Josh Lanyon's Blog, page 79

David Lazarus on STRANGE FORTUNE

I'm delighted to celebrate the (at long last!!!) release of the audio book for Strange Fortune with an interview of David Lazarus, the very talented narrator.



1 - Tell us a little bit about your background. How did you get started in narrating/producing audio books?

I was born in the U.K., but made America my home in my early 20s. I paint and voice act for a humble living, the latter being the more humble. The reason being, the paintbox came first, the reel to reel taperecorder later and finally the Home Studio. A naive conviction that I could make a living in my pajamas doing voiceover work was rapidly dispelled as I learned that there was more to this than a plummy accent, however a love of literature and reading out loud prevailed. I read for the blind, documentaries, ELearning projects, and museum tours, but my preference is the marathon of voice acting; The Audiobook. Thanks in part to A.C.X., I have a few under my belt and more in the works.

2 - How much acting is involved in narrating a story?

Narrating a story is very much about acting - acting with the lights out, as it were, including playing the entire cast of characters with a narrator thrown in. My job is to stage a vocal performance that keeps the listener theatrebound.

3 - What was the most difficult or challenging aspect of narrating STRANGE FORTUNE?

The most difficult and challenging aspect of narrating STRANGE FORTUNE was the love interest between men; not in the heavy breathing sense, but in making the emotional connection palpable.

4 - What character was the most fun to narrate? Why?

I had the most fun narrating Strange because of the challenge of revealing  the vulnerable man beneath the cynical soldier of fortune.

5 - What character was the most difficult to narrate? Why?

The most difficult and challenging character to narrate was Grimshaw because he was etherial and hard to get a handle on.

6 - Was there a particular scene you think you read especially well? Or that you particularly enjoyed reading?

I do not not feel there is a particular scene I read better than another, however, I do enjoy reading dialogue, including banter, tension and believable affection, or conflict.

7 - How awkward is it to read erotic scenes aloud?

I do not feel that reading erotic scenes out loud is difficult as long as the erotic scenes are well crafted.  That being said, they are no harder [no pun indended] than anything else.

8 - What’s the most satisfying or rewarding part of narrating/producing an audio book?

The most rewarding part of narrating an audio book is finishing it, with all the many files and hours of work, as well as the technical challenges resolved. To me it is like framing a painting, hanging it on the wall, stepping back and knowing I have completed a job well done.

9 - Do you ever find yourself wishing the author (naturally not me!!!) hadn’t taken the story in a particular direction? Or is narrating a much more detached process?

The job of the narrator is to read the story and not critique the author.

10 - Where can readers/listeners find out more about you and your work?

My paintings can be seen at the South Wharf Gallery website or the Sylvia Antiques website . You can also listen to my voice over work by downloading STRANGE FORTUNE by you know who.

Author, Author! NICOLE KIMBERLING

Coming June 25th from SamhainSo in an effort to keep this BlogSpot fresh and entertaining, I thought I'd start supplementing my own bletherings with interviews of friends and favorite writers.

And since she's got TWO, count 'em TWO new stories releasing in June, I thought I'd kick off with my friend, fellow writer, and sometimes editor Nicole Kimberling.

Nicole is the acquiring editor at Blind Eye Books and she does a regular column for the Jessewave Reviews site. She's also the author of the Bellingham Mystery series, which has got to be one of my favorite series in this genre. However, she's mostly known for her spec fiction work.

If you don't know Nicole, you should. And by way of introduction, here's our interview -- I should probably apologize (or at least excuse) the crazy randomness of the questions, but you probably know by now that that's how I roll. So without further adieu...

I give you Nicole Kimberling.

Your success as one of the best editors in the biz has overshadowed your own writing career. How many books do you have published now -- break it down by genre for us?
Including the 2 forthcoming, I have 13 titles--4 novels and 9 novellas. All the novels are speculative fiction. Turnskin is a standalone. Ghost Star Night and Heir of Starlight are part of the Sea of Stars series. My fourth novel, Happy Snak, is science fiction novel that features a straight female protagonist. (Imagine that!)

The novellas are mostly speculative fiction as well. Hell Cop 1 & 2 and Irregulars are all shared worlds. The Red Thread of Forever Love is a standalone.
And the five titles in the Bellingham Mysteries series are all contemporary stories set in the Pacific Northwest.

What do you tell SF pals who smile pityingly at you when you admit to writing romance? Or do you admit it?
I always admit it. I had enough being cagey about my identity back when I was still in the closet. :)
Actually, I was recently invited to  a science fiction workshop to speak about writing in the digital romance field. So there I was telling these twenty young writers about what I do and enduring my share of smirks and eye rolls when one young lady suddenly broke in and said, "When you talk about writing these stories, your face just lights up."

"It's because I enjoy writing about people and above all I adore love stories," I replied.

"But aren't you embarrassed to write about sex?" she asked. Clearly, her interest had been piqued, but she was shy.

I put on my best game face and said, "Why would I be?"

No one had a very good answer to that.

I firmly believe that the derision heaped upon the romance genre is the result of latent, internalized misogyny. In other words, because it's considered women's fiction it is automatically considered inferior--in much the same way that science fiction is considered inferior by people who write about the contemporary world. But no genre of fiction is more or less valuable than any other genre. There are more and less competent writers. That's all.

