R.P. Wollbaum's Blog, page 3

Cal’s Quest 1

As promised, following is the beginning of what I am calling Cal’s Quest, for now at least.

Each Monday I will post a little more of the story. It will be mostly a rough draft, edited only for spelling errors that I catch and obvious syntax errors. If and when Cal’s Quest is published, it will be smoother and most likely look a lot different. But it gives the reader an insight into how a story is made and progresses.

I would also welcome positive criticism and comments or suggestions. Just use the comments section found at the end of the post.

That being said, I do have a definite plot line and things that seem confusing, will slowly become clear as the story progresses.

Patience is a virtue.

Cal’s Quest

The winter had been mild. Only a few days had been sub-zero, now it was late March, most of the snow was gone even in the high country. Migratory birds were returning and the woods were alive with the sounds of birds fluttering through the trees or calling for mates. While it still dropped to below zero at night, it warmed up in the daytime, sometimes enough to not require a jacket.

Spring break from school had just started and Cal had loaded all his gear into his old Chevy pickup truck the night before and hooked the two horse trailer up to the back of it. He had enough canned goods to last two weeks, water for two days and three in one freeze dried emergency rations for five days, just in case. His sleeping bag with foamy inside, a tarp, axe, collapsible shovel, rope to build a corral, oats, nose bags for the horses, a cast iron frying pan, small camping kit of a pot, cup, plate that fit inside each other.

His girlfriend would be going to Phoenix for the spring break with her parents in their company private jet. Candice’s father was the CEO and majority shareholder of a mid-sized oil and gas company and her mother came from ‘Old money’. Why the very popular, cute head cheerleader had decided he should be her boyfriend at the beginning of the school year kind of baffled Cal, but he definitely didn’t mind. Although he was a good athlete, he didn’t play on any of the schools teams. He wasn’t a geek, his marks were enough for him to be accepted in a local university, just. It was just that he lived on the very outskirts of the school district and between the farm chores and the long forty five minute commute to school, he didn’t have time to attend practices or games. He would graduate in June this year, the last of his high school life. He was far from a scholastic genius and had no idea where he wanted his life to go.

His girlfriend had big plans for both of them, but Cal just went along with her to make her happy. She had their whole lives planned out for them. What their careers would look like, where they would live, what kind of house they would have, how many kids and when, even where they would vacation every summer.

Cal was not so sure. He kind of liked the nice simple farm life. His parents and Candice’s, wanted them both to finish university. Cal with Geology degree and Candice with a Law. The only thing good about Geology for Cal, was that he could spend a lot of time in the mountains, Candice had other plans, so did her parents, they had big plans for Cal. That they had flown to Phoenix for the spring break and not even asked Cal to come along, told him where he fit into their scheme of things. Not that he minded all that much, he would be up in the high country for the whole two weeks, by himself, trying to figure out what he wanted to really do with his life.

He had loaded his horse in the trailer as the first hint of grey dawn was showing itself on the eastern horizon Saturday morning. With a last wave to his parents watching from the front door of the house, he started off, turning left on the gravel road that led to the secondary highway. It had taken him almost two hours to reach the remote staging area where he would leave the truck and trailer. The last hour on a very rough road, really just a trail barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass cut through the trees with a little gravel spread on it.

The area he was headed to, was fairly popular in the summer by the horse packing locals and the hard core back packing crowd from the big city and was off limits to any motorised vehicle traffic. But this time of year, he would have the area to himself.

The sun was going behind the mountains as he unsaddled the two horses at the spot he had chosen beside a stream that had flowing open water. Cal quickly set up his rope corral for the two horses using trees surrounding a small open area, brushed down both horses and took them for water. He collected enough dry brush and old branches to start a fire, took enough food for the night out of the horse pack panier that held the food, then hoisted the panier up in a tree. No sense in tempting any bears. After supper, he laid the spread out tarp on the ground, took the foamy out of the sleeping bag, put the sleeping bag on top of it and both on the top of the tarp. Taking off his boots and jacket, he got in the sleeping bag, wrapped the tarp overtop and was soon asleep.

After breakfast, Cal set about building the lean to shelter he would use for the next two weeks. It was wide enough for him to lay out comfortably, high enough for him to sit under and deep enough to store the saddles in. He had laid pine boughs on the floor and the tarp over the pine boughs. The pine boughs that made up the roof and the sides, were tightly interlaced and would let in no wind or rain. He had dragged over two logs and placed them one on top of the other behind the fire to provide a heat reflector that would reflect some of the heat from the fire into the lean to.

The next day was spent in collecting enough firewood to last a few days. That night as he looked up into the clear night sky, he noticed there were more than the usual amount of shooting stars. It must be a comet storm or something, he thought and stayed up late watching the show in the quiet dark night.

The next morning, the horses were restless. They were not excited or nervous, just restless. Pacing the corral perimeter, stopping to scent the air or to cock ears listening for something. Nothing appeared out of the normal to Cal. Squirrels were busy doing what squirrels do and the birds were chirping and flitting about normally. Looking to the west at the mountains, Cal saw no indications of a weather change coming. Maybe they were just bored he thought, so he saddled up one of them and placed a halter and lead rope on the other. Taking his fishing rod, he rode into the bush for about an hour until he came to a beaver pond he knew about. He unsaddled the horse he had ridden, hobbled both horses and began fishing while the horses grazed on the meadows grass.

