Benjamin Sobieck's Blog, page 49
November 10, 2011
Nice Words About Maynard Soloman
Maynard Soloman, the Ol' Badger himself, received some nice praise from a reader today. This being after he read the new short story, Maynard Soloman and the Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants:
"I don't know at times what to say about this series by Benjamin Sobieck. Maynard Soloman is so funny, his views so skewed, and his politics so out there, that one can only help but laugh their butt off when reading this.
"True Story: I was reading this on my Kindle waiting to pick up my youngest daughter at school. I was laughing so hard reading the bonus material, the recipe for Maynard's Hamburgers, that I was getting those sideways glances. I really didn't care; sometimes you just have to laugh and it felt good, really good. The recipe in and of itself was worth the $.99.
"I am going to have to believe somewhere along the line not only will Benjamin Sobieck find the audience that he and Maynard deserve but he will win some type of award for the amazing prose he writes. That is what keeps me reading the stories, his ability to just write the funniest lines I have read in a while."
That's a very generous review. You can see the original post here.
5 Reasons to Read Short Stories
Trestle Press, my most excellent indie publisher, produces a pile of short story series. One of them, Amish Knitting Circle, owns the top spots for short stories in the entire world. That's not an understatement.
My own Maynard Soloman series of crime fiction humor is fortunate enough to be featured with these other excellent short story series. But I was never a big short story guy until I came to Trestle Press. I'm starting to understand the value of having quick bits to read on an e-reader.
Here are five reasons why you might consider checking a series out:
• New installments on a regular basis make it easy to follow characters and plotlines.
• Each installment is usually at the painless purchase point of 99 cents.
• Many people don't have a lot of time to read an entire novel.
• Great way to discover a new and emerging author without much investment in time or money.
• Talent shines in small spaces. Authors are naked in shorter works. Think of novels being a rock band playing songs all full blast with tons of distortion. Short stories are the unplugged versions.
That said, here is the massive list of short story series that Trestle Press is cranking out, with about one new installment each day:
Karen Anna Vogel-"Amish Knitting Circle"
Roger Rheinheimer/Crystal Linn- "Amish Forever"
Paul D. Brazill- "Drunk on The Moon"
Chantal Boudreau- "Weird, Wicked and Wonderful"
Benjamin Sobieck-"Maynard Soloman"
Darren Sant-"Tales of The Longcroft Estates"
Mark Miller-"One"
Sam Lang –"Reprisal"
Jochem Vandersteen-"A Mike Dalmas Story"
B.R. Stateham- "Call Me Smitty"
William Tooker-"Slouching Towards Bethlehem"
Mark Miller-"New Kids on The Rock"
Mark Cooper-"How I Met Your Mother"
Lisa Taylor-"Shana Black"
Alexandrea Weis-"NOLA"
Celilia Robert-"The Soul Collector's Series"
Cody Toye- "Dribbles the Squirrel"
H.R. Toye- "Debtor's Chip"
The Author's Lab/Collaboration Series
S.L. Schmitz-"Mina's Daughter…The Harker's Chronicles"
Whit Howland-"The Cain Series"
Heath Lowrance- "Deadland ,USA"
Michael Tabman- "Bad Intent"
Julia Madeleine- "The Devils' Music"
Big Daddy Abel-"Open Mic"
Heath Lowrance-"That Damn Coyote Hill"
Thad Brown-"Smoking Gun Sisterhood"
Darren Sant/Sam Lang-"Severed"
McDroll-"Kick It"
Luca Veste- "Liverpool 5"
Col Bury- "Manchester 6"
Angelique LaFontaine/Eddie Frantom-"Thirty-1"
Sue Mydliak- "Friday Flashes"
Tanya Cotios-"Wicked Little Lies"
R.Thomas Brown-"Old Man Coyote"
Check 'em out!
November 9, 2011
Big Announcement and Some Updates
While I was away for a bit on a trip, the gears of the Interwebs continued to crank along. Three fellow book junkies were kind enough to host me for a guest blog post, I went on a podcast show to make a big announcement, Maynard Soloman got a great review and I sent out an e-newsletter with free review copies.
Whew.
Here's the breakdown:
* I sent out a free e-mail newsletter last Saturday with review copies of Maynard Soloman and the Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants. Click here to sign up for the newsletter if you don't get it.
