Aaron Polson's Blog, page 32

Treading Lightly

I'm still busy at work on the second installment of my Sons of Chaos series, wrapping up the big climax in the next few thousand words. Exciting? Yes.

Set in the late 1800s, both Sons of Chaos stories have involved interactions between"white" settlers and Native Americans. The real bad guys try to frame a Native group in the first installment. In the second story (shhhh...) the Sons are back to their usual tricks. The real balance, for me, is to make sure to paint the Native cultures with respect and dignity while writing what is essentially a souped-up horror tale.

I grew up in a time period of "Cowboys and Indians," bad stereotypes borne from years of Hollywood stock characters and broken-English Geronimo knock-offs. You could still buy bags of plastic cowboys and Indians at the local drug store, dollar bow and arrow sets, and other garbage. I haven't seen most of this stuff in years. Hopefully I never will again.

I'm proud of this review of Loathsome, Dark and Deep from Hellnotes which implies (albeit indirectly) I was able to avoid racial stereotypes. I'm aiming for more of the same...

We are the Monsters #samplesunday

Welcome to Sample Sunday...

We are the Monsters is available at Amazon.com.

1: We're All Liars Here, or The Death of Leonard Jantz

Here's the truth about growing up in a small town: you tell lies to survive.

I worked at a grocery store during high school, part time on the evenings and weekends. I saw plenty of strange things there: avocados stuffed in a barrel of fresh popcorn left to rot, a coworker who punched holes in the caps of beer bottles with an awl, pies marked "Verda's own home-baked" which came frozen on pallets with the Sunday dairy truck. I found a body in the trash bin once, but nobody can prove who put it there. No one can prove it was there.

There were too many bodies for a town the size of Springdale. The name of the town is a lie, but the bodies aren't. All of them. When you find a body lying with the outdated yogurt, wilted lettuce, and cardboard boxes, you make up stories to cope. You can't process a body in the grocery store trash bin. A trick of the light, you say. The way the shadows fell across certain bits of debris like the coat hanger beast in a little boy's bedroom. That head of lettuce, there, in the corner, looks like a human hand.

Bodies are bodies.

Dead is dead.

And lies are lies.

~

We killed a man during the fall of 1992, our senior year. I say we, but BJ did the killing. The rest of us were just there.

BJ was a big kid, six-feet tall, four feet wide, all linebacker. The local team, the Saints, kind of sucked—sucked as in they won seven football games during our four years—but BJ made all-league three times. He managed forty-six tackles for losses during his career and dished out seven concussions. One guy, a lanky kid from Abilene, still gets tingles in his toes when the weather changes. At least he says as much on Facebook. BJ was boiled over anger and clenched fists, and he hated Leonard Jantz.

Jantz had fired BJ's father from the grain elevator.

Mike, Dan, and Tony were all there when BJ killed Leonard. I was there, too, after my shift at Larry's Grocery. We were all drunk, either from stolen beer or revved hormones. I'd met them at the Shack after work. I still wore the red polo from Larry's. Red polo and jeans, the store dress code. The other guys, little Mike with his embarrassing mustache, fat-mouthed Dan, and Tony the liar, had been hanging out at the Shack, telling stories and passing out a battered copy of playboy Tony had stolen from his father's stash. The beer was his dad's, too.

Tony lied so well his old man never suspected a single can went missing. The lies came easily, especially after years of practice. By the time he was sixteen, Tony had lied about grades at school, fights, which girl he kissed at recess, and even how Max, the Robertson's cat, died. That was a big one, but not as big as Leonard Jantz. The big lies he reserved for special occasions, but all of them—big or small—came from his lips with a sliver of magic.

Lies can be a shield, a force field, a special aura of protection.

Lies can keep you from seeing the truth, no matter how grim.

~

The truth bends in small towns, and the lies come like fog, constructions of mirrors and smoke machines, odd noises and flashing lights, or funhouse effects to bend the truth back, to stuff all the weirdness into its place. Soon the lies look like the truth.