As he lay on the grass, hands under his head gazing up at the sky, he noticed that the comets, or whatever, were visible somewhat, even in the day. Then in a flash, just about noon, they were all gone. About an hour after that, a visible shimmering coming from the south and the east swept across the sky and the horses jerked up their heads as it went over them. Then another more powerful one came, this one Cal felt. The hair on his arms and at the back of his neck rose as the shimmering past over them and it felt like a light electrical charge passed through him. As suddenly as it appeared, it was over. The now silent woods slowly came back to life and soon it was like nothing had happened.

Cal shrugged his shoulders, things happen. He would find out when he returned home and right now he was busy. His red and white bobber had disappeared under the water and his line was unspooling. He had caught a fish! By the time he left, Cal had three two pound brown trout, enough to last him the rest of the week.

Now it was time to go back home. He was a little clearer on what he wanted to do. He would wait until the spring semester to go to university and work on the farm until then. He was only seventeen, turning eighteen in July. He needed more time and knew his father would support him. When he did go to university, he would take general studies courses until he really figured out what he wanted to do.

Cal started to break down the camp he had been in the last two weeks. Collapsing the rough lean to he had constructed from dead fall and scattering the pine boughs that had made up the roof and side walls. He put his garbage into the now mostly empty pack saddle paniers along with what was left of his supplies, bedding and clothing. Then he collected both horses, brushed them down and first saddled his riding horse and then the pack animal.

It was just past eight in the morning when he stepped in the saddle and made his way down the trail to where he had left his pickup truck and horse trailer two weeks before. He should make it by night fall, even taking it easy. Which he intended to do, savoring each of the last moments of solitude.

The truck and trailer were till there undisturbed. There were not even any tire tracks indicating anyone had been around. Cal unloaded the camping gear and horse equipment and put it all in the back of the pickup, then started the truck and let it warm up as he loaded both horses in the trailer. Then he turned around and drove back home. The only thing on the radio was static and there was no traffic on the highway and no signs of life on the farms he passed. A half hour later and he was driving down the gravel road that led to his parent’s farm nestled in the trees.

The family SUV was missing and after Cal unloaded his horses into the corral, he found no one in the house. He also found the power was off. He had told his dad that just keeping the grid-tie option on their solar array functional would do this, but obviously he hadn’t listened. Now as he walked over to the old original pump house that now also contained the batteries and invertors to allow the farm to work off grid from solar, he hopped the batteries had enough charge to at least allow the system to start up.

The big battery bank was only partially discharged and when he flipped the control lever, the invertors fired right up, the battery chargers came alive and the ten kilowatt solar array began to do its job. There were still three hours of daylight left and the array would be at its full capability for more than enough time to charge the batteries up fully and provide full power to the house. He heard the water pump fire up to re-pressurise the water system and walked back across the yard to the house.

The radio in the house was on, but there was only static and whatever channel the tv had been set to was broadcasting snow. Cal turned on the kitchen water taps to full and heard the air discharging from it, then turned on all the other water taps in the house to drain the air out of them. Once that was done, he went into his bedroom, turned on his cell phone and found it had no signal. He turned on his laptop and found he had no internet, which was strange because they used satellite internet out here. Flipping through the tv satellite, there were no signals coming from anywhere. His phone GPS had no signal and when he checked it, no satellites seemed to be in range. There was also no dial tone on the landline telephone.

Cal went back outside and started unloading the truck. He dumped all the garbage into the old horse trailer they used to store garbage in to haul to the dump. Then gathered everything else up and put it all away, finally grabbing his clothing and walking back into the house. He dumped the cloths on the floor beside the washing machine, then retrieved a clean set of clothing from his bedroom, walked into the bathroom, stripped off and started a shower. It turned out to be a fast one, because the hot water ran out almost immediately.

Drying himself off, he went into the basement. The pilot light was off on the gas fed water heater and it would not light. Cranking the furnace thermostat up to high, the electronics shut it down after trying three tries to lite. There was no gas.

That would not be all that serous of a problem. The sub-zero temperatures of the winter were a thing of the past and the family had a large airtight wood stove that would keep the house warm. The power often went out, sometimes for days, as they were at the very end of the power grid and were usually the last ones to have power restored when there was a disruption.

Cal tossed his dirty clothing in the washing machine and turned it on. They would get clean in cold water. Then he went outside and made sure all the stock waterers had water in them or were filing up. He checked that the batteries were still charging, then walked to the wood pile and started to split enough wood to keep the airtight going all night.

By dinner time, his folks were not home yet, so he cooked himself up a quick meal and did the dishes. He had dried his clothing while the sun was still high so there was no excess drain on the batteries and was now folding and putting them away. When the sun went down, he got a fire going in the air tight, damping it down as soon as it reached safe operating temperature and stared into the flames he could see through the glass, trying to make sense of what was going on.

By midnight, his folks were still not home, so he loaded the stove up with wood and went to bed. In the morning they were still not home. Cal went out in the yard and fed the horses and cattle that had come into the yard pasture, then fed the chickens and grabbed the eggs. After that, he checked out the power room, the batteries were fully charged and the array working properly at full output. Now he went back into the basement and turned on the high output, on demand electric water heater. During full daylight hours, it would not drain the batteries and he could have a hot shower and clean his dishes. He tossed some more firewood into the stove and had a hot shower.

