil War. Finally, my story Fate of the Fallen, which follows the life of Malak, an angel who has lived and died many times for the last two thousand years, unique in that he posses free will and limited power will come out sometime soon, as well. I plan to release a series of three novellas about Malak, as he struggles to stave off Armageddon. I’m staying busy!

To all my readers, thank you for reading my work! I look forward to exploring new worlds together. I hope you’ll leave me an honest review on Amazon, because that really helps.

Sunshine Patriots… Cover Reveal

Posted on January 29, 2015 by Sean T. Smith

Sunshine Patriots is set in Steven Konkoly’s Perseid Collapse Kindle World, launching Feb. 3. I’m honored to be a part of Steve’s project and a stellar team of post-apocalyptic authors.

Retired Army Ranger John Goodwin and his two daughters fight for their lives from sweltering FEMA camps to the mangrove swamps of the Florida Keys. As the massive federal relief effort triggers conflict between freedom and order, a family still reeling from loss finds themselves under attack. Can Alexandria find hope when all hope seems lost? Can John destroy his enemies and save his children without losing himself? After the Event, nothing is certain.

Fans of the Wrath series will recognize my favorite themes in this novella… evil, faith, and family in peril. And of course, plenty of rounds zipping through the air!

Children of Wrath by Sean T. Smith | The Bookie Monster

Posted on September 30, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

Children of Wrath by Sean T. Smith | The Bookie Monster.

To Simply Be… A writer looks at fifty

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I’ve struggled for decades to be happy. It’s a character flaw, and while sometimes I believe this makes me a better writer, I think at the end of the day, at the end of a lifetime, it means I’ve missed much, moments of contentment when I could simply be. I’ve been poor, and raged against the poverty, and let chances slip away. I’ve been fairly well off, and then there was always something else… the desire to have children, the yearning for recognition and success at another level. Always living with the feeling I’m missing some vital piece, which if I could obtain, would make me whole at last, make me smile down deep in my soul.

Maybe with the recognition of it, I can change on a fundamental level, but this flaw runs deep. I am blessed with wonderful children, and when I walked home alone from the bus stop a few minutes ago, the sun bright and the air cool, missing my boys already, I began to reflect on this thing within me. How it will feel in the not so distant future to be me.

When the swing set is silent and rusted and I am grey, when the patter of little feet no longer graces my life and the light in my eyes grows dim and I have those memories and pictures, what is it I will recall? How will I feel on those mornings, drinking a cup of coffee at my desk and staring at a computer screen and bleeding onto the page, remembering the things I should have paid better attention to in those fleeting moments, the things that matter. Trying to get the memory right.

My five year old coming to me with a Bernstein Bears book for his bed time story, happy and shining with pure love for me, a love I can never deserve because it is so true. Holding my baby, his head in the palm of my had because he is no longer than my forearm, dancing around the living room at three o’clock in the morning with him to sooth him back to sleep while Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons plays on the radio, and I am sleep deprived and worried about getting to work on time the next morning, but still dancing, still infused with a sense of wonder at this life I hold in my hands. My boys, the oldest ten now, decked out in army gear, complete with helmets, load bearing vests, holsters and assault rifles, running around the house shooting the attacking Russian zombie horde. In a year or two, he’ll be too old for that, and I miss it already.

Walking through the woods as a family, a tiny hand in mine, questions about the trees and wildlife, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy of Live Oaks and Spanish Moss and the air fresh and cool and golden. Such joy, such fleeting perfection.

Christmas morning, together with grandparents, all still with us now, the excitement electric in the air to see what Santa brought, toys and paper flying all over the floor beneath the tree, laughter sweet music. But was exhausted, stressed about money, tired of long days working in the cold and the rain, and I did not let that music in me the way I should have, not in a way that fills the soul. Looking back on it, it fills me and brings tears to my eyes, but when it was happening, I did not appreciate it enough.

