Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 89
April 1, 2015
Snape Takes a Holiday Chapter 2: Awkward Conversation
I had intended for “Snape Takes a Holiday” to be a standalone story, but people kept asking me how Snape survived … and I also promised to write fanfiction to celebrate my original writing advances, like the book contract with Arcadia Publishing. So here, several months later, is chapter two. And since you’ve probably already forgotten chapter one, you can find it here:
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10441980...
Chapter two is below, and also here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10441980...
AWKWARD CONVERSATION
“So, how did you survive--?”
Hermione looked annoyed when the waiter approached. Snape might have smiled, if he was inclined to do such things. She’d been quiet since the moment she emerged from the changing room, wearing a colorful sundress that was slightly less revealing than the bikini she’d worn on the beach. Apparently she was rebelling against the drab, conservative dress of Hogwarts.
Equally revealing was his former student’s silence. Only one topic of conversation could shut Granger’s mouth for their entire walk to the restaurant … the same topic that kept him silent as he tried to figure out a way to avoid it.
There was no good way to talk about death, especially one’s own.
Hermione ordered in passable French, while the waiter looked down the neckline of her dress. Sitting even straighter than usual, Snape put on his best glare and aimed it with laser precision at the man. The waiter faltered, glanced up, then straightened himself. Eyes wide, he stammered something in English.
“I will also have the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. With Chablis, and buche for desert. You will keep your gaze from them.”
With a start, Hermione looked up from the menu.
Snape continued, without looking away from the now trembling waiter. “So much as a glance will result in severe … consequences.”
With a quick nod, the waiter scurried away.
“What was that all about?” Hermione demanded. “How in the world is he to serve our food if he doesn’t look at it?”
Snape gestured—ever so briefly—at the point just above where the swell of her breasts emerged from the sundress. “You were asking about my death.”
“But—oh!” Her hand fluttered to her chest, and a blush spread all the way down her neck.
“If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Granger …”
“Yes, your ....” She looked away. “I wanted to get as far from possible from my life, you see. Location, activities … style of dress …”
“I assume you’re going to burn the contents of your suitcase before returning to Hogwarts in the fall.”
“I’m thinking about burning them right now.”
The waiter appeared beside them again, clutching the Chablis and two glasses. “Madam, I wish to apologize for my earlier behavior.”
Snape’s head jerked up. The waiter’s voice was suddenly higher, rougher, as if it was someone else trying to imitate the man. Yet he looked exactly the same.
“Apology accepted,” Hermione told him, a little uncertainly, as the waiter poured their drinks with horrible technique.
“Here in this world, there is nothing wrong with your style of dress.” Snape made no attempt to sound reassuring, especially since his words were not, strictly speaking, meant for her. “There is no sign of our world here.” He looked at the waiter. “None whatsoever.”
The waiter spilled a little and, apologizing profusely, wiped it up.
“Therefore,” Snape continued, “No one has any reason to complain about you wearing summer clothing in the south of France, during summer.”
As the waiter moved away, Hermione gave her dinner companion an odd look. “Thank you. I’m trying to decide if this topic of conversation is meant to divert me from the other topic of conversation.”
“I would prefer a third topic, something less volatile. Politics. Religion. My former associates.”
She took a huge gulp from the glass, then wrinkled her nose in a way that would be almost cute if not for the accompanying gagging sound. “Perhaps discussing your former associates covers all three of those.”
He’d never thought of it that way before, and now inclined his head in agreement. To delay the inevitable, he took a drink. Considering they were in France, the Chablis was, of course, superb. “Sip it, Miss Granger. It’s not butterbeer.”
“Harry says he saw you die.” Hermione fidgeted in her seat.
“Potter is not nearly as observant as he imagines.”
She started to argue, then took a sip as instructed. “It’s good. I think. It tastes … like steel. And it smells like it just rained.”
Hermione looked into her glass, and Snape used the moment to impulsively kick out to the side, where the waiter had been. His boot caught something, and he heard the smallest of cries and a gentle waft of moving material. “Potter, in addition to not being observant, is slow on the uptake and on connecting the proverbial dots. You, on the other hand, are both intelligent and observant, so you tell me: How did I manage to stay alive?”