By ten o’clock, his folks were still not home, so he decided to drive to town and see if he could get any information. He had lots of fuel in his truck, so headed off. It was a half hour drive to town and something must have tipped him off, because he slowed to a crawl as he crested the last hill before reaching it and slammed on the brakes. Grabbing the binoculars he always kept under the seat, he glassed the town below him. Something was very defiantly wrong.

Copyright © 2016 R. P. Wollbaum

A world full of talent

Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes. I write fictional novels, which my fans tell me are not bad. My wife’s young second cousin is a talented hockey player, despite his diminutive size. An ex-cousin in law is an extremely good horror story writer. Both of my soon to be daughter in laws are talented photographers. My youngest son is an electronic music producer and motivational speaker.

My brother can do things with a welding rod and metal that amaze me. I must have half a dozen cousins and my father who are talented musicians. More are folk and contemporary dancers.

One thing that is common to all these people. They love what they are doing. It takes hours and hours of practice and dedication to do what they do. Most of them will never be famous or obtain vast riches from what they are doing. Yet all of them do it anyway and we are the beneficiaries of all that talent.

In my case. It takes about two years from the initial idea for a novel to the final published product. Constant and never ending editing and rewriting. Getting rid of one scene and putting in another. Then shipping off what I think is a pretty good product to a professional editor and getting my rear end handed to me and seeing all the red ink and slash marks and starting all over again. Finally, agonizing for days, my finger bouncing over the enter button and putting it out there for the world to see.

I know the chances of me becoming famous are extremely slim. For one thing, I have a very narrow genre and am targeting a very specific market. But I am not writing to become famous or rich. I write because it is what I like to do and hopefully, those who do read my material enjoy it and do not feel they have wasted their time and money buying and reading it.

Last night I had the privilege of attending my niece, Emily Seymour’s, co-production of Irresponsibility. A two hour comedy skit production, co-produced with her friend Emily. Not only did she perform on stage, but she wrote, directed and produced it. It takes a tremendous amount of work, especially in comedy, to bring all that together so that it works.

Was it perfect? No. I was at the first performance. Everyone was nervous and the house was packed. One thing about live audiences, is that you get instant feedback on what works and what doesn’t. Timing in comedy is everything and some of the skits were not smooth. But for me, I was entertained enough to be happy with the money and the time I spent to attend the production.

But one thing I give everyone kudos for, is the courage to put it out there. To take that risk, that awful awful risk of rejection. I remember the first time I had to go on stage in front of a packed house of strangers for a motivational program I had written and produced. I was terrified! How I was able to coherently babble my material was beyond me. But I did and people benefited from what I had to say.

So, to the two Emily’s. Keep at it! Smooth out the rough spots, eliminate the dead skits. Hone the product. It has good bones and the whole troop is very talented. No two audiences are going to react to your material the same way. Work and practice. Keep at it!

Spring Already?

In my part of the Great White North, spring generally comes late. May, the later part of May. This year, my trees are all budding, my grass is turning green and the migratory birds are already returning. Experience tells me that we have one large dump of snow and subzero weather coming yet. Usually around Easter. Time will tell. I will not be removing my snow tires until then in any case.

Spring is a time of renewal, of hope. For me, it is a time when I look forward to being outdoors once again. I find there are too many distractions for me being cooped up in the winter. TV and the internet take up a lot of my time. A research session on the internet, turns into an all-day affair, for me in any case. Against my better judgment, I obtained a Face Book account and as I predicted, it also is a major distraction. Albeit, a necessary one at this juncture of my writing career. From what I can see, all of these things are distracting me from my main purpose. To write stories.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the financial backing to have someone else do all of the marketing and other things required to be super successful in this endeavor, so I have to do most of it myself. Which is fine, but it takes me away from doing what I want to really do. Write good stories.

So, today, I will write this bog and post it on Face Book. Then I will kick off an add campaign on GoodReads. Finally, I will get back to my latest project, before Bears and Eagles 4 comes back from the editor and takes up all my time.

Then, I will take on my yard projects that were neglected for the last two years. Trees need pruning and shelter belts expanded. This year I do not plan on being cooped up in the house all summer like I was last year.

Who was the Target?

It had taken him four months to plan this event. Now all the planning was done, the day was at hand. It was an unseasonably mild day, well above zero and the sun was shining brightly as he walked down the street. He was wearing a dark blue zippered hoody, with a company crest on the right brest. Underneath that was a dark blue shirt, tucked into dark blue cargo pants. On his head was a dark blue baseball hat with the same company crest on it. On his left shoulder, a technician’s tool pouch hung from a long strap. From his right, a long duffle bag with the company logo on it with fall protection device, written under the logo. He was about six feet tall, had broad shoulders and his steel capped work booted feet walked down the street with a purpose.

