Anthony Izzo's Blog, page 13
July 25, 2016
Writing on the Go: What Can You Do With Ten Minutes?
I've been typing in pages from my writing notebook to the computer for the past week or so. Often, I'll start a scene while on break at work in my notebook and type it later that night, finishing it up. Much of my writing is done in short bursts, and as I've said before on this blog, it adds up. So if you only have ten minutes, what writing/publishing activities can you do?
1. Make notes for your next few scenes.
2. Write the first quarter/half of a scene or chapter.
3. Jot down some ideas for your next book/story.
4. Research potential markets for your fiction. Study a successful author whose work is similar to yours (What things are they doing right?).
5. Make some rough notes for a future blog post.
6. Share some content on social media (interesting articles, helpful advice, etc.)
7. Share something on social media channels about your work in progress. Give people a glimpse of your writing process.
8. Read an article on the writing craft.
9. Read/comment on a blog you enjoy.
10. Write a quick review of a book you enjoyed. Give the author a shout out on Twitter, FB, etc.
11. Read a chapter in a book (reading is part of being a writer).
I sometimes catch myself in those spare minutes mindlessly searching FB, Instagram, etc. when I could be writing or doing something to increase visibility and connect with people. These are just a few ideas on how to maximize your time.
1. Make notes for your next few scenes.
2. Write the first quarter/half of a scene or chapter.
3. Jot down some ideas for your next book/story.
4. Research potential markets for your fiction. Study a successful author whose work is similar to yours (What things are they doing right?).
5. Make some rough notes for a future blog post.
6. Share some content on social media (interesting articles, helpful advice, etc.)
7. Share something on social media channels about your work in progress. Give people a glimpse of your writing process.
8. Read an article on the writing craft.
9. Read/comment on a blog you enjoy.
10. Write a quick review of a book you enjoyed. Give the author a shout out on Twitter, FB, etc.
11. Read a chapter in a book (reading is part of being a writer).
I sometimes catch myself in those spare minutes mindlessly searching FB, Instagram, etc. when I could be writing or doing something to increase visibility and connect with people. These are just a few ideas on how to maximize your time.
July 4, 2016
The Fifteen Minute Fix - Finding Time to Write
I get asked often how I find time to write. I've written thirteen novels, some novellas, and the occasional short story over the past twelve years. Like most of us, I work a day job and have family and other commitments.
So between work, family, running errands, and all the other things life throws at you, how can you find time to write?
Take advantage of short writing sessions. Writing sessions don't have to be marathons. Sprints are just fine. Lunch and work breaks are great. Waiting for the doctor is another prime opportunity to write. You can stay up fifteen minutes later or get up fifteen minutes earlier. Skip that half hour television show.
To make your writing sessions more efficient, I recommend using a timer. I like fast, fifteen minute sessions. You can do a bunch of these in a row, or spread them throughout the day. The one rule is you write while the timer is going. No web surfing, no distractions. Do nothing else but write while the clock is ticking.
I think you'll surprise yourself with how much you can get done. I know I did. Here are some word counts from two timed sessions (15 minutes each):
Session one: 488 words
Session two: 600 words
That's four pages of manuscript (averaging 250 words per page) in a half hour's time. And the writing will add up. Before you know it, that first draft will be complete.
There's always a way to get writing done.
So between work, family, running errands, and all the other things life throws at you, how can you find time to write?
Take advantage of short writing sessions. Writing sessions don't have to be marathons. Sprints are just fine. Lunch and work breaks are great. Waiting for the doctor is another prime opportunity to write. You can stay up fifteen minutes later or get up fifteen minutes earlier. Skip that half hour television show.
To make your writing sessions more efficient, I recommend using a timer. I like fast, fifteen minute sessions. You can do a bunch of these in a row, or spread them throughout the day. The one rule is you write while the timer is going. No web surfing, no distractions. Do nothing else but write while the clock is ticking.
I think you'll surprise yourself with how much you can get done. I know I did. Here are some word counts from two timed sessions (15 minutes each):
Session one: 488 words
Session two: 600 words
That's four pages of manuscript (averaging 250 words per page) in a half hour's time. And the writing will add up. Before you know it, that first draft will be complete.
There's always a way to get writing done.
July 3, 2016
Happy Fourth of July
I got in my two weekend writing sessions. I try and do two sessions between Saturday and Sunday morning. I get up between 6-6:30 a.m. to write, which is sleeping in for me. I get up at 4:30 for work during the week.
Getting up early on the weekend allows me to get writing done while my family sleeps. I've always been more of a morning person. My wife will agree that I'm probably too damned cheerful in the morning.
I'm at around 45,000 words on Kingdom of the Dead. This is between what I have on the computer an what's still in my writing notebook. Hoping to have it done by the end of summer.