I went ahead and shared my theory with these aspiring authors. I found it gratifying to see a few light bulbs go on during the ensuing discussion.

 I know it's kind of like asking which of your children you prefer, but what do you like writing more: mystery or spec fiction?
I think me and mystery must have really hit it off because I've taken to incorporating it into all my fantasy plots. The harder question is do I like spec fic or contemporary more and the answer is: I just don't know. Contemporary stories offer me the opportunity to comment on the minute absurdities of everyday life, which I love to do. Spec fic provides a platform to address social issues in an oblique, non-threatening way. That's important to me as well.

I guess if I were forced to give up one, it would be contemporary because I started writing fantasy in order to seduce my wife and I've got a vested interest in keeping that going.

Is it true your cats are possessed by ancient Summarian demons?
I don't know if I'd call them ancient. That would imply some wisdom--or at least skill acquired over the centuries. As far as I can tell the demons possessing my cats were born yesterday. Honestly, they are so gullible that they actually believe me when I claim that tuna is brought by the Fish Fairy as a reward for good cats only.

Boxers or briefs? No, seriously. Why should this question be reserved for male authors? Why shouldn't everyone have to answer?
I favor bikinis--the kind with the little stripper hip straps so that my wife can thread dollar bills into them should the mood strike. Unfortunately, she seems to only ever have coins.

So...you were an exchange student in Japan, weren't you? What was that like? Have you written a story set in Japan yet?
I went to Japan on a cultural exchange when I was 26. I lived with an amazing, goofy family in Hirosaki for a month, then traveled on my own after that. Probably this trip did more to form my adult identity than anything I'd done before or since. Because I married at 17, I'd never tested myself against the world without a wingman. In Japan, I couldn't read or speak and wasn't allowed to drive. Without my three favorite activities, who would I be?

I didn't bring a dictionary because I thought I'd try harder to learn the language if I couldn't look things up. This, as it turned out, was a stupid idea. However, I did manage to understand basic commands like "sit down" and "eat" also, "sit down and eat." While I was there, I discovered previously unknown personal capacities such as communicating via mime, unerring spotting of English-speakers at train stations, and immunity to fear of mystery food. I returned home with confidence I'd never known and a suitcase full of yaoi manga that I painstakingly translated over the next year.

The translations were terrible and full of mistakes, but I learned a lot about grammar--both Japanese and English.

I set my novella, "The Red Thread of Forever Love," in Aomori Prefecture--the same area where I had my homestay. I loved being able to write about some of the weirder aspects of Japanese culture as I experienced it. For instance, in Red Thread, there is a scene where the protagonist gets in a karaoke-off with a drunk businessman at a bar. This truly happened to me.

I lost. Horribly.

However, part of the magic of fiction is being able to rewrite your own tragic failures as awesome triumphs!

What's the last piece of music you listened to? Did you sing along?
When I Grow Up by Fever Ray. I don't ever sing along to music, which is pretty weird, considering I studied opera for three years. You'd think it would have stuck. Now I only sing to the boys at the restaurant work and only when they're feeling puny.

How did you and the missus meet?
When I was 11, I transferred from public to private school. I was one of only 2 new students admitted that year. During language arts the teacher asked the students to pair off to do some exercise. Because no one knew me, I ended up being forcibly partnered with the other remainder student. You know the one--the smelly boy nobody liked. Seeing me about to experience irrevocable social damage, Dawn jilted her partner and rescued me. She alighted at my desk like an angel who had not yet learned the purpose of hairbrushes. She knew how to draw. I fell instantly in love.

Six months later my family moved thirty miles down the road and I went back to public school. Dawn and I kept up correspondence--which is to say that we mailed each other stories. Mine weren't very good, but they got the job done.

Less than a year after that, on my waterbed, beneath the wooden unicorn headboard that my father made, Dawn kissed me. From that moment forward I devoted all my intellect, strength and resources to ensuring the continuation of physical contact between us.

I don't have a waterbed anymore, though. Too sloshy.

What are you working on now?Content edits for Astrid Amara's forthcoming alt-Crimean War novel, "Bend Up Every Spirit."
Wait... that's not what I'm supposed to be talking about here is it?

Currently, I'm writing my Irregulars Christmas Coda. That's gotten me thinking about writing another story about Agent Keith Curry. I think the first line is going to be, "Someone put a curse on me."

What do you love most about writing? What do you like least?
The opportunity to communicate complex thoughts to readers is what keeps me pounding away at the computer keys. It's a lonely business, though and I tire of myself easily. That's the hardest thing about writing for me--the lack of direct human contact gets me down after a while. Hence, my keeping of the restaurant cooking gig.

 Have you ever broken a bone? Have you ever broken anyone else's bones? Have you wanted to?
Only my toes, and always during high school gymnastics meets. I've never broken anybody else's bones, either accidentally or on purpose, but it's often required a special effort.

What do you think is the most important thing to remember when creating fully realized main characters?
Giving the character a sense of having a life outside the confines of the pages of the book. What I mean is that a character should have an origin, interests and opinions. He should have a job, rather than just a costume. Even guys who are so rich that they don't need to work pursue dreams--sometimes really crazy ones, like building a personal submersible capable of reaching the bottom of the Mariana Trench. In short, a character needs a goal beyond finding love, otherwise after the last page of the book he will have nothing more to do and will vanish from the imagination of the reader.