“Well, you were—did you just compliment me?”
“I’m told there is a blue moon over France tonight.”
“Did you just make another joke? That’s two in one day.” She sipped her drink again, holding it in her mouth for a contemplative moment.
“I’ll chance the injury to my reputation.”
“All right, fine. You were bitten by a giant, highly poisonous snake. Obviously, the venom …” Hermione trailed off. “You knew you might get bitten by Nagini, someday.”
“Of course.”
“So you made a potion that vaccinated you against the venom!” Looking triumphant, Hermione forgot her previous instructions and took a swallow of the Chablis.
“Obviously there was a chance Nagini might be used against me, so over time I was able to build up an immunity to the snake’s venom.” Snape almost smirked at the idea of cheating death, but then he shook his head. “It still affected me to some degree—and I did not take into account the probability of blood loss. Naturally, I would not have given my memories over to Potter if I hadn’t thought …”
“You did believe you were dying.” Sympathy shone in her eyes, or pity. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
“But I did recover, eventually, and when someone finally came for my body they found me to be more or less alive. To many, that will come as something of a surprise this autumn, but by then the wizarding world should be more stabilized.”
“I think I’ve learned more about you today than all the time we’ve known each other.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Some part of Snape’s mind admitted to liking this opportunity, to talk about himself a little. The rest of his mind slapped that part down. “And now, Miss Granger, we will speak no more of my death, or my life, or your choice of clothing. There surely must be more pleasant—“
“I’ll be right back.” Hermione clutched the edge of the table and jerked to her feet.
Trying to hide his concern, Snape also rose. “Do you require--?”
“No, no … I just need to powder my nose.” She hurried away, in the general direction of the loo.
“Alcohol will have that effect on people,” Snape murmured, retaking his seat. Then he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The same waiter was beside him in a flash. “Potter, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”
The waiter frowned. “How did you—“
“It was either you or Weasley, and he has his hands full elsewhere. It can be assumed you also had assistance, considering your complete incompetence at making Polyjuice Potion. You just can’t seem to keep from spying on people.”
“I’m not spying!”
“Then what were you doing?”
“I was …” The waiter faltered. “Looking out for my friend.”
“In other words, spying. I promised you and the Weasleys that I would look after Miss Granger, in case you’ve forgotten. Also—in case you’ve forgotten—I keep my promises.”
“I—I know. I’m sorry, Professor.”
“If our randy server hadn’t offended your delicate sensibilities, you might have gotten away with skulking in the cloak.” He almost admired Potter’s clearly inherited ability at stealth. “I assume the real waiter is unharmed?”
Harry shrugged. “He might wake up with a crick in his neck. He deserves worse for looking down Hermione’s blouse.”
“Agreed. However, Miss Granger is quite able to look after herself, and if circumstances dictate, I’m capable of providing the required assistance.”
The waiter with Potter’s voice hesitated. Against his better judgment, Snape softened his voice. “Miss Weasley and her simpering brother need you …go back to them. I’ll look after the situation here.”
After a moment, Harry nodded. “But you will burn that bathing suit, won’t you?”
Perhaps the unfortunate loss of Miss Granger’s suitcase was covered under “required assistance”. “Count on it.”
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10441980...
Chapter two is below, and also here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10441980...
AWKWARD CONVERSATION
“So, how did you survive--?”
Hermione looked annoyed when the waiter approached. Snape might have smiled, if he was inclined to do such things. She’d been quiet since the moment she emerged from the changing room, wearing a colorful sundress that was slightly less revealing than the bikini she’d worn on the beach. Apparently she was rebelling against the drab, conservative dress of Hogwarts.
Equally revealing was his former student’s silence. Only one topic of conversation could shut Granger’s mouth for their entire walk to the restaurant … the same topic that kept him silent as he tried to figure out a way to avoid it.
There was no good way to talk about death, especially one’s own.
Hermione ordered in passable French, while the waiter looked down the neckline of her dress. Sitting even straighter than usual, Snape put on his best glare and aimed it with laser precision at the man. The waiter faltered, glanced up, then straightened himself. Eyes wide, he stammered something in English.