He walked into the buildings front entrance and up to a bank of four elevators. Although the building was in the downtown area, it was a class b building and there were no security people or cameras anywhere in the building during working hours. Placing a ‘Maintenance in progress’ sticker on the elevator door, the man called one particular elevator to the lobby. He had obtained the keys he required by simply ordering them from the company itself. The elevator came to the lobby and opened the doors and the man quickly used another key to take the elevator out of service. Then using the same key, inserted it in the keyway on the door jam and drove the elevator down with the doors still open. He then pushed in the stop button located on the car top control box, followed by the inspection button. Turning on the work light, he placed his tool pouch and the duffle bag on the cab top and got on top of the elevator, closing the hall doors behind him. Pulling out the stop button, he pushed in the ‘Up’ button and the elevator ascended slowly until he reached the top floor doors where he stopped. Blocking the mechanical door lock so it would not lock behind him, he opened the hall doors, took the duffle bag and softly closed the door behind him. To all intents, the door looked like normal. He knew from his research, that the elevator control system would not call in a fault if he followed those procedures.

Now, duffle bag across his shoulder, he made his way down the long hallway to the stairwell that led to the roof. The door was not alarmed and by building code, could not be locked barring re-entry. Following the concrete pathway laid out on the roof, he made his way to another small stairway that lead to the elevator control room and pulling a small screwdriver from his shirt pocket, picked the simple lock and gained entry.

It took only moments to assemble the rifle concealed in the duffle bag. It was a high quality hunting rifle manufactured in Finland. The high powered scope mounted on it was American and had been picked up used at a garage sale. The day before, he had, along with dozens of others, sighted the rifle in at an impromptu range in the woods an hour away. Target shooting was a popular pastime in this area. He had tailor made the bullets himself for just this one purpose. The rifles clip held five bullets, he would need no more. They were a popular hunting calibre, .270. The round was famous for its long range, flat trajectory and hitting power. The bullet he was using had a soft led tip, mounted in a copper jacket and did massive amount of damage to soft tissue.

The timing of this act could not have been more perfect. It was 4:30pm, the beginning of the afternoon rush to go home and the time his target habitually used. Taking rifle in hand, he blocked the door to the control room open and walked to the edge of the building. It had a waist high wall around roof and he knelt down and placed the rifle on the wall, jacking the first round into the chamber and looked for the first target.

There standing by herself waiting for the traffic light to change was number one. She was in her mid twenties and wearing a skirt about 50 meters away. He sighted two inches below her left knee and slowly squeezed the trigger. The rifle went off with a loud boom and he shifted aim to another intersection a block away and found another perfect target as screams could be heard below. The bullet had hit the woman’s knee cap and torn the leg below the knee right off. The next target was a buss sitting at a red light, he sighted on the drivers head and again slowly squeezed the trigger. Another loud boom and he was sighting now at the building across the street and three floors down from where he was. Sitting in the room were two men, one with his back to the window behind a desk, the other sitting across from him. The man sighted first on the visitor, placing the cross hairs in the center of the mouth and squeezed again. Then shifted to the other man at the base of his neck and shot again. The last shot he saved for the first police car to show up, catching the officer in the bridge of the nose.

Now he quickly strode back to the elevator control room, dismantled the rifle, stuffing it back in the duffle bag walked back to the elevator, drove it back down to the lobby, returned it to service and left the building. Like all the other people in the street, he gawked around at all the activity for a minute and then calmly walked away.

The authorities eventually may figure out where the shots had come from. But he had taken all of the shell casings with him. No security cameras had been in range and even if they found a bullet that had survived the impact, it was a popular round and there was nothing remarkable about it. In any case, the duffle bag with the rifle was in the bottom of a dumpster that had been picked up at 5:00 PM and the likely hood of it ever being found was remote. The randomness of the victims would lead the authorities to suspect a terror plot, not a targeted assassination. Nor the purpose of the assassination.

Who Was the Target?

A short story

Copyright © 2016 R.P. Wollbaum

A Short Story

In the far reaches of the planet, nestled among the forests and the plains of a great mountain range, lived a great pack of wolves. Their land was abundant with food, water and many other resources. They never abused the great gifts they had been given and shared among themselves the riches. When a member of the pack was sick or injured, they would look after them, bringing them food, looking after their pups, fixing their dens.

When other predators would invade their lands, they would first try to reason with them and only after all efforts were exhausted in trying to get along, would they resort to violent means to drive off the invaders. They were so united and so successful in this, that the other bigger predators, also learned to leave them alone.

Other wolf packs began to ask them to help, when a bear or a lion would come into their lands and try to take over and drive them out. The large band always sent help and no matter the injuries or the losses to their own, they never asked to be repaid. When the task was done they just went home again.

Unlike many other wolf packs, this one would accept outsiders. They had simple rules and any that would follow the rules could stay. Those that didn’t were driven away. All pack members had to work hard and help those who could not. There was plenty for all and no need to horde.

Among this pack there was one family that had only had one small litter of one pup. But this one pup was taken in by his elder cousins and their friends and it was as if he had a whole clan of brothers and sisters. He missed out on little and was included in everything. As luck would have it, just as he was starting a family of his own, his parents had another cub, also a male. Again, all the other cousins came together as they had with the older brother and took the younger in.

Even though the older brother had cubs of his own, he tried to spend as much time as he could with the younger one. But the older brother had much on his plate and could not always be there to lend a guiding hand.