I lied about loving a girl when I was seventeen. She was new in town, beautiful, and utterly untouchable. I met her two days after Leonard Jantz died, in study hall, room 178, Spring County High School. She sat beside me and borrowed a pencil on Tuesday. By the end of the week, she asked if I knew Leonard Jantz.

I say I lied about loving her because I didn't love her at seventeen, not really. Love was little more than some overwrought hormones and a wish to see her naked, with me, in the backseat of my Mustang. My imagination didn't really take it any further than lying there, smashed together, skin against skin in the back of the car. She's the real problem in this story; Leonard Jantz just kicked things off.

I didn't really love her at seventeen, but I do now. It feels like a chunk has been sawed from my chest and I'll never have it back.

~

Leonard Jantz died because he was in the wrong place.

We left The Shack and cruised south of town in Mike's truck, a red, rust-flanked Ford F-150. Mike wasn't a truck guy, but his dad, a perpetual drunk since Mike's sister died, had nothing else to offer. Mike was thin, always pale. Big, lost eyes. He'd tried to grow a mustache since our sophomore year. BJ rode up front, on the other end of the bench seat. Dan, Tony, and I were in the back. We had a bat, smashing mailboxes as we sped down gravel roads and asphalt county highways. The bat sang when it struck a mailbox—it sang and sent a sharp shiver into your bones.

We found Leonard's car on the shoulder of E1450 Road.

He was standing in the ditch, taking a piss.

Tony swung for his mirror, and missed.

"Turn it back around," he hollered, handing the bat to Dan.

Dan wasn't a fat kid, but he had a big mouth, big enough to stuff a five pound bag of flour inside and make him look like a squirrel. But it was dark out there. I couldn't see his face. Maybe he smiled; maybe he didn't. Dan had moved to town at the beginning of the year. He was a kindred spirit, meaning another boy with too much anger stuffed down inside and not enough places to aim it. The town welcomed boys like Dan. The town was hungry.

When the truck sped past the car, Dan planted the bat right on the side of Leonard's head. An accident. The old man had finished pissing and was staggering back to his car, the driver's side, right beside the mirror. Dan wasn't one of us, yet. His aim was off.

"Jesus," he said. "Oh Jesus."

I never hit anyone with a bat from the back of a speeding truck, but I imagine how it must have felt: a sudden jolt, but the target of the bat gave a little, soft because of the skin and flesh pulled over the skull. Even worse than the jolt, I imagine the realization which might have shot through Dan's arm to his brain, a brain which had already processed the image of a pale face nanoseconds before a baseball bat collided with it.

But Jantz wasn't dead. Not yet.

~

Uncle Elmer was my first dead body. I was four.

Lying in his coffin, Elmer's face looked like a pale yellow hunk of taffy, stretched too long and covered with a thin layer of wax to preserve it. His eyes were shut, but it didn't look like Elmer. Even at four, I knew these shut eyes wouldn't open, even when Aunt Gladys leaned over, stinking of talcum powder and mouthwash, and said, "He just fell asleep."

I couldn't sleep alone for years.

By seventeen, the body count in Springdale toughened my nerve.

~

BJ killed Leonard Jantz like this:

We huddled around the crumpled body. Dan pissed his pants a little, just the hint of a darker stain on the inside upper thigh of his blue jeans. He kept muttering, "Jesus," like a prayer. He hopped from the truck first, pale and shaking, and staggered to the side of Jantz's mint green Chevelle. "Oh Jesus."

Leonard Jantz's fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he was trying to talk. Movies always made it look like someone who got knocked in the head hard enough would be out cold, unconscious if not dead. Not in real life. Not Jantz. A little kiss of blood marred the side of his head where Dan's blow struck. His mouth flapped open and shut and a little noise, not quite a squeak, came bubbling out.

"The fucker isn't even dead," BJ muttered. His fists clenched and unclenched, whitening at the knuckles each time. Little half-moon marks marred his palms as he released his fists. He was angry. Anger stuffed into linebacker's skin.