* I appeared on the G-Zone podcast show yesterday. The other guest was author and actor Stuart Nager. We had a lively discussion about firearms possession, of all things. The show ended with me reading from the new Maynard short story. Click here to listen to this bizarre yet entertaining podcast.
* Over on the C.P. White Media blog, Chris White was nice enough to let me blog about writing humor. It's not easy, but there is a trick: "Screw it." Click here to read it.
* Molly Edwards at Reviews by Molly also allowed me to talk about writing humor. Click here to read that post.
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT
As for that big announcement, I want to put a reader into the next Maynard Soloman edition. Not just any edition. We're talkin' Maynard Soloman Proves the Existence of Santa Claus. This is some serious stuff.
I'm going to conduct a contest for this dubious honor. Stay tuned.
November 4, 2011
The 100% Percent Foolproof Way to Sell TONS of Books, Guaranteed
Quite a lofty claim, isn't it? I've found the secret to selling tons of books and e-books. I guarantee it will work.
Fellow crime author John Hansen posted my astounding revelation over on his blog. Here's a snippet:
Promoting a book is a lot like following a diet. Some self-appointed guru of such-and-such on TV or the Internet wants to tell the world about a new foolproof program.
"Just do X and you'll sell Y books/lose 10 pounds. It's that easy," this person might say. Followed by, "But wait. There's more."
More? How could there be more? Wasn't X the foolproof way to do things?
"No, X only applies in Z situations since last week when Amazon reworked its discomboobulator on every new Kindle sold after 1:30 p.m. any day during 2010. So do X until we encounter another Z, upon which I'll tell everyone how to do X all over again."
Sound confusing? Nothing is simple when it comes to selling product, whether it's books or a diet program. The point of any approach is to boil things down and make them seem simple. Diets don't work for everyone because every body is different. Book promotions don't work for every author because they're not all using the same words.
But people still diet. And authors still follow trendy sales plans. Both usually stick with it until the next fad comes along. Then it's back to square one. You're just as fat and broke as when you started.
It doesn't have to be this way.
Free Read: First Part of "Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants"
My newest short story of crime fiction humor, Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants, just hit e-book shelves like a lead Winnebago. I'm really happy with how this turned out, and for Trestle Press allowing me to follow my crude satirical instincts as far as they'd take me.
Here's the synopsis of this installment (the third in the series):
Maynard Soloman, a profane yet clueless private investigator, is hired to track down something important stolen from his client: A job. The culprit: Illegal immigrants. Or are they? In this fast-paced piece of crime fiction humor, Maynard Soloman dishes his special brand of crankiness to both sides of the border.
Fans of detective stories, as well as fans of political satire like "The Daily Show" or "The Colbert Report," will find plenty to like in this hilarious misadventure from author Benjamin Sobieck and Trestle Press.
BONUS: This short story also contains Maynard's special recipe for hamburgers. You won't want to miss it!
It's available for 99 cents from Amazon here for the Kindle and from Barnes & Noble here for the Nook.
Now enjoy this free preview!
* * *
I dang near "blew my wig," as the kids say, when I rolled into south Texas in my Winnebago. This is the perfect environment for RVs. Most of the land is flat and matching in color. "Shit brown and piss yellow," as those keen kids would say.
Damn kids.
I ain't no cheap house dick, though. I'm a semi-retired investigator with eyes like a vulture. And they say to me the 'bago has, "hues of the Earth, from whence it came." The Almighty molded the Winnebago from the same holy clay as Elvis. They both might be bloated and broken, yet you can still find 'em on the highway. Give 'em some respect.
I'll add, "hues of the inside of the 'bago" since its car guts are all hangin' out. Leave it to the devilish criminals of the world to corrupt such divine perfection as a Winnebago. That'll happen in my line of work, see.
Oh, it's a line alright. A line of bullshit I'd like to leave wet in the sand. I want to retire. But I can't. My outstanding medical bills won't pay for themselves. They've been stickin' in my neck like a gal-damn vampire walrus. It's always, "Late fee" for this or "You've defaulted" on that. Malarkey of the highest degree. I put my time in on the Obscenities Division and got stiffed on medical bills once they forced me into retirement.
Some retirement, huh?
Now I'm lookin' for a wig-blower to hire me. Put the pin on their problems, see. Maynard Soloman Investigation Services hasn't had a customer in many moons. Nope, not even a griftin' scat singer. Half of what little business I get never comes to more than a trip for biscuits. You can't pump gas on that.
