Ken Lizzi's Blog, page 45

2021 Retrospective

o, that was 2021, huh? Well, before moving on into what I’m sure will be a glorious 2022 — a year of unicorns galloping across rainbows, with bareback riding leprechauns scattering gold to us all — I figure I’d look back at what I accomplished in the unicorn-free year.

2021 was productive on the writing front. Aethon Books published the first three novels of my Semi–Autos and Sorcery series. Reviews are still trickling in. People seem to like the books.

I’ve mostly stepped away from writing short stories, concentrating instead on novels. But in 2021 I sold a short story to Tales from the Magician’s Skull and another to Cirsova. Both should be published in the latter half of this year. I’ve written a couple more while finishing up the fourth Semi-Autos and Sorcery novel. We’ll see if I can find homes for those. It was fun and challenging getting back into the more compact narrative format.

Travel was curtailed somewhat this year. MBW, the HA, and I visited Destin, Florida, Coeur ‘d Alene, Idaho, and Houston, Texas. I want to wander about more this year; I’m getting restless. But airports are such grim, unpleasant places right now, and the airplane itself feels oppressive, with the cabin crew taking on the role of prison guards.

In 2021 family doings, the HA entered second grade and recently celebrated her eighth birthday. MBW started a promising new career path, hammering away at licensing requirements in multiple states, defeating all the bureaucrats in her path.. Is it premature for me to start eyeing early retirement?

So, happy New Year, readers. And, if you make one resolution this year, let it be to buy my books.

Solomon Kane’s Christmas

High boots, cuffed above the knee, crunched through snow upon the frozen heath. The feet within the boots contained little more warmth than the white blanket they trod. But the boots marched on, steady and unvarying, for Solomon Kane did not bend or waver in the face of inclement weather any more than he did in the face of opposition from man or beast. Or creature of Hell.

Only his long black cloak, wrapped tightly about his whipcord lean frame, and the black slouch hat tugged snuggly atop his head, gave any indication that Solomon Kane was aware of the gusts and blowing snow. Beneath the cloak his long rapier awaited, oiled and sharpened within its sheath. His pistols held fresh flints and his powder was dry. The Lord aided those who looked after their tools. And these were the tools of Solomon Kane, dour Puritan and foe of Satan.

Yet this evening his only foe was hunger and lack of shelter. Night came on fast, the sun, already dim behind the unbroken ceiling of cloud, slipped behind the hedge of forest walling off the western edge of the heath. A grim prospect. And yet Solomon retained his faith, which was rewarded by a welcoming twinkle of light from the narrow windows of a cottage on the verge of the woods. Smoke drifted up from a chimney to be whipped away by the raging wind. The windows beneath the thickly thatched roof were covered with scraped hide, allowing a glimpse of candlelight and firelight within, yet no prospect of the interior of the simple, but sturdily constructed cottage.

“Ho, the house!” called Solomon Kane as he neared.

The door opened a crack. The bearded face of a yeoman peeked out.

“Who ventures out on a night such as this?” quoth the yeoman.

“I am Solomon Kane. I go where God wills,” answered Solomon Kane, “heeding not the vagaries of wind or weather.”

“Is it only you, then, sir? Mortal man? Neither veiled beast of Hell, nor tricksome member of the Wee Folk? ‘Tis a night when elves and sprites roam and the Wild Hunt rides.”

“Mortal Man am I, and a cold and hungry one, not too proud to crave hospitality.”

“Enter and be welcome, Solomon Kane, this Christmas Eve.”

The yeoman — John Good — and his wife and son greeted Solomon Kane with what warmth and welcome their meager circumstances allowed. He was soon warming himself by the fire while Goodwife Good portioned out for four a supper meant for three.

After a generous stoup of ale, John Good gave forth on the legends and rumors of the dark forest within which he eked out his living, a forest that, from Yeoman Good’s telling, crawled with Satan’s minions and the spawn of Hell. Solomon Kane listened politely, knowing his courtesy was the only recompense he could provide for the hospitality afforded him.

Unless there was substance to John Good’s tales, some foul demon Solomon Kane could dispatch and obviate at least one danger to the yeoman’s forest labors. It would not be the first time his blade had put an end to such an unearthly peril.