There will always be another thing. A better job, a nicer car, keeping the lights on, selling more books, writing a masterpiece, drama with jerks, stormy weather, and bad traffic. Somewhere along the way, even the joy of writing itself has been dampened by the need to promote, to sell, to succeed. I resolve to do my part, but I am sure I can’t do it alone.

I’ve got a God-shaped hole, and the only way to find true, lasting happiness is to fill that with Him. Unless I do that, the world will forever be bereft of its proper color, faded and less vibrant.

When I look back years from now, I want to remember things as they were, not as I wish they had been. I’ve still got a chance at happiness, and it’s time I start living.

Keeping the darkness at bay… Thank you, men and women who serve.

Posted on September 4, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I write military, survivalist fiction, yet I have never worn the uniform. My deepest gratitude goes out to those men and women with the guts to go to the darkest places in the world, braving gunfire and bombs, blazing heat and freezing cold, and separation from loved ones. You folks are keeping our country safe, while I’m sitting at home in front of a laptop in my pajamas.

I almost joined the military twice. The first time was back in college. I took the ASFAB, and I was gung-ho. I thought it would be a great way to gain some discipline and pay for college. I ended up joining (this is really sad) because my girlfriend was going to go through basic with me, and then onto MP school. She didn’t meet the height requirement. The recruiter, who was a genuinely nice man, competent and I’m guessing an outstanding soldier, slayed me with the look of disappointment when I told him I was backing out.

The second time I almost joined was about a week after 9-11. I’d been living in Nashville, and until then believed that evil was more of a concoction by the military industrial complex than a reality which would come stalking U.S. citizens here at home. When the towers fell, I wept. I was stunned by this evidence of evil unchecked, and it was a feeling of violation that I think almost every American felt. I wanted to do something about it. I felt I should act.

I didn’t, though. I thought about it and I made some phone calls, and one day I wandered into a Marine Corps recruiting office. I was already past thirty, and the guys looked at me like I was nuts. They took me about as seriously as I did, I guess. It was justified, because I did not have the balls to go ahead and enlist.

I like to think I’m tougher than I actually am. When I see American citizens getting beheaded on the news by these ISIS lunatics, I think, okay, lets go to war. Let’s blow them off the map, because that kind of evil has to be stopped.

But that’s easy for me to say and decide, when I’ve got nothing at stake. I don’t have a child ready to ship out, a brother waiting on his third deployment. I’m not writing a will and a note to leave for my wife in the event of my death someplace in the sand.

I told my wife last week that if I were younger, I’d enlist right now, being outraged at the atrocities taking place in the Middle East. I realized later what a stupid thing to say that was. I’m angry, but I’m not that guy, the soldier on the wall while the enemy storms the gates. I write about heroes, but I am not one.

So it is with great humility I say thanks to all of you who have the intestinal fortitude to risk your lives for your country. I am in your debt. You folks are heroes.

Top Ten books that have impacted me…

Posted on August 30, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I own about two thousand books, and I’ve read a whole lot more, so making a list like this is a real challenge for me, narrowing it down. There are hundreds of books that I love and have read more than once that don’t make the list, because even though I enjoyed them, nothing in me changed from the reading of them. I’m not including the Bible in this list, being that it is actually sixty-six books.

1. East of Eden, by John Steinbeck.

This is my favorite book by my favorite author. This book propelled me to begin writing fiction, after I read it for a second time. I love the scope of the novel, the themes of light and darkness, and the hopeful tone of this towering work. Nobody writes a paragraph the way Steinbeck does. His words sing to me.When I read the book for the third time, I was so utterly humbled that i considered not writing any more, because I could see I would never attain that level of excellence no matter how long I strove to perfect my craft.

2. David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens.

I read this one in Junior High for the first time, and Copperfield was the first character I read as a kid that I completely identified with and rooted for. Uriah Heep was loathsome, terrible, and surly and I had to keep reading to see him defeated. I read it again back in college, and the love story appealed to me more then, and the arc of character development. Dickens, like Steinbeck, is a master of the paragraph, with ornate descriptions and a cadence and music to his language.

