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More Than Enough

The past couple of weeks have been brutal.

I’ve been busy at the office, busy with freelance work, and unable to write. For me, that’s the hardest part of being a part time writer—writing only part of the time. I’m grateful for my office work, and appreciate the freelance design work. It sustains my family and has provided a bevy of rich experiences through and through, both good and bad.

But the interruptions to my writing has been difficult. Sure, when life gets hectic, I carve out tiny chunks of time here and there, but I don’t want to eat dry cereal on the run. I want to bite into a fat, juicy, bloody steak. And maybe go back for seconds.

But that’s how things go. You take the good, you take the bad, you take it all and there you have… well, you know the rest.

So, yes, sometimes being a part time writer when all you want to be is a FULL time writer can be stressful. It can even cause feelings of doubt, like I’m just not doing enough. I haven’t earned anything yet. And maybe that’s true. Who knows. But I also know that when I try to force things, they rarely work out in my favor. Sometimes a thing just is what it is. Right now I am a husband, a father, a professional graphic designer, and a part time writer.

These things are more than enough. Certainly more than I deserve. I need to remind myself of that fact.

In time, maybe I’ll get to enjoy that steak every day for as long as I like. But for now, I’ll enjoy the cereal on the go, knowing that it keeps me honest—and most important, keeps me hungry.

Sketches 3

Super Lunas is a book I’ve been working on since 2012. It’s gone through several drafts, but should be ready for release later this year. The following is an unedited, uncut sample. Always bear in mind, these sketches are rough comps, just like an artist’s sketchbook.

3

In the golden half-light of a dying summer day, Ben and Jake Luna stumbled across the sword on the beach. The twin brothers—each of them fourteen, lanky, and curious—looked with eyes filled with wonder, first at the glistening artifact, then at one another. The Pacific roared behind them. They were alone.

“Where do you think it came from?” Jake asked.

Ben shook his head. “No clue. But it’s incredible.”

That much was true. Handle, hilt, and blade all possessed an impossible shade of black—a darkness so rich and complete it snared all light and life—it’s secrets seemingly never to be known, shared, spoken or pondered. Such was its singularity. Its alien holiness. It stared at the boys, Jake with his shock of black curls and green fire eyes simmering beneath thick framed glasses. Ben, wriggling his freckled nose, scratching his matted blonde hair, being cautious where his brother paced like a caged lion.

The double-edged blade was short and powerful, but the triangle shaped hilt, hollowed out in the center, demanded their attention most of all. Clean. Elegant. Dark. Jake smiled. He reached out, almost touching the handle, but withdrew. He reached out again.

“No, let me,” Ben said. “I’m older.”

“Barely. By seconds.”

“Watch it.” Ben extended his trembling hand, his index finger running along the handle. A tingle shot down his spine to his feet, but he did not take his hand away. They knelt on the cool rocks as the waves pounded against the shore. The excitement of early summer, coupled with their newfound freedom, lay spread out before them. Free from schoolwork and schedules. Free from the glaring eyes of classmates. No more neckties and black slacks and itchy sport coats. For the months ahead, the shackles had been taken off, falling to the ground with loud victory clangs. Days filled with beaches and bicycles and comic books, capped off with firefly evenings and promises of endless tomorrows. At fourteen, Ben and Jake desperately clung to the foolish hope that their childhoods would be endless, while trying to navigate the rickety bridge to manhood, which meant seeing the cracks in the world—the imperfections, each growing in number faster than the boys could tally.

School was waiting for them, yes, but also, beyond that, something else. Summer nights don’t last forever. Fireflies lose their magic. Neckties remained tied around necks well into manhood, nooses choking away the restless mystery of boyhood, pulling and pulling and pulling.

And yet, here the sword lay, catching the mystic glow of the setting summer sun, the rays tracing its contours, setting it ablaze in brilliant golden light.

“Ben, be careful.”

“I am.” Ben wrapped his hand around the colorless handle, his fingers digging into the stone and sand. His body surged with the hum of the weapon.

Ben climbed to one knee, lifting the midnight sword from the ground. It was lighter than it looked, but solid. The boys stared in awe.

“Jake, it’s shaking.”