Also been trying to whip my old ass into shape. My wife and I have been walking a lot. Getting in 2-3 weight workouts per week, in addition.
I've been checking out this guy's website lately(found him through YouTube), and there's a ton of great, no-BS fitness information on there. His name is Radu Antoniu. Here's the link.
Getting up early on the weekend allows me to get writing done while my family sleeps. I've always been more of a morning person. My wife will agree that I'm probably too damned cheerful in the morning.
I'm at around 45,000 words on Kingdom of the Dead. This is between what I have on the computer an what's still in my writing notebook. Hoping to have it done by the end of summer.
Also been trying to whip my old ass into shape. My wife and I have been walking a lot. Getting in 2-3 weight workouts per week, in addition.
I've been checking out this guy's website lately(found him through YouTube), and there's a ton of great, no-BS fitness information on there. His name is Radu Antoniu. Here's the link.
June 30, 2016
Kingdom of the Dead Excerpt
Thought I'd share an excerpt of my WIP, Kingdom of the Dead. Due out Fall 2016. It's rough copy.
From Kingdom of the Dead
Copyright 2016 Anthony izzo
Frank Harding snapped awake.
He had been dreaming of Ashley, of the last time they had made love before things changed. The warm summer breeze had blown through the open window. She had smelled of fresh sweat and vanilla, her breasts soft in his hands as she rode him to climax. After, they had curled up, her head on his chest. He liked to nuzzle her curly chestnut hair.
How he missed her. It had been the last summer before the world died.
Currently, he was curled up behind the counter of an abandoned drug store, a wool blanket wrapped around him. He had caught a few hours sleep and managed to keep himself out of sight.
It had been quiet.
He was somewhere in what remained of Chicago. The Windy City. All the wind brought now was the smell of rotting bodies, spoiled food, garbage, and burning metal.
He got to his feet. The pharmacy counter stood on a platform. It gave him a good vantage point.
The store was empty, save for a few cans of Ensure rolling around on the floor.
He patted the .357 that rested in a holster on his hip. Then he picked up the scoped M-4 rifle that had become his main traveling companion. In addition to the guns, he carried a machete tucked in a side pocket on his pack. It came in handy for chopping branches and busting rotter’s skulls. Their bones got soft after a while. Not enough Vitamin D in the diet.
His stomach growled. It seemed safe to take some time to eat. He went to the end of the counter, where he’d fastened a trip wire tied to some empty soup cans. It was an alarm meant to give him a few seconds’ warning.
He picked up the cans, wound the string around them, and placed them in his pack.
While he had the pack open, he dug out some dried apricots and popped them in his mouth. What he would give for a strip steak from Russell’s Steaks and Chops. That had been the last place he’d taken Ashley for dinner. She’d eaten her entrée and half of his steak. He didn’t mind.
He chewed the apricots while sitting on his haunches and listening for approaching intruders. A breeze whistled outside. An empty milk jug rolled down the street.
Frank had volunteered to come out here. There were reports of hordes of the dead growing and moving east. His people wanted to be prepared, so Frank volunteered to take one of the scouting missions.
It wasn’t too bad out here, minus the zombies trying to chew your face off. The Territories grew boring after a while. He’d frequented brothels, as it hadn’t taken long for them to crop up, even during the end of the world. The women there made him feel good, did things that would make some people blush. But he always returned to an empty house. He’d moved into the abandoned dwelling, the owners gone or dead.
The people in charge liked that he was a soldier. Or had been. Fought in the Syrian conflict and the Second Great War. He was a good shot and liked to think he could manage not to get killed out here.
When his snack was gone, he rolled up his sleeping bag, tethered it to his pack, and shouldered the whole thing. At the front window, he watched the street.
A sleek, gray rat skittered past. It stopped and sniffed the air.
From behind a burned-out Pontiac across the street stepped a zombie. It burst into the street, lunged, and snatched up the rat. The Z bit down on the rat and tore away a hunk, the rat screeching.
They were getting desperate for flesh. The Z took a few more bites before tossing the rat’s carcass aside.
The zombie looked up and saw Frank in the window.
Shit.
He’d have to be quick. He shouldered the rifle, then reached back and grabbed the machete from the pack. He stepped outside and the zombie came at him.
Frank swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Momentum carried the dead thing forward, shoving Frank back into the window.
The Z’s jaws worked up and down, teeth clacking. Blackish fluid dripped down its forehead.
Frank had heavy gloves and forearm pads on to protect against a bite. He grabbed the Z’s chin with one hand. With the other he grabbed the top of its head. He twisted, bone cracking as the head turned and nearly separated. The zombie twitched and he managed to knock it to the ground.
When the zombie was on the ground, he stomped the skull into jelly and took back his machete.