“I will also have the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. With Chablis, and buche for desert. You will keep your gaze from them.”
With a start, Hermione looked up from the menu.
Snape continued, without looking away from the now trembling waiter. “So much as a glance will result in severe … consequences.”
With a quick nod, the waiter scurried away.
“What was that all about?” Hermione demanded. “How in the world is he to serve our food if he doesn’t look at it?”
Snape gestured—ever so briefly—at the point just above where the swell of her breasts emerged from the sundress. “You were asking about my death.”
“But—oh!” Her hand fluttered to her chest, and a blush spread all the way down her neck.
“If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Granger …”
“Yes, your ....” She looked away. “I wanted to get as far from possible from my life, you see. Location, activities … style of dress …”
“I assume you’re going to burn the contents of your suitcase before returning to Hogwarts in the fall.”
“I’m thinking about burning them right now.”
The waiter appeared beside them again, clutching the Chablis and two glasses. “Madam, I wish to apologize for my earlier behavior.”
Snape’s head jerked up. The waiter’s voice was suddenly higher, rougher, as if it was someone else trying to imitate the man. Yet he looked exactly the same.
“Apology accepted,” Hermione told him, a little uncertainly, as the waiter poured their drinks with horrible technique.
“Here in this world, there is nothing wrong with your style of dress.” Snape made no attempt to sound reassuring, especially since his words were not, strictly speaking, meant for her. “There is no sign of our world here.” He looked at the waiter. “None whatsoever.”
The waiter spilled a little and, apologizing profusely, wiped it up.
“Therefore,” Snape continued, “No one has any reason to complain about you wearing summer clothing in the south of France, during summer.”
As the waiter moved away, Hermione gave her dinner companion an odd look. “Thank you. I’m trying to decide if this topic of conversation is meant to divert me from the other topic of conversation.”
“I would prefer a third topic, something less volatile. Politics. Religion. My former associates.”
She took a huge gulp from the glass, then wrinkled her nose in a way that would be almost cute if not for the accompanying gagging sound. “Perhaps discussing your former associates covers all three of those.”
He’d never thought of it that way before, and now inclined his head in agreement. To delay the inevitable, he took a drink. Considering they were in France, the Chablis was, of course, superb. “Sip it, Miss Granger. It’s not butterbeer.”
“Harry says he saw you die.” Hermione fidgeted in her seat.
“Potter is not nearly as observant as he imagines.”
She started to argue, then took a sip as instructed. “It’s good. I think. It tastes … like steel. And it smells like it just rained.”
Hermione looked into her glass, and Snape used the moment to impulsively kick out to the side, where the waiter had been. His boot caught something, and he heard the smallest of cries and a gentle waft of moving material. “Potter, in addition to not being observant, is slow on the uptake and on connecting the proverbial dots. You, on the other hand, are both intelligent and observant, so you tell me: How did I manage to stay alive?”
“Well, you were—did you just compliment me?”
“I’m told there is a blue moon over France tonight.”
“Did you just make another joke? That’s two in one day.” She sipped her drink again, holding it in her mouth for a contemplative moment.
“I’ll chance the injury to my reputation.”
“All right, fine. You were bitten by a giant, highly poisonous snake. Obviously, the venom …” Hermione trailed off. “You knew you might get bitten by Nagini, someday.”
“Of course.”
“So you made a potion that vaccinated you against the venom!” Looking triumphant, Hermione forgot her previous instructions and took a swallow of the Chablis.
“Obviously there was a chance Nagini might be used against me, so over time I was able to build up an immunity to the snake’s venom.” Snape almost smirked at the idea of cheating death, but then he shook his head. “It still affected me to some degree—and I did not take into account the probability of blood loss. Naturally, I would not have given my memories over to Potter if I hadn’t thought …”
“You did believe you were dying.” Sympathy shone in her eyes, or pity. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
“But I did recover, eventually, and when someone finally came for my body they found me to be more or less alive. To many, that will come as something of a surprise this autumn, but by then the wizarding world should be more stabilized.”