That's right. Your pal, Maynard Soloman, the Ol' Badger himself, is broke. Dead broke.
I need customers. So I park the 'bago at the most crime-ridden place in all of south Texas I could think of: a drive-through Taco Smell.
But before I can solicit customers, I feel a powerful calling for cheap tacos. I don't care if they put watered down slugburger between those shells, the siren's song of a full stomach leads me to the drive-through.
"I'll have six tacos," I say into the speaker. "I'm in a hurry, so no foolin' around back there. Just straight eggs in coffee, OK?"
Kids nowadays need a remindin' every now and then, see.
"Umm, we don't sell eggs in coffee. Just tacos," some voice on the other side of the speaker says.
"Now see here. Can't you understand proper English? Stop bein' a hard pill and make my gal-damn tacos," I say.
I thought kids were hip to my figure of speech. Eggs in coffee. That means smooth. Did people forget? Sometimes I feel like I'm on another planet.
"So you only want tacos then?" the voice says.
Why do I always have problems at drive-throughs? "Yes, you egg. Six. Gal. Damn. Tacos," I say.
"With two eggs?"
"No. You. Are. An. Egg. Egg means you're a crude, disrespectful person. Look it up," I say.
"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black," the voice says.
"Now what in the hell is that supposed to mean? I don't want a pot or a kettle. And don't burn my tacos black, egg," I say.
Twenty minutes and half a sawbuck later, I'm eatin' my tacos, curin' what ails me.
Or not. The doctors say I have a medical condition known as "chronic gut rot." It's gettin' worse every day. Makes me spit blood upstairs and downstairs, if you catch my drift. They say it'll put me in the boneyard if I don't watch my groceries.
It's tough for me to take 'em seriously. I have no money. I only have 180 pounds of piss and vinegar in a meat sack called Maynard Soloman. I'm countin' on that much to keep me out of the casket.
No, don't go there Maynard. Don't even think about death. It ain't gonna do you no good. Keep movin'. Keep drivin'. You only die if you sit still. That rot forming ranks in your guts can't march if you keep going.
I sigh real loud. My body hurts. Knees. Back. Neck. Everything. Hope the Grim Reaper doesn't hear me. When he smells the musty sighs of old men like me, he's on 'em like a bloodhound from hell. First you sigh, then you die.
I focus on the tacos. I get three bites in and there's a knock at the side door of the 'bago. Thank goodness.
Correction. It's not a door. It's a tarp. A pony kicked out the side door in a prior misadventure.
Another correction. It wasn't so much a knock. It was a set of knuckles realizing that the side door is now a tarp. I turn to see a hand poking into my dining room. Damn, I'll have to tape that up.
I figure this could be a potential client. Time to employ some of that famous Maynard Soloman customer service.
"What the hell do you want?" I say.
I watch in horror as that one hand turns into an entire body. A female body. The tarp and $32 worth of duct tape rip to make way. Sweet mother of Lucifer, what the hell is going on?
"Uh, hello?" the gal now standing in my dining room says. "Are you a detective? It says so on the side of your RV."
"It says that for a reason. Yes, I'm a detective. And I'm about to become a murderer with the way you treated my tarp," I say. "I hope you're willing to replace that."
The woman looks at the pieces of tarp. "Sorry. I can't replace it. I don't have any money."
Blast. Another charity case. "That makes two of us. I'm finished with pro bono work. You'll need to find another hired dick."
"Wait. I'm willing to pay you. But I can't right now. Something of mine has been stolen," the gal says.
Interesting. "What was stolen?" I say.
The gal looks all nervous for a sec. "An illegal immigrant stole my job," she says.
Whoa, this got political in a hurry. It ain't like me to think "left" or "right" about something. I have enough trouble going "up" and "down." But you can't talk about illegal immigration without thinkin' politics. So let me be as clear as my empty bank account: Maynard Soloman ain't here to tell you what to think. I can only do right by my clients. How you want to interpret that is up to you.
"An illegal immigrant stole your job and you want me to get it back. Is that right?" I say.
The gal nods. She says, "I packaged doughnuts at a factory. I'd take them off the line and put them into boxes. Then they hired a bunch of illegal immigrants to do it. I got laid off."
"I see. How long ago was this?" I say.
The gal thinks for a bit. "Oh, about three years ago."
