Sam Sykes's Blog, page 17

The Most Givingest Away Ends

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself…

I want to begin by saying that this job gets harder every year.  Even though my heart shrivels a little more with each passing day (owing to the deal I brooked with a witch long ago to make all my first borns hale and hardy, as they have all been thus far), you people…you people manage to make choosing a victor ever-harder and consequently make my heart swell with joy and sorrow for the decision I must make.

I've done giveaways before and I've never received such an outpouring of willingness or creativity.  The entries that came to me were all intense and nary a murmur of "gimme or I'll poop on your dresser" was to be found.  For this, I (and my many fancy shirts) thank you.

Seriously, thank you so much for your interest.  I delayed this day for awhile, just because it was super hard to choose.  And because it was hard to choose, I would like to implore you all who entered: Please send me your mailing address and I will ship you a free pair of bookplates to accompany books you have (or may come to acquire).  You deserve it, champ!

But choose I had to do.

And choose I did.

David Lindop sent me this email:

Dear Mr. Sam

Here's why you should send me a signed copies of your books…
As you can see from the attached photos, my offspring has taken a strong liking to your first book… over and above Rohan's 'Anvil of Ice' AND Abercrombie's 'The Blade Itself'.
I know it's not exactly responsible bedtime story material for one-year-olds. But whatever — he can handle it.
Now here's the clincher.
Since my delightful little spawn seems to like destroying my books with malicious abandon, I've decided to move all my books to ebook format — keeping only my signed or first copies (you see where this is going, don't you?). These special relics will remain unassailable from my destructive larvae, and will be displayed on the highest shelf, where upon each day, at the appointed time, a ray of sunshine will stream through the window and illuminate your name.
If this story fails to touch your heart, I am at a loss.

It is true that I am typically not moved by words, possessing an aforementioned heart of stone (shriveled stone), but then Mr. Lindop followed up with this…

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These books are for you, kid.  Read them when you're older.

The next entry is for the late, great Kai Mundwiler…

Kai was an ever gregarious person who no one would ever call shy.

His parents, Steve the hirstute Burt Reynolds look alike, and Laurie the reformed hippie, had him back in the glorious days of the early eighties, sporting their polyester and bad haircuts, but darn it if they didn't strike gold on May 5th when they had Kai.  They tried to replicate it another seven times over the next seventeen years, but the jury is still out on if they ever duplicate their debut album.  There were shades of Rockyesque glory early on, his Napoleonic height providing an ample target to the Dutch behemoths while attending grammar school, but he rose time after time with a glare that brought a smile to even the oldest of farts and a chuckle to the lungs of the venerable lunch ladies.

"He was….special.  You can define what kind of special."  Laurie Mundwiler – mother
His parents got a taste for adventure and screwed up in their choice of how to find that adventure when they up and moved the family to Effingham, Illinois in the mid nineties.  Why wouldn't you though?  It was the home of the Flaming Hearts and oh was it a grand time living in the moderately hickish streets of Southern Illinois.  After four long years, Steve got a transfer and the family was heading back up to Michigan.  These were the days that Kai always attributed to murdering his modesty and social decorum.  How could they not?  Switching 5 schools in four years is either going to shell shock a kid into ultimate shydom or going to throw him so far out of his comfort zone that it leaves it a crumbling wasteland to never return to.

After that was the rest of high school and then time in college where alcohol and Robert Jordan were found.  Great recipe for grades, but it did result in an English and Writing degree that was used only after work hours and a job in IT that paid the bills.
"He always just said 'when in doubt, reboot', don't know how that qualified him for a job," Ken McFadden – coworker.
Kai got lucky and batted way above his average and wrangled a smoking hot wife in the form of Kate Mundwiler.  Pretty sure he died with a smile on his face and God Bless him, he should have.
He is survived by his understanding and loving wife, his two parents, and a seven siblings that always struggled between fond affection and a feeling that inspired cracked teeth and anal fissures.
"I think I got more bruises from him than smiles over the years.  He could be a real bastard," said Caleb Mundwiler, brother to the deceased.  "He was good guy though, he left me all of his books."
Kai was an avid reader and his biggest joy was finding new and promising fantasy authors.  He often said there wasn't a book he couldn't read if it involved a little magic and a lot of blood and guts, especially if it had names that sounded like they were products of a bad acid trip.
"His last wish was to get some new book by some author that loved monkeys.  Sam Pikes or Sicks.  Sykes, that's it.  Sam Sykes."  Kate Mundwiler said.  "Too bad he'll never get that chance."

Honestly, I said these were hard to choose from, didn't I?  These are super hard to choose from.  People are dying, guys.  DYING.

The final entry, though, positively blows everything…and everyone away.

Michelle Goldsmith wins.  For obvious reasons.  Read on…if you dare.

Night of the Psychic Pug-Velociraptor-Stalker: A Precautionary Tale

It was a mild midsummer night and all the world was quiet and still. Sam Sykes had taken advantage of the weather and chosen to walk home after a rather enjoyable evening spent at his local bar, requesting odd cocktails based on abstract concepts, obscure celebrities and emotional states. He'd decided to leave earlier than usual in the hope of getting some writing done before his roommate came home. Hopefully he'd even manage to work in that chapter he'd written regarding the troubles faced by a 'single Mother Deep' in her quest to find a mate who would look past the purely physical and accept her for who she truly was. Just because she has 13 hundred children and may have put on a little weight over the last few centuries doesn't mean she doesn't have needs like everyone else, damn it! Ahem..

 

It wasn't long before Sam found himself at the end of his street. Minutes later he stood in the dark at his front door of his apartment block. Apparently the porch light was broken again. He made a mental note to fix it, but not until after he'd committed to the page a stirring dance number known as 'The Frogman's Lament (or In the End Every One of Us Will Croak)'.