“I think I’ve learned more about you today than all the time we’ve known each other.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Some part of Snape’s mind admitted to liking this opportunity, to talk about himself a little. The rest of his mind slapped that part down. “And now, Miss Granger, we will speak no more of my death, or my life, or your choice of clothing. There surely must be more pleasant—“
“I’ll be right back.” Hermione clutched the edge of the table and jerked to her feet.
Trying to hide his concern, Snape also rose. “Do you require--?”
“No, no … I just need to powder my nose.” She hurried away, in the general direction of the loo.
“Alcohol will have that effect on people,” Snape murmured, retaking his seat. Then he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The same waiter was beside him in a flash. “Potter, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”
The waiter frowned. “How did you—“
“It was either you or Weasley, and he has his hands full elsewhere. It can be assumed you also had assistance, considering your complete incompetence at making Polyjuice Potion. You just can’t seem to keep from spying on people.”
“I’m not spying!”
“Then what were you doing?”
“I was …” The waiter faltered. “Looking out for my friend.”
“In other words, spying. I promised you and the Weasleys that I would look after Miss Granger, in case you’ve forgotten. Also—in case you’ve forgotten—I keep my promises.”
“I—I know. I’m sorry, Professor.”
“If our randy server hadn’t offended your delicate sensibilities, you might have gotten away with skulking in the cloak.” He almost admired Potter’s clearly inherited ability at stealth. “I assume the real waiter is unharmed?”
Harry shrugged. “He might wake up with a crick in his neck. He deserves worse for looking down Hermione’s blouse.”
“Agreed. However, Miss Granger is quite able to look after herself, and if circumstances dictate, I’m capable of providing the required assistance.”
The waiter with Potter’s voice hesitated. Against his better judgment, Snape softened his voice. “Miss Weasley and her simpering brother need you …go back to them. I’ll look after the situation here.”
After a moment, Harry nodded. “But you will burn that bathing suit, won’t you?”
Perhaps the unfortunate loss of Miss Granger’s suitcase was covered under “required assistance”. “Count on it.”
March 27, 2015
Teams Needed for Relay For LIfe of Noble County (Indiana)
Teams are needed for the Relay For Life of Noble County, which has set a fund raising goal of $45,000 for their 2015 effort to fight cancer. As of late March 17 teams have signed up for the Relay, which is being held May 16-17 at the West Noble High School, south of Ligonier along US 33.
At least 15 more teams are needed, and the Relay is also looking to honor and celebrate cancer survivors. The Relay For Life movement unites communities across the globe, with community based events that raise funds for local programs, services, and research in the fight against cancer. Teams and individuals walk or run around the West Noble track and can stay overnight, participating in various activities and entertainment along the way.
For more information, Please contact Mike White at michaelwhite8@hotmail.com or Tammy Taylor at tamera.taylor@cancer.org
At least 15 more teams are needed, and the Relay is also looking to honor and celebrate cancer survivors. The Relay For Life movement unites communities across the globe, with community based events that raise funds for local programs, services, and research in the fight against cancer. Teams and individuals walk or run around the West Noble track and can stay overnight, participating in various activities and entertainment along the way.
For more information, Please contact Mike White at michaelwhite8@hotmail.com or Tammy Taylor at tamera.taylor@cancer.org
March 26, 2015
7 things about my writing life
I was tagged on Facebook by Lorelei Bell to reveal seven things about my writing life. I’m not going to tag anyone (‘cause I don’t do that), but I think I can come up with seven little known, if not terribly interesting, things:
I was diagnosed as a kid as being dyslexic—and never knew it. My mother apparently assumed I remembered, and dropped that bombshell on me in an off the cuff remark just a few weeks ago. It must have been a mild case, and the teachers worked me through it; but I do occasionally transpose numbers and letters, something I’d just assumed were normal mistakes.
I wasn’t yet old enough to write when I composed my first story, a fanfiction about my trip to Oz. My mother typed it out for me until I lost interest, and never completed it.
My first completed story was a few years later, when I wrote down a dream I had about being taken into the sky on a UFO made of books (!) My brother refused to believe I’d dreamed that. Like my conscious mind could have thought it up!