A time came, when the younger brother started to complain about how he was being treated by his cousins. The older brother, as was his way, quietly observed what was going on and saw nothing different from the way he had been treated, or indeed as any young wolves treated each other. This was the way the younger ones learned how to hunt, how to find out each other’s strengths and weaknesses. He explained this to his younger brother. That each wolf had their own specialty and that each wolf contributed where they could, however they could. That the only thing any wolf was expected to do was their best. At whatever task they did.

Nothing much was heard of these things after that talk. The older brother carried on as he had before and as things in the world go, life marched on. Soon his own sons were off on their own making lives for themselves and the older brother could slow down a little and enjoy life a bit.

His council and advice was asked for from many of the younger wolves and he always tried to help. But as is the way of the world, as he became older, it became harder to take part in the most difficult and far away hunts. He began to receive many negative reports about his younger brother, but he always had the same reply. That each adult wolf must make their own way as best they could. But he did notice that more and more of the pack were avoiding his brother.

The time came when the older brother’s mate died. His sons and their families made sure he was looked after and eventually, he was able to once again fend for himself. His needs were simple and it was not an inconvenience for him to keep his den in repair and clean and to provide for his own day to day needs. He reconnected with his old pack mates and laughed and cried along with them as they relived their pasts, but never spoke of his own. For he had never done anything of renown, just what everyone else had ever done.

Finally, his sons came to him and complained to him about his brother. How the brother’s behaviour was beginning to affect them, that others were now avoiding them. So the older brother brought this up with his friends. How it had always been his rule to take each wolf on their own merits. Not by what their fathers or brothers or other family members did or did not do and then he once again became quiet and left for his own den.

During one of his visits with his friends, the older brother was told that things were not well with his younger brother. He had not seen or heard from his brother for many years and thought that all was well. That is what his parents had been telling him. So he sought his brother out and at first he was welcomed and they spent much time together. Going on hunts together, the older always shared with the younger, but it was seldom the younger ever caught game and when he did, it was only ever enough to feed himself. But the older brother thought nothing of this. Not all wolves were good hunters and he always had enough stored away to last for a few days. He helped his brother repair his den so that it would stay warm and dry and even included him in his visits with his friends.

His brother always embarrassed him about bragging how great of a hunter, he the younger brother was, but younger smaller wolves always did this and the older brother thought nothing of it. Finally his friends told him to stop bringing the younger brother. He was disrupting their meetings and in fact, was bothering them at their own homes. Appearing unannounced and uninvited, usually at dinner time and while bragging about how he was a superior male, never brought anything to the table.

Then one day, the younger brother said to his face, what he had been saying to the rest of the pack for years. That the older brother was useless, that without the younger brother the older brother and his family would have starved. The older brother said nothing, he just walked away.

He found another den, Far away from the rest of the pack and his family. His sons tracked him down and after finding out he was doing well, they moved nearby. He was getting older and they wanted to make sure he would be fine. Winter was coming. Soon, one by one and family by family the rest of the pack joined them. All but the younger brother.

The winter was hard and the winter was long. But the pack survived, strong and healthy, but for the younger brother. For you see, all the things the younger brother had bragged about, his older brother had actually done. For even though he did not ever realise it and had never asked for it. The older brother was the leader of the pack.

Glass Beacon Book Review

I recently received a request from a fellow author, John Day, for a review of his work, Glass Beacon. I will be completely upfront, the only compensation I received was the novel itself and the only thing I guaranteed was an honest review of the work. So here goes.

I read a lot and I do mean a lot. One would expect from the books that I publish, that I am only interested in one genre. Well, like the saying goes, looks can be deceiving. I like a good spy thriller from time to time. In fact, I have read every single James Bond novel ever published, starting from a young age and I love the Jason Bourne character and have enjoyed Vince Flynn’s novels a lot.

It generally takes me the first third of reading a novel by an author I don’t know, to get into the work and the authors writing style. This one was no different. But once I got into it, it was a very good read.

The reader is taken into the middle World War Two years in Britain and we not only experience the drama unfolding, but are given a real glimpse at what life was like back in those days. The living conditions and life on the edge.

We learn that all Nazi’s are not bad guys and not all British are good guys. In fact, the lines are often blurred at who is the bad guy and the good guy. There are plots within plots and schemes within schemes and the reader is left wondering what is coming next and how is this character going to get out of this jam now?

It took me to a time and place, not of massive armies and world conquest, but of the individual just trying to survive everything that was going on around them. Honestly, I couldn’t put the thing down for the last half and I really have other things to do.

Do I recommend Glass Beacon by John Day?

You bet! It is a good read and well worth the time spent to read it. Grab it while it is still affordable.

Dec 23, 1015

So todays blog is about book reviews. There has been a lot of hullabaloo in the author community lately about paid reviews and ratings on Amazon. Really? Give me a break.

Do these authors really believe that all the fancy reviews on the covers of traditionally published novels were free? Just go to the Kirkus web site and see how much they charge for a review. It’s a lot more expensive than the $20US that these overseas reviewers are charging. So, once again, what is all the fuss about? I have checked out some of these reviewers. All I can say is, that if an author pays these guys for a guaranteed five star review and the author has a two star book, they and the reviewer are most likely going to get some massive negative feedback. The reviewers I respect are the ones that will give an honest account of the work and will not publish a bad review, but let the writer know the work was substandard.