Huh? What kind of mudsill waits three years to try to get another job? This ain't addin' up one bit. "So you've been on the dole ever since?" I say.
"Uh-huh. When the unemployment ran out, I decided to have a kid. You can get a lot better benefits if you're a single unemployed mom, rather than just single and unemployed," she says.
Oh, sweet mercy. Shoot me now. She's just described the most fool-proof fertility drug outside of Immaculate Conception: Get rid of all your money. Things like this make the Ol' Badger salty.
"I don't think detective services are covered by food stamps, are they?" I say.
"No. But I can pay you in food. I usually sell or trade take-and-bake pizzas, which are covered. Do you like take-and-bake pizza?" she says.
This is getting worse and worse. I need to darn this situation like a pair of my old socks. "If I get you back your job at the doughnut factory, you'll take it, right? You'll be independent and off the dole?" I say.
"I don't want you to get it back. I want you to try to get it back. I need to show my case worker that I tried to get a job. I'm too busy with my kid to work now," she says. "Besides, we all know illegal immigrants make it hard for people like me to get a job."
"No, I don't know that. It didn't seem like you wanted it anyway. I don't reckon doughnut boxin' is a fulfilling career path, however necessary to America's waistlines," I say. "The only kind of boxing worthy of a career is the bare-knuckle kind."
The gal gives me a look. The kind of look my ex-wife used to give me three months before she left. Not because we divorced. It's just that…
"No jokes, please. Just try to get my job back. But make sure you don't succeed," she says.
I'll have to tell you the story about my wife some other time.
I press onward. "Fine, no jokes. I'll take the job. I'll take payment of seven anchovy and onion pizzas. Extra garlic. By the way, what's your name?"
"Gale Galveston," the gal says.
"OK, Gale. Where's this doughnut factory?"
Read the rest of Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants for 99 cents from Amazon here for the Kindle and from Barnes & Noble here for the Nook.
November 2, 2011
The Greatest Video of All Time
I'll let the video speak for itself. But it is the greatest of all time. I was hootin' and hollerin' so loud in the office that Meredith had to make sure I was still breathing.
How Much Do Authors Make in a Year?
No, I'm not talking about homemade explosives (aka "chili"), I'm talking money. How much do you think the average American author makes in a year from writing?
$500?
$5,000?
$1,500,000?
I wish it was that last one, but it's actually $9,000, according to this article. The writer implies this is a low number. I'm actually surprised it's that high. I wonder if the big names are throwing off the average.
I won't get into actual numbers, but I'm about a mile from $9,000 from my fiction writing for the year. Non-fiction writing, on the other hand, pays the mortgage. I'd still take 9 large it in a heartbeat.
November 1, 2011
Happy National Authors Day
Nov. 1 is National Authors Day, a holiday established in 1929 by the General Federation of Women's Clubs. It's used to recognize authors for their contributions to culture and society.
If I had to pick my all-time two favorite authors, it'd be a tie between this guy:
And this guy:
Hunter S. Thompson and Elmore Leonard, respectively. They embody the two halves of what I enjoy most about fiction: wordplay as a tool to tell a story (Thompson) and engrossing plotlines (Leonard).
Who are some of your favorite authors?
October 31, 2011
My True Ghost Story: The Shadow Person
Sleepwalking a Thin Line
by Benjamin Sobieck
Sleepwalking can be an unsettling byproduct of an otherwise peaceful activity. The line between dreaming and reality is thin as your eyelids. But I never knew how thin until a dream stepped into my reality.
[image error]The spell of tinkering on the Internet proved too alluring late one sleepless night I was home from college. To keep from disturbing my parents, I turned out the lights and closed my bedroom door completely before firing up the computer. I never drifted off to sleep in this time, not even for a moment.
A couple hours later, I clearly heard the knob on my bedroom door turn and unlatch. The door swung open exactly as if manipulated by a person. It even stopped before the knob hit the wall.
My parents? I looked up. No mom. No dad.
But something was standing there. The shadow of a person - a darker-than-night outline - appeared in front of the door. The apparition did not have discernible features. It looked like a human-shaped black hole. I sensed it was looking at me.
Within a few seconds, it dissipated. The door remained open. Most people would have panicked. I didn't. I recognized this shadow person.
But before I allowed myself to process this, I wanted to be sure one of my parents hadn't opened the door.
