Martyn V. Halm's Blog, page 14

Free Download Locked Room November 7 and 8.

Locked Room – A Katla KillFile will be available for free download on November 7 and 8, 2012.

The Locked Room KillFile (6,500 words) follows assassin Katla Sieltjes as she creates a Locked Room Murder Mystery, while exacting revenge on a physician responsible for the death of her client’s wife. By using a method that has become a forensic landmark, she recreates an updated version of a lethal puzzle that astounded forensic scientists since the original murders occurred at the start of the twentieth century. But first she has to get in and out of her target’s penthouse apartment unseen.

The Katla KillFile short stories chronologically precede the novels in the Amsterdam Assassin Series. Each KillFile features Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, executing one of her contracts. While not mandatory reading, each KillFile provides insight both in Katla’s work methods and skill, and additional background information in her character and personal history. The KillFiles can be read out of order, as the contracts are random samples from her past. Each KillFile also contains a teaser from the novels in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Locked Room – A Katla KillFile (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

Self-Publishers Aren't Killing The Industry, They're Saving It

Reblogged from David Gaughran:

There’s a lot of talk at the moment that cheap books are destroying the industry.

In traditional publishing circles especially, fingers are being pointed at self-publishers (and their chief enablers, Amazon), who stand accused of encouraging a race to the bottom, of devaluing books, and training readers to pay ever-cheaper amounts – making the whole book business unsustainable.

Today, I have a guest post from Ed Robertson – author of…

Read more… 1,700 more words

Instead of complaining about the death of publishing, Publishers should've learned from the past, as this article by Edward W. Robertson proves. The similarity of publishing reaction to the rise of paperback novels in 1939 and the new rise of self-published e-books is uncanny.

Sample Sunday: Fragment from Peccadillo, work in progress, second novel in Amsterdam Assassin Series.

This is a fragment from Peccadillo – A Katla Novel, the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series, to be published before the 2012 Holiday Season.

Bram entered and sat on the rim of the bath, a glass of vodka dangling from his fingers. “What if he had a second set of documents?”

“I would’ve smudged my signature.” Katla plucked the glass from his fingers. “My move surprised him. I guess he expected me to be unnerved.”

Bram’s face became a mask, a sign he was too busy thinking to show outward emotion. Katla stretched her legs and drank the vodka, liquid fire burning deep in her throat. She put the glass on the rim and sank deeper in the bath, the hot water draining the tension from her legs.

The blind man’s face became animated again. “You’re sure they’re Chinese?”

“Quite sure,” Katla replied. “They didn’t look Japanese, Vietnamese or Korean to me. And I’ve met enough Chinese on my trips to Hong Kong.”

“I have a Chinese friend,” Bram spoke slowly. “If Lau belongs to a triad or a gang, there’s a chance Tsui Pak Yun might know where to find them. Or at least who they are.”

“How well do you know this ‘friend’?”

Bram pointed at his ruined eyes. “He belongs to the brotherhood.”

“Blindness is not an indication of reliability. You trust him?”

“I don’t know where his allegiance lies. He’s inscrutable that way.”

“How do you know he might be able to help?”

Bram pursed his lips. “One of my shiatsu patients is an influential Yakuza. Yun knew this and approached me to mediate in a ‘troublesome situation’, since I was in a position to sound out my patient to his willingness to put an end to the situation. Things worked out, so Yun is indebted to me.”

“But his allegiance may lie with a triad that’s affiliated with Lau.”

“If Lau is triad-affiliated.”

Katla placed the glass on the rim of the bath. “Lau was in command, but seemed to follow a strategy that wasn’t his.”

“Because he didn’t foresee your move?”

“Anyone can fail to anticipate the improbable, but a strategist would be interested by an unexpected development, not angry. Lau’s anger rendered him incapable of improvisation, which allowed me to seize the initiative.”

“So he’s not the sharpest crayon in the box.”