“Maybe it’s just you. You’re scared.”

“No, I’m telling you. It’s vibrating. Here, feel.” Jake took a jerking step forward, reached out, and took the sword from Ben’s hand. He was so startled, he almost dropped it. “Careful,” Ben urged.

“What is this thing?” Jake turned it over in his hand, taking in its majesty and power, soaking it in like a sponge. “Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said, wiping the sand from his hands on his shorts.

“Maybe the ocean. You know, got washed up,” Jake offered.

“I don’t think so.”

“Someone dropped it?” At this suggestion, both boys looked over their shoulders, scanning the beach. They’d been so enchanted by their discovery, they’d almost forgotten their surroundings. To the north, the coast ran zigzagging along the ghostly beach, fading into a haze of blotchy forms. To the south, almost a mile down the shore, the oceanside amusement park—the boys’ original destination—blinked its golden lights, the Thunderbolt’s train rising slowly into the air one click-clack at a time. The boys were safe. Jake walked to the water, letting the cool tide crash around his ankles, the chilly water misting the front of his body. He bent low and let the water rush over the sword, which was still clenched tightly in his hand.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked.

Jake didn’t answer. Ben almost cried out, for fear of the newfound totem being lost. But Jake brought it up out of the ocean, the sand washed from its surface. It shone heroically in the dying light, the last gasp of golden beams climbing over the horizon, being sucked into the blade like some kind of cosmic vacuum. The handle fit into Jake’s hand perfectly, as if it were made to have the boy’s fingers wrapped around its cool steel. But after a moment, the handle grew warm. Then hot. Jake cringed.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ben asked.

Jake’s face tensed. He gripped the sword more tightly. “I don’t know. Nothing,” he lied. Jake’s face tightened. The handle grew hotter in his hand until he couldn’t take it any longer. Stinging pain spiked through his palm and he dropped the sword. His molars ached. His hand, though it showed no signs of damage, throbbed.

“Careful!” Ben yelled. Jake wrung his hands together. Ben watched him. “You all right?”

“Said I’m fine.”

Ben watched Jake carefully, trying to read his brother’s face.

Jake pulled his eyes from the sword and looked at Ben. “We should take this with us.”

“And do what with it?”

“Not sure. But I don’t want to just leave it here, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then, what?”

Ben thought. “We can’t bring it with us—so we hide it. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

Jake looked at the sword longingly. Ben’s plan made him uneasy. “But, where?” Jake asked.

The boys turned, looking for a safe location. “There,” Ben said, pointing to a section of twisted fence jutting out of a small cluster of rocks, the only marker on the otherwise desolate beach. “We’ll bury it there.”

Ben bent down to grab the sword.

“Ben, no—” Jake started.

Ben looked up. “What?”

Jake looked at the sword. He shook his head. “Just, be careful.”

Ben lifted the trophy from the ground. Jake waited for him to drop the sword, shaking his hand in pain, but he never did. The boys walked over to the broken wooden slats and knelt in the sand. Jake looked around, confirming their seclusion. They each grabbed sharp chunks of rock and plunged their tools into the earth, digging—making short order of their work. The brothers took the sword—Jake cupping his hands under the blade, while Ben held the handle—and they stared at the thing for a long while, neither boy wanting to let go or to be the first to urge the other to place it in its temporary grave. Ben traced his thumb over the triangle hilt. “It’s only for a little while,” he said.

“Yeah, just a couple of hours.” The boys looked at each other. Jake opened his mouth to say something further, then thought better of it.

“Jake—you’re bleeding.”

“What?” Jake had been lost in thought. He looked down at his bloody hand. He’d cut his thumb along the edge of the blade. “Oh, man—it’s so sharp, I didn’t even feel it.” He wiped his hand on his shirt. “It’s all right—I only nicked it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s not deep,” Jake said, sucking the blood from his cut. Again, their eyes met—a look of uncertainty—then they placed the dark weapon in the ground and quickly covered it with sand, so as not to be tempted to change their minds. The wind ripped across the beach as they stood side-by-side, each of their tall, wiry frames swaying in the breeze.