3. A Farewell To Arms, by Ernest Hemingway

This book made me fall in love with Hemingway’s writing, although the ending made me want to hurl my paperback across the room. I read this one in my early twenties, and it led to a Hemingway binge. I devoured everything, from his brilliant short stories like The Green Hills of Africa and A Clean, Well Lighted Place, to another of my favorites, To Have and Have Not. Hemingway’s dialogue slays me, the way he can convey a tremendous amount of information and emotion in so few words. His use of metaphor and simile, and lean style appeal to me, although he and Steinbeck are almost opposites, Hemingway sparse, with much in between the lines, while Steinbeck is prone to longer sentences, and flowery descriptions. I reread To Have and Have Not last year, and I couldn’t write for a week because Papa is just so damn good.

4. Lucifer’s Hammer, by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.

My father read this out loud to our family when I was in Junior High. (He read to us almost every night. He was in law school at the time and had abolished the television. The stories he read were infinitely better than the Dukes of Hazzard and whatever else was on back then. Anyway, Lucifer’s Hammer felt real, a nightmare which could actually occur with almost no warning. The book is full of darkness, but of course, in the end it’s about community and the triumph of the human spirit, and these are themes that I will always be drawn to and fascinated by. Reading this book led to discussions about what we would do in the event of the apocalypse. And that, way back then, was formative in my own writing. I write apocalyptic literature in large part because of those discussions we had as a family back in the early eighties. The idea of a societal breakdown, and the chance to get it right the next time around, despite the hardship and death, is intriguing to me.

5. A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving.

I read Irving for the first time back in my songwriting days in Nashville. His books were so good, I felt compelled to write a paper about them, just for the heck of it, and because I am truly a nerd. Irving’s language is reminiscent of Dickens, a more modern version of it, and his characters are unique, nuanced, and lovable despite their flaws. This is my favorite book by Irving, though I loved The World According to Garp and Cider House Rules, as well. Owen Meany has a kind of light about it, a sense of wonder, that I enjoyed.

6. The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien.

This is the best book about war I’ve ever read, and I’ve read hundreds. O’Brien should have won the Pulitzer for this one, although he did receive a great deal of acclaim at the time. It’s one of the definitive books about the Vietnam war, written by someone who served in the infantry. O’Brien is brilliant, his language masterful, his characters quirky and memorable, the action scenes intense and visceral. I read this book just last year for the first time, after somehow missing it. I read it in a day, then read it again about a week later because it is that good. The structure of the story is complex, and the story packs a tremendous emotional punch. If you haven’t read this one, I can’t recommend it highly enough.

7. War, by Sebastian Junger

Junger is a journalist, and has been embeded with American troops in Afghanistan and Iraq. This novel is the true story of soldiers at a remote outpost, high in the mountains of Afghanistan. Junger is a fine writer, his prose is lean and taut, and he transports the reader to another world with this incredible book.

8. Dune, by Frank Herbert

This sprawling saga made me believe that science fiction could also be literature. The scope and intensity of this book left me dying to read the next one. The first three Dune Books stand apart in my mind, ambitious, risky, and compelling. Herbert’s world-building is second to none. I haven’t read these books in more than a decade. I might put them on my list again this year. Paul Maudib is one of my all time favorite protagonists.

9. The Lord of The Rings, by J R.R. Tolkein.

Because I’m a nerd, and reading these books, I’m in nerd heaven. I don’t know how many times I’ve read the series or watched the films, but I’ve spent many a snowy day or sweltering afternoon reading these books, and it’s always like seeing an old friend I’ve not seen in too long. We pick up right where we left off, and remember why we were friends in the first place.

10. Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry

I was never a fan of westerns, and I’m still not really a fan of the genre. I make an exception for Lonesome Dove, and anything by McMurtry. My father gave me this book for Christmas a few years ago, and I flew through it, and then the sequels, and then everything else McMurtry had written. He won the Pulitzer for the novel back in ’85, and he deserved it. This isn’t just a western, it’s a masterpiece. His descriptions and love of the landscape ring from the page, and his heroes are some of the best in fiction of any kind. Alex and Gus are my heroes, and although I’ve never met them, I feel like I know them.