What is your most favorite dessert in all the world? Is that eating or making it?
French pate de fruits--any flavor. Cheap or expensive. I've never tried to make it. I have neither the exactitude nor the utter sobriety required to make candy. I mean, that shit's dangerous! Hot sugar sticks to unprotected skin like napalm. (Probably why it's been deployed as a weapon so often.)

Is there any genre you'd like to tackle but you're kinda sorta afraid?
Romance? :) Seriously, I'm scared of tackling that every single time. That and short stories--any kind. I like at least 20K words to play around with.

Tell us something surprising. Anything. Go on. Surprise us!
When I was 17 I stole my mother-in-law's Volkswagon rabbit and, in the middle of a three-state blizzard, drove from Colorado to California. My mother-in-law was justifiably angry about the theft. But weirdly, she never made me give the car back.

I really like my mother-in-law.



*********

You can find out more about Nicole and her work -- okay, her work, anyway -- right here and HERE.

The Haunted Writer

Creativity is such a weird, unpredictable thing.

Why does a song or staring up at the stars spark that creative impulse? The urge to create...something. Why do ideas lose energy? Why do we wake up in the middle of the night with a bit of dialog or the solution to a plot point?

Why ask why?

Anyway, I've been working on Ill Met By Moonlight. I'm enjoying it, I'm making progress...it's slow going because it's painstaking work. I have to constantly check my facts (I almost goofed on a Batman reference the other day). And even more important than the facts: getting the right feel, the right mood, the right voice, the right mindset. Historical fiction is a genre that attracts, even breeds pedants. Writers who will sacrifice plot and character for a chance to show off how much they know about buttons or legal procedures in the 1700s. I don't want to be that writer.

So I'm enjoying the work, enjoying the story, I'm immersed in the period...and suddenly, without warning, into my head pops the idea for a short series of spooky, contemporary novellas.

Huh? Where did that come from? I have no notion, but there it is. Four interconnected novellas following the course of one year in a man's life. Spooky and funny. That was my idea -- and it's not so easy to be funny and spooky because humor undercuts spookiness and spooky...well, it's just hard to write genuinely spooky stuff.

The Haunted...Museum. Hm. No. The Haunted Heart.

Yes. That's it. A man inherits the contents of a creepy, oddball museum. It is his job to catalog and sell the items. But not all the items are that easy to catalog -- or get rid of.

So suddenly I'm working on two stories at once. In the morning I'm working on my spooky contemporary. And in the afternoon I'm working on Ill Met By Moonlight.

Here's a taste of the story that came out of nowhere.

The Haunted Heart: Winter


I didn’t see him see until it was too late.

Even if I had seen him, I’m not sure it would have made a difference. My only thought was getting downstairs and out the front door as fast as possible. It turned out the fastest means was crashing headlong into someone bigger, and letting his momentum send us both hurtling down the staircase.

My…er…companion yelled and cursed all the way down the first flight. Well, in fairness it was one long yelp and a prolonged curse. “Yooouuu’ve gotta be fu-uh-uh-uh-uh-cking kid-ding me!”

We landed in a tangle of limbs on the dusty and none-too-plushy carpet. My elbow whanged one final time into the balusters and my head banged down on the floor. I saw stars. Or maybe that was just the dust, which had probably crystallized with age.

“What the hell was that?” moaned someone from the ether.

Good. Question.

What the hell had that been? It sure wasn’t a trick of the light. Though I’d done my best to tell myself that’s exactly what it was – and had kept telling myself that right up until the moment the figure in the mirror had tried to reach through the glass and touch me.

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled. His bare foot was planted in my gut, and I couldn’t blame him when he dug his toes in for leverage before lifting off me. “Oof!”

“What do you think you’re doing running down the stairs in the dark, in the middle of the night?”

I groped for the railing and pulled myself painfully into a sitting position. “I…thought someone was in my room.” Lying was second nature to me by now, but that was a stupid lie. I knew it, the instant the words left my mouth.

404-A – What was his name? Something Murdoch – got to his knees and gaped at me in the dingy light. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I am saying so.”

We both turned to stare up at the wide open door leading into my rooms. My lamp-lit and noticeably silent rooms.

We looked at each other.

404-A was older than me, bigger than me, shaggier than me. He had a beard and shoulder length black hair. His eyes were dark and sort of hollow looking – that was probably the lack of sleep. He looked like those old posters for Serpico, but he wasn’t a cop. He was a writer of some kind.

And a lousy guitarist. Then again, I wasn’t anyone’s ideal neighbor either. As indicated by current events.

“You think someone’s up there?” He asked me slowly, skeptically.

I weighed a possible visit from the local fuzz, and opted for resident whacko.

“I did. But…maybe I was wrong.”
“Maybe? Maybe? Why don’t we find out?” He was on his feet now, yanking his red plaid flannel bathrobe shut and retying it with a couple of hard, businesslike tugs that vaguely suggested a wish to throttle something. Without waiting to see if I was following or not, he stomped up the flight of stairs. Guiltily, I noticed he was limping.

It was actually amazing either of us hadn’t been seriously injured or even killed in that fall.

“Coming?” he threw over his shoulder.

“Uh…”
He muttered something, and not pausing for an answer, disappeared through the doorway.

I admit I waited.