Ben shoved the long knots of blonde curls from his forehead and looked down the beach toward the park. “We should head over there. Bucky and Ryan are waiting for us.” Jake didn’t move. “Come on, little brother—we’ll come back in the morning.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jake said, pushing his thick, brown-framed glasses up his nose. His brilliant green eyes flashed wildly underneath the scuffed lenses.

Ben smiled. “Let’s go. We’ll count our paces to the boardwalk, then, in the morning, we’ll come back.”

“All right. But, first thing.”

“First thing.”

The sun dipped below the horizon, but the image of the midnight sword burned fiercely in the minds of the brothers as they made their way down the beach. Overhead, the sky screamed a bloody red, and the salty sea air tickled their noses, ushering them back to familiar surroundings. A world where life in North Haven, Oregon carried on, alive with the false promises of endless summer nights and days filled with freedom and wonder. Even if it were fleeting. Even if it were a lie.

They counted their steps to the amusement park, saying nothing more of the sword for the rest of the evening. Neither of them needed to—it was alive and well in their imaginations. Poking. Prodding. Not letting them forget. Tomorrow they would claim it for good.

Sketches 2

Today’s sketch is what I call a “literary mood board.” A mood board is a tool used by designers and marketers to establish the look and feel for a print campaign, a digital effort, or any other kind of creative endeavor. It sets the tone, gives visual texture, and creates client excitement as they anticipate what could be. For my purposes, a literary mood board works in a similar way. When I’m not quite sure how to approach a certain scene or theme, I write a stream-of-consciousness piece that shows how the actual writing might take shape. I tend to write by feel, poking around at things until they take shape, so this method can be extremely helpful. It’s also a ton of fun.

This literary mood board is one I wrote for a project I’ve been working on for a couple of years called Super Lunas. It’s a story about teenage brothers, their struggle with each other, and their battle with leaving childhood. They also find an alien sword and fight robots and other cool stuff.

2

The Shadow Agent has crossed over and the worlds are becoming one, while the Mulnaria are awakened in their secret tombs deep within their electric caverns. Lightning strikes and the world is undone as the phase of the moon slips the planets into darkness. Now the robotic giants can dance in the streets while the Luna brothers of Earth must find their purpose. It is common knowledge the first key lies at the bottom of Riker Lake. Beneath its freezing waters. Tucked away. The robot wizards know of its power, know the truths it holds and the destruction it wields. From the crystal caves to Tarkus to the black forest to New England—they know. Pink lights. Purple electricity. The pyramid space station waits in orbit, sweeping the atmosphere back into the infinite chasm of outer-outer space. Atoms split, loves formed, the Luna brothers awakened. The Luna brothers awakened. The Luna brothers awakened.

– – –

The woods outside North Ellington surround Riker Lake like a mother’s womb. The dark waters themselves are a portal to outer territories, to the far reaches of space, time, and all things measureable. To death.

– – –

The vampire-witches of Tarvos live in the high mountain caves. They fly to the top of the mountain. Nobody goes there—it is certain death. The Lunas hunt the witch queen Cretheus, who is responsible for the forming of the Black Sword. Her sister (mother?) Velenus has raised the demon-king of the east.

These fragments are for my purposes only. They are simply an aid as I begin to shape a story. My notebooks are littered with these exercises—sometimes they are referenced later, most times they are not. These little ditties are not designed to be coherent to anyone but the author, remember, they are simply setting tone. Details, structure, and good writing come later!

 

It’s The Big Things

I have a terrible habit of getting ahead of myself. Just ask anyone who knows me. There are scenarios I’ve concocted in my brain that I convince myself are real, or soon will be—both good or bad.

I won’t get that promotion.

I will sell a million books.

That sort of thing.

But really, what’s the point? No one knows the future (despite what they might tell you), and I certainly have been wrong before. Expectations are what drag me down. Self-imposed weights that impede any of my creative endeavors. Lately, I’ve been trying to remind myself it’s about the doing of something, not the results of the doing. Yes, I give my all in my writing, drawing, designing, whatever, but if I were to allow my feelings on how something will turn out to dictate my present actions—something I have little-to-no control over—nothing would get done. How do I know this?

Because it’s happened my entire life.