In 2003 I sent a manuscript (Radio Red, as I recall) to a publisher, and after not hearing from them for a year I learned that they’d gone out of business. I sent a follow-up query to be sure, and got a phone call from the former publisher—who’d decided to try being an agent, and offered to take me on as a client. I had an agent! Yay!
Three years later, after a few bites here and there, he decided to quit the business.
To add insult to injury, in 2009 Mark Hunter signed a contract to get his new novel published … Mark Hunter of Great Britain. Even Mark Hunter was having more publishing success than Mark Hunter.
In June, 2010, my grandson was rushed to the emergency room, and my car was totaled when a hit and run driver crashed into my daughter. I’d been up 24 hours and was physically and emotionally exhausted when I checked my e-mail and found an acceptance letter from Whiskey Creek Press, for Storm Chaser—my first book contract. I printed it out and went to sleep. It was all very anticlimactic.
My wife and I met on a writer’s website (Well, she wasn’t my wife then). She thought, based on my writing style, that I was female.
I was diagnosed as a kid as being dyslexic—and never knew it. My mother apparently assumed I remembered, and dropped that bombshell on me in an off the cuff remark just a few weeks ago. It must have been a mild case, and the teachers worked me through it; but I do occasionally transpose numbers and letters, something I’d just assumed were normal mistakes.
I wasn’t yet old enough to write when I composed my first story, a fanfiction about my trip to Oz. My mother typed it out for me until I lost interest, and never completed it.
My first completed story was a few years later, when I wrote down a dream I had about being taken into the sky on a UFO made of books (!) My brother refused to believe I’d dreamed that. Like my conscious mind could have thought it up!
In 2003 I sent a manuscript (Radio Red, as I recall) to a publisher, and after not hearing from them for a year I learned that they’d gone out of business. I sent a follow-up query to be sure, and got a phone call from the former publisher—who’d decided to try being an agent, and offered to take me on as a client. I had an agent! Yay!
Three years later, after a few bites here and there, he decided to quit the business.
To add insult to injury, in 2009 Mark Hunter signed a contract to get his new novel published … Mark Hunter of Great Britain. Even Mark Hunter was having more publishing success than Mark Hunter.
In June, 2010, my grandson was rushed to the emergency room, and my car was totaled when a hit and run driver crashed into my daughter. I’d been up 24 hours and was physically and emotionally exhausted when I checked my e-mail and found an acceptance letter from Whiskey Creek Press, for Storm Chaser—my first book contract. I printed it out and went to sleep. It was all very anticlimactic.
My wife and I met on a writer’s website (Well, she wasn’t my wife then). She thought, based on my writing style, that I was female.
March 23, 2015
Proof is in the pages
We’ve sent for a proof copy of “Slightly Off the Mark”, which should arrive around the end of the month. Another run-through to come, and hopefully no major problems in formatting—then one step closer to a print run. Next will be to decide how many to order.
March 20, 2015
We've Got You Covered
Here’s the proposed cover Emily did for Slightly Off the Mark, which we hope to have out in print and e-book in April. We might make the actual title a little bigger; let me know what you think!
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2015/...
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2015/...
March 17, 2015
A Good Day Having Written
(You might be hearing something new from my column soon, thanks to Kendallville Mall. Stay tuned!)
http://www.4countymall.com/mark-hunte...
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
It was mid-August, 2014 when I first learned about a great opportunity to sign with a big, nation-wide traditional publisher.
Six months ago. The beginning of my half year long nightmare.
No, not writing the book itself. Writing is a joy, and sometimes the only thing that gets me through horrible life events like illness, election campaigns, and winter. But I made a major mistake, back in August. When I first started corresponding with the editors of Arcadia Publishing, I made a joke about how a February deadline was plenty of time, as long as nothing went wrong.
You don’t make fun of Batman’s tights. You don’t kick Chuck Norris’ pickup truck. And you don’t spit in the face of Murphy’s Law.
It’s a miracle that we were only four days late delivering the first draft, after which my wife and I collapsed into mutual balls of physical and mental exhaustion. The dog was fine, though.