The reader generally can tell if a novel is for them or not. All the retailers give free previews of the first few pages of a work and you can tell right away if it is for you or not. If an author spends the time to write a fantastic first chapter and then sluffs off the rest of the book, shame on them. Again, the readers will vote with their feet.

A fellow author asked me to review his work and I said I would and asked him if he wouldn’t mind reviewing my, at the moment, in re-write stage third book. He declined, saying he was a busy man and wasn’t found of my genre in particular. Not a big deal for me. Not everyone is into what I am publishing at the moment.

But I read his work and sent him a few comments personally about it and will post the review on this blog right after this one.

So, back to the original premise. When I worked as a consultant, I charged between $150 and $175 an hour. So, reading the book, and composing a readable review took about $1000 of my time. I too am a busy man. I am in the middle of an advertising and marketing campaign for Eagle’s Claw, am just about to finish the rough manuscript on a new and differently themed work. Have rewrites of book three of the Bears and Eagles Saga to do and prepare to publish, have to flesh out book four and prepare it for editing, copywriting and book covers. Oh ya. It’s the holiday season and I am the patriarch of the family and everybody is coming over here for the traditional feast.

Paying some off shore person $20 doesn’t sound like a bad investment to me. As long as the review is honest. The fee for him, is the same amount of money that Kirkus charges and why should he not be paid for his time?

For me, it was about helping out a fellow author. Plus, it was a decent read and I needed some down time anyway.

Reading a good book is like a good holiday. A break from reality and a chance to wind down.

Story Ideas

I am sure that every author is asked the same question that I seem to be asked. Where do I get my ideas to write? For the latest of my Bears and Eagles series, Eagles Claw, much came from conversations I have had over many years with many people and I am a history buff.

Little is told in history or fiction, of the rich history of the Canadian West. It is my hope, that readers will learn a little something and perhaps, instill some interest in discovering for themselves why we Albertan s are the way we are.

Anyone who has heard country music or listened to cowboy poetry, knows the stories they try to tell. In a past life, when the body was willing and the brain weaker, I spent time in remote hunting camps with friends. The sun goes down around 5PM and does not come back up until almost 9AM. It is cold, damned cold, up in the high country. We sleep, eat and spin yarns in canvas, floor-less wall tents, not unlike the people of old. The centre ridge pole running the length of the tent holds the laundry, kerosene lamps hang from it and an airtight wood stove provides the heat to stay warm and to cook with. At 6AM, you get up, open up the dampers of the stove, toss in the kindling you prepared the night before, dump a bit of kerosene on top of it, light a strike anywhere wood match, toss it in and run outside to do your morning business, fast! Then back in the tent, dump some larger pieces of firewood into the stove and dive back into the warm sleeping bag. When the stove pipe starts getting red, you get out and dress, add some more wood, close the damper and head back outside with your water bucket and an axe. Then you walk to the river, chop a hole in the ice, fill the bucket up with water, fill the coffee pot, put it on the stove. Now you gather your ponies and take them to the hole chopped in the ice for water, take them back to the rope corral and give them their hay and oats. The tent is now warm enough to lose one layer and you cook breakfast and do the dishes. Trying to clean frozen dishes is a real pain, so you do it before you leave. Now you drag out your saddle and bridal and a lantern. You brush down your pony, saddle him, turn off the lantern, fill it up with fuel and you are off. If you are lucky or late, the sun is just poking over the mountain.

At noon, you dig a hole in the snow, find some dry branches and brew up some coffee and soup over a small open fire. You come back home just as the light is going. Once again you start a fire in the cold stove, take off the tack from the pony, brush the frost and frozen sweat from him, then chop another hole in the ice, get your water, then water the ponies, give them hay and oats and hopefully you don’t have to restart the fire. The lanterns are lit, the saddles cleaned and stowed out of the way. By now, your balaclava has thawed out enough that it is no longer stuck to your beard and you can take it off. A pot of water is set to boil and another beside it to thaw out the rum or whatever bottle, by heating it up in the water. Time to cook supper. By the time dinner and dishes are done, it is time for cribbage or backgammon and the stories start.

Our camp was well known and other fellows would come by and spend the evenings. The same stories get old, so another person ends up telling the same story adding to it. Soon it is a completely different story. I’ll give you an example.

Bob and I decided to go way back one morning. There was a full moon and a lot of snow, so we left camp at 6AM. The clear mountain air, not a cloud in the sky, the full moon reflecting off the snow, it was as bright as an overcast and rainy day. That early in the morning, there is little or no wind, so the sub zero temperatures were not so mind numbingly cold. By daybreak, we were far from camp, the only prints on the trail were ours and we headed into the bush and up the mountain. It was like we were in our own little world far from anything and anyone.

How do I explain the complete lack of sound? Not a bird, nor a squirrel, not even the buzz of an insect. The wind rustling in the tree tops was absent. Occasionally, snow would fall from a tree branch and disturb the silence, then it becomes quiet again. Even the sound of the horse hooves is muted in the snow and the creaking of the saddle leather and the jangling of bits and other metal becomes bothersome. I have known some people to incessantly talk, to relieve the overpowering quiet. Not so for Bob and myself.