He couldn’t fail to see the mirror first thing. It was as tall as I was, oval, mounted on an ornate ormolu frame. It stood propped against a Chinese black lacquer curio cabinet. The slight angle created the effect of walking up a slanted floor to peer into its silvered surface.

A draft whispered against the back of my neck. I shivered. This old Victorian monstrosity was full of drafts. Drafts and dust. And shadows and creaks. All of them harmless. I shivered again.

 Footsteps squeaked overhead. “You can come in now. There’s nobody up here,” 404-A called at last.

I let out a long breath and jogged up the stairs. The elfin faces carved in the black walnut railing winked and smirked at me as I passed.

I reached the top landing and walked into the jumble sale of my living room. My gaze fell on the mirror first thing, but the surface showed only me, tall and skinny and pale in my Woody Woodpecker boxers. My hair looked like Woody’s too, only blond, not red. Definitely standing on end, whatever the color.

“I guess I dreamed…it,” I said by way of apology.

“First time living alone?” 404-A asked dryly. He was standing right beside the mirror, his own reflection off to the side.

“Ha,” I said. “Hardly.” But come to think of it, he was right. I’d lived at home until college and then after college, I’d lived with Alan. This was my first time completely on my own. “Anyway, sorry about dragging you out of bed and knocking you down the stairs. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” He continued to eye me in a way that seemed a bit clinical.  

Yeah. I got the message. Maybe I had dreamed it. What a relief to realize it was just a nightmare.

If only I slept.

“Come to think of it, you were already on your way up here,” I remembered.

He said bluntly, “I was going to ask you to stop pacing up and down all night. The floorboards creak.”

“Oh.” My face warmed at this rude but effective reminder that I wasn’t alone in the world. Not even this dusty and dimly lit corner of the world. “Sorry.” To be honest, I forgot he was even in the building most of the time. He was pretty quiet, other than the occasional fit of guitar picking, and it was just the two of us here at 404 Pitch Pine Lane. It was a big, ramshackle house, and we were neither of us the sociable type.

 I glanced at the mirror again. Just me and the edge of my neighbor’s plaid bathrobe in its shining surface. The reflection of the ceiling chandelier blazed like a sunspot in the center, obliterating most of us and the room we stood in.

I looked more closely. Had something moved in the very back of the reverse room?

404-A glanced down at the mirror and then back at me. He said, “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Sure. I didn’t realize you could hear me.”

He unbent enough to say, “I mostly can’t. Only the floorboards. Mostly at night.”

“I’ll make sure to pace in the other room.”

“Great.” He pushed away from the cabinet and headed for the door. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

His reflection crossed the mirror’s surface, large bare feet, ragged Levi’s beneath the hem of the bathrobe.

“Night,” I said absently. I remembered to ask, “What’s your name again?”

“Murdoch. Kirk Murdoch.”

“Right. Night, Kirk.”

“Goodnight, Flynn.”

I watched the mirrored reflection of the door closing quietly behind him.

I Owe You an Email!

I think that probably goes without saying.

I am so far behind on...well, pretty much everything. But I've come to the conclusion (and it's kind of a relief) that I am not working much slower than I ever did. In fact, the SO asked yesterday if I was "on" something given the (apparently) frantic speed with which I was "buzzing" around. It's just that there is SO much more to do now. All the time.

And that doesn't, unfortunately, include writing.

But I am writing!

Meanwhile, I thought -- since I'm now six months late on my newsletter (yes, I AM hanging my head in shame) I'd better offer some kind of pathetic excuse explanation of what's going on. Kind of what's going on is a lot of laying groundwork for the future.  Moving forward, I plan on doing about 4 stories a year. I think that's a reasonably sane schedule which allows for quality writing but still takes into account the time needed to handle all the other stuff I now have to consider -- like print collections and audio books and marketing and promotion.

And the plan is to do half of those stories through publishers and half of them through my own JustJoshin imprint. But in order to get on those publisher rosters for next year, I have to write the proposals NOW. It's irritating, I know, when you're waiting for me to write something you can actually read in the near future, but I'm trying to be proactive. I'm trying to build the foundation of a sane life. A sane life in the future, because at the moment...not so much. The proactive phase is BRUTAL.

Like, for example, my typical day involves...figuring out wholesale prices on print books for a Canadian bookseller, responding to an email from a French publisher, finding copies of tax forms for another (now I have two?!) Japanese literary agent, writing back cover copy for the short story print collection -- stopping everything to jot down notes about a series of interlinking novellas about a haunted museum -- dashing into Facebook and Goodreads to say HELLO!!, writing Audible.com to find out why the last two audio books aren't listed on Amazon yet, finishing final round of edits on short story collection, approving cover art for same, answering quick email from new editor at Entangled...

And before I know it, another day is gone.

And I didn't write a damn thing.

See, that's where I am right now. That's why, as much as I value emails from you all, I'm not getting around to answering them in a timely fashion. Or at all, I fear.