Kane slept that night on the packed earth floor by the fire. He slept lightly, ready to spring into action should any malignant bogart, bandit, or basilisk endanger the hearth of his host.

A shuffling, little more than the rustle of a mouse’s foot, brought him instantly alert. A figure, crimson in the dim light of the fading embers, bent at some work by the chimney. Solomon Kane leapt to his feet, rapier slipping free of the sheath as he moved. A darting lunge, a cry…

John Good arose from the bed he shared with wife and son. He stirred the fire to life. A white bearded old elf in a red velvet suit sprawled bloody and unmoving before the hearth, a heavy sack lay beside him, oddments spilling from its open mouth.

“Oops,” quoth Solomon Kane.

[Merry Christmas. Why not get yourself a present?]

Barbarian-Light

Lin Carter’s Gondwane Epic continues in The Barbarian of World’s End, the fourth volume. In a pleasant departure from the previous book, this one actually has a plot of sorts. Our sporadically child-like and sporadically wise hero, Ganelon Silvermane, in an almost Conan-esque fashion, rises from captive to Warlord of a barbarian horde. His goal then becomes to render the horde harmless, leading a migration between and around settled areas.

The journey allows Carter to indulge in more of his travelogue, but in this context it reads as more organic; world-building in conjunction with story telling instead of world-building in lieu ol story telling.

Unfortunately Barbarian holds up well as a novel only in comparison with book three, The Immortal of World’s End. Read on its own merits, it comes across more as an outline rather than a fleshed out novel. Carter takes shortcuts, telling instead of showing. In the tradition of the series, he’s more interested in his inventions than in the characters or the narrative. And — still in keeping with the rest of the series — many of those inventions are just silly. Carter probably snorted with laughter at some notion, sat down at the typewriter, and pecked away. The story itself exists only as an armature upon which to hang the baubles and bangles he giggled into existence.

Given that reality, it is probably for the best that the book is short. But it doesn’t compel me to rush out and acquire the next book. I suppose I’ll get around to it eventually, when I’m in the mood for something so light it could almost do service as an air bubble.

My own stuff may not be as frothy, but it is (I’m reliably informed) entertaining. Treat yourself, you deserve it.

The Immortal of World’s End: A Psuedo-Comic Travelogue

Lin Carter put his carnival barker’s hat on. “Step right this way folks, see the mighty sphinx, the flying castle, the illusory city.” He’s clearly entertained by the sights he has to show you and he desperately wants you to be as well.

That’s primarily what The Immortal of World’s End is: a collection of interesting odds and ends that Carter trots out for your inspection. Much of it comes in the form of a travelogue, as the characters fly over vast stretches of Gondwane and Carter describes the inhabitants, the political structure, and the outré customs of the people. He’s clearly having fun inventing all this and wants to share it.

Unfortunately, this constitutes the bulk of the book. There isn’t much story. Here’s what story there is: a tiny band of heroes opposes an invading barbarian horde. There are a few action scenes in which our heroes absolutely slaughter thousands of barbarians without suffering a single casualty in return, mostly by way of magical or explosive means. The rest of the book is description, a sort of gazeteer for a D&D campaign premised on nothing but funhouse adventures. Everything is quirky, tongue-in-cheek, and unserious.

And that, I understand, is how you have to approach this book. Despite that cool, evocative cover, this isn’t S&S. This is humor. The problem is that Carter isn’t funny. He can successfully pull off a wry, Dunsany-esque style for short stories. But Terry Pratchett he ain’t. I can appreciate that he’s been reading The Eyes of the Overworld, and John Mandeville, and maybe even The Wizard of Oz, and he had some ideas that made him giggle. But stringing them together doesn’t make for a particularly entertaining book if you don’t have solid comedy-writer chops.

Ganelone Silvermane continues to be a dull hero, overshadowed by his more interesting companions. But, given that he’s essentially a ten or eleven year old kid in a superman’s body, I suppose that can’t be helped.

Still, I’m hoping for better things from the next installment.

And, to continue in this hopeful vein, here is a link to my Amazon page, displaying all kinds of books you can purchase. (Much like Lin Carter, a man can dream. Also, a man could always use beer money.)