Katla grinned. “No, he’s not. And they overplayed their hand, which puts me at an advantage.”

“They’ll try again.”

“They lost the element of surprise, Bram. I’ll be even more on guard, from now on.”

The blind man picked up the empty glass and rose to his feet. She thought he would say something, but his face became mask-like again and he left the bathroom.

Katla floated in the bath, her gaze on the ceiling.

Bram reappeared. “Your Sphinx phone, can it be traced? Is it registered?”

“It’s a pre-paid, but if you have the number it can be triangulated if you have the equipment. They might not have tried that before, but they will probably try now. I switched it off, though. And removed the battery, to make sure.”

She watched Bram undress slowly and walk to the basin to brush his teeth. He disliked the buzzing sound of her electric brush, so he used a regular brush, even if that took longer. Katla studied his angular frame, the tips of his black hair brushing his bony shoulder blades, his muscular legs covered with fine dark hair.

She sat up in the bath. “Can you come over here?”

He halted at the rim and she caressed his legs with her soapy hands until his penis quivered. His stance widened as she slipped her hand between his legs and cupped his scrotum. With a wash cloth she cleaned his penis, stroked his erection until his breathing became ragged. She released him and rose to her feet. Bram took the brush from his mouth and she kissed some toothpaste from the corner of his mouth.

“Hand me a towel?”

He put the brush back and handed her a towel. She dried herself, kissed Bram and led him by his erection to the bedroom.

If you like this fragment from my work in progress, check my ‘About’ page for a link to Reprobate – A Katla Novel, the first novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series. You can download a sample with the first few chapters for free from Amazon, or the whole novel (113,000 words or 380 pages) for only $5.99. If you follow my blog, you will be notified about the exact publication date of Peccadillo – A Katla Novel. And, of course, be able to read more fragments and snippets from the work in progress. If you’d like to become a beta reader for the Amsterdam Assassin Series, email Martyn V. Halm at katlasieltjes@yahoo.com and put ‘beta reader’ in the subject line. Thanks for your support.

Why I chose an assassin for my protagonist…

Why I write what I write is very simple in essence. I write what I write because no-one else writes it. And I want to read what I write. I wanted to read a story about a female freelance assassin, someone who enjoys her job without being a freak, pervert or weirdo. Someone whose view of the world is bleak enough to do the job without remorse, but not so bleak as to make her bitter. With a heart cold enough to make dispassionate decisions, but still warm enough to trust and love someone who accepts her for who she is.

In stories, whether books or movies, hired killers, in any shape or form, are mostly perverted weirdos, as if killing in exchange for money debases someone more than killing for God and Country. A soldier can justify his actions, as he is ordered by his superiors to kill ‘the enemy’. A mercenary can be ethical, following certain ideals in joining an army that fights for what he thinks is right. But a freelance assassin is a realist, someone who accepts the responsibility of taking a life without justification, for there can be no justification for the taking of a life. Reasons, sure. There are always plenty of reasons to kill another human being, but rarely a justifiable reason. But then, isn’t justification just another illusion? Is there justice in this world? Are the evildoers punished and the righteous rewarded? Anyone who takes a good look around them knows better.

Katla is a realist, pur sang. She knows there are more reasons to kill other people than people to do the job. Do the job properly, that is. There are always ambitious punks who can be hired to kill for a nickel. As Creaux says in Reprobate: “The world is overrun by amateurs, but bereft of professionals.” If you have carefully built a company and your business partner is driving your company into the ground, and you know you cannot buy him out or talk sense into him, maybe it’s time to get a professional to do the job.