But stuff is happening, I am writing, and here's a list of some of what's on the horizon:

Strange Fortune audio book should be out before the end of this month

The Hell You Say audio book should be out mid-June

Shinshokan has selected Don't Look Back for Japanese translation

The Darkling Thrush, Ghost of a Chance, Winter Kill, and The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks will be translated into French

The proposal for Stranger on the Shore has been accepted by Entangled Books (for 2014 publication)

Man Oh Man: Writing Quality M/M Fiction should be available in print in June

In Sunshine or In Shadow: Collected Short Stories Volume 1 should be available in June (13 stories, including the 5 Petit Morts, a lightly rewritten version of "The French Have a Word for It," and one new exclusive short story called "In Plain Sight")


All that said, I do still plan on completing all the projects I had planned for this year. I could be delusional at this point, but I think we're still...well, I won't say on track, but we're not derailed yet, and that's a good sign!

Character Interview #2: Conlan and Finn from LOVERS AND OTHER STRANGERS

“He’s better now. A lot better,” Con says. We’re sitting in the weathered Adirondack chairs on the long front porch of The Birches, watching Finn, who’s painting. He’s positioned his easel on the green lawn sweeping down to the rocks at the edge of the bright water, and he’s working, absorbed and oblivious to our quiet observation.   “He had us all worried for a while.”
 
“You mean because he was depressed about Fitch?”
 
Con nods absently, all his attention on Finn. “He’d have had a hard time with it anyway, but given the circumstances…”
 
I don’t comment on the circumstances, particularly Con’s role in them. Instead, I say tactfully, “Too many things hitting him at once?”
 
“He was still recovering from the accident last winter, still vulnerable emotionally and physically, though he’d never agree with that.” Con smiles faintly. “So when it all did finally hit him, it hit him hard.”
 
“There’s nothing he could have done.” No one knows that better than me.
 
“True. Guilt isn’t always logical. The fact that Finn was the only person with a valid reason for not noticing what was going on, didn’t matter. From his perspective, he’s the one person who should have known.” The stern lines of Con’s lean, ascetic face ease. “But like I said, he’s better now. He’s sleeping. He’s eating.”
 
“And he’s painting again.”
 
Con’s laugh is wry. “Oh yes. He’s painting. Every damn minute of every damn day. The daylight hours, anyway.”
 
“Do you mind? You’re writing, aren’t you? You had a book due, I thought?”
 
“No. I don’t mind. I tease him about it, but no. It’s a relief. It’s standard operating procedure for the Barrets.” From inside the house we hear Martha humming as she sets the dining table for the family luncheon.
 
Con remembers he didn’t answer the rest of my question. “The book got put on hold while Finn was – anyway, now that we’re past all that, I’ll be back to work soon, too.”

 
“How are Martha and Uncle Thomas and everyone else?”
 
“It was rough on everyone after the news broke. The publicity was hell. Seal Islandwas wall-to-wall with reporters and news crews for a few weeks. But things quieted down. Life goes on. Thom’s in Europe this week. And you know Martha, nothing could make her happier than having one of her chicks back in the nest.”
 
“So you’ve been living at The Birches?”
 
Con nods. “It was better for Finn. We’ll be moving out to the estate in the fall, and then he’ll come with me when I fly back to Englandto finish my research.”
 
Across the lawn, Finn has stopped work and is packing up his paints and easel. He raises a hand to Con and Con, smiling, lifts a hand in reply. We watch Finn cross the grass, walking toward the house. He still has a slight limp, but he no longer needs the cane. He’s thin, but he was always thin. He’s tanned and healthy looking, eyes bright and smile relaxed.
 
We get the greetings out of the way, Con excuses himself to fetch ice tea for us. It is a very warm day. The sun is hot, despite the cool sea breeze.
 
“He’s certainly very attentive these days,” I remark.
 
Finn, scraping at the paint beneath his fingernails, smiles faintly, privately.
 
“So all is forgiven?”
 
He looks up at that. “I don’t think I’d have made it through these last months without Con.” He stares out at the sparkling water. “Anyway,” he says at last, “after everything that’s happened, it kind of puts some of the other things in perspective.”
 
“I suppose so. How’s Paul these days?”
 
Finn laughs.
 
“What’s so funny?”
 
 “Nothing. Paul’s in Paris for an art show. He met a navy lieutenant.”
 
“So he made a full recovery?” Then Finn’s words sink in. I say slowly, “Did you say a navy lieutenant?”
 
Finn nods.
 
“A French naval lieutenant?”
 
“No. American. Actually, maybe he isn’t a naval lieutenant. I might have got that part wrong. He’s something in the military though. He was over there for some kind of D-day celebration.”
 
“David Bradley?” I ask in alarm.
 
Finn squints as though gazing into the hazy blue distance of sunlit ocean. “Maybe.” He sounds doubtful. “David something, for sure.”
 
“Wait,” I say. “Hold everything. That’s definitely wrong. Paul and David Bradley? No. That’s not going to work.”
 
“Probably not,” agrees Finn. “Most of Paul’s relationships don’t work.”
 
I am already on my feet and hurrying down the steps. 
 
Finn watches my departure, puzzled. “Aren’t you staying for lunch?”
 
“No. I can’t stay.”
 
“Not even for ice tea? Con’s bringing—”
 
“Not for anything!” I break into a run.
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I Need to Remember This

In my darkest hours.

Not that I really have so many darkest hours. But then dark is relative, isn't it?

Anyway, I need to remind myself of this moment for the inevitable Woe Iz Moe -- wait, Moi -- moments.

It is 7:15 on a Monday morning.