Key in hand, he reached for the place where he knew the lock would be. He found nothing. Puzzled, he ran his hand over the wooden surface. It was completely smooth. No lock, no doorknob.

"Damn knob thieves!" he muttered. "They think they're so damn hardcore but we all know they're just compensating for something."

He momentarily put aside his disgust at the state of humanity and resigned himself to entry through the side gate. As Sam drew nearer to the gate he felt a prickling sensation run down his spine. The night was too quiet. Not even the sound of distant traffic or barking dogs broke the oppressive silence.

Strange

Thankfully the latch opened easily enough and the gate appeared wholly untampered with. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he stepped into the yard.

"I can't believe I let those stupid kids unnerve me," he inwardly admonished.

A sudden movement drew his gaze. The trees in the yard appeared to begun swaying on their own accord despite the lack of breeze.

"Someone really needs to prune those," thought Sam. "They're getting a little feisty."

Determined to ignore any additional distractions he made his way past the in-ground pool and towards the back enterance.

Too late, he felt something cold and slimy wrap around his ankle, tripping him and sending him sprawling on the ground.

"What the —?"

His breath caught in his throat as he noticed the hulking shape crouched approximately where the pool should be.

Wings unfurled and tentacles flailed.

"Oh come on!" cried Sykes. "The knob jokes and now Cthulhu? This is just getting ridiculous!"

Indignation apparently served as no deterrent to the Elder God and Sam found himself forced to roll quickly to the side in a desperate attempt to avoid a barrage of swatting tentacles.

Sparing a moment to commend himself for remembering to leave the dogs inside, he jumped to his feet and faced his attacker.

He felt his famous bear wrestling rage building to a killing edge within him.

It seemed that the time was nigh for the ultimate showdown, the battle to end all battles, that inevitable clash of the titans, Sykes vs. Cthulhu.

Sam prepared to charge, letting forth a barbarian battle cry and tearing open his shirt, Hulk style.

Suddenly, an icy voice echoed through the night, freezing both parties in their tracks.

"Leave him," it hissed."That one is mine to deal with."

Sykes looked at Cthulhu. Cthulhu looked back at Sykes. The Lovecraftian horror raised its claws and shrugged its shoulders in the universal gesture for 'Oh well, whatever' and sunk back into the murky depths of the pool.

"I really should clean that," thought Sam, shaking his head in disbelief.

Without further ado, he made his way to the door, stepped across the threshold and made his way to his apartment. Home at last.

 

Two dogs came bounding to greet Sam as he entered. One was large, one was small. However, neither one was a pug.

"Otis?" he called as he bent down to pat the other two.

"Otis! If I find you asleep in my underwear drawer again.."

Still no pug appeared.

"Where has he got to?" wondered Sam.

Becoming worried for Otis' safety, especially given the apparent monster plague and other bizarre happenings, Sam began to scour the building looking for him.

Room after room he searched, yet found no trace.

By the time he reached his bedroom Sam was rather frantic, all thought of writing long forgotten.

He pushed open the door.

Unfortunately the sight that greeted him was not his missing dog, although it promised to provide some clue to his whereabouts.

The bookcase against the wall had been pushed to the side. In the place where it once stood was revealed a large hidden doorway. This doorway appeared to provide access to a dark, damp stone staircase leading down deep into the earth.

Although he knew the presence of such a hidden passage made absolutely no logical or architectural sense whatsoever Sam was only mildly surprised. After all, it was just one more entry on the long list of 'weird shit' that had occurred in the last few hours. However, it did nothing to appease his worries as he was 87% sure Otis hadn't been renovating recently. Besides, the pug's taste was far more refined than this dank dungeon.

 

He entered the passageway and began his descent. The staircase was seemingly endless and lit only by the occasional wilting candle.

Just as he begun to entertain thoughts of despair he found himself faced with a large oaken door.

It had a large brass handle shaped like a pugs head.

"Maybe it is him after all," Sam thought. "Only one way to find out!"

He grasped the handle and pulled open the door.

 

The door opened onto a lavishly appointed chamber, decorated in rich reds and browns and abounding in oak panelling.

In the opposite wall stood an enormous ornate fireplace, logs crackling and flames dancing within.

Nevertheless, Sam's eyes were immediately drawn to what stood before the fireplace. A large black leather swivel chair, facing the opposite direction.

"Otis?" he asked.

The swivel chair slowly turned in response, stopping only when he and its occupant stood face to face.

"Looking for someone?" said the figure seated within.

Sam couldn't contain his surprise.

"You?" he cried.

"Indeed," came the reply.

Sitting in the chair, slowly stroking the pug that sat nestled in her lap was someone he had never expected to see in real life (although, to be fair, she did give ample warning).

It was Michelle. Yes, 'that' Michelle. The reviewer from The Ranting Dragon and professional Sam Sykes stalker.

Recovering quickly from his horror, Sam launched an offensive in the form of a barrage of (quite reasonable given the circumstances) questions.

Here they are listed, and with some of the more colourful language emitted:

"What is this place?!"

"Why are you in my house?!"

"What are you doing with my dog?!"

"And why is there an elder god in my goddamn swimming pool?!"

"So many questions," sighed Michelle. "I thought the answers would be obvious!" "Nevertheless, I will humour you for the sake of this narrative and answer them in the order I feel will most increase dramatic tension."

Sam stared incredulously.

"As to the first two," she said, "they are rather simple. Clearly this 'place' is my secret lair and obviously I'm in your house because that's where I'm most likely to find you. I needed to speak with you."

"Likewise," she continued, "Cthulhu is here providing security. My original choice, Ulbecetonth, is on a date tonight and I didn't want us to be interrupted when we had this conversation. By the way, would it have killed you to come home earlier? You wouldn't believe how much that guy charges!"

"And Otis?" asked Sam.