Katla is an expert in disguising homicide, which makes her a particular breed of assassin. Most professional killers want to remain detached from their targets, needing the distance to separate themselves from the act. Dispatch the target with the minimum amount of fuss. Use a suppressed semi-automatic Ruger .22 Mark II and shoot a dumdum into the base of the skull, with just enough power to enter, but not to exit the cranium, so the bullet will bounce around the dome of bone and shred the brains. Just a trickle of blood, maybe bulging eyes from the pressure in the head, caused by the gases that exited the barrel pressed against the entry wound. Clean and easy. Except that such a kill would send up a red flag at any law enforcement office. Warning: Professional At Work. Same goes with any kind of skilful applied violence. Whether you garrotte someone or bomb his car, if you cannot disguise the homicide, there will be an investigation. And since your client most likely stands to benefit from the death of your target, any criminal investigation is to be avoided. Unless the investigation clears your client, or rules the demise of your target accidental or self-induced.

Katla has the mind of a hunter and trapper. Not the kind of hunter who runs around the woods drunk with a bright orange vest to avoid getting shot by his equally drunk buddies who will use an elephant gun to shoot a squirrel. Katla studies her targets like a dedicated hunter tracks his prey, like a trapper finds the places to position his snare. Stalking her target and constructing the perfect strategy towards the demise is as much an intellectual endeavour as a physical challenge, demanding both acumen and stamina. To become the perfect assassin requires a study both of human nature and human biology, its inherent flaws and how to put them to full advantage. With that pursuit of excellence taken into account, Katla’s fascination with her job make her choice of occupation not only understandable but even admirable, to an extent.

My own life has had its moments of violence, enough to make me realise that violence lurks in pretty much everyone, although the veneer of civility may have more substance on some people than others. To the outside world, Katla seems more than composed, she has an almost Zen-like attitude towards life, but it’s rooted less spirituality than reality. Katla knows how fragile life is and how easily destroyed, which makes her appreciate her own life and that of her loved ones. Fate is fickle and the wrong circumstances or timing can extinguish any life prematurely, so celebrate the life you have today and don’t live in the future life you might never receive. To be aware of the present is the greatest gift.

Sample Sunday: Fragment from Peccadillo, work in progress, second novel in Amsterdam Assassin Series.

This is a fragment from Peccadillo – A Katla Novel, the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series, to be published before the 2012 Holiday Season.

Still amazed that Katla had so readily accepted her lunch invitation, Anouk looked at the kitchen clock for the fourth time in five minutes. Katla didn’t strike her as the type of person to be late, but then, she didn’t know that much about her. She stepped back and studied the lunch spread, mentally checking her list. Ciabatta, warm from the oven. Vegetarian salad, with a separate plate of smoked salmon and smoked chicken. Another plate with cold cuts and slices of cheese. Tea pot rinsed and ready for boiling water. Percolator on the stove, filled with water and coffee…

Newk and Baaba sat outside on the kitchen window sill, disgruntled at being banned from the kitchen, but Anouk didn’t know how Katla would react to the cats. And their tendency to steal food at every opportunity. Better to leave them outside for the time being.

She sighed. Maybe she should’ve suggested lunch at a café instead. Too late now. The memory of Katla’s predatory gaze gliding over her skin brought back the goose bumps. Anouk rubbed her arms. Bram, reticent as always, steered away from the topic of his mysterious new girlfriend whenever Anouk mentioned her. And Zeph described her appearance as ordinary.

Ordinary…

Although Katla did her utmost to appear inconspicuous, only casual observers would overlook those vibrant eyes and that cruel mouth. Like one of those Gustav Klimt women—coolly observant, detached and slightly hostile. The thought sent shivers through her bruised spine.

Five minutes past one.

Well, either Katla wasn’t punctual, or she thought being on time was impolite.

She felt a bit queasy and looked out the kitchen window. Newk and Baaba pawed at the smooth glass and meowed, though the drizzling rain didn’t touch the window sill.

She needed to pee.

She looked at the clock. Six past one.

Anouk hurried down the hallway to the toilet, pulled up her dress and sat down.

The doorbell rang.

Fuckfuckfuck.

The urge to pee was unstoppable. She wadded up toilet paper while she urinated.

The bell rang again.