The Best of Henry Kuttner

I know Henry Kuttner primarily from his Sword-and-Sorcery excursions: his Elak of Atlantis stories, The Ship of Ishtar, etc. And of course he was married to C.L. Moore, she of Jirel of Joiry and Northwest Smith fame. Kuttner, sadly, died young. And yet, it turns out, he produced a substantial body of work in the time he had. The Best of Henry Kuttner collects some of it.

Ray Bradbury offers up an exemplary introduction. No surprise there; it’s Ray Bradubury. I won’t quote bits of it here or I’d end up excerpting probably twenty to thirty percent of it. If you normally skip intros and dive right into the first story, try to exercise patience and read this one.

Mimsy Were the Borogroves. A Borogrove-shaped hole in my life — the existence of which I had been unaware — has now been filled. There is, I understand, a film adaptation of this story, but I’m unfamiliar with it and unsure if I want to alter that condition. Mimsy is a truly unique work of imagination, cerebral yet familiarly domestic. Bradbury, in his introduction, states that this story informed his classic, The Veldt. I can understand that now. Terrific stuff (both stories.) After reading Mimsy, I can see I must elevate my appreciation of Kuttner. Note, however, that I believe Mimsy was a collaboration with C.L. Moore, Kuttner’s wife. Should I throttle back the encomium? Let’s move on and see.

Two-Handed Engine. A sci-fi morality tale of sin and conscience; an exegesis suggesting society generates guilt rather than guil occurring as a natural human function in vacuum. Interesting and worth the read. Kuttner seems to have been a man who observed and considered, and not merely at a surface level.

The Proud Robot. A humorous tale proving yet again Homer Simpson’s adage that alcohol is the cause of and solution to all of life’s problems. Apparently one of a series. Slight, but amusing. I’d read the others if they crossed my path.

The Misguided Halo. A humorous fantasy. I’m sure Kuttner had some point to make with this one, but it seemed to merely limp to a conclusion, as if Kuttner had grown bored with it.

The Voice of the Lobster. More SF comedy. I’m sensing a trend. This rather overlong tale features a perennially favorite archetype — the down on his luck conman/scoundrel who overcomes against all odds. Though, as usual in this sort of yarn, in retrospect you discover he’s stacked the odds in his favor.

Exit the Professor. A — wait for it — SF comedy. This one just about hits the sweet spot for length. And it’s reasonably funny, featuring a hillbilly family that is revealed to be substantially more than that. The backwoods dialect holds up, once you get used to it.

The Twonky. Commences as, you guessed it, a humorous sci-fi story. But it gradually turns more serious and culminates as a tragedy, or even a horror story. There is a warning Kuttner is attempting to convey, a warning that perhaps each generation will interpret as something else, something prescient.

A Gnome There Was. This time, merely as a change of pace, we are treated to a humorous fantasy. It starts off amusingly and promisingly enough. But as Kuttner builds his premise and sets up the pay off, it starts to drag. It’s okay.

The Big Night. I’m stunned. Big Night is straight up, old-fashioned SF. Very little humor to be found in this story of space faring, the end of an era, and the men who face it.

Nothing But Gingerbread Left. This may be my second favorite story in the book. SF as WWII propaganda. Clever, even plausible. And catchy. LEFT! LEFT…

The Iron Standard. More old-fashioned SF. Could we be seeing another trend? I’m not completely sold on the Venusian socio-economic system presented, but I liked the story just fine.

Cold War. Another story featuring the characters from Exit the Professor. It had its moments, but the premise and payoff didn’t really work for me. So much for the trend.

Or Else. Humorous, poignant. A gem and a poke in the eye for moralizing utopian SF writers.

Endowment Policy. I pegged this early on as a time travel story.  Some action, a touch of suspense, but ultimately not particularly compelling. Interesting mostly for the future end point to be set in 2016. Nope — no time machines yet. I checked.

Housing Problem. Humorous fantasy. Fine, but a slog to get there and the punchline isn’t worth the effort.

What You Need. A well constructed Twilight Zone-style story, a sort of conceptual precursor to Steven King’s Needful Things. 

Absalom. Dark, incisive SF story delving into the parent/child dynamic. Sends the anthology off on a high — and uncharacteristically serious — note.