“Damned messy, that one,” he said.
He wiped the machete on the zombie’s tattered pants. Then he returned it to the sheath on the pack.
There could be more of them around, and his kill might have attracted unwanted attention. Frank hurried down the street, scoping out buildings, hoping to find a tall one where he could get the lay of the land.
He spotted a ten-story building that housed a deli and a shoe repair shop at street level. Like many of the buildings, the windows at ground level were smashed out.
After removing the rifle from his shoulder, Frank went to the door. He opened it and peered into the dim interior.
When nothing jumped at him, he slipped into a lobby, the deli to the right and the shoe shop to the left.
A sign on the wall advertised various businesses on the upper floors: attorneys, insurance agencies, financial planners.
He spotted a door marked stairs, visible in the low light coming from the street windows. He took a flashlight from his pack, wary of using up batteries. But he was going up a dark stairwell, and a fall out here could be fatal, even if the initial impact didn’t kill you.
Frank eased the stairwell door open and it gave a terrific squeal. Hopefully that didn’t alert every Z for blocks around. A musty, old smell wafted out.
After shining the light end and finding the stairs unoccupied, he climbed, making it to the fifth floor. A heap of desks, office chairs, and filing cabinets blocked his progress. It appeared someone on the upper floors had made a barricade as part of a desperate last stand.
He entered the fifth floor, where the stink of rotting flesh hit him. He shined the light and found the source: a dead woman in a gray skirt and matching blazer sat in an office chair. A .38 revolver lay on the ground at her feet. She had a blackish exit wound on her temple. Nearby was a dead Z. Dead as they could get, anyway. The back of its skull was blown out.
He’d have to live with the stench. At the window, he set down his pack and took out a set of binoculars. He had a good view down the boulevard. In the distance, he saw the hot glow of a fire. Thick smoke rose into the air.
He wanted to find out what was burning.
From Kingdom of the Dead
Copyright 2016 Anthony izzo
Frank Harding snapped awake.
He had been dreaming of Ashley, of the last time they had made love before things changed. The warm summer breeze had blown through the open window. She had smelled of fresh sweat and vanilla, her breasts soft in his hands as she rode him to climax. After, they had curled up, her head on his chest. He liked to nuzzle her curly chestnut hair.
How he missed her. It had been the last summer before the world died.
Currently, he was curled up behind the counter of an abandoned drug store, a wool blanket wrapped around him. He had caught a few hours sleep and managed to keep himself out of sight.
It had been quiet.
He was somewhere in what remained of Chicago. The Windy City. All the wind brought now was the smell of rotting bodies, spoiled food, garbage, and burning metal.
He got to his feet. The pharmacy counter stood on a platform. It gave him a good vantage point.
The store was empty, save for a few cans of Ensure rolling around on the floor.
He patted the .357 that rested in a holster on his hip. Then he picked up the scoped M-4 rifle that had become his main traveling companion. In addition to the guns, he carried a machete tucked in a side pocket on his pack. It came in handy for chopping branches and busting rotter’s skulls. Their bones got soft after a while. Not enough Vitamin D in the diet.
His stomach growled. It seemed safe to take some time to eat. He went to the end of the counter, where he’d fastened a trip wire tied to some empty soup cans. It was an alarm meant to give him a few seconds’ warning.
He picked up the cans, wound the string around them, and placed them in his pack.
While he had the pack open, he dug out some dried apricots and popped them in his mouth. What he would give for a strip steak from Russell’s Steaks and Chops. That had been the last place he’d taken Ashley for dinner. She’d eaten her entrée and half of his steak. He didn’t mind.
He chewed the apricots while sitting on his haunches and listening for approaching intruders. A breeze whistled outside. An empty milk jug rolled down the street.
Frank had volunteered to come out here. There were reports of hordes of the dead growing and moving east. His people wanted to be prepared, so Frank volunteered to take one of the scouting missions.
It wasn’t too bad out here, minus the zombies trying to chew your face off. The Territories grew boring after a while. He’d frequented brothels, as it hadn’t taken long for them to crop up, even during the end of the world. The women there made him feel good, did things that would make some people blush. But he always returned to an empty house. He’d moved into the abandoned dwelling, the owners gone or dead.
The people in charge liked that he was a soldier. Or had been. Fought in the Syrian conflict and the Second Great War. He was a good shot and liked to think he could manage not to get killed out here.
When his snack was gone, he rolled up his sleeping bag, tethered it to his pack, and shouldered the whole thing. At the front window, he watched the street.
A sleek, gray rat skittered past. It stopped and sniffed the air.
From behind a burned-out Pontiac across the street stepped a zombie. It burst into the street, lunged, and snatched up the rat. The Z bit down on the rat and tore away a hunk, the rat screeching.