"That is somewhat more complicated," said Michelle, "However it pretty much comes down to the fact that I've been watching your every move for many months through my psychic connection with your pug."

"Otis! You betrayed me!" cried Sykes, "How could you!"

Otis whined sadly and refused to meet his gaze.

"How does it even work! This psychic business!"

"It's quite simple really," stated Michelle, "We all know pugs are psychic aliens and I happen to be ¼ pug. I'm also 1/8 Velociraptor. Don't ask."

Sykes forcibly pushed any emerging thoughts from his mind.

"Wait you said you saw everything? Absolutely everything?" he said.

"Yes. It was…interesting viewing to say the least."

A moment of awkward silence followed this revelation.

Finally, Michelle broke it with a gleeful declaration.

"But now that I finally know everything about you. I have all the information I need to become you! Now I will be Sam Sykes!"

She leaned back in the chair, overcome with maniacal laughter.

Sam thought he saw a flaw in her plan and grasped at it.

"Won't people notice?" he asked. "There's got to be some physical differences!"

"Easily solved," said Michelle catching her breath, "As well as being a rare human-pug-velociraptor hybrid I also happen to be a shape-shifter with bookseller super powers!"

"Oh. This looks pretty bad for me then," came Sam's reply.

"I'm sorry I have to do this," said Michelle, "but you have to understand. This never would have happened if you'd just given me one of those signed copies of Black Halo or Tome of the Undergates."

Realisation hit Sykes like a sledge hammer. An unforeseen epiphany.

"You're right!" he cried. "What was I thinking! I should have just given you those books! Is there any chance I can just give you one now and then we can just forget this ever happened?"

"No," said Michelle sadly, "Unfortunately that is no longer possible. I have committed myself to identity theft and there is no going back. But if it's any consolation your bicep looks really good today."

"Thanks," said Sam, "it really does doesn't it."

They laughed amicably for a moment as if one had not just pronounced the doom of the other.

"Oh, and don't worry," said Michelle, "I'm not a complete monster. I found you a brand new identity as well! You even still get to be an author! Well, sort of.."

"Ever heard of Robert Newcomb?"

Surrey International Writer's Conference 2011

In fact, you may recall that I said the winners for THE MOST GIVINGEST AWAY EVER would be announced today.  I must confess to you that I am, indeed, a big, fat liar whose pants are ablaze with untruths and falsehoods.

Well, that's half-true.  In truth, I am not particularly fat, though I am quite large.  And in fact, my pants have been on fire since I visited Honest Betty down on Washington Street who warned me, but I just wouldn't listen.  Regardless, I am still at least a big liar with pants on fire and for that I deserve to be punished, which will be just fine by me, so long as it's not Honest Betty and you wait until I finish this blog post.

I'm certain I've ranted about the Surrey International Writer's Conference before, with specific details picked up about what a tremendous opportunity it is for young writers (and indeed, what a tremendous opportunity it was for me), as well as how great it is to introduce people to the worlds of networking, publishing and editors and, of course, how awesome it is to be able to meet and draw from the experience of so many great authors available at the conference.

Did I not?

Well, there, I just did.

It doesn't count?  Gosh, you're picky.

Well, what if I told you that I'll be present at said conference this very upcoming week and will, in fact, be one of those great authors you can draw experience from?  Does that soothe your fevered brows?  That should be glorious, I think, and more than make up for my ineptitudinal ability to count giveaway entries.

So, I do hope to see you there.  Be sure to bring me a snack.

Arigato!

Review: Gears of War 3

So, I'm tallying the final votes for this here giveaway.  If you're just hungry for a pair of signed copies of Tome of the Undergates and Black Halo, you might do your best to shoot me a good reason/bribe why you should get one before the next blog post.

This particular blog post is not going to be about winning, but rather about video games.  I think it's been ages since I last did a review of any sort of video game and for good reason.  I don't really feel qualified on talking about a lot of things other than story and how it appeals to me, especially when others can do it a bit better than I can.  But in this particular case, I kind of wanted to talk about it while it was still at least somewhat hot.

So, let's have a chat about Gears of War 3.

If you are even remotely aware of video games, you have probably heard of Gears of War. The semi-flagship series for the Xbox 360, the Gears franchise has been running for a few years and has come out with some games that are widely acclaimed for their brutal, gritty style, square-jawed manly man protagonists who excrete testosterone from every unshaven pore and, most importantly, their revolutionary impact on the shooter genre by doing for cover-shooters what Steve Jobs did for computers (made it accessible and fun and caused a lot of people to go into angry fits because that jerk, Steve, in the dorm room across the hall thought they were cool now).

And yet, no one ever really touts the story.

In a lot of ways, this is a shame.

As a primer: Gears of War is a story about…Gears…in war.  On the earth-like Planet of Sera, the Coalition of Ordered Governments (COG.  Gears.  Get it?) has spent most of its short existence battling over the energy-rich subterranean source of power known as Imulsion.  With humanity vastly diminished, the COG was ill-prepared for the attacks of the subterranean horrors known as the Locust: hulking, testosterone-laden manly men (except scaly manly-man with extra deep voices, so you know they're bad) who burst out of the earth and shoot a bunch of people.  That's where we start.  Two games later, Imulsion has poisoned the land and is creating things called Lambent, which are more hulking manly-men, but they glow a bright sparkly yellow, so you know they're extra bad and also a hit at 8-year-old girls' birthday parties.

I'm leaving out a few details, but honestly, not a lot.  The main thrust of the story is: "They bad.  Shoot them."  That's about it.  Gears of War doesn't really do anything exciting.  It doesn't really push a lot of boundaries.  Whatever moral ambiguity exists is clear-cut, unchallenging, unintelligent and not very interesting.  Character development is mostly limited to ham-handed emotional pulls that are specifically and shallowly designed to tug at your heartstrings and/or cussing a lot.  It's not daring.  It's not imaginative.  It's not really well-fleshed-out.