So, what did I think of The Best of Henry Kuttner? I was somewhat disappointed not to find any of Kuttner’s S&S output. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. For one, Ray Bradbury does not appear to be an action/adventure aficionado. I shouldn’t be surprised that an anthology he is attached to would be shy on the swash and the buckle. And second, I haven’t found Kuttner’s heroic fantasy to be top-tier stuff. Though I do think at least one or two of the Elak or Prince Raynor stories were at least as good as some of the weaker entries in this Best of volume. Final analysis: worth it, if only for Mimsy, Gingerbread, Or Else, and Absalom.

As always, I must end with shilling and grifting. Check out my Semi-Autos and Sorcery series. Book one available here.

Tarzan’s Thanksgiving

With apologies to the shade of ERB.

John Clayton II, Viscount Greystoke, stubbed out his cigarette on the railing of the veranda overlooking the Patapsco. The smell of gunpowder mingled with the aroma of tobacco, wreaths of smoke coiled and drifted over the long green lawn that descended toward the bank of the river. Greystoke wandered toward the other end of the veranda to take his turn with the double-barreled shotgun.

Professor Archimedes Q. Porter knelt over the clay pigeon thrower, absorbed in the motions of a beetle exploring one leg of the contraption, utterly unaware that his tie was caught in the mechanism. Samuel T. Philander fussed nearby, tut-tutting as he attempted to extract the neckwear. William Cecil Clayton clacked open the action of the shotgun, ejecting two spent shells.

“John,” Clayton said, handing over the gun, “one for two. I’m clearly in need of more practice.”

Greystoke slipped two shells in with unconcious grace while Clayton assisted Philander to extricate Professor Porter from his predicament.

“Pull,” Greystoke commanded, once the machinery was cleared for action. He powdered two clay discs in rapid succession, ejected the shells and snatched them both from the air before they struck the whitewashed boards of the veranda.

He was about to hand off the gun to Clayton when a cry of despair arrested his attention.

“Oh, Lawd!” ejaculated Esmerelda. “The bird, she ruined, miss.”

The voice, though coming from within the sprawling Victorian manse of the Porters, was clearly audible to the men.

A moment later, Jane Porter emerged onto the veranda, the look of concern on her face rendering her only more endearing to Greystoke. Esmerelda followed, wringing her hands within the folds of her voluminous apron.

“Oh, Tarzan,” Jane said. “I am so sorry. I’m afraid the dogs got to the turkey. We cannot salvage it. And on this, your first Thanksgiving.”

“Never fret,” Greystoke said. “A turkey, you say? I’m not personally familiar with the beast, as it did not occupy my jungle home. But I have read about it.”

His heart ached to see Jane Porter aggrieved. Was a turkey all that stood between her and happiness?

He sprang to the railing, balancing like a young ape. He cocked an ear, listening with a hearing honed by an upbringing in the savage wilderness. A faint gobbling reached his keen senses. 

“Set out the rest of the viands,” Tarzan said. “I shall return.”

Tarzan leapt from the railing. He stripped off his civilized attire as he ran around the side of the house. Then he made for the woods still lingering to the rear of the Porter estate, fighting a losing rearguard action against the encroachment of Baltimore.

Minutes later he was perched on the branch of a spreading oak, peering down at a flock of fat, gabbling fowl. He picked out the largest.

“KREEGAH!” The battle cry of Tarzan echoed through the woods as he sprang toward the turkey, the euphoria of combat enveloping him.

More of my stuff and nonsense available, among other places, here.

Borders and Liminal Zones: The Magic Goes Away as Sword-and-Sorcery.

Labels are useful as more than just a tool for the marketing department. Labels also help the consumer determine if the product before him is the sort of thing he wants to purchase or not. Still, labels can be limiting, deterring someone from acquiring something worthwhile merely because it doesn’t precisely fit within a genre box.