Fuuuuuuuck. Pleasepleaseplease. Don’t be impatient.

Quickly she wiped herself, flushed the toilet, and was about to storm to the front door when she realised that she had not washed her hands. The bell rang for a third time as she rinsed her hands and took the towel with her to the front door.

Katla combed her fingers through her tousled hair, probably from the motorcycle helmet in her hand. Behind her, a battered XT350 motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk. Her bright blue eyes glittered with amusement, as if she could guess why Anouk was late to the door. “Hallo.”

“Let me take that.” Anouk took her helmet and stepped back into the hallway. “Please come in.”

Katla entered in an aura of cold damp air and wet leather, closed the door behind her with one hand and touched Anouk’s shoulder with her other hand as she kissed her softly on both cheeks. Flustered Anouk felt the blood rise to her face, but Katla didn’t notice and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Smells good. Did you bake bread?”

“Ciabatta,” Anouk replied, grateful the hallway was dimly lit. She returned the towel to the toilet and followed Katla to the kitchen, where she put her helmet down on a chair.

“What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be great.”

Katla shrugged out of her jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath she wore a maroon blouse from rough silk, with cut-outs that left her muscular sun-kissed shoulders bare.

She turned to the window and finger-waved at Newk and Baaba. “Your cats don’t look happy.”

Anouk busied herself at the stove, hoping the warmth of her oven would provide an alibi for her flushed cheeks.

“They’d eat our lunch if they have half a chance, so I opted to leave them outside. At least until you arrived. You mind if I let them in again?”

“Not at all.” Katla grinned. “I’m prepared to fight any cat for my lunch.”

Newk and Baaba stormed inside and wrapped themselves around Katla’s long leather-clad legs. As she reached down to stroke their fur, Anouk stole a glance into her blouse showing just a bit of cleavage. Her small high breasts were cupped in a frilly Chantelle bra, not a Marlies Dekkers as she had expected. As Katla straightened Anouk turned back to the stove to grab the percolator. “Cream, sugar?”

“Black. Thanks.” Katla took a sip from the hot coffee. “Lovely cats. Siamese?”

“Yes. You have cats?”

“No cats. A macaw.”

“Ah, yes, Zeph told me.”

Katla’s impossibly blue eyes fixed on her. “Zeph told you?”

Shit.

“He takes care of my cats when I’m away.” Anouk smiled back uncertainly. “He told me he’d taken care of your macaw, when you were, uh, you know. Hurt.”

“Hurt. What a wonderful euphemism.” Katla looked around the table. “This salad is vegetarian?”

“I put the salmon and the chicken separate, so you could choose.”

“That’s considerate.” She took one-third of the salad and added salmon. “I’m not vegetarian, though. In fact, I’m mostly carnivore. You made this dressing yourself?”

Anouk nodded.

“You’re not shy, are you?” Katla tilted her head. “Or are you afraid of more faux passes?”

“You make me nervous.”

“Because I got hurt?”

If that’s what you’d like to think. Anouk shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“I rarely get hurt.” Katla rubbed her thigh. “Last time was a mistake.”

“What you might call ‘an occupational hazard’?”

“No. What you might call ‘a mistake’. And the matter was rectified.”

“Rectified?”

“The person who hurt me is no longer in a position to hurt anyone.” Katla gave her a predatory smile. “Retired, you might say.”

“But you walk with a limp.”

“Which is better than not walking at all.”

“Mistake or not, if you’d had another job, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Wishful thinking is an exercise in futility.” Katla spooned some salad in her mouth and chewed enthusiastically. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

“I’m concerned about Bram. If you can get hurt, so can he. By association.”

“By association? How close would this association have to be to become perilous?”

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”

“Well, don’t worry. I don’t take Bram to work.”

Anouk tilted her head. “What is your work?”

“I’m a businesswoman.”

“You’re not an ordinary businesswoman, Katla. Ordinary businesswomen don’t tend to get… hurt.”