"N-not d-dead?" Dan wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. "N-not d-dead?"

That was when BJ snapped, sort of like somebody yanked his human cord from the socket and left pure animal in charge, like a feral dog or hungry lion or even a shark from one of those nature shows. He always wore these scuffed, black, steel-toed boots, hand-me-downs from his father. BJ drew back one foot and gave Leonard Jantz a vicious jab in the side of his ribs, lading a solid kick with his right foot. The old man jumped like he'd been hit with an electric shock and coughed. The night grabbed my stomach with cold fingers and squeezed.

"Get the bat," BJ said.

"Shit BJ, don't…" Dan stopped blubbering, but he was pale, almost pleading.

I looked at Tony and Mike. They were frozen. I've lied so much about killing Leonard Jantz since that chilly evening in October, 1992, but here's the truth: I handed BJ the bat. I went to the truck and touched the cold aluminum and brought it back to our little cabal at the side of the road and handed it to him. Maybe he needed an accomplice. An accessory before the fact for a potential court case. BJ, all linebacker and fast twitch muscle, wasn't capable of long term thought, but maybe, just maybe a bit of him, deep down, understood the gravity of swinging an aluminum baseball bat down on an old man's head until it split open and more than blood came out of the crack.

"Dead now," BJ said. The bat dropped to the ground, rattling and hollow.

Dead. But Tony was there, and Tony would save us with a lie.

At least he would try.

~

Tony Manning held the record for consecutive world championships for lying. This is how he lied about how his neighbor's cat, Max, died:

In fifth grade, Tony built a ramp in front of his house with spare plywood and two-by-fours his father had discarded. It wasn't much of a thing, only two, maybe two and a half feet at the apex, but we spent hours after school riding various wheeled contraptions over the top: skateboards, bikes, and even Mike's homemade go-cart. Once. The rear axle shattered upon crash landing.

Max watched. He was that kind of cat. Especially as dusk gathered, and we filled those last fleeting moments of freedom with frantic activity before scurrying to our homes, dinner, and homework with a few hours of mindless television afterward. Max seldom did anything but watch until one night he plopped in front of the ramp and stared at BJ.

BJ was ready for his final run, one foot on his skateboard, the other pressed against the gravel.

"Move the fucking cat," he said.

I took a step toward the ramp. Max's eyes glinted yellow and mean. He pushed back his ears and hissed.

"Scat," I cried.

Max didn't move.

"Move the fucking cat," BJ said again.

"Just go," I said. "He'll move."

But Max didn't flinch. BJ stuck Max at full speed, lost his balance, and tumbled to the ground at the side of the ramp. His elbow dragged against the ground and his right knee skidded on asphalt before he was able to tuck over and roll toward the curb. BJ staggered to his feet, a dark patch of blood already seeping through the knee of his jeans.

"Fucking cat…" BJ stooped, picking up his skateboard.

Max still didn't move. Another hiss slipped out of his mouth. Green eyes flickered. BJ brandished the skateboard over one shoulder like a club, like the little plastic caveman in my dollar dinosaur box from Duckwalls. He hammered Max with the board, cracked it down on the cat's sleek skull. It sounded like smashing an egg, but amplified.

Nobody said anything.

Headlights peered over the hill a block away from Tony's place.

"Move the ramp," he said.

BJ stumbled toward the lawn, tossing his skateboard onto the grass. Mike and I tugged the plywood contraption to the curb. Tony closed his eyes. The headlights swelled. Tony ran toward the car, waving his hands. Tires screeched. Voices rose and fell in the street. The headlights rested against pavement, slumped and tired. A car door opened.

"Hey," a voice called. "Hey, kid. Jesus I'm sorry. Is this your cat? Oh, Jesus I'm sorry."

Tony glanced toward us and smiled.

BJ touched his knee. No blood, no wound. At least we didn't see the blood anymore. An illusion. Isn't that how magic works? "Tony?"