I walked out of my room and into the hallway. My dad snored away from inside one of the bedrooms. I went to the living room where my mom dozed. The blankets curled tight around her still body.
I am an only child. We had no indoor pets at the time.
Maybe a sudden draft opened the door? No. I had latched the door completely. It wasn't going to just drift open. Something had to turn the knob to open the door.
I went back to my room, still not frightened. In fact, I felt a sense of closure. I would never see that shadow person again. I can't explain how, but I knew that now.
A bit of history.
For many years prior to this incident, I was a hardcore sleepwalker. For those who haven't experienced sleepwalking, what you do in your dream is what happens in reality. For example, I once had a dream about trying to wake someone up. In reality, I was shaking my parents as they slept.
Most of the time, though, the same dream played out again and again. I'd walk to my bedroom window and look out into the woods. I'd see a small black figure warbling off in the distance. The more I watched, the closer it came. Soon I would make out the shape of a person. A "shadow person," if you will. The darkness that made up this figure stuck out against the backdrop of the night.
The shadow person would come out of the woods and into the lawn. It would then circle the house. Almost like it followed a path. I'd track it from window to window.
Remember, I thought this was a dream. Except I really was walking from window to window.
It progressed to the point where I would turn lights on to try to get a better look at it. That would wake my parents, who would try to get me to "snap out of it." When you sleepwalk, you appear normal. Almost like a high-functioning zombie. But there's a veil of sleep that keeps you from being truly conscious.
Once I came out of that dream and into reality, I'd be confused. I couldn't see the shadow person anymore. I could only see one of my parents saying, "Go to bed, Ben, you've been sleepwalking again."
I'd tell them about the shadow person. They'd say something more reasonable. I yielded to the likely explanation it was all a product of my sleepwalking. But the line between reality and dreaming during a sleepwalk is so thin, I couldn't help but wonder.
On the night I stayed up late on the computer, the situation reversed. My "dream" turned the knob, opened the door and stared at my fully conscious reality.
I still don't know what to make of all this. The past offers a possible clue, albeit a far-fetched one. The previous owner died on the property. Not of old age, but of drowning in a hot tub.
Care to take a guess where that hot tub sat before it was torn down?
Outside. In the yard. Near the woods. A storage shed now stands in its place. I never saw the shadow person at that storage shed, though.
Years later, my wife and I lived in the basement of that house - a product of the bad economy and me needing a kidney transplant. My wife would recall a man's face looking at her through the window late at night, after I'd fallen asleep. Where? From the direction of the storage shed.
Months after we moved out, I received a call from the house's security alarm company. Something had tripped the motion detector in the hallway outside my old room. No one was supposed to be home, which is why I got the call. The police conducted a search and found nothing.
In the dead of night, I drove to the house and investigated for myself. I replayed the memory of that door opening. Something told me there was a connection. I found nothing. No signs of forced entry. Not a single other alarm tripped. Whatever happened took place only in that hallway.
Are these events all a product of imagination and coincidence? I'll never know for sure. Ever since my brother died in the home we lived in many years prior, I've felt connected in some ways to "the other side." Perhaps this deceased owner recognized that and wanted to contact me. I have no idea.
It's tempting to interpret your latter years through the lens of the paranormal if you believe something supernatural happened in your younger years. I may be fooling myself.
Or maybe that doubt is fooling me. Sleepwalking is still a mysterious phenomenon. Perhaps my state of mind let me meet this shadow person on its own plane of existence. One where it's damned to a perpetual walking sleep in those woods. I wonder if this shadow person thinks it was all a dream, too.
But I won't explore it any further.
Ever since that night, I never sleepwalked again.
-30-
October 29, 2011
Coming Soon: "Maynard Soloman & The Job-Nabbin' Illegal Immigrants"
Just sent this to the publisher.
Maynard Soloman, a profane yet clueless private investigator, is hired to track down something important stolen from his client: A job. The culprit: Illegal immigrants. Or are they?
In this fast-paced piece of crime fiction humor, Maynard Soloman dishes his special brand of crankiness to both sides of the border.
Fans of detective stories, as well as fans of political satire like "The Daily Show" or "The Colbert Report," will find plenty to like in this hilarious misadventure from author Benjamin Sobieck and Trestle Press.
BONUS: This short story also contains Maynard's special recipe for hamburgers. You won't want to miss it!