Sneak Peek, Angels of Wrath series

Posted on July 8, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

Angel of The Fall will be released in 2015 from Permuted Press, the first novel in a spin-off trilogy from the first Wrath series. I’m going to be very busy!

The main character, Malack, is an actual angel of the Lord, a deeply flawed character who desperately wants to see mankind avoid its own inevitable destruction. In the first novel, Mal tries to stop the next world war the world will come to call The Fall, while he remembers his long path through history. He has been a warrior, a recluse, and a monk. He struggles to understand his own destiny.

Here’s a sneak peek…

Chapter One

Past

The first death hurt the most. He was only an hour old when he died, and he did not know his nature yet. His demise was preceded by the worst thing he would ever see, the worst thing anyone could see.

Malack opened his eyes for the first time on a sun scorched rocky hillside to blinding light and the sound of hammering and cheering and wailing. He wore tattered robes and a scruffy beard, with sandals on his feet. He possessed no memories, no sense of context as he trudged up that hill toward the sounds.

Where am I? Who Am I?

He knew how to walk and form thoughts, though he did not yet understand how he knew these things. It was hot, and somehow he comprehended this, the knowledge of hot and cold. He wondered how, and puzzled how he knew enough to wonder.

He picked his way in the direction of the commotion. A walled city sprawled behind him. Smoke snaked from chimneys, armored soldiers glittered in the harsh light, and the air tasted wrong and despaired. More cheering up the hill.

With each step, Mal felt purpose and awareness building in his chest. It was a terrible fury and fear, urgency mixed with anguish. He quickened his pace, ignoring smashed shins and toes, reckless with the need to act. He did not know why he felt these things, only that there was no denying the impulse.

He crested the hill. One rise away, three men hung nailed to wooden crosses. Mal was too far away to make out the details, though over the next two thousand years he would relive every one. The taste of the rock, the scent of his own sweat, and the cries of the crowd would be with him for millenia. His heart hammered and his head throbbed and the crowd roared. He felt something akin to hunger, a kind of pressure pent up in his chest demanding release.
He sprinted up the opposite slope, not knowing precisely what do do, but certain of the need to strike and defend.

And then there were Roman soldiers.

“Where do you think you’re going, Jew?”

Mal understood the words, though he did not ponder this because he had no time.

“Make them stop,” Mal gasped. His voice felt as wrong as the air and the light.

The soldier smashed Malack in the stomach with an angry fist, followed by a kick to the face. He dragged Mal up the hill by the hair.

“I hate Jews,” the soldier said. “Troublemakers.”

“Ugh,” Mal coughed at the second blow. He’d never been struck before. He did not know how to strike back, so he took it. He hurt, and this, like everything else, was new to him. The soldiers beat him with casual vigor, in no particular hurry. They chuckled while Mal crawled forward, blinded by blood, his face caked with tiny pebbles. He clawed in the direction of the next hill, fingernails torn and raw. He felt a sharp blow to the back of his skull, and his vision blurred and narrowed to a dark tunnel.

“So much for your king,” one of them said.

A soldier yanked Malack by the hair, pulling him up to his knees, and forcing to watch a spear pierce of of the men nailed to a cross. The crowd erupted in a cacophony of cries, euphoria and despair at war on the wind.

Mal raged and trembled and something tore in his soul, and he felt an electric connection to a weeping, convulsing universe. Then there was hot steel on his throat, and that was the first time Malack died.

Malack would spend centuries struggling to understand that a hero is not necessarily the hero of his own life. Throughout his many lives, he would battle his own demons of anger and guilt, along with very real demons who walked the earth. His path was long, rocky, and mean. He would be a monk and a recluse, but above all, a warrior. It would be over two thousand years before he would have the answers he craved.

Chapter Two
present

“This interview is being recorded,” said the American in a tired suit. Sweat stains peeked from around his armpits as he bent to pick up a manila envelope, which he dropped loudly onto the desk.