Tony waved him off. He turned back to the back-lit figure at the side of the road, the driver of the car."I-I tried to stop him," he sobbed. He held his scratched and bloody hands out as proof. "I t-tried."

"I'm sorry kid. Man, I'm sorry," the driver said.

Tony could lie really well. Like magic.

~

Tony worked his magic with Leonard. He tried to save us.

"Aaron, get Jantz's keys. We've got to move the car, take it down to the river."

My head tingled like the sensation you feel when you stand up too quickly and the blood can't keep up. I walked over to the body and fished out the keys. The fact I was picking a dead man's pocket washed over me like a warm breeze. Warm, not cold. I didn't flinch. Tony could do that—he could make magic happen. He made BJ's scrapes vanish six years ago. He made a middle-aged stiff think he hit Tony's cat, even though the cat wasn't Tony's and Max was already dead.

He could make Leonard Jantz go away, too.

"The river bridge," he said. "Head for the bridge. We'll meet there."

And then I climbed into the Chevelle. Mike and BJ had already put the body in the passenger seat. I didn't look. I wouldn't. Looking might break the spell, might make what happened more real than it was. The V-8 under the Chevelle's hood growled to life; the seat rattled with the throaty voice of the engine. I followed Mike to the Republic River Bridge southeast of town. The others were already standing in a small group as the Chevelle's headlamps swung toward the river. I climbed out and joined them.

"We fucking killed that old guy. We fucking killed him." Dan glared at Tony. "We killed him. I-I killed him."

Tony shook his head. "Calm yourself, Dan."

"The body…"

"What are you talking about?"

"Jant. Jantz. Whatever his name."

Mike pulled at his lower lip. BJ shook his head.

Tony smiled. "Damn, Dan. You make up some stupid stories."

BJ looked up. His face brightened. "Yeah, Danny. You are such a pansy. Listen to Tony. He's our man."

Tony nodded. "That old fucker got wasted and drove himself into the river."

Mike hesitated, but it was clearly his turn. Both BJ and Tony stared at him until he opened his mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, Dan. Hopefully the cops will find him in the next couple of days. Leonard doesn't have any family."

"Those fucking bottom feeders will have a good time with my boy Leonard," BJ said. He couldn't hold back a crooked grin. "Fucking catfish like pickled meat."

I felt it in my stomach, the cold fingers again. We were all in deep.

Ken leaned forward, searching Tony's eyes. "I hit him with a bat. On accident."

"God-damn, you're a good liar, Dan." Tony looked at the rest of us. "He's a good liar, right?"

"Sure." Mike nodded.

The aluminum bat wagged in Tony's hand. "You didn't hit anybody. Just a drunk old fucker who drove his sorry ass into the river. There's not even a bat." He heaved the bat into the air where it tumbled like a baton and splashed into the river beyond. It glinted with moonlight before splashdown. "Poor bastard just drowned."

On cue, I slipped the Chevelle into neutral. BJ pushed at the passenger door, helping me shove it toward the river.

"You were just confused about what you saw, right?" Tony asked.

Ken flexed his fingers, staring at the back of his hand. He glanced at his jeans. He swallowed hard. "I-I don't, I suppose."

"You do this enough, Dan, and it gets really easy." Tony gave Dan's shoulder a slight squeeze. "Like magic."

We were all parts of the same whole. BJ channeled our anger; Dan our panic, our raw, childish fear. Tony lied for us, became our sly, devious halves, the part which is really afraid, deep down. Mike watched, our moral compass, and he swallowed our guilt, too much of it in the end. I was the last shove over the cliff. I wasn't proud of it; it just was.

Magic. Sure. Sometimes you have to tell lies to survive.

Sometimes the lies don't work, and the dead don't stay dead.

We are the Monsters is available at Amazon.com.

Five Question Friday: Mark Murray

Today we have five questions with Mark Murray:

What do you think makes a good story?

