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!

What Things Here Lie Broken?

Posted on January 4, 2015 by Sean T. Smith

Broken

What things here lie broken?

God, where do I begin

A window, the couch, the roof on this house

Beyond my means to mend

Discarded and forgotten

falling sad apart

A toy, her phone, the car, our home

four aching hearts

What here lies broken?

lives and hopes and dreams

my smile and faith and promises made

The broken thing is me

Sean T. Smith

2015

Objects of Wrath, half price.

Posted on November 18, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

My publisher, Permuted Press, is running a promotion this week for Objects of Wrath; more than eight hours worth of adventure set in America after the next global war. Readers say that the novel “sits at the intersection of The Road and Full Metal Jacket.”

“

I truly enjoyed this book, and it probably one of the best reads I’ve had so far this year. ”

The Bookie Monster

The final book in the series comes out in February. Curl up by a cracking fire and spend a day immersed in a world that may yet come to be.

http://www.amazon.com/Objects-Wrath-Volume-Sean-Smith/dp/1618682245

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.

Children of Wrath…Available now on Amazon

Posted on August 27, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

A religious war threatens to destroy everything that matters to William. There is no escaping evil and madness…It must be defeated.

There is darkness, but always hope, even when it appears absent. This book is about holding onto faith in the face of evil and loss, and it picks up about ten years after the events of Objects of Wrath. I hope you all will read this, tell your friends about it, and let me know what you think. I love interacting with readers, and I’m easy to connect with on Facebook, Twitter, and GoodReads.

This book is available on Amazon, Banes and Noble, and through itunes, in e-book format, and in about two weeks, in paperback as well. Objects of Wrath is also on audible.com as an audio book, and if you haven’t read that one, I’d suggest reading it first; the books are able to stand alone, but I don’t spend much time going into events that happened in the first one.

Thanks for all the support, and happy reading!

Hero of My Own Life

Posted on April 2, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.“

This is the opening line from my favorite Charles Dickens book, David Copperfield. The line pierced me when I read it back in high school, again in college, and now, as a forty-five year old man with more life in the rear-view than on the horizon. In my youth, the line held promise and exhortation and there was joy in reading it. Now, though, it feels different. I’m more than halfway through, and I am a hollow hero at my best, anti-hero perhaps, and villain at my worst. My own characters, the heroes, would despise me. I’ve been stabbed, shot at, punched and hurt. I’ve squandered love and money and friendship and decades for the idea that I was that hero in my own story, some kind of Harlan Howard, Steinbeck, Hemingway creation, and well… No. The story is mine, and there are no heroes. Maybe God should have been, but he wasn’t. I tried, and I guess if He wanted to then it would have been more apparent who the hero was.

It ain’t over yet. I’d love to see something spectacular. I’d love to see a hero.

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 .

finishing the race and dropping out in agony.

I guess I’d better dig down deep, ’cause I ain’t quitting.

Earning The Gray

Posted on February 1, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I recently had dinner with an uncle I had not seen in about four years, and the first thing he said was “Wow! You’re old!. Shave the beard, man.”

My wife noted that I should have replied, “well, you’ll always be older.”

But I wear the gray without shame, and indeed a kind of pride, for the salt and pepper and the emergent wrinkles are earned. Some years are harder than others, and the last few have been especially tough. I’ve aged. Stress, two jobs, four kids, and unrequited dreams will leave a mark upon any man. I accept it.

While I miss the physical strength and regenerative prowess of my youth, I can look in the mirror and grin at the gray. I’ve made it this far; I can keep going. Wiser, more compassionate, more faithful than I was in my younger years. I appreciate life more than I did, and as time grows shorter, I am conscious of the fleeting preciousness of it. The hard times still grind, yet there is hope in me for those moments of peace and sunshine, and as I grow long in the tooth, I hope to find more of them.

Objects of Wrath will be released in a couple of weeks, and I’m thrilled, humbled, and grateful in a way I would not have been ten or twenty years ago.

The gray is earned, a constant reminder of the sand in the hourglass. I’ve put in the work and the years. I won’t be shaving my beard.

That Hard Creative Road

Posted on October 1, 2013 by Sean T. Smith

“Son, it’s not too late. You can still go back to college…Well tonight, you’re just gonna have to settle for rock and roll.” Bruce Springsteen, from the introduction to “Growing Up”

An artist’s life is hard, joyous, depressing, daunting, rewarding, poverty stricken, and often all of these things at once. We’ve heard it doesn’t have to be that way from self-help gurus and feel-good books. sometimes, when things get close and mean, when the sacrifices we have made hurt the most, we wonder whether it was all worthwhile. But I believe true art is born from this struggle.

Now, I don’t think the only way to be a great painter is to cut your ear off, that melody must arrive from pain, that literature only flows from broken, bearded, drunken angst. There are better ways that aren’t cliches. But it’s hard work. There is no way around that part. There will be sacrifice and tears, and hopefully we learn from the experience and get better at what we do. Maybe that’s part of the refining process, the purification of our creative souls.

It’s hard. But we choose to pursue the life of the artist, and we can only hope that what we love chooses us. The legendary songwriter Harlan Howard, whom I had the privilege of knowing, told a writer who was whining about the music business “Well, nobody asked you to move to Nashville.” Those words sting me when I realize I’m slipping into complaint mode. That’s right, Harlan. Nobody asked me to become a writer. I may feel called to do it, but in the end, it’s my choice, and the time, loves, and brain cells I’ve squandered along the way are a consequence.

I do not understand the writer who does not read, the painter who does not see, the musician who will not listen, or the artist who does not live. There is glory in it, earned joy which is the process and the product, but not the recognition or fame. We writer types often equate the glory with adulation and miss out on the glory of life. Like a hiker so fixated upon reaching the summit, he walks through the golden October woods, missing the grandeur of the low clouds blanketing the slopes and ridges, ignores the green smell of hope and mountain, and the trail itself, undulating, rocky, muddy, and wonderful. If we are focused on the peak, we miss the path. I’ve climbed many mountains, but the best views are usually from the ridges and valleys. The peak is often shrouded in the mist, and it’s really just another rock.