“You can say the word. Shot. I got shot.”

“Why did you get shot?”

“Because someone made a mistake. Like I said before, I rarely get injured on the job.”

Anouk chewed slowly. “So what is it that you do? Exactly?”

“I’m a corporate troubleshooter.”

“That’s not exactly specific.”

“That’s about as specific as I can be.” Katla made herself a sandwich. “The corporations I work for wouldn’t want me to go into detail to someone without the proper security clearances.”

“Say I’d want to hire you. Hypothetically.”

“If you want to discuss hypotheses, I can give you a theoretical answer.”

“Let’s say, I’m a corporation and I have problems with the competition.”

Katla chewed her sandwich. “You have to be more specific. Security problems? Or is their product commercially more viable?”

“What can you do in that case?”

“If the product is more viable? Shift the balance.”

Anouk tilted her head. “How?”

“By making the competitor’s product less viable.”

“I understand that, but how would you proceed?”

“Clients rarely ask specifics. Results are all that matter.”

“Seriously? Why? Because you do illegal things?”

Katla pursed her lips. “Not necessarily illegal, but involvement might taint a corporation’s reputation. I rarely report what I do. Or even specify invoices.”

“So you have a free hand?”

“Nobody really wants to know what I do, as long as I get results.”

“How do you get a job like that?”

Katla shrugged. “How did you become a sculptor?”

“I always wanted to create, and that’s my medium.”

“You can be creative in more ways than one. I’m creative in finding solutions to other people’s problems.”

“Like opening my door?” Anouk asked. “Without keys?”

Katla gazed at her, her eyes inscrutable. “Bram had a key.”

“You opened the door, not Bram. And I overheard him say you did it quicker than with a key, so I know you didn’t use one.”

“I picked your lock.” Katla shrugged. “So?”

“That’s illegal.”

“Not for me.” Katla fished a wallet from her coat and showed her an ID card. “See?”

“Locksmith?” She studied the card. “I can’t tell if this is real or not.”

“It’ll stand up to official scrutiny.”

Anouk shook her head. “Lockpicking isn’t part of a locksmith’s curriculum.”

Amusement glittered in the cool blue eyes. “How would you know?”

“Because they drill out the lock if you lose your key…” Anouk held up her hand. “Wait, they replace the lock so they can charge more money?”

“Replacing the cylinder also reinforces the client’s false sense of security,” Katla replied. “Makes them think not even a locksmith can pass their locks without power tools.”

“But it’s not more difficult?”

“Depends on the lock.” Katla fished in her jacket again, took out a leather case and opened the flaps to reveal an array of delicate steel instruments that reminded Anouk of dentist equipment. From her bag she took an ordinary portable toolkit with a folding set of pliers and several screwdrivers and placed it next to the opened case with the picks. “These tools open seventy-five percent of all locks. Including yours.”

Anouk studied the picks. “These are only available to locksmiths, right?”

“Those are high quality picks, but starter sets are commercially available. If you have the money, you can buy all the equipment you need.”

“But, even if I bought these tools, I wouldn’t know how to use them.”

“I can teach you in an hour, but proficiency takes practice. And you have to train regularly to keep up your skill.”

Anouk poured a generous amount of sugar in her cappuccino and stirred until the foam disappeared. “You always carry this equipment with you?”

“Sure,” Katla replied. “Why not?”

“You have that card, but wouldn’t it be illegal to carry burglary equipment?”

“Burglars carry glass cutters, metal wire, and suction cups. Lockpicks are not illegal to carry. It’s illegal to use them without authorisation, but Bram authorised me to open your door.”

“You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Katla stuck her tools away. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not really. You don’t strike me as someone who leaves a lot to chance.”

“Neither are you, judging by this wonderful spread.”

Anouk smiled and took some salad, while she watched her eat. Katla studied the sculpture in the garden, the metal beak dipping into the pond and rising, the huge bird slowly revolving with water dripping from the beak.