Characters. It's what makes us read stories. We have tons of different settings from fantasy to romance, but it's the characters that pull us in. Whether it's a pirate on the seas to a female detective in love with a vampire, the story is driven by characters. They have to be written so that the reader is taken along on their journey, whether fantasizing they are the character or just going along for the ride.


Is the book always better than the movie?

Not always. I could never read any of Tolkien's books. I tried many times but just couldn't get through them. But, I love the three Lord of the Rings movies. I think they are a hundred times better than the books. So, in some cases, the movie does turn out much better. Another example is the Spiderwick Chronicles. I really love the movie but didn't like the book.


If I could read a diary of one of your characters, what would I learn about him/her?

I actually snuck into one of my character's room one day and found her diary. Her name is Alisandra and she's the lead villain in my book, Warders of the Gate. I wrote her character as an intelligent, beautiful, powerful woman who wants to rule the world she's in, even though she'd have to do that through a puppet of a High King. I figured I'd read all about how wonderful I was for creating her smart instead of just another dumb villain. Boy, was I wrong. She grumbled about how she had to overcome all these obstacles and that I should have made it easy. She whined about not being powerful enough and that I should add more power for her. And then she complained that there wasn't a love interest for her. Sheesh, and here I thought I was doing good. The moral of that is to not read other people's diaries. :)

Warders of the Gate:
http://www.markmurraybooks.com/warders.html


If you could be a superhero, what would you want your superpowers to be?

I'd like to have healing like Wolverine of the X-Men. I would live longer so that I could have time to do everything I wanted. I wouldn't have to worry about getting sick, so no health insurance costs. I could take getting hurt so I'd be able to do wild and crazy things without worrying about dying. And then one day, when science advanced enough, hey, maybe there'd be a chance of an adamantium skeleton ... with claws.


Cats or dogs? Why?

Dogs definitely. Dogs are man's best friend. Cats are just aliens sent down to earth to torture people. Dogs will help you out with all kinds of things: playing, tracking, hunting, etc. Cats just stare at you like *you* should be groveling before them and spoiling them with all manner of things. Aliens, I tell you. Aliens waiting for their chance to take over the world.


Learn more about Mark's work at his website:

http://www.markmurraybooks.com/

Green Beans: An Allegory

I talk a little about We are the Monsters at Indie Books Blog today.

But this blog post is a story about perceived value versus actual value...

I have a friend who worked for a local family farm on Fridays. (she has a regular, full-time salaried position at a local church, and Friday is her day off.) She helped prepare for the Farmer's Market on Saturday.

During green bean season, when beans were plentiful, the local farmers charge $4 a pound for their locally-raised goods. The grocery stores charge 99 cents.

My friend told me all the local farmers throw away pounds and pounds of green beans, but they won't lower their prices. Why? Because people should want to pay $4 for the local food. They should pay that much because it's the "right thing to do."

If only economics really worked that way.

People will pay what they pay. I'll write more about this next week, but for now...

Have a great St. Patrick's Day. If you go to a pub/bar/drinking establishment, bring your own food dye. The barman might charge extra for green beer.

;)

WIP Wednesday: Old Friends

Thanks for all the birthday wishes yesterday. It was a good day.

I'll keep this brief because I have miles to go before I'm done writing for the day:

"Don't worry yourself any, Sheriff." Sam swallowed hard, remembering. He knew all about jobs too big for abilities. He'd struggled in his first month out at Broughton's Hollow, fought hard with all the horrors the Sons of Chaos could bring. He motioned for quiet and peeled off his hat, peering over a blond rock. Below, at least two hundred yards away, the black mouth of the Old North Mine stood out against the painted yellows, reds, and tans of the hillside.

"Anyone?" Hesston asked.

Sam began shaking his head, but stopped and held back a hand.

At the edge of the entrance, a shape moved, not much more than the edge of a shadow. Sam tumbled back as a spray of rocks erupted a few feet from his face. The rifle report echoed through the valley a split-second later.