As we climbed ever upward, the horses began to breath heavier and I could feel Barney’s heart pounding hard under my knees. We had to stop many times to let them rest and finally had to dismount when we reached an area where a heavy wind had blown down many trees across the trail. It took several minutes to make our way through the tangle. A horse cannot go where a man can tread, so it took time to find a safe path through the dead fall of trees that was safe for them. Bob said we should walk for a while to ‘rest’ the horses. Which was mainly true, but both of us were getting a little sore as well.

As we came to the crest of the ridge, we began to hear to rhythmic clashing, almost a thump. Every few minutes, it came again. Our curiosity peaked, we remounted and hurried in the direction the sound was coming from. The sound was really distinct as we crested the ridge and began to look around. We were on the top of the ridge and a valley, about 200 meters wide, stretched out far below the cliff face before us. On the side of the ridge across from us were about ten Mountain Sheep. Two large males were backing away from each other, their heavily curved horned heads low to the ground. They stared at each other for a few minutes. Then both rose to their full height on rear legs and charged. The final few steps they leaped at each other and the massive curved horns crashed together, rocking both animals back on their haunches.

We watched these two magnificent animals go through this battle for almost two hours. Neither backed down. Both had blood coming out of nostrils and ears. Finally, one ram had enough, and he backed away.

Could we have shot them? No problem. They were only 200 meters away. An easy shot for the rifles we use. Bob was already in the record book for a large Ram and he said that both of these ones were bigger than his was. Instant fame. As far as I know, both of those magnificent Rams, lived a long and productive life. I didn’t even get a picture. I had forgotten to put my camera under my coat to keep it warm and it had frozen up. The problem with electronic devices.

Two hours later, we were down in the valley coming up to the next ridge. The horses ears went forward and nostrils flared. We stopped. Grizzly bears and wolves, are always a danger back in the bush. No, Grizzly bears do not hibernate all winter and everything, I mean everything, is food to them in their territory.

Scanning the distance the horses were looking in with my binoculars, I wondered aloud what an Elk, (Wapiti) was doing with Mule Deer does? Bob agreed, and pulled out his 60 power spotting scope. This was not an Elk. It was the largest Mule deer buck either of us had ever seen! His rack was huge. He was a number one world record deer for sure. I looked at Bob, he looked at me. This time the camera worked.

There is more to hunting than killing things folks.

We started climbing the ridge before us. Once again following a deep and wide game trail. Once again the silence descended as the trees surrounded us. As we were still in the lee of the huge mountain to the west of us, the wind was not a factor. All was still. We could hear a raven calling in the distance, and it was answered by another from the opposite direction. Soon we could hear the wind through feathers and a large raven darted through the trees right in front of us. It twisted and turned and folded its wings, ever going faster and soon was out of sight. It always amazes me how these huge birds can fly at high speeds through brush that we have a hard time walking through.

A short time later, something caught my eye just off the trail. Male members of the deer family, lose their antlers every year. Elk are no different. There, lying on the side of the trail was a single, perfect, Elk antler. It had not been gnawed on by mice or squirrels for the calcium it contains. It was small, for Elk. It only had four points, but still impressive. I took it with me.

The sun was down now as we finally hit an old seismic line that headed in the direction of our camp and we headed back. Soon we came to an old oil lease road and the travelling became easier. We were spending more time walking than riding at that point. Our back, knee and groin muscles were starting to complain and I am sure the ponies were hurting too. Bob decided we needed to come up with a good story for coming back to camp with only a single Elk antler. He was a good story teller and the time traveling back to camp was enjoyable as the stories became funnier as we expanded on them.

All too soon, we crested the hill and the camp displayed below us. It was like a scene from a Christmas Card. The smoke from the wood stoves was rising straight up in the windless night from the snow covered tents. The soft glow of lanterns and shadows of people moving about in the interiors of the tents, was clearly visible to us. As yet, all was still quiet as we were still a distance away and Bob and I became quiet as we knew our perfect day was coming to an end. It began to snow. Not the light small snow, really just heavy frost, common in the high country that time of year. But big, heavy flakes. We untied our heavy canvas slickers from the saddle cantles and put them on, then rose up in the saddles, making sure the big slickers covered the saddles and our rear ends, and rode the final three miles to camp.

It being Tuesday night, the party was in full swing as we came up to our rope corral and dismounted. We have a rule in our camp. We take Wednesday’s off. After we unsaddled and brushed the horses down, I told Bob that I would water and feed the horses and that he should go get warm. The heavy Russian type fur hat and big hooded, lined and fur trimmed coat I wore, that everyone had laughed at, had kept me warm and frost free all day. Bob’s balaclava was frozen to his face from the frost. So while I fed and watered the horses, Bob took the tack into the tent and was soon greeted with enthusiasm by the men inside.

By the time I entered the tent, I was covered in snow and the heavy canvas of the slicker was frozen, so I stood beside Bob at the hot stove so that I could thaw out. He was gesturing with the Elk antler to the silent men before us, all of whom were listening intently to the story. Then he stopped talking and pointed to me telling me to tell the story, it was my story after all.

It was warm enough now to disrobe and I peeled off the layers one by one, down to the down vest over my heavy wool sweater and turtle neck. Then came the heavy winter boots and the second pair of wool pants I put over my normal blue jeans. The single antler was being passed from man to man around the tent, about ten guys were present, as I put on my hiking boots, hung up my coats and boots by the stove to dry out and dumped my other clothing on my bunk. Then I looked around the room. Nobody was laughing, so the story Bob and I had agreed on must have changed. Dave handed me a plate of food and a large cup of hot rum toddy. Arto, gave me his lawn chair by the stove and I sat down taking a large sip of the heavily spiced drink and a bite of food and spun my yarn.