And I thought it was really, really good.

I possess kind of an adoration and envy for how bullheaded this game's story is.  It is completely aware of what it wants to be: a story of survival in which giant dudes fight other giant dudes in explosions of gore and gunfire and it moves forward with this really well.  The plot isn't complex, but you don't really have to be when you're fighting giant, city-sinking worms.  The atmosphere and alien design, but it doesn't really need to be when you can go from this to this.  The characters are shallow and uncomplicated and, as I said, their emotional pulls are very crass and very obviously intended to be an emotional manipulation.  But sometimes, that just works.

Gears of War 2 was one of my favorite games for this reason.  It decided, very early on, that it was going to be about giant men shooting the shit out of giant aliens.  And then it decided it was going to be the best damn man-on-alien-shit-shooter it could possibly be.

Hence, the envy.

Gears of War 3 is not one of my favorite games for the same reason.  It decided, very early on, that it wasn't quite sure what it wanted to be.  And then it decided it was going to be the best damn I'm-not-sure-what-I-want-to-be it could possibly kind of sort of want to be eventually at some point.

There are new characters that never get introductions.  There are new plot devices that are just accepted as given.  The world has changed entirely and no one really seems to feel the need to comment on it.  The biggest threat to the world is the Lambent.  No wait, the Locusts.  The Lambent again.  No, zombies.  Now it's a tender story about finding a father.  No, wait, it's about saving the world.  No, hang on, now it's about sticking it to the man.  Wait, now it's humanity's last stand.  Now there's Locust.  Sorry, Lambent.  Sorry, what?

You don't really need to know the details of the story at this point, if you've never played the game.  I'm not even sure of the story, either.  And that would seem like harsh criticism if it wasn't followed by this next part.

This is the game where a straightforward muscle man shooter gets slightly daring.  And also horribly confusing.

At times, you get moments of incredible poignancy from the game.  Such as when Augustus Cole, former thrashball superstar, sees a cardboard cutout of himself and asks wistfully: "Do you ever think you died and everyone just forgot to tell you?"  And you start to think that maybe this game is about more than just shooting people and planting bombs.

And then you get this (2:30).

And then later, you get moments of almost heartbreaking atmosphere.  Such as when you tread through the city of Char, ground zero for the Hammer of Dawn, the orbital laser used to fry friend and foe alike in a last bid attempt to destroy the Locust.  The city is a macabre pantomime of itself.  The people who tried to flee the laser are preserved forever as hollowed-out, perfect casts of themselves in ash.  It's an area too sacred to let war tread upon and the hulking soldiers who thought nothing of violently barreling through walls of stone and flesh alike tiptoe so as not to disturb the hallowed and fragile dead.

And then five minutes later, Ice-T's cameo calls you a punk-ass bitch. (7:00)

All told, Gears of War 3 strikes me as a very confused individual.  It's reached the point where it wants to reach out to something more, but is still hesitant and clings to its bitch-ass ways.  But it tries.  It evolves.  It puts a higher emphasis on story, even at the expense of the tried-and-true method.  In this, I find a little hope.

It used to be that shooters were the anti-RPG.  They were light on story, heavy on action and generally considered to have inattentive, hyperactive players.  But I don't think that quite applies any longer, no more than the concept of an RPG player as an irate, overweight dude who dresses up in wizard robes in his spare time and hexes the neighbor kid (you stay the fuck off my lawn, Tommy).

Shooters, I think, are making the same concessions that RPGs are making.  While RPGs can't really subsist on the stat-based, dice-driven, slow, methodical action that celebrated Baldur's Gate, shooters can't really stick to having their story be condensed to two paragraphs in an instruction booklet anymore.  I feel we're slowly moving to the point that story will take precedence and will be the driving force of a lot of games, to the point that we'll gush about Marcus Fenix with the same gusto as we gush about that dreamy Jaime Lannister and his fabulous golden fist.

And as we begin to hit the point where novelists of today are game-savvy, such as Abercrombie and myself, it wouldn't at all surprise me if fantasy and sci-fi novelists start finding new opportunities in gaming industries as major players.  I do quietly sit with eager glee that one day, a writer's name will be as prominent as the designer's name in the end credits as we listen to the soothing sounds of Terrible Terry Tate unironically rapping to his own voice.

Moneyball

First things first!

I'm going to call the deadline for this here giveaway in which you can net yourself a couple of fine, signed copies of Tome of the Undergates and Black Halo by the end of this week.  So if you're figuring on fixin' to take one, you might as well send me a post!

Also, if you've been wanting to hear my melodic voice as I gush quietly about Batman and Gail Carriger, why not have a look at this podcast I did for Touching for the Monolith. I guarantee no monoliths were touched without express consent.  If that's still not enough for you, you might want to check out this interview I did over at Drying Ink Books.

Okay.

Let me tell you about Moneyball.

Here, look at this image:

Now look at this one:

Now look at this one:

Congratulations.  You have now seen Moneyball.

Brad Pitt stares off into the distance.  Jonah Hill does something slightly awkward.  Then there is math.

It is boring.  If you see it, you are a bad person.  Like me.  You spit on children and put orphaned kittens into families that cannot and will not ever understand them.  You think math is fun and when you die and reach whatever dark hole your soul is going to, you will have slushies poured down your pants and get a lot of wedgie's from Satan's jocks.

Admittedly, I am not a tremendous sports guy.  My repertoire of buzzwords that I bust out whenever the conversation switches to sport is limited to "penetrating offense," "tight end," "rear play," "Bangkok rules," "dirigible maneuver" and "groin-slappingly good."  I do like hockey, owing to the corrupting influence of nefarious Canadians, but that's about it.  I find soccer boring, football weird, rugby unexciting unless I'm watching the All Blacks, baseball brings up tragic memories and I absolutely cannot abide volleyball and have burned many nets out of protest.