"Don't move gentlemen."

The voice came from behind, a deep, rough, and familiar voice.

Abraham Reaver.

I guess he didn't die, after all...

Let Me Give You a Gift

It's the anniversary of my birth, and I'm giving the gifts.

Well, one gift in particular: a Kindle copy of my new novella, We are the Monsters. (Well, it's a long novella or a very short novel...depends on your definition, doesn't it?) Don't have a Kindle? No sweat. You can download a free Kindle app for PC, Mac, iPod...etc. Yes, I know it's part of Amazon's evil empire. I just haven't had time to up load the book to Smashwords yet and my birthday (hence the gifting) is today.


About We are the Monsters:

While cruising a dark country road late one Saturday night, five high school friends accidentally kill an old drunk. Hiding the body is easy. Lying about what happened is even easier. But lies have a way of breeding Monsters in Springdale, Kansas, and the Monsters have come to play.

"Here's the truth about growing up in a small town: you tell lies to survive.

I worked at a grocery store during high school, part time on the evenings and weekends. I saw plenty of strange things there: avocados stuffed in a barrel of fresh popcorn left to rot, a coworker who punched holes in the caps of beer bottles with an awl, pies marked "Verda's own home-baked" which came frozen on pallets with the Sunday dairy truck. I found a body in the trash bin once, but nobody can prove who put it there. No one can prove it was there.

There were too many bodies for a town the size of Springdale. The name of the town is a lie, but the bodies aren't. All of them. When you find a body lying with the outdated yogurt, wilted lettuce, and cardboard boxes, you make up stories to cope. You can't process a body in the grocery store trash bin. A trick of the light, you say. The way the shadows fell across certain bits of debris like the coat hanger beast in a little boy's bedroom. That head of lettuce, there, in the corner, looks like a human hand.

Bodies are bodies.

Dead is dead.

And lies are lies."

Interested? Either comment with email address below (you can use (at) instead of @ in the address to fool spam bots) or email me directly at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com.

Enjoy the Ides of March!

How to Hold a Book Signing (If You've Never Done it Before)

Today's essential question: Should you schedule a book signing?

Here's how my first ever went down (with hints and spoilers):

After playing phone tag with a few bookstores, I finally nailed down one manager. Two days later, I consigned four copies each of Loathsome, Dark and Deep and The House Eaters. We scheduled a signing one month out (this was on February 12th).

So, flash forward one month. I was nervous. What if I didn't sell a single book? I used to work at a bookstore (long before I was a writer), and we used to make fun of the visiting authors who didn't sell any books. I was an asshat back then...

Hint #1: Show up early. I arrived a little early (to help set up as all good authors suggest you do), and surprise, surprise, a little table with my books and signage was already displayed in the entryway. So far so good.

Hint #2. Don't sit down. They gave me a chair. I only sat in the chair to sign books. You must be up and moving around. Engage with customers. Smile. Just say "hi".

Hint #3: Bring something to give away. I had bookmarks and candy. Candy is good. Everybody likes candy. I shared with the employees. They are your friends. Trust me.

I sold my first book within three minutes. Hey, I thought, this might be okay. 10 minutes later, I sold two more books. Hey, I thought, I might run out of books. I'd sold two more within another 10 minutes. Wow. The score after a half-hour: 5 books down, 3 to go.

And then I stood around for another 90 minutes, talking to a lot of folks about my books, but with no takers. *sigh*

Hint #4: Keep talking to people, even when they just want to talk about themselves. Several individuals told me how they were writers, too, and would be published...but. There was always a but. But I can't edit. But nobody "gets" me. Keep talking. Be real.

My second and third sales came to two women who didn't look like they were my target audience. Why did they buy the books?

Hint #5: Love your books. If you hate to sell, stop writing for an audience. Even if I'm giving you a story for free, it is still a sale. The reader pays with his/her time. You have to love your work or no one else will. Enthusiasm is addictive. Be excited about your stuff. I knew it was time to go home when my energy level waned.