They were getting desperate for flesh. The Z took a few more bites before tossing the rat’s carcass aside.
The zombie looked up and saw Frank in the window.
Shit.
He’d have to be quick. He shouldered the rifle, then reached back and grabbed the machete from the pack. He stepped outside and the zombie came at him.
Frank swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Momentum carried the dead thing forward, shoving Frank back into the window.
The Z’s jaws worked up and down, teeth clacking. Blackish fluid dripped down its forehead.
Frank had heavy gloves and forearm pads on to protect against a bite. He grabbed the Z’s chin with one hand. With the other he grabbed the top of its head. He twisted, bone cracking as the head turned and nearly separated. The zombie twitched and he managed to knock it to the ground.
When the zombie was on the ground, he stomped the skull into jelly and took back his machete.
“Damned messy, that one,” he said.
He wiped the machete on the zombie’s tattered pants. Then he returned it to the sheath on the pack.
There could be more of them around, and his kill might have attracted unwanted attention. Frank hurried down the street, scoping out buildings, hoping to find a tall one where he could get the lay of the land.
He spotted a ten-story building that housed a deli and a shoe repair shop at street level. Like many of the buildings, the windows at ground level were smashed out.
After removing the rifle from his shoulder, Frank went to the door. He opened it and peered into the dim interior.
When nothing jumped at him, he slipped into a lobby, the deli to the right and the shoe shop to the left.
A sign on the wall advertised various businesses on the upper floors: attorneys, insurance agencies, financial planners.
He spotted a door marked stairs, visible in the low light coming from the street windows. He took a flashlight from his pack, wary of using up batteries. But he was going up a dark stairwell, and a fall out here could be fatal, even if the initial impact didn’t kill you.
Frank eased the stairwell door open and it gave a terrific squeal. Hopefully that didn’t alert every Z for blocks around. A musty, old smell wafted out.
After shining the light end and finding the stairs unoccupied, he climbed, making it to the fifth floor. A heap of desks, office chairs, and filing cabinets blocked his progress. It appeared someone on the upper floors had made a barricade as part of a desperate last stand.
He entered the fifth floor, where the stink of rotting flesh hit him. He shined the light and found the source: a dead woman in a gray skirt and matching blazer sat in an office chair. A .38 revolver lay on the ground at her feet. She had a blackish exit wound on her temple. Nearby was a dead Z. Dead as they could get, anyway. The back of its skull was blown out.
He’d have to live with the stench. At the window, he set down his pack and took out a set of binoculars. He had a good view down the boulevard. In the distance, he saw the hot glow of a fire. Thick smoke rose into the air.
He wanted to find out what was burning.
Excerpt from Kingdom of the Dead
Thought I'd share an excerpt from my zombie WIP. It's rough copy, unedited.
Copyright 2016 Anthony Izzo
Frank Harding snapped awake.He had been dreaming of Ashley, of the last time they had made love before things changed. The warm summer breeze had blown through the open window. She had smelled of fresh sweat and vanilla, her breasts soft in his hands as she rode him to climax. After, they had curled up, her head on his chest. He liked to nuzzle her curly chestnut hair.How he missed her. It had been the last summer before the world died.Currently, he was curled up behind the counter of an abandoned drug store, a wool blanket wrapped around him. He had caught a few hours sleep and managed to keep himself out of sight.It had been quiet. He was somewhere in what remained of Chicago. The Windy City. All the wind brought now was the smell of rotting bodies, spoiled food, garbage, and burning metal. He got to his feet. The pharmacy counter stood on a platform. It gave him a good vantage point.The store was empty, save for a few cans of Ensure rolling around on the floor.He patted the .357 that rested in a holster on his hip. Then he picked up the scoped M-4 rifle that had become his main traveling companion. In addition to the guns, he carried a machete tucked in a side pocket on his pack. It came in handy for chopping branches and busting rotter’s skulls. Their bones got soft after a while. Not enough Vitamin D in the diet.His stomach growled. It seemed safe to take some time to eat. He went to the end of the counter, where he’d fastened a trip wire tied to some empty soup cans. It was an alarm meant to give him a few seconds’ warning.He picked up the