Big plans. Crushing fear. Procrastination. These three things are what kill most artists right out of the gate. Before the first word’s written, note sung, or line drawn, they’re finished. Buried under the weight of it all.

I wish I could go back fifteen years, and tell myself it doesn’t have to be this way. But I can’t. All I can control is what I do now. There is no too late. It sounds trite, but life is what we make it. I have control over the books I write right now. I have control over the projects I pursue right now. That’s a powerful thing. Whatever happens after that, so be it. At least I’ll be safe in the knowledge that I did something that mattered—even if it only mattered to me.

It’s the big things. It’s everything. Once I was able to make peace with the fact that I would count myself blessed to have a single person read and review a book, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t that I no longer cared—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. With a newfound sense of vigor, I have the ability to sit down and pursue interests that actually interest me.

Success or no success, I will consider this mental shift a victory because I finally get to be creative and make the best art I can. Then, I get to share it with others. I will not be ruled by my expectations.

The important thing is the doing. Without it, there is no beginning, there is no end, and there is nothing but regret at time unfulfilled.

Death Meks Release

My latest release is a bit of an experiment. I’m publishing a series of serials a few weeks apart from one another—something I’ve wanted to do for quite some time. The name of the series is Death Meks, and the first part (of 5) is titled Traveler.

Like most of my work, Death Meks is a fantasy story told in a syfy setting. Each serial is less than 50 pages (as it stands at the moment), and is designed much like an episode of television, with a problem, rising action, resolution, and cliffhanger taking place over the course of each installment. I am really excited about this story, as it touches on several issues that are great areas of interest to me: themes of faith, searching, the mending or breaking of familial ties, and duty are all integral to the story.

Plus, there are robots and mutants and space stations.

I’m having a blast exploring this world, and can’t wait to get started on the next chapter, even as I am writing this post. The main character, Anya, is feisty and charming in her own strange way. She’s naive, but resilient. Head-strong, yet empathetic.

Take a look at the cover, read the quick excerpt below, and then head on over to Amazon and grab a copy.

 

 

DEATH MEKS 1: Traveler

I was fourteen years old when my father died for the third time, which depressed me greatly, because I knew this time it would stick. I woke up covered in dew and darkness to the brief sight of Papa’s bearded face, ghostly and fading by the time I opened my eyes. Most nights were dreamless—empty spaces where I could escape my racing thoughts, but last night I dreamed of him. Not mother. Just him.

The piney-earth smell of the forest—deep and rich and thick—hovered all around. The moon shone dimly overhead through the clearing in the trees. A brook gurgled as it cut through the maze of forest. My back ached. My stomach rumbled. I sat up, opened my mouth wide trying to pop my jaw, then went to the water, cupped my hands, and drank deeply until my throat burned with cold.

After weeks of traveling, I found I couldn’t sleep, even though I was dog tired and my legs begged me to stop. To lie down. Rest. But my mind wouldn’t allow it. Thoughts running around inside the confines of my skull like wild animals, circling and biting and tussling. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and pulled my hood over my head. I went back to the muddy blanket, and laid my battered body down next to the smoldering logs of the previous evening’s campfire. I pulled the last of the rabbit leg off of the skewer I’d fashioned from a branch, and gnawed on the cold, gristly meat as I laid back down on my bedroll. Mother would be so proud. Her little savage girl, lying on the ground, eating rodents. But, like Papa, she wasn’t here. With thoughts of father and mother on my mind and bits of old rabbit on my lips, I slept.

————–

When I awoke again, I felt groggy and sheepish. The pain in my legs had been reduced to a dull ache, and I forced myself up despite their protests. I rolled my bedding, tied it tight to my pack, and once again drank from the brook. I splashed the cold water on my face, filled my canteen, hoisted my pack to my shoulders, pulled my hood off my head, and continued through the thick forest, headed east. I didn’t think of my parents for the rest of the day. Instead, my mind raced with the excitement of strange ruminations filled with queer oddities, mechanical men, ancient computers, stories of war, and a workshop which smelled faintly of tobacco and peppermint. Smells and sights not experienced since I was a child, just a little sprout climbing on Papa’s shoulders and playing hide and seek with grandfather’s robots.