You could say Moneyball was not meant for me.

But I'm having a hard time figuring out who Moneyball is for.  I get that it's all about how the sport of baseball was revolutionized by way of math from a sport in which chubby men in pajamas grunted and spat and talked about "feelin' the grip of a ball as it clocks you square in the beanbag" to a sport in which people obsessively discuss stats and percentages with all the fervor of World of Warcraft raiders.  In truth, this movie is a quiet tribute to a victory by nerds.  But those nerds are math nerds, mortal enemy of the arts nerds, the kinds of nerds who use phrases like "warp drive" and "hyperion engines" and "don't hit me with that stick."

But the reality of the movie is that it's pretty boring.  It's a glorified documentary featuring more believable dramatizations.  It's a lot of discussion about statistics and doing things your own way with a very hamhanded helping of emotional manipulation shoveled down your craw in the most predictable of ways.

In truth, I might be baggin' on Moneyball simply because it's a mirror held up to my face and I'm seeing a very hideous reflection.  Halfway through the movie, when I saw Brad Pitt's character meeting his daughter by his divorced wife, I realized I was being emotionally manipulated.  Chiefly because once a kid is introduced, she either dies or someone else dies for her and it's a very cheap way to introduce emotional tension without actually having to develop a character.

And in truth, I don't actually mind that a movie tries to emotionally manipulate me.  Nor do I entirely mind when I realize it is.  What I mind is when I get no emotional payoff to go with that manipulation.  If a dude makes a grand, eloquent speech, there better be a big, badass battle to go along with it.  If a cop says he's two days from retirement, he better get shot in the next scene.  If two lovers tenderly look into each others' eyes and confess the feelings they've always been afraid of, one of them better get kidnapped, tortured and have his/her mutilated body show up on the other's doorstep.

And this is where Moneyball sheds an uncomfortable truth on me.  I'm an elitist.  A reverse elitist.  I like big, cheesy payoffs.  I like sappy stories.  I'm not as patient as I thought I was and I have a hard time accepting emotional manipulation that doesn't have an emotional outcome.

And yet, I'm okay with that.  As okay as I am saying that Moneyball is boring.  It's boring and dull and predictable and someone thought it needed a humanistic angle that went nowhere and I'm totally okay with saying that I want it to go get hit by a truck.

If you see it, I'll beat you up and take your lunch money.

Skybound Sea Progress & Mini-Excerpt

So, I note that Cherie Priest and Gail Carriger both use these things called "word metrics" which allow people to keep track of exactly what the progress of their projects is based on a meter that goes up as more words are put into the document.  That's all fine and good…for someone who actually uses the metric system and/or knows how to measure based on multiples of ten.

But I live in AMERICA. I eat meat with every meal and I don't tread on nothin'. And I ain't got time for puny metrics.  So I put together a chart to illustrate the progress of The Skybound Sea in a much more logical, easy-to-understand fashion.

I think that makes things perfectly clear.

What?  Not enough?

Oh, fine.  Here, have a mini-excerpt featuring your favorite rogue for redemption:

Denaos looked at himself in the mirror.  No scars, still.  More wrinkles than there used to be.  A pair of ugly bags under eyes that he chose not to look at.  But no scars.

He had that, at least.

Appearance was one point of pride amongst many for him.  There were other things he had hoped he would be remembered: his taste in wine, an ear for poetry and a way with women that sat firmly between the realms of witchcraft and barroom brawling.

And killing, his conscience piped up.  Don't forget killing.

And killing, he was forced to admit to himself.  He was not bad at it.

Still, he thought as he surveyed himself, if none of those could be his legacy, his looks would have suffice.

And yet, as he saw the man in the mirror, he wondered if perhaps he might have to discount that, too.  His was a face used to masks: sharp, perceptive eyes over a malleable mouth ready to smile, frown or spit curses as needed, all set within firm, square features.

Those eyes were sunken now, dark seeds buried in dark soil, hidden under long hair poorly kempt.  His features were caked with stubble, grime, a dried glistening of liquid he hadn't bothered to clean away.  And his mouth twitched, not quite sure what it was supposed to do.

Fitting, he thought, for he didn't know who this mask was supposed portray.

Looks, then, were not to be what he was remembered for.  His eyes drifted to the far side of the table, to the bottle long drained of its deep crimson liquid.  His preferences in alcohol, too, had broadened to "anything short of embalming fluid, providing nothing else is at hand; past that, anything goes."

He would not be remembered as a handsome man, then.  Nor a man for wine.  What else was left?

The glistening of steel answered.  He looked down at the blade resting gently upon the table, its edge everything he wasn't: sharpened, honed, precise.  An example, three fingers long and with a polished wooden hilt and a taste for blood.

Killing, then.

"Are we doing this or what?" a growling voice asked.

That, he thought, and the way with women.

He titled the mirror slightly.  She was still there.  He had hoped she wouldn't be, though that might have been hard, given that she was bound to the chair.  Still, less hard considering what she was.

Indeed, it was difficult to see how Semnein Xhai was still held by the rawhide bonds.  They might have bit into her purple flesh, they might have been tied tightly by hands that were used to tying.  But that purple flesh was thick over thicker muscle, and his hands were shakier these days.

She stared at him in the mirror, her eyes white and without pupils.  Her hair hung about her in greasy white strands, framing a face that was sharp and long as the knife before him.

And looking oddly impatient, he thought.  Odder still, given that she knew full well the knife was there and knew full well what he could do with it.  The old scar on her collarbone attested to that.  The fresh cut beneath her ribcage, shallow and hesitant, gave a less enthusiastic review.

He had been wearing a different mask that day, that of a man who had a better legacy than him, a man who was less good at killing.  But he would do better today.  He had people counting on him to find out information.  That was a slightly better legacy.