It is May. It is pouring rain. And the big question today is will I give in to the SO, who wants to go see Iron Man 3, or will I work on the sequel to Ill Met By Moonlight which is due...whenever I finish it.

And the reason I need to remember and focus on this is, because like all people (artists, but especially writers) I imagine that there is really a right answer to this, that someone is keeping score and maybe knocking me down a point or two...

No, that's not the real answer. The real answer is I worked hard to get to this point, this point of doing what I love for a living, and having got here there is a nervous feeling of...why should I get to do what I want for a living? I am only too conscious of the fact that most people don't get to do what they want for a living. (And how messed up in life is that?) And if they do get to do what they want, they can't actually earn a living.

None of which changes the fact that I am drinking Irish coffee while the rain pours down and the big question of the day is do I need to focus on the work I love or do I get to -- need to -- take a day off?

Remember this, Josh. Remember this moment. It is life. The very life of life.

You are HERE

Actually, me is here.

I have to admit things are not quite working out the way I anticipated post-sabbatical.

I'm not complaining -- and so far neither are most readers (thank you for your consideration! as we say in the business) -- but my writing schedule is definitely not turning out the way I'd planned.

So here's where we currently stand:

Man Oh Man: Writing Quality M/M Fiction is now in its second round of edits. After this, it goes to layout and formatting. I hope to have the print edition out in June. The ebook is going to be very complicated to try to layout and format -- plus I prefer my How To books in print -- so we don't have a release date on a digital edition. There will eventually be one, that's pretty much all I can tell you.

Stranger on the Shore is about to make the proposal rounds. I've written three chapters and I love the story (it's classic, old fashioned, romantic suspense with an M/M twist). I don't see that coming out before next year. Or maybe I don't want to see it coming out before next year. 

"In Plain Sight." Yes, I know. You're scratching your heads over that one. This is a just-completed original story going into a print collection of my shorter works. That collection will also include my five Petit Mort stories, so it's going to be a nice, fat little volume with one completely new story.

Here's a taste of the story:


Nash did not believe in love at first sight. He wasn’t sure he believed in love at all. He believed in lust. He believed in sex. He believed in a lot of things. Friendship, companionship, partnership. But none of those things worked long distance. And two thousand miles was, by any reckoning, long distance. So there really wasn’t any option here. He had come to Bear Lake County, Idaho to conduct a road school, a week long FBI compressed training course for the local police department, and he’d tacked on another two days because…because he hadn’t wanted to leave. But time was up and Nash was on his way home to Quantico. Or he would be in a couple of minutes. In a couple of minutes he’d board his plane. They were announcing the boarding for Flight 2359 right now. But first he had to say goodbye. He looked at Glen – Lt. Glen Harlow of the Montpelier Police Department -- and Glen, seeming to feel his gaze, looked up and stared right back at Nash. His eyes were gray. The color of smoke or a stormy sky. He didn’t smile. The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. Wasn’t even a real try at a smile. They had smiled about a lot of things during the past week, laughed more than Nash could remember laughing in years. But there was nothing to laugh about now.
The plan is to have that collection out in (roughly) a week. Or so.

Then I'm going to complete Ill Met By Moonlight, which is the sequel to This Rough Magic.

And then, THEN I plan to tackle The Boy With The Painful Tattoo. You've probably noticed that I am working my way back to doing longer stories. As much as I wanted to dive right into Boy, I felt daunted by the length and complexity of the story. I don't seem to have gotten back my attention span yet, so now I'm easing into it.

So that's it. That's where we are. The bad news is my original schedule is in bits and flying in the breeze. The good news is, I'm writing steadily now and making progress -- and I'm feeling very good about the work again.

Kevin R. Free on SOMEBODY KILLED HIS EDITOR

Tell us a little bit about your background. How did you get started in narrating/producing audio books? How many audio books have you narrated?  

I had an audition in 1999, shortly after I signed with my manager, for my first audiobook.  I didn't get it, but I had another audition for the same company about 6 months later, and I didn't get my first book after another 4 months or so. I think I've narrated about 80 or so books. I never dreamed I'd be an audiobook narrator, but I am so excited to have them as part of my career - especially since I'm starting to record my gay fiction these days.
 
How much acting is involved in narrating a story?
 

I guess there's both more and less than one would expect in the narration of a story. There's less, in that I can't really approach performing a book like performing onstage. I want to make the voices evocative, but I also want the folks reading the book to be able to round out each character with their imaginations.  There's more preparation involved, because before I record a book, I have to make choices about the character of the book itself. If it's in first-person, like SOMEBODY KILLED HIS EDITOR and ALL SHE WROTE, it's a little easier to figure out than if it's written in third person. But in both instances, I want to be as clear as possible about the point of view of the narrator, by making choices about the character of the narrator. Is he sarcastic? Is the trying to scare us? Does he have a low voice? A high voice? Is he personable? Charming? Do I want to have a drink with him?
 

What was the most difficult or challenging aspect of narrating SOMEBODY KILLED HIS EDITOR?
 

SKHE was the first time that I knew for sure that I had been chosen by an author. So the pressure to deliver made it a little more difficult than most. Also, I really connect to the material, so I really wanted to do it justice.
 
What character was the most fun to narrate? Why?
 