Those of us who are aficionados of Sword-and-Sorcery fiction expend significant time debating what is or is not S&S. That’s as it should be: If your goal is to consume, enjoy, and discuss X, you want to avoid slipping in discussion of Y as beyond the scope. But S&S is a protean subgenre, a slippery subject that is, at the same time, gregarious and outgoing, liking to socialize with all the neighbors in the bookstore. So you can’t always be sure if the book next to that copy of Swords and Ice Magic is S&S or instead Sword-and-Planet, High Fantasy, Grimdark, or something else entirely. And whether or not it matters is completely subjective.

Which brings me to Larry Niven’s The Magic Goes Away. I liked it. A clever, wry, interesting story set in an S&S style pre-history complete with suggestive historical/cultural cognates and pseudo-anachronisms. Magic, or mana — derived, it seems, from meteors — is running out due to over-consumption by magicians. A group of wizards has a plan to secure a new source of mana. They are assisted by a mundane swordsman, distraught and guilt-ridden over his role in the destruction of Atlantis. There are great set-pieces, truly imaginative works of magic, evocative scenes, humor, romance, and the fate of the world in balance.

The question is, of course, is it S&S?

Looking only at that Boris cover, the answer would have to be yes. That’s quintessential S&S artwork right there. No doubt. But, we all know to be wary of judging a book by its cover. So, let’s move on.

We’ve got sorcery. Plenty of magic and magicians as characters in this one. The warrior shows up with a sword he’d broken in a fit of grief. He gets a replacement later on and employs it in battles against pseudo-vikings and against monsters. If the definition of S&S were that simplistic, then case closed.

In an earlier post I tried my hand at enumerating the elements of a Sword-and-Sorcery yarn. Let me see if I can apply the test to The Magic Goes Away. Our protagonists are hardly paladins. So, check the less-than-heroic-lead box. Small stakes? Well, there we have a problem. This isn’t a treasure hunt, skirmish, or monster-slaying expedition. The initial quest itself is high-stakes. And during the culmination of the book, as I mentioned, the fate of the world is in balance. Supernatural element? In spades. Big check mark. And the last item: Violence. Yes indeed. Niven squeezes in a couple of good fight scenes. 

Three out of four. Close, but no cigar. What do we do with that? Is it S&S adjacent? Does it float freely in some liminal zone between fantasy and S&S? There are other works that strike me as being in a similar position, that don’t meet all the criteria but seem functionally S&S. Take King of the Wood. The supernatural elements area absent, replaced by a substitute that consists of drug reactions or self-induced credulity. And yet it feels like S&S. I suppose it is technically an alternate history. Alternate history is in itself an interesting case. Is it SF or fantasy? If you include some reason for the branching off from our reality — a time traveler jaunts back to a pre-Leif Erikson period and convinces an enterprising viking to keep heading west, then is King of the Wood all of a sudden SF? Is that the distinction between SF and fantasy for Alternate History — an instigating event? (And if so, then are all SF stories that are set pre-current year suddenly Alternate History fantasies? Okay, I’ve derailed this. Back on track.)

What about King Solomon’s Mines? Glory Road? Gentlemen of the Road? I’m personally comfortable with the gray areas. Perhaps it is a personal failing, but I’m okay with “close enough.” Horse shoes, hand grenades, and heroic fiction, right?

Niven himself might not like the idea that his book is S&S. He doesn’t seem to care for the genre. (I recommend the essay at the back of The Magic Goes Away for those interested in a deep-dive into this book and Niven’s story telling philosophy.) And yet the book can be read that way — or at least it can be read as bordering on S&S. And isn’t that sufficient? I suppose that’s an inherently subjective determination.

You probably know my answer by now: Borders, enclaves, juxtapositions, and liminal zones are all good enough for me. That probably shouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing as how I’ve written an entire series of S&S adjacent books, the Semi-Autos and Sorcery series, attempting to employ the tropes and aesthetics of S&S in a contemporary setting. Did I succeed? You be the judge.

Hello from the Big Strip Mall.

You know it is an upscale mall when street parking is $5.00 an hour.

Greetings from Houston, the Big Strip Mall. Or, more precisely from a pond-side deck at our little AirBnB in the suburb Pearland. The contrast from the rainy (flood-threatening) Pacific Northwest to sunny coastal Texas is distinct and welcome.

Square ponds are perfectly natural, aren’t they?