Still killing, though, his conscience said.  Or did you think you were going to let her go after she told you what you wanted to know?  Pardon, if she tells you.

Not now, he replied.  People are counting on me.

Right, right.  Terribly sorry.  Shall we?

His face changed in the mirror.  His mask came back on.  Dark eyes hard, jaw set tightly, twitching mouth stilled for now.  Hands steadied themselves, plucked up the steel before him.  He smiled into the mirror: knife-cruel, knife-long.

Let's.

Am I Insane?

Firstly: Don't answer that just yet.

Secondly: What the heck, guys?  I've been getting some good submissions in my Most Givingest Away Ever, but not nearly enough and there are not nearly enough bribes. How the heck do you think this works?  Jeez!  Send more entries!  SEND MORE RIGHT NOW, GOD DAMN IT.

…okay, now you can answer that.  Once you read the rest of this blog post, anyway.

As I've said before, I'm always a little wary of proceeding into blog posts that have to do with reviews, reviewers or reviewing policies for a number of reasons.  I'm ever worried about the prospect that I may simply be using an otherwise intelligent post to vent my own frustrations or views on negative reviews (of which I've had a few) and thus compromise both myself and the integrity of the post.  I'm also worried that voicing my own concerns on reviews could influence someone else's opinion and thus compromise the integrity of their reviews.  And if neither of those come around, I'm always at least slightly worried of seeing a big ol' "WHO THE HECK DOES THAT SAM SYKES PALOOKA THINK HE IS TELLIN' ME WHAT I CAN'T BE REVIEWIN', THAT UGLY JERK" headline on a blog site.

As yet, no one has called me a palooka, but gosh darn if I don't live in fear of the day that someone does.

With all this in mind, let me pose this question that I have posed to twitter, facebook and other forms of media over the past few days…

Is a novel that frustrates inherently superior to a novel that doesn't and I am insane for thinking "yes, it is?"

Before you get angry (and if you are angry, before you get the sticks with nails in them), let me explain.  It's been my assumption that the worst crime a novel can commit is to be boring (something I'm rather pleased to not have suffered) and it's also been my rather sad experience that some novels are just that: boring.  Listless.  Dull.  Full of easy choices, characters that are always rational and motives that are frequently identifiable as the right choice.

By contrast, I sometimes find that the stories I really like are the stories a lot of people have complaints about: the characters do stupid things, people occasionally act in ways that aren't immediately relevant to the plot, the book frustrates frequently.  It's always been my experience that a novel that frustrates is a novel that engages.  It's what makes a story gripping, what makes you involved in the characters, what invests you in the conflict.

There is a reason that Locke Lamora valued gold over sense, that the Bloody Nine was ultimately unable to overcome his own past, that Ned Stark has his own tumblr named after his bad choices: they're frustrating.  And because they're frustrating, we're the ones who are screaming "OH GOD NO DON'T DO IT" at the pages instead of going "oh, well, isn't that nice."

Now, that's not to say that all frustration is good.  Being frustrated by the writing is certainly not ideal, as it's very hard to get invested in the character if the author can't decide if his eyes are green or brown or whether armor is spelled with a "u" or not (it isn't…EVER).  And given that the essence of conflict is uncertainty, it's debatable as to whether conflicts that are solved the same way each time are a good kind of frustrating.

But it's also possible that the character that does something stupid, irrational or unwise has a purpose to both himself and to the story.  It's possible that frustration is integral to conflict as conflict is integral to story.  And it's possible that, unless we get mad at a story along with all the other emotions we feel for it, it's just not gripping.

…then again, maybe I'm simply trying to convince myself of something that I occasionally come up against. It's entirely possible.

Hence the title of this post.

What do you think?

 

The Most Givingest Away Ever.

My friends, I owe you an apology.

Not for my brazen attitude, of course.  Nor for the pee jokes I write.  Not even for what I did at the Battle of Shongfeng Reservoir; if you had seen what I had seen, if you had been faced with the same choice, if there was even a flicker of a soul left inside that rotting husk you call a body, you would have done the same damn thing, even if it meant that flicker would be snuffed out forever.  Good men gave their lives there.  The best men.  For their sakes, for my sake, don't you ever ask me to apologize for that day.  DON'T YOU EVER.

…right, apologies.

What I really should apologize for is the fact that I am, once again, late with some neat things.  Awhile back, I promised that, if I hit 1,200 twitter followers, I would give away three sets of Tome of the Undergates and Black Halo. I am now some 30 followers late with that promise.  But it is never too late, friends, to try and make up for lost time, assuming you are too late to catch someone who is falling off a cliff, Sylvester Stallone style.  In that case, you are too late forever.

This is all a round about way of saying IT'S GIVEAWAY TIME.

HOORAY!

The rules are exactly simple as the following…

1. OPEN EMAIL

2. PUT sam.sykes66@gmail.com IN ADDRESS

2a. OR JUST USE THE CONTACT FORM ON THIS SITE, GOOD GOD

3. TELL ME WHY YOU DESERVE A SET OF SIGNED, FREE COPIES OF TOME OF THE UNDERGATES AND BLACK HALO

That's right.  It's that easy.  Simply email me and tell me exactly why you deserve these books.  This can be as easy as giving me a very good reason as to why you deserve them or it can be a demonstration of just how awesome you are as an artist, costumer, whatever else.  Creative expression is most definitely a plus in all fields.

Please, for the love of God, don't send nude pictures.  Not again.

This giveaway will end this time next month.  So do get on it, doggone it!  I'll be waiting and evaluating everything!

I urge you to enter, even if you already have some copies.  Because your friends will probably want some, too!  Because you are a good friend, right?

Right?

Good night, sweet murderer

Admittedly, given my rather lengthy absence, there are a lot of things I should be blogging about instead of this.

I should probably tell you about my time at DragonCon.