“I saw something similar to your sculpture in Boston, in a private Zen garden.”

“At Christopher Melling’s house? That’s one of mine, yes.”

“Melling. That’s it. Wow, that is impressive.”

Anouk smiled. “Thanks. I hope it’s still there.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Melling died and his house was sold. I don’t know if the new owner is into Zen.”

Katla pursed her lips. “Melling died?”

“Yes, real tragic. Autoerotic asphyxiation gone awry.”

“Melling didn’t strike me as a kinky guy. But then, neither did that Australian singer.”

“From INXS?” Anouk took another sandwich. “I guess you never know. It’s a shame, Melling was so close to becoming the next Frank Gehry.”

“But you must be famous too, if you sold work to Melling.”

“I sold about two pieces in America, one in Dubai, two in Europe, and eight in Asia.”

“Dubai?” Katla’s eyes widened. “You’re Nouk?”

“My agent advised me to shorten my name, so my brand would be more unique.”

“You made the Whirling Dervish.”

“Yes. I had to rebuild it three times, because the fine sand screwed up the works.”

“I love the Dervish. I watched it for over an hour.”

Anouk blushed. “Glad you liked it.”

“I had no idea.”

“What were you doing in Dubai? Working?”

Katla held out her cup. “Do you have another coffee for me?”

“Sure.” Anouk poured her another cup from the percolator. “Work-related?”

Katla looked at her sculpture in the garden. “The Dervish is more elaborate. This one is more like the one in Melling’s garden.”

“Melling bought a sculpture from my early collection. The Dervish had more input by the client.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

Anouk pursed her lips. “It was frustrating. I’m not a designer, I’m an artist.”

“Rich people expect things to be done their way.”

“I didn’t care for that. Clients can choose from what I’m making or have made, but I’m not allowing anyone input in my work anymore.”

Katla spooned some more salad on her plate. “So what are you working on now?”

“I can show you later.” Anouk looked at a drop of salad dressing in the corner of her mouth. A delicious ripple of pleasure and anticipation made her hands tremble and her mouth dry. “I’d love to hear what you think about it.”

Katla’s tongue snaked across her lips and removed the tantalizing drop of salad dressing. “The pleasure is all mine.”

 

If you like this fragment from my work in progress, check my ‘About’ page for a link to Reprobate – A Katla Novel, the first novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series. You can download a sample with the first few chapters for free from Amazon, or the whole novel (113,000 words or 380 pages) for only $5.99. If you follow my blog, you will be notified about the exact publication date of Peccadillo – A Katla Novel. And, of course, be able to read more fragments and snippets from the work in progress. If you’d like to become a beta reader for the Amsterdam Assassin Series, email Martyn V. Halm at katlasieltjes@yahoo.com and put ‘beta reader’ in the subject line. Thanks for your support.

Self-Editing Fiction

I’ve been writing and editing my own work for over twenty years now, but that doesn’t mean I’m not open to new ideas. When I first started writing, I wrote on paper using a typewriter, retyping whole sections to edit out the errors. Currently, I write on a MacBook Pro, using Scrivener, synching scenes in progress with SimpleNote, so I can edit them on my iPad. Needless to say, my current work process differs from the process I had when I started out.

First a couple of things that tend to confuse beginning writers:

Writing and Editing use different parts of the brain. Editing while Writing uses more energy, but most Writers have trouble ignoring the Editor.
Most Writers produce a first or rough draft that is not fit for consumption. This is normal.
When Writing, there is no rule as to the length of the scene, or chapter, or dialogue, or narrative. That will be sorted out by the Editor.
Don’t sweat the grammatical issues, the Editor will sort them out. Just get the stuff that’s in your head onto something tangible outside your head.
The Editor doesn’t work on a computer screen. That’s why Writers print out their books and use a highlighter and a pen to edit their manuscripts.
If you wait for the right moment to write, you will spend a lot of time waiting.