————–

The day went on and on. The gray of the sky bled down to the gray of the forest and further down to the gray of the ground beneath my feet. I picked berries and told myself stories. Some old and some new. Things were better in my head than they were in the world. Inside, life was colorful and wondrous and violent and full of energy. But the world had moved on. Dull and stale and brittle like an old bone, its marrow sucked dry, its sturdiness crumbling to dust. A few sparrows sang from perches in the branches overhead.

“Hullo!” I cried in response. The birds flew away. My voice knifed through the silence, ricocheting off trees and cascading down into the purple valley below. A bellow from a warrior-girl—that’s what I thought. If I said it out loud, then it was real. It had legs. “Anya the warrior-girl marching through the dark woods.” I thought for a moment, then added “Here to make the world right again.”

I smiled to myself.

A branch snapped.

I spun and dropped to one knee, my hand a blur, instantly producing my pulse rifle, the stock pressed firmly to my shoulder.

I held my breath, sucking it deep within my chest, and scanned the trees all around. All was still. The trees had stopped groaning, the leaves had ceased whispering, but the gray hung low on the forest floor—a stubborn mist which served to hide the creepy-crawlies and biting snakes. Nothing moved. No sound. I rose from my kneeling position and loosened my grip on the rifle, slinging it back over my shoulder. I continued east.

At midday I stopped to rest. I settled down on a fallen tree trunk, soft with moisture, and full of millipedes. From this spot I looked down to the valley below and saw the jaggedy pathway of the Idah as it slashed through the forest like a winding scar. A small town sat at the bank of the great river, quiet, dead, and gray, of course. Though I was many kilometers away, high above the ancient houses and shops and mills, I knew it was dead. A for-sure goner. Like when you’re a kid and you see your first dead body—not a fake one, but a for-real stone-cold stiff. Maybe a great uncle who liked to eat too much salt. Or a grandma who didn’t know when to call it quits in the garden despite the protests of her children. You can look at what used to be and see that it’s not there. Sleep was sleep, and dead was dead, and they were not the same.

The gray town miles below on the banks of the Idah was dead-dead.

I chewed on tart berries and fig. I sipped from my canteen. I allowed my mind to wander with visions of crackling life. Color and stories. Wild laughter and crushing hurt. The magnitude of life in all its forms and wonder. Then I looked down at the silent town and remembered the snapping of branches deep in the woods behind me, and cast the thoughts of a life unlived from my mind, and got up and continued on through the woods.

Continue reading

 

Sketches 1

SKETCHES is an ongoing series where I will post bits of what I am writing at the moment, ideas for other stories, or anything else that strikes my fancy. Essentially, a written version of an artist’s sketchbook. Today’s sketch is an unused bit of story from a syfy serial I’m working on called Death Meks.

My tired mind wandered as I trekked along. It meandered back to winters past when I would spend time in that old workshop with the old man I called Pap, or grandpap, or Daddy-pap. His graying beard flecked with brown and his gunmetal-gray eyes and torn and calloused hands. He didn’t smile or talk or pat my head. Just worked. And I would watch him. I’d drink it in, his hands a whirl of motion, but with each movement having a purpose and plan, like dancers’ feet. He moved swiftly from work station to work station, advancing to the next project at the first tickle of boredom. He could never be stumped by a problem, there was nothing beyond the fanatical grasp of his fertile mind. If he was slowed in any way, for any reason, he would simply pick up something else and begin working on it, all the while solving the previous quandary somewhere in the recesses of his brain. His eyes would be fixed on the work in front of him, but behind those twin dark moons, a solution was being grinded out of rocks of uncertainty. Two, maybe three at a time. Maybe hundreds, who knew? His workbenches holding a collection of wires and circuits, digital screens and toolboxes. Paints, ceramics, kilns, canvas, stone, journals, jars, schematics, medicines, and a host of other relics lost in the swirling sea of my memory, some recalled only just now in my half-sleep journey through the dark.