Images of America: Albion and Noble County is a book by both of us (me and Emily, not me and the dog). It required tracking down old photos about—well, the title should tell you—(the collecting was done by both of us), and a whole lot of time scanning the photos into a computer under very exacting standards (by her), followed by research and writing (by me). I probably spent the most hours on it, but she did the hardest work. Researching history and writing stuff isn’t exactly work to me. I mean, it can be hard, and time consuming, and frustrating, and exhausting … okay, I guess it is work.
But it’s work I like to do.
All would have been well except for Murphy’s Law, which quite clearly states: “Anything that possibly could go wrong, will”. Ah, that crazy Murphy, the eternal optimist.
In one of the very first e-mails I sent to William Wallace of Arcadia, I mentioned that my wife had caught one of those nasty summer colds. (You know William Wallace from Braveheart, of course.) It should have served as a warning. By the time I was handed off to the regional editor, Maggie Bullwinkel, I had to tell her things were getting rocky.
This would be a good time to point out that working with the people of Arcadia was great. They were nothing but helpful and encouraging, and even when I missed the deadline and had cover problems, they never yelled at me. (I mean, book cover problems, although I landed under the covers at home several times.) The problem is, for the first time I got a book contract before the book was finished.
Over the course of the next six months, one of my daughters landed in the hospital multiple times and was diagnosed with a serious ongoing illness; my grandmother was rushed to the hospital in the middle of a snowstorm; I took my other daughter and one of my grandkids to the doctor, not to mention my wife and I showing up there ourselves multiple times …
Well, let’s just boil it down: In a six month period, every single person I know was either hospitalized, injured, in an accident, or became seriously ill. Or all of the above, and sometimes more than once. The only exceptions were the couple of people who are going to write and say, “Hey, you know me and I was fine that whole time!” That’s because they suffered head injuries and lost their memories.
Of course, it’s just as possible that I missed someone being well because of the two month long sinus infection that made me feel like the Alien alien was trying to force is way out of my face.
It was also during this time that the springs on my garage door broke while I was holding the door handle, slamming me down into the concrete like a crash test dummy. You’d think that kind of force would clear my sinuses. This was before the freezing rain incidents and the snowstorms.
It was also during this time that I lost my writing job of twenty-five years, and picked up a new one, which took a little adjustment time. There were holidays too, I think, around December or so. I’ll have to get back to you on that.
It was, in short, a nightmarish time of illness, pain, rushing around, stress, and did I mention winter? Still, in the end, we finished the book and got it sent in. So … was it worth it?
Yes.
Maybe I’ll go into detail on that another time. But it’s one of those funny things about writers: The “having written” part seems to make up for everything else.
http://www.4countymall.com/mark-hunte...
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
It was mid-August, 2014 when I first learned about a great opportunity to sign with a big, nation-wide traditional publisher.
Six months ago. The beginning of my half year long nightmare.
No, not writing the book itself. Writing is a joy, and sometimes the only thing that gets me through horrible life events like illness, election campaigns, and winter. But I made a major mistake, back in August. When I first started corresponding with the editors of Arcadia Publishing, I made a joke about how a February deadline was plenty of time, as long as nothing went wrong.
You don’t make fun of Batman’s tights. You don’t kick Chuck Norris’ pickup truck. And you don’t spit in the face of Murphy’s Law.
It’s a miracle that we were only four days late delivering the first draft, after which my wife and I collapsed into mutual balls of physical and mental exhaustion. The dog was fine, though.
Images of America: Albion and Noble County is a book by both of us (me and Emily, not me and the dog). It required tracking down old photos about—well, the title should tell you—(the collecting was done by both of us), and a whole lot of time scanning the photos into a computer under very exacting standards (by her), followed by research and writing (by me). I probably spent the most hours on it, but she did the hardest work. Researching history and writing stuff isn’t exactly work to me. I mean, it can be hard, and time consuming, and frustrating, and exhausting … okay, I guess it is work.
But it’s work I like to do.
All would have been well except for Murphy’s Law, which quite clearly states: “Anything that possibly could go wrong, will”. Ah, that crazy Murphy, the eternal optimist.
In one of the very first e-mails I sent to William Wallace of Arcadia, I mentioned that my wife had caught one of those nasty summer colds. (You know William Wallace from Braveheart, of course.) It should have served as a warning. By the time I was handed off to the regional editor, Maggie Bullwinkel, I had to tell her things were getting rocky.