“You have no rights. You gave up your rights when you decided to become a terrorist. You may call me John. If you cooperate with me, things will go better for you. Now. State your name.”

“I have had many names. You may call me Mal.”

Clad in an orange jumpsuit and shackled to a steel chair at his wrists and ankles, Mal smiled serenely. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and his beard was unkempt; his body ached from the repeated beatings delivered by the Saudi Secret Police. They were seated across from one another at a desk in the center of a sad concrete room illuminated by a single harsh light bulb. Mal shifted his heavily muscled frame in an awkward attempt to both convey his earnestness and also relieve the pressure on his lower back.

“I have nothing to hide,” he said. He’s a low level CIA operative, most likely. Maybe NSA.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” John said. Malack chuckled at that.

“Does this amuse you?” John asked tersely, raising his eyebrows.

“You hate this posting don’t you?” Mal shook his head slowly. “Tell me. Was it politics that landed you here or did you do something truly incompetent? It must be one or the other.”

Mal was reasonably certain that he was still in Quatif, located in the northern part of the Eastern Saudi Arabian province. Heat hung in the city in a way that got into your pores and then multiplied. It lingered like a stain upon the land, hovering just beyond the next breath and refused to be banished by nightfall. It was unrelenting. The locals here were as hostile to the westerners as the climate.

“See, you’re something of an enigma,” John said. “You are not on any watch lists. In fact, you seem to not exist. Your skills and lack of history smack of a state intelligence agency. You work for someone. Who? Are you with the Israelis? Massad?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Malack replied.

“Why did you attack the Prince?”

“Because he’s been funding terrorists right under your nose. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”

“The Saudis are our allies. Your attack did nothing but destabilize the region.”

Mal laughed. “A bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Who do you work for?”

“I work for no man, no government.”

The interrogator who said his name was John produced a plastic case with several syringes inside. “First we’ll try this, give you some time to think. Then we’ll get more creative. You know how these things go, Mal. You might as well accept the fact you’ll never see the light of day again.

“Why don’t you just execute me?” That would make things easier.

“Despite the rumors, we don’t work that way.” John stuck a needle into Mal’s bicep, cocking his head, an almost friendly look on his face. “Sweet dreams,” he said.

Writing is a triathlon

Aside

My first thought when I see the Iron Man Triathlon on television is, “why would anyone want to do that?” Physically, even when I was in the best condition of my life, I could not have done it, although if I’d trained hard enough, maybe, just maybe, I could have pulled it off. Mentally, though? Nope. I’d better figure it out now, though.

My first novel is finally out on the Amazon and Barnes and Noble websites. I woke up the next day still me, with no unicorns and rainbows shooting from my eyes. I am grateful, humbled, apprehensive, and proud all at the same time. I know I still have much to learn. I am dedicated to continue to improve my craft and undertake the work it will entail.

The business side of publishing is daunting and bewildering, and a part of me wants to just make it disappear. Shut my eyes like a four year old and it’s not there anymore. I’ve been focused on writing and ignored the marketing and promotional side of things, which is very dangerous if you want to make a living as a writer. On the other hand, I don’t ever want to become “that guy,” the one who spams with relentless ferocity until people want to shoot him in the throat. So I won’t be doing that.

Writing books is more like a triathlon than a sprint. There is the storytelling side of it, which is the most fun. That’s where the ideas come flowing out, and they are still shiny and new and you get to pick and choose. It’s an organic thing, even if you are a plotter and you are working on an outline. The story comes out and it is glorious. Then comes the writing, which is where the words on the page come out. It’s not quite the same as storytelling, although it can be a part of the process. You have to worry about voice, pacing, syntax and word choice. The writing is a blast, too, though. Not quite as free-wheeling as the storytelling, yet more satisfying because the characters, conflicts and settings are coming to life as you churn out the words. And then there is the marketing and promotion, which to most writers, including me, is less than fun. That last leg of the race is painful, crucial, and long. It seems to demand I utilize muscles I don’t really want to use as a writer. It’s running a marathon when you’re already exhausted, and it’s the difference between .