KIT HOLMES! He is EVERYTHING. So much fun; so funny! I love the way he discovers things about himself in as he navigates the way his life changes. In ALL SHE WROTE, I wanted to try making Anna like Bette Davis, but decided against it...one day, I'll get more crazy in a Josh Lanyon book... Maybe?
 

What character was the most difficult to narrate? Why?
 

I think I'm still trying to get a handle on the high/raspy/sexy JX Moriarity. I just really want to do him justice.  He's an Adonis, so of course I want people to be able to picture him when they hear my interpretation of him.
 

Was there a particular scene you think you read especially well? Or that you particularly enjoyed reading?
 

Gosh, I don't know. But I did listen to this book when I was preparing to record ALL SHE WROTE. It was the first time I was able to stand listening to one of my books. I think, because I like the book and its characters, I sound like I'm having a good time. But if I have to choose a scene, I choose the scene when JX and Edgar make Kit take them to where he discovered Peaches's body.
 

How awkward is it to read erotic scenes aloud?
 

Awkward, but I can't tell you how happy I was to finally be recording gay erotic scenes, after 12 years of recording audio books!
 
What’s the most satisfying or rewarding part of narrating/producing an audio book?
When people recognize my voice, or when they find me on Facebook. My father was once stopped by a high school classmate who asked him if he had a son who was an audiobook narrator. That was really cool.
 

Do you ever find yourself wishing the author (naturally not me!!!) hadn’t taken the story in a particular direction? Or is narrating a much more detached process?
 

The process is pretty detached, in general, but if I'm offended by a book, I refuse to narrate it (it's only happened once). I'm an artist, and I definitely have ideas about what's "good" and what's "bad," but I recognize that that's subjective, so while narrating a book I don't like is difficult, I don't question that it should be narrated and narrated well. My biggest frustration when I'm recording is having to correct spelling and grammar.  But it's still a great gig, so I try not complain.
  Where can readers/listeners find out more about you and your work?

My website is often outdated, but I think there are fun videos of me on it. www.kevinrfree.com . Also, I'm a tweetaholic, so your readers can follow me on twitter at @kevinrfree to read the crazy thoughts in my head and at my fingertips.

Snippet from WIP - Ill Met By Moonlight (UN-edited)

(1935 Saturday December 28th)
 
Oscar Wilde had it right. No man was rich enough to buy back his past.
            That didn’t stop people from trying. Or hiring Rafferty to try. He looked at it more like buying time. Sooner or later the truth always came out. But there was a hell of a lot difference between the truth coming out three days before your wedding or three years after you were dead.
            Anyway, he preferred dealing with blackmailers to trailing cheating husbands. This was the first time he’d been asked to rendezvous with a blackmailer in a museum. A museum holding a major exhibition for a cursed Egyptian mummy. An exhibition where everyone except the mummy was in costume.
            Rafferty moved to the side as two scantily clad temple priestesses squeezed past on the marble staircase. The nearest Lily of the Nile was giggling and clutching the arm of her companion. The other doll was saying, “I told Gene, it was never like this in Babylon.”
            They went on their unsteady way to the mezzanine with its planetarium. Rafferty gazed down at the crowded main hall. According to Scheiner, his client, the blackmailer had instructed the payoff be left in a closed exhibition room, a plain envelope of unmarked cash stashed behind the mummy case of an obscure Ptolemy pharaoh no longer of interest now that Princess Nebetah had been brought to San Francisco to wow the customers. At the end of the party Rafferty was to return to the exhibition room and pick up the parcel that would be left in exchange. If any attempt was made to apprehend the blackmailer’s confederate, the deal was off and the blackmailer would go straight to the papers with whatever damaging information he had.
            Whatever that information was it had to be pretty hot because Scheiner had never struck Rafferty as a pushover but he’d been adamant that Rafferty follow the plan to the letter.
            And that was what Rafferty was doing.
            Mostly.
            It went against the grain to give into extortion. There wasn’t any creature on God’s green earth Rafferty hated more than a blackmailer. So he’d left the fat envelope of cash as directed and then slipped into the gents and changed into an idiotic costume so he could blend in with everyone else at this wingding. He didn’t plan on interfering with the pickup, but he did plan on tailing the bagman.
            Though he’d provided the duds, Brett had advised against pursuit. Brett Sheridan was Rafferty’s…well, never having had a friendship quite like this one, Rafferty wasn’t sure what you’d call it. Whatever you called it was one reason Brett was identifying too closely with the victim. Brett had guts, but the idea of blackmail shook him. Scheiner, naturally, knew nothing about Rafferty’s plan. He’d be happy in the end though, because the blackmail wouldn’t stop with this payment. Scheiner was just kidding himself believing the promises of a guy who called himself Mr. X.
            From his vantage point on the staircase, Rafferty watched the waiters, brawny lads in slave costumes, circulate with drink trays and canapés amongst the hoi polloi of San Francisco. A ten piece orchestra sawed away at a version of “Night and Day,” though the music could hardly be heard over the babble of voices. The place was packed. But then the museum was not especially large.
            Originally built in 1920, the Morshead had previously housed a small collection of antiquities and a large collection of oddities. It was designed in a pseudo Egyptian-revival style. From the pair of giant sphinx sculptures guarding the museum entrance to the painted and carved Egyptian friezes and lotus style columns, the building was supposed to evoke the mystery and magic of the newsreels they all watched with such fascination at the picture show. Newsreels that showed the excavations at Tell el-Amarna and the Valley of the Kings -- which was where Emmett Parker had made his now famous discovery of the burial chamber of Princess Nebetah.
            Emmett Parker. Rafferty’s lip curled. Pompous ass. There he stood now, posing before a group of admirers, like the grinning, bare-chested palooka on a cover of a Jungle Comics. 
            Parker spoke and his audience, mostly female, tee-hee-hee-ed obligingly. Among the smitten was Justine Sheridan, looking especially striking in a white gown with leopard skin girdle. She had the dark, dramatic looks to carry off the costume. Not everyone was so fortune. Lenora Sheridan, for example, looked like she’d fallen into a portmanteau of purple draperies and only managed to climb out. Her gray hair was coming undone, as were the draperies. She kept clutching at the fabric slipping from her plump shoulders.
            A lot of people to keep track of, and most of them unknown to Rafferty. Even the familiar ones were hard to pick out in costume. He absently hummed a few bars of “Night and Day,” turning to watch the hallway to the closed exhibition room over his cupped hands as he lit a cigarette.
            No movement. No one was showing any interest in adventuring down the empty hall to the darkened room.
            The fact that the blackmailer had chosen the museum might mean something. Might even mean the blackmailer was someone who worked for the museum. Rafferty’s gaze returned automatically to Emmett Parker, who once again had the ladies gasping and giggling as he recounted his exploits in the Valley of the Kings.
            Honesty forced Rafferty to concede that he probably wasn’t giving Parker a fair shake. Once upon a time, a long time ago, Parker had hurt Brett pretty badly, and anyone who hurt Brett Sheridan was no pal of Rafferty’s. Even so, it was unlikely Parker, newly returned from Egypt, was spending his much-in-demand time blackmailing a small time San Francisco actuary.