Since I used to write on a typewriter, I understand the advantages of writing on a computer, but there are also some disadvantages. Like having to print out your work, or losing a few scenes or chapters or even a whole book if you do not to back-up your work. This disadvantages are minor compared to the advantages of creating on a computer. You can Edit your first draft without the need of having to retype the whole bloody thing for starters.

Let’s start with that. Too many writers try to churn out perfect copy when they’re supposed to be creating a story. This tends to stir up a conflict between the Writer and the Editor. While the Writer just wants to get the stuff in his head on paper, the Editor is constantly pointing out grammatical errors, overused words, typos, clichés, run-on sentences, punctuation issues, and so forth. All important issues, certainly, but Any Mistake Can Be Remedied in the Second Draft. And, more importantly, the Editor is distracting the Writer from the creative process. The first or rough draft is supposed to be an outpouring of creative energy, and anything that hinders or blocks the flow should die in horrible agony.

Only to rise from the ashes like the mythical phoenix when the first draft is finished, because now the Editor can get to work. Like I stated above, the Editor doesn’t work on a computer screen. I’m sure there’s a chorus of writers who will naysay this assertion and claim they can Edit on a computer screen, and I’m sure they can. Nothing is set in stone. However, most writers agree that you’ll find mistakes and errors in your prose when you’ve printed the manuscript that you didn’t find when you read the text on a computer screen. I think that’s because the computer screen is for creating, not for correcting.

So, I used to print out my work, carrying around a sheaf of paper (that’s 500 pages), a pen and a highlighter. And wondering why people though I was nuts, screaming at them to close the goddamn door because my papers were flying around. Ah, good old times.

All this changed when I got an e-reader. With some simple conversion programs, I could take my draft, turn it into an e-book and upload it to my e-reader. And most e-readers have a built-in highlight and note function. Even better, instead of a stack of paper with scribblings in the margins, I could select ‘View Notes & Marks’ and get a neat list of all the editorial scribblings I’d made in the e-book.

First things first, though.

Computers allow for pre-editing the rough draft to eliminate some of the most irritating errors. First, use Find+Replace to eliminate extra spaces, and search for filter words, crutch words and overused expressions. If you don’t know what I mean by that, send me an email and I’ll send you a Word file with words that you can safely eliminate from your manuscript, like ‘actually’, ‘very’, and ‘seemed to’.

Then the rough draft goes into the e-reader that I can take everywhere without fear that my papers blow everywhere or that my highlighter/pen will run out of ink. As long as I don’t forget to charge the battery regularly. Reading your manuscript like a reader will reveal mistakes that you had never taken into account, like the number of times the name of your protagonist is featured on the page [too many or too little], how the dialogue is confusing without speech tags, how the small paragraph of information you squeezed in turns out to be two pages of exposition, etcetera. Many e-readers also have ‘text-to-speech’ features that allow for a bored robot to read back your awkward prose to you.

And when you’ve finished Marking & Notating your entire manuscript, you sit back down behind the keyboard, View the list of Notes & Marks, and make the changes.

So fill your screen with unreadable garbage and revel in the fact that you can polish the turd in a few months, when your draft is finished and your creative juices are depleted.

Enjoy your writing, and let me know if you liked this post. I might write more articles that distract you from writing your own garbage.

Sample Sunday: Fragment from Peccadillo, work in progress, second novel in Amsterdam Assassin Series.

This is a fragment from Peccadillo – A Katla Novel, the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series, to be published before the 2012 Holiday Season.

Katla circled the scuffed red leather punch bag, dressed in a slip and a halter top, hands covered to the wrists with protective bandages. Her punches rained down on the leather; quick underhand jabs followed by hard overhand hits that rocked the bag on the cable by which it hung from the ceiling. Breathing deep, she detected the fragrant smell of marihuana and moved to the trap door, looked down in a pair of amber eyes.