MBW is here conferring on a job prospect. I am watching the HA and touring the Greater Houston area. What isn’t strip malls is apparently composed of highways, upon which is underway a continual, unsanctioned, open class Grand Prix. Well, I may have to grow accustomed to it at some point. It is greener than I expected, so that’s nice. The sheer, pool table flatness might take some getting used to.

I did discover a cool brewpub (Battlehops Brewing, in Katy, Texas) that serves up good burgers while offering hundreds of board games to play while eating and drinking. And the Half Price Bookstore chain is balm to one who hasn’t set foot in a bookstore in months. (Thriftbooks and Amazon are terrific, but I miss browsing in person.) The HA and I spent some time at both while MBW attended a seminar.

The HA about to open up a can of Whoop Ass. More of Battlehops Brewing. Even more Battlehops Brewing Bookstore haul for the HA and your humble correspondent.

We drove to Galveston Island today. I enjoyed walking the beach and observing the traffic jam of tankers in the Gulf. Stopped briefly at NASA on the way back and took a gander at what was on display outside. So now I have seen the venues in both Florida and Texas.

Galveston Historic Pier. The HA and Sharkman Not Rocketman New cut-rate airline: Piggyback Air.

Tomorrow we will casually browse neighborhoods, get an idea of the available real estate in our price range, and visit a possible school for the HA. 

So, while nothing is set in stone yet, I should probably begin looking more at the positives than the downsides. I have, for example, felt more relaxed and unconstrained than I have for months. And that is of value.

We shall see. Something that would ease the decision making would be an increase in book sales. Have you read any of the Semi-Autos and Sorcery series? Books one, two, and three are out (I am currently editing number four.) Response has been positive. If you are in the mood for contemporary fantasy adventure, give the series a try.

I could get used to this.

I Now Pronounce You…Whatever Pops Into My Head

Unless you’re reading out loud, the words scrolling through your head are spoken in your own unique, idiosyncratic voice. Pronunciation is at your discretion, an unregulated free-for-all. Any given word can sound exactly as you damn-well please.

Such individual variances can make such things as the pronunciation guides many fantasy authors place in their novels rather superfluous. Sure, sometimes you’ll try, going to the effort of mentally molding some invented name with two hyphens and an umlaut for the first few times you read it. But eventually you lapse into whatever pronunciation seems fitting to your internal editor. I mean really, how many of us go to the trouble of figuring out how Robert E. Howard intended us to say Bêlit? How does a circumflex (that little upward pointing diacritical mark) modify a word? I think it is supposed to make the “e” somewhat elongated, going up in inflection then down, sort of like “Bay-ih-lit.” But I’m not entirely sure.

Perhaps REH didn’t care. I wouldn’t be surprised if many fantasy writers were more concerned with how a name looks on the page than on how it sounds spoken aloud. (I recall sending more than one email describing to the narrator of The Falchion Company novels how I wanted certain names pronounced. Why does it matter? Perhaps it only mattered to me.)

Some writers can have a certain amount of fun with it. Take the demon Melbrinionsadazzersteldregandshfelstsior from Roger Zelazny’s Dilvish the Damned book The Changing Land. If he wrote that pre-word processor era, imagine the poor guy having to peck that word out on a typewriter correctly multiple times. And pity the proof reader. 

How many different ways do you think readers pronounce Fafhrd?

What about Tolkien? How many of us read through the Lord of the Rings pronouncing all the C names with a soft “S” rather than a hard “K”? I probably did at least the first four or five times through. (In fairness to my poor, naive self, my first read through was eleven. I should be granted a bit of leeway, don’t you think?) Consider the Finnish and Welsh influences on his Elven languages. How many of us have a background in speaking either?

Non-English speakers probably don’t see the use of cedillas, breves, umlauts, tildes, etc. as a big deal, but we’ve long since stripped out the diacritics from most borrowed words. We just sort of learn how they are supposed to sound, and the marks intended to provide us a guide as to what the vowels are supposed to be doing merely confuse us.

Does it really matter? Unless you’re a professional narrator, probably not. But sometimes we like to have names pronounced properly. Our own, for example. Foolish, probably. Selfish most likely. But there you have it.