cans, wound the string around them, and placed them in his pack.While he had the pack open, he dug out some dried apricots and popped them in his mouth. What he would give for a strip steak from Russell’s Steaks and Chops. That had been the last place he’d taken Ashley for dinner. She’d eaten her entrée and half of his steak. He didn’t mind.He chewed the apricots while sitting on his haunches and listening for approaching intruders. A breeze whistled outside. An empty milk jug rolled down the street.Frank had volunteered to come out here. There were reports of hordes of the dead growing and moving east. His people wanted to be prepared, so Frank volunteered to take one of the scouting missions.It wasn’t too bad out here, minus the zombies trying to chew your face off. The Territories grew boring after a while. He’d frequented brothels, as it hadn’t taken long for them to crop up, even during the end of the world. The women there made him feel good, did things that would make some people blush. But he always returned to an empty house. He’d moved into the abandoned dwelling, the owners gone or dead.The people in charge liked that he was a soldier. Or had been. Fought in the Syrian conflict and the Second Great War. He was a good shot and liked to think he could manage not to get killed out here. When his snack was gone, he rolled up his sleeping bag, tethered it to his pack, and shouldered the whole thing. At the front window, he watched the street. A sleek, gray rat skittered past. It stopped and sniffed the air.From behind a burned-out Pontiac across the street stepped a zombie. It burst into the street, lunged, and snatched up the rat. The Z bit down on the rat and tore away a hunk, the rat screeching. They were getting desperate for flesh. The Z took a few more bites before tossing the rat’s carcass aside.The zombie looked up and saw Frank in the window. Shit.He’d have to be quick. He shouldered the rifle, then reached back and grabbed the machete from the pack. He stepped outside and the zombie came at him. Frank swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Momentum carried the dead thing forward, shoving Frank back into the window. The Z’s jaws worked up and down, teeth clacking. Blackish fluid dripped down its forehead. Frank had heavy gloves and forearm pads on to protect against a bite. He grabbed the Z’s chin with one hand. With the other he grabbed the top of its head. He twisted, bone cracking as the head turned and nearly separated. The zombie twitched and he managed to knock it to the ground.When the zombie was on the ground, he stomped the skull into jelly and took back his machete.“Damned messy, that one,” he said.He wiped the machete on the zombie’s tattered pants. Then he returned it to the sheath on the pack.There could be more of them around, and his kill might have attracted unwanted attention. Frank hurried down the street, scoping out buildings, hoping to find a tall one where he could get the lay of the land.He spotted a ten-story building that housed a deli and a shoe repair shop at street level. Like many of the buildings, the windows at ground level were smashed out.After removing the rifle from his shoulder, Frank went to the door. He opened it and peered into the dim interior.When nothing jumped at him, he slipped into a lobby, the deli to the right and the shoe shop to the left.A sign on the wall advertised various businesses on the upper floors: attorneys, insurance agencies, financial planners. He spotted a door marked stairs, visible in the low light coming from the street windows. He took a flashlight from his pack, wary of using up batteries. But he was going up a dark stairwell, and a fall out here could be fatal, even if the initial impact didn’t kill you.Frank eased the stairwell door open and it gave a terrific squeal. Hopefully that didn’t alert every Z for blocks around. A musty, old smell wafted out. After shining the light end and finding the stairs unoccupied, he climbed, making it to the fifth floor. A heap of desks, office chairs, and filing cabinets blocked his progress. It appeared someone on the upper floors had made a barricade as part of a desperate last stand.He entered the fifth floor, where the stink of rotting flesh hit him. He shined the light and found the source: a dead woman in a gray skirt and matching blazer sat in an office chair. A .38 revolver lay on the ground at her feet. She had a blackish exit wound on her temple. Nearby was a dead Z. Dead as they could get, anyway. The back of its skull was blown out.He’d have to live with the stench. At the window, he set down his pack and took out a set of binoculars. He had a good view down the boulevard. In the distance, he saw the hot glow of a fire. Thick smoke rose into the air. He wanted to find out what was burning.