This would be a good time to point out that working with the people of Arcadia was great. They were nothing but helpful and encouraging, and even when I missed the deadline and had cover problems, they never yelled at me. (I mean, book cover problems, although I landed under the covers at home several times.) The problem is, for the first time I got a book contract before the book was finished.
Over the course of the next six months, one of my daughters landed in the hospital multiple times and was diagnosed with a serious ongoing illness; my grandmother was rushed to the hospital in the middle of a snowstorm; I took my other daughter and one of my grandkids to the doctor, not to mention my wife and I showing up there ourselves multiple times …
Well, let’s just boil it down: In a six month period, every single person I know was either hospitalized, injured, in an accident, or became seriously ill. Or all of the above, and sometimes more than once. The only exceptions were the couple of people who are going to write and say, “Hey, you know me and I was fine that whole time!” That’s because they suffered head injuries and lost their memories.
Of course, it’s just as possible that I missed someone being well because of the two month long sinus infection that made me feel like the Alien alien was trying to force is way out of my face.
It was also during this time that the springs on my garage door broke while I was holding the door handle, slamming me down into the concrete like a crash test dummy. You’d think that kind of force would clear my sinuses. This was before the freezing rain incidents and the snowstorms.
It was also during this time that I lost my writing job of twenty-five years, and picked up a new one, which took a little adjustment time. There were holidays too, I think, around December or so. I’ll have to get back to you on that.
It was, in short, a nightmarish time of illness, pain, rushing around, stress, and did I mention winter? Still, in the end, we finished the book and got it sent in. So … was it worth it?
Yes.
Maybe I’ll go into detail on that another time. But it’s one of those funny things about writers: The “having written” part seems to make up for everything else.
March 13, 2015
Mapes, Eckhart, Books, and History
Many thanks to Mike Mapes, who took Emily and me on a tour of the Eckhart Public Library and Willennar Genealogy Center in Auburn. We stopped by to drop off the many historical photos we borrowed from him for the “Images of America: Albion and Noble County” project. I love being in libraries anyway, and I love history, and I’m also a fan of architecture, so it was a great afternoon … and we met some great people!
Charles Eckhart was a member of Company A, 104th Pennsylvania volunteers, during the Civil War. After being discharged for health reasons he became a carriage maker and eventually donated toward Auburn’s library, YMCA, and park, among other things.
Charles Eckhart was a member of Company A, 104th Pennsylvania volunteers, during the Civil War. After being discharged for health reasons he became a carriage maker and eventually donated toward Auburn’s library, YMCA, and park, among other things.
March 6, 2015
Space Opera, Humor, and Headaches
My sinus headache seems to be morphing into a rare migraine, so just a quick update: I’ve finished the third draft of my space opera story (working title “Beowulf: In Harm’s Way”), and Emily’s about half finished checking the first “Slightly Off the Mark” book, which we’re hoping to have out in April.
The space opera story is only about 55,500 words, and the humor book around 40,000. I think shorter is better with non-fiction humor, but what do you think of that length for science fiction? My novels tend to be short (and my short stories tend to run long!)
The space opera story is only about 55,500 words, and the humor book around 40,000. I think shorter is better with non-fiction humor, but what do you think of that length for science fiction? My novels tend to be short (and my short stories tend to run long!)
March 1, 2015
More Stormy Reviews
I’m still playing catch up, but I wanted to point out that so far this year “Storm Chaser” has received two new reviews:
http://www.amazon.com/Storm-Chaser-Ma...
Remember, whenever you review one of my works, a book fairy gets its wings. Nothing is quite so depressing as a wingless book fairy.
http://www.amazon.com/Storm-Chaser-Ma...
Remember, whenever you review one of my works, a book fairy gets its wings. Nothing is quite so depressing as a wingless book fairy.
February 28, 2015
But ... they want a campfire
Teenage girls decide to change the weather ... what could go wrong?
http://www.amazon.com/No-Campfire-Gir...
http://www.amazon.com/No-Campfire-Gir...