            No, more likely, the blackmailer had realized, correctly, that pretty much everybody who was anybody was going to be packed into this museum tonight -- in disguise no less -- and his movements would be hard to track.
            Hard. Not impossible.
            Rafferty looked for Brett in the crowd below. He spotted him dancing, Brett’s sleek dark head bent to hear what his companion, a slim dame in a sparkly white gown, was saying. He was smiling, but Rafferty recognized that expression as the face Brett wore when he was a million miles away.            

Talking to Myself -- More Thoughts on ACX

I appreciate all the terrific insight and feedback got on my earlier ACX post. I got some good
suggestions and workarounds -- and some useful perspective. As I said in that initial post, there's no question of not continuing with audio books, merely figuring out the best way to commission them.

Since that post I've sold 397 audio books on ACX. I won't know until I see the royalty statement for April how many of those sold at the super-duper $1.99 price, how many sold through Audible subscriptions, and how many sold at regular prices through Amazon, Audible, and iTunes. I don't know if those are respectable numbers or not, but they seem pretty average for my particular sales. The highest selling book was A Dangerous Thing (94), which does not have a pricing incentive attached, followed by Fatal Shadows (92) which does. The worst selling title was A Darkling Thrush (5). If I was going to attach a pricing incentive to any book, it would be that one. Audible doesn't see it that way, though, and no pricing incentive is attached. This is why I would like a say in pricing my own product.

In that time my titles have continued to dominate the Gay and Lesbian bestseller list on Audible (last time I checked, I had three of the top four titles) and A Dangerous Thing popped up on Audible's Mystery and Thriller Superstar list.

My post was picked up by a couple of other publishing blogs and it was interesting to read some of the comments. A number of people missed the point and thought I was complaining about the incentive pricing itself. The complaint was -- and continues to be -- not having any input or control over incentive pricing.

I certainly don't object to giving books away (regular readers will recall that I gave away over 50 trade paperbacks during December's Big Ass Book Giveaway, that I give audio books away regularly on Jessewave's Review site, that I made In Sunshine or In Shadow a freebie on St. Paddy's, etc.). I understand perfectly well how effective freebies and reducing pricing can be. But strategic pricing is just that. A strategy. It only makes sense to include the author in on the strategy.

Comment threads on other blogs diverged into the topic of self-publishing in general (I do self-publish, but I am also traditionally published -- and that of course is yet another issue. If the bundling is for a publisher-owned title, then I'm making considerably less on the ebook than I am when the bundling is for my own reissued titles) and -- I loved this one! -- whether it was even possible to commission a quality audio production for two thousand dollars. Short answer: go sample some of my titles at ACX and decide for yourself.


One thing I found interesting was the almost resentful attitude in some quarters that an author would "complain" about earnings -- or maybe even simply discuss money in public. But yes, shockingly, I am a professional writer and I do think about things like how much I earn. Especially around tax time. I think writing is the best job in the world, and I am grateful every day that I get to do this for a living. The catch is, I do have to earn a living at it.

I think it's useful when authors share facts and figures about their publishing experiences. Especially because, in our particular little genre, there isn't a lot of accurate, specific information. We know a lot about the romance genre in general, but I haven't seen a lot of breaking out m/m numbers from the bulk of romance. Plus, we see a lot of manipulating numbers and reviews on sites like Amazon, which contributes to the general confusion.  It would be great to have solid, specific information on our genre.

Anyway, I digress. I appreciate the advice and support I got -- I especially appreciate that you're continuing to the buy these audio books -- and never you fear, I will continue to make more!