Copyright 2016 Anthony Izzo
Frank Harding snapped awake.He had been dreaming of Ashley, of the last time they had made love before things changed. The warm summer breeze had blown through the open window. She had smelled of fresh sweat and vanilla, her breasts soft in his hands as she rode him to climax. After, they had curled up, her head on his chest. He liked to nuzzle her curly chestnut hair.How he missed her. It had been the last summer before the world died.Currently, he was curled up behind the counter of an abandoned drug store, a wool blanket wrapped around him. He had caught a few hours sleep and managed to keep himself out of sight.It had been quiet. He was somewhere in what remained of Chicago. The Windy City. All the wind brought now was the smell of rotting bodies, spoiled food, garbage, and burning metal. He got to his feet. The pharmacy counter stood on a platform. It gave him a good vantage point.The store was empty, save for a few cans of Ensure rolling around on the floor.He patted the .357 that rested in a holster on his hip. Then he picked up the scoped M-4 rifle that had become his main traveling companion. In addition to the guns, he carried a machete tucked in a side pocket on his pack. It came in handy for chopping branches and busting rotter’s skulls. Their bones got soft after a while. Not enough Vitamin D in the diet.His stomach growled. It seemed safe to take some time to eat. He went to the end of the counter, where he’d fastened a trip wire tied to some empty soup cans. It was an alarm meant to give him a few seconds’ warning.He picked up the cans, wound the string around them, and placed them in his pack.While he had the pack open, he dug out some dried apricots and popped them in his mouth. What he would give for a strip steak from Russell’s Steaks and Chops. That had been the last place he’d taken Ashley for dinner. She’d eaten her entrée and half of his steak. He didn’t mind.He chewed the apricots while sitting on his haunches and listening for approaching intruders. A breeze whistled outside. An empty milk jug rolled down the street.Frank had volunteered to come out here. There were reports of hordes of the dead growing and moving east. His people wanted to be prepared, so Frank volunteered to take one of the scouting missions.It wasn’t too bad out here, minus the zombies trying to chew your face off. The Territories grew boring after a while. He’d frequented brothels, as it hadn’t taken long for them to crop up, even during the end of the world. The women there made him feel good, did things that would make some people blush. But he always returned to an empty house. He’d moved into the abandoned dwelling, the owners gone or dead.The people in charge liked that he was a soldier. Or had been. Fought in the Syrian conflict and the Second Great War. He was a good shot and liked to think he could manage not to get killed out here. When his snack was gone, he rolled up his sleeping bag, tethered it to his pack, and shouldered the whole thing. At the front window, he watched the street. A sleek, gray rat skittered past. It stopped and sniffed the air.From behind a burned-out Pontiac across the street stepped a zombie. It burst into the street, lunged, and snatched up the rat. The Z bit down on the rat and tore away a hunk, the rat screeching. They were getting desperate for flesh. The Z took a few more bites before tossing the rat’s carcass aside.The zombie looked up and saw Frank in the window. Shit.He’d have to be quick. He shouldered the rifle, then reached back and grabbed the machete from the pack. He stepped outside and the zombie came at him. Frank swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Momentum carried the dead thing forward, shoving Frank back into the window. The Z’s jaws worked up and down, teeth clacking. Blackish fluid dripped down its forehead. Frank had heavy gloves and forearm pads on to protect against a bite. He grabbed the Z’s chin with one hand. With the other he grabbed the top of its head. He twisted, bone cracking as the head turned and nearly separated. The zombie twitched and he managed to knock it to the ground.When the zombie was on the ground, he stomped the skull into jelly and took back his machete.“Damned messy, that one,” he said.He wiped the machete on the zombie’s tattered pants. Then he returned it to the sheath on the pack.There could be more of them around, and his kill might have attracted unwanted attention. Frank hurried down the street, scoping out buildings, hoping to find a tall one where he could get the lay of the land.He spotted a ten-story building that housed a deli and a shoe repair shop at street level. Like many of the buildings, the windows at ground level were smashed out.After removing the rifle from his shoulder, Frank went to the door. He opened it and peered into the dim interior.When nothing jumped at him, he slipped into a lobby, the deli to the right and the shoe shop to the left.A sign on the wall advertised various businesses on the upper floors: attorneys, insurance agencies, financial planners. He spotted a door marked stairs, visible in the low light coming from the street windows. He took a flashlight from his pack, wary of using up batteries. But he was going up a dark stairwell, and a fall out here could be fatal, even if the initial impact didn’t kill you.Frank eased the stairwell door open and it gave a terrific squeal. Hopefully that didn’t alert every Z for blocks around. A musty, old smell wafted out. After shining the light end and finding the stairs unoccupied, he climbed, making it to the fifth floor. A heap of desks, office chairs, and filing cabinets blocked his progress. It appeared someone on the upper floors had made a barricade as part of a desperate last stand.He entered the fifth floor, where the stink of rotting flesh hit him. He shined the light and found the source: a dead woman in a gray skirt and matching blazer sat in an office chair. A .38 revolver lay on the ground at her feet. She had a blackish exit wound on her temple. Nearby was a dead Z. Dead as they could get, anyway. The back of its skull was blown out.He’d have to live with the stench. At the window, he set down his pack and took out a set of binoculars. He had a good view down the boulevard. In the distance, he saw the hot glow of a fire. Thick smoke rose into the air. He wanted to find out what was burning.
June 8, 2016
The Day's Writing - June 8, 2016
Skipped the 4:30 writing session this morning. I was up until 11:00 last night so I opted to sleep until five.
Did around 488 words in 15 minutes right after dinner. Just finished another 600 in a second session.
Kingdom of the Dead is coming along at 29,000 or so words.
I'm doing a final read through of Darkness Coming (Gray Men, Book Two) on the Kindle previewer. It should be up for sale this weekend.
Planning on watching Deadpool this weekend with my son. He saw it at a buddy's house and wants to watch it again. I'm looking forward to seeing it. Also think it's cool my teenage son wants to hang and watch a movie with me.