Howard Andrew Jones and Joseph Goodman recently chatted on a Twitch stream, launching a Kickstarter for the next several issues of Tales From the Magician’s Skull. (Check it out, back it if you enjoy quality Swords-and-Sorcery.) At some point in the stream, while discussing the writers contributing to a special issue, the esteemed Mr. Jones provides a capsule description of my story and mentions my name. Now, I ought to be used to mispronunciation of my surname by now, being a man of mature years and having listened to people take a wild stab at it countless times. America has a long (though perhaps not distinguished) history of altering the pronunciation of foreign names. Mine happens to be Italian. How many last names came through from the Old Country unscathed? So I shouldn’t really care and largely don’t. But I won’t lie to you: I do care to an extent.

(And, Howard, if you’re reading this, your pronunciation was no worse than most and better than many attempts I’ve heard. It’s fine, I’m just taking advantage of it in order to write this post.)

Some writers truly do care. James Branch Cabell did not wish to be known as Cabéll but as Càbell. Hence, “tell the rabble my name is Cabell.” I stop for a moment every time I’m mentioning the great Fritz Leiber to assure I’m rhyming it with “cyber” rather than “Bieber.”

So, for those who are remotely interested, my family pronounces Lizzi with a hard ZZ, as in “pizza” rather than a soft sound as in ‘busy.” Thus, something like “Lit-zee.” Now, that isn’t precisely pristine Italian, as we’ve gotten lazy with the first ‘i”, speaking it as a short rather than a long vowel. But, outside of trips to Italy (where it is “Leet-zee”), I don’t let that bother me.

While on the subject of names and my upcoming story in Magician’s Skull, the main character’s name, Cesar, is pronounced “Chay-zar.” Again, does it matter? What is your opinion?

I don’t know if there is a release date yet for the special issue of Tales From the Magician’s Skull. But if you’re curious about my writing and would like to take a gander without having to wait, no problem; the Magician’s Skull yarn is far from my first published work. This Amazon Author Page has a decent selection of my stuff. Or if you drop me a note and ask, I’ll try to compile a complete list of my credits. 

Or how about a suggestion? I’m still rather proud of Thick As Thieves, my take on Elmore Leonard writing Swords-and-Sorcery. It’s available in Kindle, Nook, print from Amazon, print from Barnes and Noble, and probably in print from anyplace else you like to buy books on-line. Some people seem to think the book isn’t too bad; if you’d like a couple of opinions less biased than mine, try here or here.

You may be wondering why the different covers for TAT. Let me explain. The original publisher went out of business. Rather than shopping the book around again, I put it out myself with a new cover. The publisher sent out emails releasing the rights, but I’ve not been able to locate mine. Probably I deleted it. But another of the authors graciously showed me his, so I know the intent. Anyway, the point is that Amazon won’t take the original version down. So anyone who purchases the red-and-yellow cover edition is sending money to Amazon only. Not a penny will ever reach me, since the publisher is defunct. So, please, if supporting authors matters to you and you’re interested in the book, pick up the brown cover.

The Enchantress of World’s End. There is Such a Thing as Restraint, Mr. Carter.

Lin Carter apparently enjoyed letting his imagination roam free in the first World’s End book (The Warrior of World’s End) so much that he figured even greater license would be even more fun. There may be something to the idea that more is better, but there is also such a thing as restraint.

The Enchantress of World’s End is — eclectic. It’s a gallimaufry of whatever Carter had in the cupboard. And his cupboard is vast. It’s one part Wizard of Oz, a dash of Amerberite world-walking, a splash of the oriental tale as filtered through Hannah-Barbera cartoons. There is a through-line of sorts, so the narrative coheres — sort of. There are aspects I found a bit distasteful, and much that seemed just rather silly. And there was a distinct lack of menace. I never considered any of the characters to be under any real threat.

Still, the couple of chapters featuring the dragon were, while undeniably self-indulgent, worth the read for any aficionado of the heroic fiction genre. I won’t spoil it. But this book is worth keeping on my shelves as a reference work for one chapter alone.

So, I don’t regret reading this one. On the other hand, I feel as though I ought to take a break from this series in order to read something more substantial. Man can’t live on a diet of macaroons and sugar cookies. My brain requires more nourishing fare.

Of course, who am I to talk? I mean, look at this.