I was not known as a story teller. I was known as a straight shooter, a guy who told it like it was. So the boys listened to my every word. How Bob and I had spotted this huge Mule deer. That the deer was so big, we would be instantly famous. How Bob had taken his spotting scope and figured out the bullet drop and windage, how I had laid down on the ground and aimed for the perfect 200 meter shot. How I had taken up the slack on the trigger and held my breath ready for the shot. Then at the last second, realized our mistake and pulled my shot, blowing the antler off the poor elk.

There was complete silence in the tent. Bob winked at me. We had them! Then came much shaking of heads and comments on how lucky we were. That had I shot that Elk, it being undersized and illegal, that we would have gone to jail.

By the windup party a week later, the story had grown. The shot was from 600 meters and I had known it was an Elk, but had deliberately shot the antler off. As far as I know, to this day, 20 years later, only Bob, our families and now you, know the real story.

As has been said many times before. Behind every myth and legend there is a kernel of truth.

My books are no different.

A Typical Day In This Authors Life

After another late night of proof reading for the bazilianth time another of my Bears and Eagles Series books, my dogs are clamoring to be let out. Fall out of bed, stumble over to the coffee machine, get a pot brewing and take the dogs out into the cold crisp winter morning. The coffee is done, I have four e-mail messages from DHL saying to pay customs on four shipments of books.

So, a guy orders 100 books from the printer and they send them in four separate packages with four separate tracking numbers and now I have to pay four separate customs duties on one order? I’m confused.

Check out the cost of shipping for myself. To make a profit, I’d have to charge over $30 a book! Yikes.

Ok, ADD kicks in, I get a little side tracked on the internet like usual. Oops it’s lunch time and the dogs have to go out again. OK, back to work. Nope! battery is dead on the trusty laptop. Where did I leave the charger?

Ut oh, it’s time for the skype meeting with my editor. Back in time to 1918 I go.

Get a comment on the blog site. Ok, is this guy for real or is it spam? Not sure on this one.

Oh man, Good reads is screwing up my new book page already!! Try to get that fixed.

Ok, #2 son shows up and it’s now supper time. Nother day of no new writing.

So, the new comment asked where I get the information to write my novels. There is no simple answer to that question. The book I am writing currently is in the now and I thought it would be a good thing for my guy to have his own airplane. I spent about a week researching aircraft until I finally settled on one that would suit his needs. Then another couple of days reading performance specs, pilot check lists, maintenance requirements and because this thing can and does some pretty amazing things other than fly, finding out how all these things work and how my hero and his buddies can use them to their advantage.

So, now I am in a conundrum. I have to shift from jet age back to almost horse and buggy days, plus get book two published and marketed. Argh! Fun times indeed.

So back to the original question.

My new hero is a member of a reserve army unit. It does exist in the real world. I have a plot and main character. Now to fit everything together. Research has to be done on what the real world regiment does, the equipment they use, the uniforms and decorations. Then other characters need to be introduced and researched. All this takes time, because while this story is fictional, and while certain licence can be taken, the story still has to feel and sound real.

Generally, I just write after that. Things come out and go on paper. Then I walk away for a few days and re read it, pulling it apart and putting it back together again. Finally it starts to come together out of a jumble of thoughts. Book four was written the same time the other three were. Originally, it was all one book. Yikes! A monster.

While I am reading my stuff, I find something that needs to be redone, for whatever reason. Example, my hero is troubled and needs to go away for a while. Or, a change in location needs to be dramatized. I let my mind drift and let sights sounds and smells come from my memories or even what I see out my window. Or, I ask myself, how would I feel or react in that situation.

For me, the whole point is to make an imaginary world come to life on a page. In this day and age where images are constantly bombarding us, our imaginations are not being used to the fullest, In my opinion.

Anyway. Somebody asked. So that’s this one authors perspective on it.

Ok, ADD, back boy back! Get focused Wooly, your hero needs to land that stupid plane of his. The bad guys are doing bad things and he needs to save the world.

Eagle’s Claw Release

 

The Second book in our acclaimed Bears and Eagles series has just been published for electronic down load on Kindle and Kobo.

Eagle’s Claw begins with Andreas Host gathering and coming together with their German allies at rails end in America and they begin their cross country trek to their new home in the Foothills of the Canadian Rocky Mountains.

Along with the trials and tribulations of the arduous trip, they have a brief encounter with Cheyanne and Sioux warriors and an encounter with one of the many lawless gangs roaming the open territories.

The work is only halfway done when they reach their new homes and must rush to establish a settlement and some crops before winter sets in. Survive they do and prosper.

Once again called to arms by their new country, Andreas and the new generation of Bears and Eagles ship out to South Africa and the new generation is tested to their limits.

After an Extended European trip to visit extended family and friends, new ties are forged and a pact made by the new generation to never allow the abuses of power prevalent in European society take hold of their own.

For a limited time, both novels will be at a reduced price on Kindle and Kobo. The hard copy book is available at Amazon for order.