I should tell you what I'm going to be doing at Surrey International Writer's Conference next month.

I might tell you the new news about our eBooks and why Black Halo is still late.

I definitely should tell you about the giveaway of three signed sets of Tome of the Undergates and Black Halo I'll be giving away, since we hit 1200 followers on twitter.

So, to address those in that order: it rocked and we sold out of Tome, I'll be doing a panel on writing with all five senses, there was a mix-up and an employee was dumb so it's coming soon, and it'll happen as soon as I can figure out a giveaway contest.

So, with that all discussed, I'd like to tell you that Andy Whitfield is dead.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned my utter, borderline alarming adoration for Spartacus: Blood and Sand on this blog before.  That seems odd, as anyone who has ever heard me speak of God of War knows I tend to rave a rather curious amount about anything involving blood, naked breasts and half-clad men of the ancient world.  Odder still is that I should come out here and call the show not only one of my favorites, but an inspiration to be respected and admired as a work of art.

Admittedly, that can be tough to swallow (tee hee) when a good 90% of the scenes tend to involve genitalia, swords or genitalia coming into contact with swords, but hear me out.

If you have ever seen the first episode of Spartacus, you are probably remembering the same feelings I was possessed upon seeing it.  To put it into words: "come on, guys, I liked 300, too, but this is a bit much," followed shortly by "good God, did anyone in ancient Rome wear trousers?"  To be blunt, it was a very silly, very derivative episode that made me wonder why I had chosen it in the first place.  The romance was sloppy, the gore was excessive, the villains were ridiculous and the hero was even moreso.  I was very close to just writing it off as something wacky and never seeing it again.

I was very glad I didn't.

In the episodes that followed, the romance was never not sloppy; it was violent, awkward and frequently troubled.  The gore was still excessive; the fight scenes were over-the-top, vicious and remain some of the few to make me shudder.  The villains were less ridiculous, but still at the point where you couldn't help but wonder if someone had just said "fuck it, I'll go play video games," a lot of people wouldn't be dead at the end.  Spartacus himself never stopped being a little strange and Whitfield never so much as blinked at it.

And that's when I began to love it.

Because Spartacus, upon trying to emulate 300 and failing, upon trying to emulate Rome and failing even harder, promptly said "fuck it" and became something else.  In the episodes that followed, Spartacus was unabashedly, unrelentingly and unflappably itself.  It carved out a niche from a very lame first episode and sat there, king of its own domain, paying tribute to no other series or film, a work of art that belonged solely to its cast, its story and itself.

And there is something amazingly inspiring in that.

There is limited success in emulation.  That limit may be quite high and you may reach it quite fast, but it's still limited.  Being something else is much more difficult.  It's harder, people will not understand it, more than a few will give up on it outright and it might take a long time to hit the spot where you say "ah, yes, this is where I'm supposed to be."

But it is something altogether more precious than whatever money or accolades you could get.

There have been a lot of 300 apes since it came out, a lot of Rome apes, as well.  There will be a lot after them, too.  They may make money, they may arrest the vision for a time, but they will never be immortal.

Andy Whitfield, despite this tragedy, will be.

I will miss his acting greatly.

Ho for the DragonCon

So, Bubonicon was a tremendous success.  I'd take a lot of time to tell you all about the panels that we did on Future Trends in Fantasy (don't try to follow them), State of the Art of Covers (it's good), how I nearly got into a fistfight, how I got to judge a masquerade, how I had a pleasant, fireside chat in which we both agreed the Sean Bean's name should be pronounced Seen Been (or Shawn Bonn).  But to be honest, I'm tired as shit, despite having come home two days ago.

Besides, I've always been a strong adherent to the idea that we must leave the past where it is: dead and buried under mountains of sand and crumbled pyramids.  We must instead, look to the future, which involves people in various states of undress, absurdly packed crowds, bison meat and books upon books upon books.

I speak, of course, of DragonCon.

Tomorrow, a mere three days after I returned from Albuquerque, I leave for glorious, sweaty Atlanta to take part in probably the biggest mothereffing Con I've ever been a part of.  I don't have any particular paneling going on there and while I love panels, I also greatly enjoy doing what I did last year: being in our lovely Pyr Booth and talking to people that walk by (and hopefully getting them to buy one of my books).

And that's precisely what I, and a few other peeps, will be doing this year.

I (and we) will be at the Marriott Marquis Ballroom Exhibit Hall pretty much all goddamn day for this weekend.  We will be signing such great books as Tome of the Undergates and Black Halo and AWESOME SHIT HOLY CRAP.

Don't have a book?  BUY ONE FOR BUTT CHEAP AT THE BOOTH!

Don't have money?  COME BY AND I'LL SIGN ANYTHING. Babies, bare flesh, sandwiches, kittens, butts, commemorative 2021 Brent Weeks bobbleheads, ANYTHING.

Already have a book? BUY THE OTHER!

Have them both?  GET A BOOKPLATE (totally free!)

NONE OF THAT APPEALS TO YOU?  NOT EVEN IN BOLD FONT?

Well, come on down, anyway, and check out our booth.  Stop in and say hello to me, Jon Sprunk, Andrew Mayer, Ari Marmell and the rest of the gang!  We really are a nice bunch of people, as some people have told us.

Limited Time Offer: Come to our booth and use the code word "Your tie looks nice" and I will make Andrew Mayer and Jon Sprunk arm wrestle.

DO IT.

DO IT OR I WILL KILL THIS KITTEN.

BALL'S IN YOUR COURT, BUDDY.

See you there!

A Feast for Bros

I had an anti-establishment rant in the barrel and ready to post.  But I figure I've done enough of that for awhile.  It's getting a little boring, in any event.  The problem is that I don't usually have a lot to talk about beyond writing, what with the fact that most of the stuff I do in life is classified and/or will get me arrested.