Grandpap had the presence of a black hole, magnificent, mysterious, and powerful. But he was also destructive and wild—those around him would be sucked into his titanic pull, only to be destroyed if journeying too close to his center. He was more than a grandfather to me, more than a father to my Papa. He was indescribable because he was unknowable, which, I imagine, is why I was so drawn to him as a child. It was like staring into the sun—you knew you would one day burn your eyes out, but you didn’t care because the brilliance was worth it. The mystery. But it was also more than that. Something deeper and more primitive. Beneath the workshop and the circuitry and the paintings and the tobacco and the peppermint and the disorienting gaze resided a man who terrified me. A grandpap I could never trust, which I knew as a child in the only the way a child can know.

“Poppycock,” I said. But it was true. That man would kill if he needed to, like all black holes do. Maybe that was his purpose, to be a creator and destroyer all wrapped into one unknowable package of dark power threatening to come unhinged at any moment. But in my mind’s eye, there he stood, calm and unmoving, except for those magic hands dancing their dance to the mysterious music that played only in his perplexing mind. That was when the realization set in for the first time.

I was willingly going to see this man.

I would stand face to face with him—me no longer the tiny child sitting on a stool in his workshop, while he was still, no doubt, the carnivorous craftsman he always had been. Each step I took brought me closer to his half-forgotten shop where he toiled away. But why go? I’ve been asking myself that for many miles now. Why stare into the sun? Why venture into a black hole? Well, the answer was obvious, wasn’t it? Because you can’t help yourself.

Cover Anatomy: We Are Elephants

This is my third pass at a cover for my first novel, We Are Elephants.

Truthfully, the whole project was a test run. From the writing, to the development, to the design. And frankly, it still is. Things are always fluid, always able to be made better.

Now, I am a graphic designer by trade, something I have worked at for over a decade. But any designer will tell you that designing for yourself is always the most difficult project you’ll undertake. We can be finicky, and when you are the owner, as well as the designer, it is easy to become blinded by what it is we’re trying to do. We fail to ask ourselves the critical questions we would otherwise have no problem asking of a client.

Which is why it is necessary to treat myself just like I would a client. I am not designing for myself, but rather, for my readers. Especially since I am a genre author (proudly). Readers have certain expectations of what they want to see from a particular kind of book, and if they get something unexpected—even something beautifully designed—they are likely to ignore it.

So, let’s take a look at the progression.

First Attempt:

Not terrible, and at the time, I thought it was perfect. I love the illustration with the skull face hiding in the barn, and the execution is good. The type is serviceable and readable. Overall, not bad, but it never felt quite right. On to option two.

Second Attempt:

This version definitely had more of the “feel” I was after, with a more realistic depiction of the antagonist in all of his terrible glory. Again, at the time I thought the harsh black and white was the way to go. A way to stand out from the crowd. But it was still lacking that… something.

 

Third Attempt:

Here is the current cover. After doing some serious study into my genre and demographic, I decided to go all-in, and make something that felt striking and cinematic. After all, the story is all of those things, and the cover needed to reflect these elements. There are bold colors, an intriguing focal point in the wolf-boy, and the type is spot-on. It feels like a movie poster, and that is exactly what I was going for.

As a bonus, here’s a look at the two versions of the final cover—the one I started with, and the version I finally settled on (sans type). I really love them both, but in the end, I went with the one I thought was more attention grabbing.

What are your thoughts? Did I hit the mark, or did I fall on my face?

Let me know!

Manifesto, But Not Really

So it’s come to this.

There have been failed starts in the past. There have been high hopes, and big dreams, and the best intentions.

Years ago, I wrote a short manifesto to myself called “The Start to Digging Deep.” I know, I know. It’s the kind of “dear diary” garbage that I won’t bore anyone with here. At the time, it meant something. But then again, for people like us, it always means something in the moment. But it’s the doing of the thing that always seems to trip us up.

So, this is not a manifesto. This is not a call to arms. In fact, this blog isn’t really about anything. I’m a writer. Which is quite possibly one of the most boring things to try to explain to people. I’m just starting out in this game. If you want the science of things, I suggest reading Hugh Howey’s site, or Konrath’s, or CreativeIndie. All have interesting insights. Me? I’m an author with a graphic design background trying to figure this thing out. If I make it, super. If not, that’s cool, too.

But I am done with grand statements that go nowhere. I am done with that nonsense.

All I want to do now is write.