Did around 488 words in 15 minutes right after dinner. Just finished another 600 in a second session.
Kingdom of the Dead is coming along at 29,000 or so words.
I'm doing a final read through of Darkness Coming (Gray Men, Book Two) on the Kindle previewer. It should be up for sale this weekend.
Planning on watching Deadpool this weekend with my son. He saw it at a buddy's house and wants to watch it again. I'm looking forward to seeing it. Also think it's cool my teenage son wants to hang and watch a movie with me.
May 12, 2016
4:30 and Getting Shit Done
I've started getting up earlier (4:30 a.m.) to work on creative pursuits. And sometimes to get in my workouts.
I like working at that hour. The family is sleeping. The house is quiet. I can usually get some pages written, start a sketch, or both.
This morning I wrote a few pages in the Moleskine notebook that I'm using for Kingdom of the Dead. Then I headed to the basement for a circuit workout (push-ups, bodyweight squats, etc.)
Also working on a sketch of a Templar Knight and dragon. Trying to make some art every day. Good for the soul and all that.
I'm currently reading Chuck Wending's Mockingbird.
I like working at that hour. The family is sleeping. The house is quiet. I can usually get some pages written, start a sketch, or both.
This morning I wrote a few pages in the Moleskine notebook that I'm using for Kingdom of the Dead. Then I headed to the basement for a circuit workout (push-ups, bodyweight squats, etc.)
Also working on a sketch of a Templar Knight and dragon. Trying to make some art every day. Good for the soul and all that.
I'm currently reading Chuck Wending's Mockingbird.
April 23, 2016
Short Writing Sessions and New Book Covers
I've been working in multiple, shorter writing sessions to get the work done lately. They look something like this:
4:30 a.m. (before work) 300-500 words
Break time at work 150 words
Evening (after supper) another 300-500 words
There's always a way to get writing done.
Books Two (Darkness Coming) and Three (World on Fire) of the Gray Men Trilogy are being proofread. Here's the covers I worked up for them:
4:30 a.m. (before work) 300-500 words
Break time at work 150 words
Evening (after supper) another 300-500 words
There's always a way to get writing done.
Books Two (Darkness Coming) and Three (World on Fire) of the Gray Men Trilogy are being proofread. Here's the covers I worked up for them:
March 26, 2015
Gray Men Excerpt
An excerpt from my WIP, The Gray Men. Unedited copy, so it might be a little rough. Book One Coming Spring 2015.
Copyright 2015 Anthony Izzo
1
They had come to kill her. Trina was sure of that. She stole glances in the rearview mirror. The drive-in speaker blared fuzz in her ear. On screen, Liam Neeson chopped a would be terrorist in the side of the neck. The last night at one of the last drive-ins in the state. A little relaxation is what she'd hoped for. Now she had to deal with the killers.
Not that she wasn't ready for them; she had a Sig Sauer P220 in the glove box and a pistol grip shotgun under a blanket in the back seat. Not to mention two K-Bar knives strapped on her person. She reached over, popped the glove box, and took out the Sig. She set it on her lap. On screen, Neeson was blasting two guys to hell; she liked his style.
They'd trailed her here in a black Ram pick-up. Hadn't done a great job of it, as she'd spotted them a quarter mile back, matching her moves. Now they were parked two cars behind her, at least two of them that she could see sitting in the cab of the Ram. They were Larsen's men, of that she was sure. What she didn't know was how they'd caught her scent; it didn't matter now. She'd have to deal with them.
The bad thing about these fucks was that they didn't care. A public place meant nothing to them. They'd shoot you up in a day care center. It didn't matter as long as they found the target. Larsen wanted her dead. She'd almost caught up to him near Albany, but he'd slipped away. Now he'd set his dogs on her.
She peeked in the rearview mirror. On the screen behind her, they were showing some animated flick. There would be a lot of kids. Trina basically thought kids were booger and fart machines, but she didn't want to see any of them dead. When the men came for her, she'd have to draw them away somehow.
She glanced at the Subaru parked next to her. The young couple inside were locked up, deep kissing. The guy had a hand under his girl's tank top. At least someone was enjoying themselves right now.
She looked in the rearview. They were still watching the movie, both of them wearing sunglasses.
Subtle, fellas. Why not just throw on some black trenchcoats, too?
It was about to go down. Time to move.
She slipped the Sig into a shoulder rig under her jacket. She'd kept the rig on her but had put the weapon in the glove box when she'd pulled into the drive-in. No need to arouse suspicion. She didn't have a permit. Nor did the people that had armed her, she was sure.
Trina stepped out of the Acura. She shut the door. It was warm for early October. Seventy degrees at this time of night. A lukewarm breeze blew across her face. She started down the first row of cars. The snack stand, with its giant neon hamburger sign, stood a few hundred feet from the screens. Beyond that was a white stucco building that housed the restrooms. That would be the place to go.