And yet, you people expect posts, don't you?  Content?  Hmm? Maybe stuff about personal life and all that, so as to prove to you that I am a real man, with real blood and real heart, not some cold, unfeeling machine-chine-chine-chine-chine-chine-ERROR ERROR ERROR SHUT DOWN IMMINENT SHUT DOWN IMMINENT ACTIVATE PROTOCOL 285 KILL ALL

…sorry.

Anyway, I'm not sure if there's any one of you reading this that does not also follow me on twitter and thus are forced to put up with everything I jabber on about endlessly, but just for consideration, I'll fill you in on what's been going on in my life.

About three months after I began an exercise and diet program, I've started to drop a lot of weight.  Thirty pounds is about how much I've lost so far, with more on the way.  I've listed off a few buzzwords as to what I'm doing to achieve this, but I get a lot of people asking for details: diet, exercise and the like.  I thought it might be nice to share what I'm doing since I know a lot of us readers and writers, what with our sedentary lifestyles, tend to struggle with weight loss and find it difficult.

To preface: this is what works for me.  It might not work entirely for you.  It might help you out a lot, in which case, I'll be glad to have indirectly helped.  I'll certainly take the credit, anyway.  So let's go down an organized list, piece by piece, and see what's up.

1. Eat Frequently

This is probably the easiest-sounding part and the hardest to actually accomplish, especially for those of us who spend a lot of time sitting at a computer writing.  We tend to not get hungry all that easily or get so distracted that we simply forget to eat until it's way late and we're starving.

Some people mistake a low-intake diet as helpful to losing weight, but this is a mistake.  A lot of what you lose will come from a direct change of metabolism.  If you eat less, your metabolism slows to a crawl and begins to hold onto every calorie you put into it.  It's a double-shot-in-the-foot, too, since when we don't eat for long periods of time we start eating an immense amount of food in single sittings, meaning that we put in a lot of food that isn't going anywhere.  It works for bears, but not for people.  By eating frequently, you will keep your metabolism running and burning.

Consider it to be a little like a furnace.  If you continually put more fuel in, the fires will burn nicely.  If you let them go out, you have to put a crapton of fuel in to get it going and then you've just got a big ol' fire raging out of control and you'll probably burn your eyebrows off.

2. Eat Clean/Master the Obvious

This is slightly misleading, since when people hear the words "eat clean," they probably tend to think of sitting down to big bowls of clean, crisp spinach topped with rutabegas and Guatemalan bootyflower, which is a type of rare, crisp herb that grows only in the anus of a large, sweaty IT professional working for a low-rent South American company and the whole image seems about as appetizing as that.

The truth is that a phrase like "Mastering the Obvious" is a lot easier in concept and in difficulty: just cut out that stuff that you know is inarguably bad.  Hamburgers, pizza, typical junk food are stuff you need to bid a slow, quiet farewell to.  No one misses pizza more than I do, but I realized some sacrifices had to be made.  The bonus is that the longer you go without it, the less you miss it.  The more you eat good stuff, the more you crave it.  The first few weeks can be difficult, though.

3. Balance in all Things

That said, if you try to go from a diet heavy in such foods to eating clean, chances are you'll get frustrated and quit and go back to eating junk.  All nutritionists advocate "cheat" meal and for good reason.  They combat such cravings and give you a chance to still enjoy your favorite foods without totally screwing over your progress.

Just remember, though, to treat it like real cheating.  The goal is to not get caught.  Having a slice of pizza or a fried chicken sandwich once a week is not terrible, it's the equivalent of palming a card.  Having a three-course steak dinner with triple-baked potatoes is the equivalent of coming to a weight lifting competition having taped yourself to a much larger, more muscular man and hoping no one notices it's not you lifting the dumbbells.

4. Vegetables

Eat 'em.

5. Protein

Eat it.

6. Sugar

Don't.

7. Stuff That is Okay

Chicken, Ground Turkey (extra lean), Turkey Jerky, Diet Coke (it's not great, but I fuckin' need it), 2% cheese, wheat bread (though not in great amounts), brown rice (you actually start preferring it to white rice after awhile), raw vegetables, raw fruit, some cooked vegetables (corn and peas are not great), some fruit (very high, sugary stuff is not good).

8. Stuff That You Would Think is Okay, But Really Isn't

Nuts, red meat (protein, but tends to be high in fat and red meat tends to be particularly shady in general), protein bars, vegetables that do not inherently taste like ass, dried fruits (a lot of them are straight up sugar)

9. Fast Food

Making no lies, fast food is, in general, pretty bad for you.  You should avoid it when possible.  Being realistic, though, you'll probably want it for the convenience.  In such events, it's about minimizing damage.  Most places have grilled chicken options, which are not really all that terrible, since most of them come with wheat bread.  You should really be avoiding stuff like burgers and other fried stuff on their menus, since it was probably somebody's cat at some point.

Avoid sauces like mayonnaise and ranch.  Because they're bad for you.  If that's not enough, remember that some people use them as personal lubricant.  Not so great now, are they?  Are they?

10. Eat Frequently.  Seriously.

Most importantly is eating frequently.  Snack frequently, snack on protein (beware of bars, they tend to have a lot of sugars in them), snack on green stuff.  Be honest with yourself.  If you know what you're eating is bad, be brave and resist and remind yourself that it gets easier later.

About Exercise

I work out with a personal trainer three times a week.  It's tough to recommend anything because exercise works differently for everyone.  I'd suggest trying a bunch of different things and finding out what works for you.

I don't claim to be anything even remotely resembling a fitness expert, though my friend Sandra is and you might see if she can help you out with a consultation or some shit.  But this is what's been working for me.  Above all, remember that willpower is necessary and it does get easier.  It's not about necessarily looking good, but it does make you feel better and no one ever regretted being healthier.

So be cool.