“Sista.” Zephaniah Catadupa smiled. “No possible sneaking up on you, sight?”

Katla tilted her chin to signal for him to come on up and drifted back to the punch bag. While the corpulent Rastafarian came up and sat down on the padded bench of the Nautilus machine, Katla continued her exercises. Zeph wasn’t smoking, but evidently the marihuana smell permeated his clothes. He was checking out her footwork. Although hampered by her crippled leg, her punches were quick and precise, connecting solidly.

Zeph nodded appreciatively. “Like your style. Sober.”

“Fancy moves don’t get the job done, Zeph.”

The punch bag rocked on the chain.

“Them cruel blows, sista. Cause damage, you punch a man.”

Katla smiled, kept on punching the bag.

“Where you learn box?”

“Amsterdam, Paris.” Katla punctuated every word with hard punches to the bag. “London, New York and Seoul.”

“Soul?”

Katla steadied the punch bag with her left hand and gave the bag a final vicious blow. “The capital of South Korea, Zeph.”

“Ah.”

“They have good fighters.” She peeled off the protective bandages and hung them out to dry on a rack in the corner. While she took a towel and dried her hair Zeph rose from the padded bench, walked through the aura of sweat surrounding the punch bag and halted by the window.

“What them doing here?” Zeph pointed at the two guilders lying on the sill, gleaming in the early morning sunlight. “You dust them regularly.”

“No.” Katla draped the towel around her neck. “I use them frequently.”

“For what?”

“To test my speed and accuracy.”

She took one of the guilders, stretched out his arm with the palm down and placed the coin on the back of his hand. “Pull back your hand and catch the coin in the palm before it hits the ground.”

Zeph licked his lips and yanked his hand back, sank swiftly through his knees and caught the guilder in the palm of his hand. “Like that?”

“Swifter.”

He put the coin on the back of his hand and tried again, but Katla shook her head. “Too slow.”

“Okay,” he said, holding the coin out to her. “Show me.”

“Fetch the other one as well.”

Katla limped to the punch bag, turned around to face him and sank through her knees, leaving a slight gap between her body and the bag. She stretched her arms out in front of her, the hands held with the palms turned to the floor and Zeph walked up to her with the guilders.

She tilted her chin forward. “Place one coin on each hand.”

“Same place?”

“Just behind the knuckles, yes.”

Her hands were steady, the fingers straight out, the thumbs folded in. Zeph placed the guilders and stepped back.

“You catch them simultaneously?”

Katla didn’t answer, but closed her eyes. The bag hovered behind her. In the space between two heartbeats her elbows rammed backwards into the punch bag and her hands shot forward to catch the coins. She opened her eyes, turned her hands over and showed him the coins. Speechless, the Rastafarian rested his hand against the leather of the punch bag, still shivering from the double elbow blow. Katla smiled at him, limped to the window and placed the guilders back on the sill.

As she turned around Zeph asked, “What happen if you do that to a person?”

“A person?” She looked at him aghast. “Why would I do that?”

“You train this for fun?”

“Not just fun. Testing my limitations gives me self-confidence.”

“You have them in abundance already.”

“You can never have enough.” She slung the towel back around her neck and shrugged into a hooded bathrobe. “And you never know if it might come in handy.”

“Confidence or combat skills?” he called after her as she limped down the stairs. She could hear him slap the punch bag before he followed her downstairs.

If you like this fragment from my work in progress, check my ‘About’ page for a link to Reprobate – A Katla Novel, the first novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series. You can download a sample with the first few chapters for free from Amazon, or the whole novel (113,000 words or 380 pages) for only $5.99. If you follow my blog, you will be notified about the exact publication date of Peccadillo – A Katla Novel. And, of course, be able to read more fragments and snippets from the work in progress. If you’d like to become a beta reader for the Amsterdam Assassin Series, email Martyn V. Halm at katlasieltjes@yahoo.com and put ‘beta reader’ in the subject line. Thanks for your support.