She glanced sidelong at the truck and saw them step out. There were three in all. A big bald guy with the sleeves cut off his flannel, a lanky guy with motor-oil slick hair and aviator shades, and a woman shaped roughly like a tennis ball on toothpicks.
She crossed the road that bisected the drive-in and passed the snack stand. The greasy smell of movie popcorn drifted from the stand. It made her stomach rumble.
They would be about fifty feet behind her. She risked another glance, concerened about giving herself away. The trio walked side-by-side.
The bathroom was lit by sodium vapor lights. Even in early fall, moths fluttered in the lights.
There was no one around the bathrooms. She reached the ladies' room door and pushed inside. Ducked down and checked the stalls. She saw no feet, no one sitting on the johns. When she was sure it was clear, she took out the Sig and slipped into the first stall. She left it open but climbed onto the toilet seat, balancing her Doc Martens on the seat, hunkered down.
She waited.
Copyright 2015 Anthony Izzo
1
They had come to kill her. Trina was sure of that. She stole glances in the rearview mirror. The drive-in speaker blared fuzz in her ear. On screen, Liam Neeson chopped a would be terrorist in the side of the neck. The last night at one of the last drive-ins in the state. A little relaxation is what she'd hoped for. Now she had to deal with the killers.
Not that she wasn't ready for them; she had a Sig Sauer P220 in the glove box and a pistol grip shotgun under a blanket in the back seat. Not to mention two K-Bar knives strapped on her person. She reached over, popped the glove box, and took out the Sig. She set it on her lap. On screen, Neeson was blasting two guys to hell; she liked his style.
They'd trailed her here in a black Ram pick-up. Hadn't done a great job of it, as she'd spotted them a quarter mile back, matching her moves. Now they were parked two cars behind her, at least two of them that she could see sitting in the cab of the Ram. They were Larsen's men, of that she was sure. What she didn't know was how they'd caught her scent; it didn't matter now. She'd have to deal with them.
The bad thing about these fucks was that they didn't care. A public place meant nothing to them. They'd shoot you up in a day care center. It didn't matter as long as they found the target. Larsen wanted her dead. She'd almost caught up to him near Albany, but he'd slipped away. Now he'd set his dogs on her.
She peeked in the rearview mirror. On the screen behind her, they were showing some animated flick. There would be a lot of kids. Trina basically thought kids were booger and fart machines, but she didn't want to see any of them dead. When the men came for her, she'd have to draw them away somehow.
She glanced at the Subaru parked next to her. The young couple inside were locked up, deep kissing. The guy had a hand under his girl's tank top. At least someone was enjoying themselves right now.
She looked in the rearview. They were still watching the movie, both of them wearing sunglasses.
Subtle, fellas. Why not just throw on some black trenchcoats, too?
It was about to go down. Time to move.
She slipped the Sig into a shoulder rig under her jacket. She'd kept the rig on her but had put the weapon in the glove box when she'd pulled into the drive-in. No need to arouse suspicion. She didn't have a permit. Nor did the people that had armed her, she was sure.
Trina stepped out of the Acura. She shut the door. It was warm for early October. Seventy degrees at this time of night. A lukewarm breeze blew across her face. She started down the first row of cars. The snack stand, with its giant neon hamburger sign, stood a few hundred feet from the screens. Beyond that was a white stucco building that housed the restrooms. That would be the place to go.
She glanced sidelong at the truck and saw them step out. There were three in all. A big bald guy with the sleeves cut off his flannel, a lanky guy with motor-oil slick hair and aviator shades, and a woman shaped roughly like a tennis ball on toothpicks.
She crossed the road that bisected the drive-in and passed the snack stand. The greasy smell of movie popcorn drifted from the stand. It made her stomach rumble.
They would be about fifty feet behind her. She risked another glance, concerened about giving herself away. The trio walked side-by-side.
The bathroom was lit by sodium vapor lights. Even in early fall, moths fluttered in the lights.
There was no one around the bathrooms. She reached the ladies' room door and pushed inside. Ducked down and checked the stalls. She saw no feet, no one sitting on the johns. When she was sure it was clear, she took out the Sig and slipped into the first stall. She left it open but climbed onto the toilet seat, balancing her Doc Martens on the seat, hunkered down.
She waited.
February 8, 2011
No Escape for NOOK
No Escape now available on the B&N website for NOOK: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/No-E...
Hope you'll check it out.
I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Djibouti, and while Leonard remains a master of dialogue and characterization, the story is moving rather slow. Hoping it picks up.
Hope you'll check it out.
I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Djibouti, and while Leonard remains a master of dialogue and characterization, the story is moving rather slow. Hoping it picks up.