Final score: 5 books sold; 3 books back on the shelf; $34.54 in my pocket. Understand that those books were consigned and about a $1 each actually went into my pocket (I'd got the books at a discount through my publishers). Of course I'm donating the $34.54 to Tsunami/earthquake relief efforts, and I'll give you a gift if you donate, too.

What I learned:

1. Book signings are not about making money. Five bucks didn't even cover gas.

2. Book signings are about talking to people about your book. They are about meeting folks you might not meet any other way. Five copies of my books walked through the door. Four new readers took my books home. Maybe they'll pass them on or tell someone else.

Will I hold another? Maybe. It was pretty exhausting.

Disaster Relief and Giving Gifts

I sold five books (two copies of The House Eaters and three of Loathsome) at the signing today, all within the first 30 minutes. If I would have known, I could have gone home at 2:30. (Ha!) All my earnings are going to the Red Cross for earthquake/tsunami relief.

Here's what I'll do this week (through Friday, March 18th): anyone who wants to donate to any reputable disaster relief fund can send me a message (via email: aaron.polson(at)gmail.com), and I'll send you a free e-copy of any of my books.

We are the Monsters (Brand-spanking new but only on Kindle...for now)

The House Eaters (Kindle only)

Loathsome, Dark and Deep (multiple formats)

The Bottom Feeders (multiple formats)

Black Medicine Thunder and the Sons of Chaos (Kindle only)

Rock Gods and Scary Monsters (multiple formats)


(I'll talk more about We are the Monsters later...oh yes)

Honorable Mentionings

Yesterday was professional development at school. For those of you outside the education system, "professional development" means someone who doesn't know any more than you do comes and tells you how to do something you probably already knew how to do.

That sentence needs editing.

Anyway, I stopped into my classroom during a bathroom break, and (like any good junkie) checked Twitter. It seems one of my little tales made Ellen Datlow's honorable mention list for Best Horror of the Year. Practical jokes aren't fun, but this was for real. I checked. Double-checked.

Yes, "Cargo" from Dark Pages volume 1 was on the list, next to my name. Yes, I've checked it each year since I started writing. Yes the list is very long. This is one of those things folks outside the writing loop don't quite understand. What a lovely early birthday present.

Thanks to Brenton Tomlinson, Alan Baxter, and Blade Red for taking my little story about a strange little girl at the end of the world. And thanks, Ellen, for the mention.

I'm off to Topeka for my first signing today. I will have candy, so at least somebody will talk to me.

Have a glorious day.

Five Question Friday: Sarah Woodbury

Five questions with Sarah Woodbury:

What is your favorite kind of cheese?

Extra sharp white cheddar

If you could live in anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I really hate to say it, but I actually do live where I want to live: in a small town in Oregon, where we have 4 seasons but not too cold winters, near my family and the people I love, doing a job I love doing.

That said, I want a second home in Wales (of course).

If you couldn't write, how would you spend the time you now use for writing?

It would be really hard not to write. But I didn't always write fiction--I have a Ph.D. in anthropology and I have four kids whom I homeschool (well, the oldest two are 18 and 19, so not anymore), so I would keep busy. But . . . I don't want to think about not being able to write!

If you could be a superhero, what would you want your superpowers to be?

I want to be able to fly. I have recurring flying dreams where I am in a massive warehouse and can fly up to the inside of the ceiling but no further, or dreams where I fly, but have strings attached to me such that I can't leave the ground. I keep cutting them and they keep growing back. Yes, I'm sure this is deeply meaningful. As it's 2011, I keep waiting for the flying cars they promised us, but they don't seem to have been invented yet.

What three things are always in your refrigerator?

The aforementioned cheese, milk (four kids, remember), and jam.


My web page and blog on Dark Age and Medieval Wales
My books at Amazon
...at Barnes and Noble
...and Smashwords.
The books are also available at Sony, Apple, and Diesel

Thanks, Sarah!