Sean Gibson's Blog, page 2
May 31, 2018
Dip Your Toe into My Oeuvre (I really didn't mean for that to sound dirty)
It occurred to me recently that if I had a nickel for every time someone told me I look like a nerdy, emaciated version of Mark Zuckerberg, I'd be as wealthy as Mark Zuckerberg. It also occurred to me that fans of The Camelot Shadow might enjoy a preview of its (relatively) recently released prequel short, The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, and that those who have not yet, to paraphrase the poorly chosen title of this post, penetrated their lowermost digits into the dampness of my literary lake might enjoy a preview to determine whether they would be willing to submerge themselves completely into the nethers of my bookish ocean.
And with that, I've utterly obliterated the desire of everyone everywhere to read anything I've ever written. Nevertheless (or perhaps netherstheless), I press on.
To that end, then, please enjoy what is approximately the first quarter of The Strange Task Before Me. If you're interested in more, I encourage you to check it out on Amazon or, if you prefer a different format, to send me a message and I'll make sure to get you squared away (and you don't even have to engage with my literary nethers, I promise).
Read on, dear friends.
The Strange Task Before Me
18XX
11 June
My friend Alfie tells me that keeping a diary is all the rage in these early years of the reign of Queen Victoria, our revered paragon of moral virtue. Noble lords and shopkeepers alike are caught up in the frenzy, and so I feel compelled to set down certain facts to ensure that when they are entered into the historical record, as they undoubtedly will be, given the likelihood of my future eminence, I am portrayed in the most positive possible light. Of course, the good Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam also suggests that an intimation of intimacy directed toward a serving girl one has only just met when she placed before him a savory plate of mutton is inappropriate, and so I’m not entirely convinced of the veracity or wisdom of his counsel.
Two sentences into my inaugural entry, one written in secret but, like all others of its ilk, ultimately for the purpose of public consumption, and I’ve already suggested that I’m a lascivious cad. It’s not far from the truth, I suppose, at least insofar as my actions are considered, but it’s as representative of who I am at heart as I suspect the totality of this “private” document will be.
But, I didn’t purchase this beautiful calfskin-bound volume (from my own shop, naturally, albeit at a handsome discount extended to me by the handsome owner) to set down my innermost thoughts with respect to the scandalous (and, I confess, often unfulfilling) manner in which I behave toward the fair sex, as I find deep self-examination as comfortable and appealing as the prospect of having my leg amputated in an army field hospital. Rather, unlike the self-absorbed navel gazers or gluttonous gourmands intent on tracking their daily food intake who tend to purchase these volumes from my shop, I hope to use it with purpose. This, of course, presumes I have something worthwhile to record.
Which, at the moment, I do not. And so, surcease.
18 June
It would seem that interesting events in one’s life occur in inverse proportion to one’s desire to record them in one’s diary. One week in, the most notable thing that has happened is that I managed to snag a pair of trousers on a rather pernicious nail jutting from the door of the shop, resulting in the ruination of said trousers and a rather vigorous pounding of the offending piece of metal with the business end of a hammer.
I emerged scarred from the encounter, certainly, but victorious, and unbroken. Let us see what the next week shall bring…
25 June
I begin to question whether my diary is responsible for the recent lack of notable anecdotes in my life, or whether my life has ever been devoid of noteworthy events, and it only seemed to be filled with them because I wasn’t actually counting the days between the rare occurrences of interest. Regardless, last week’s incident with the nail begins to grow more and more epic in the retelling, having nothing to displace its pride of narrative place in my life since it transpired.
The nail will soon be a harpoon, if not a lance, by the end of the summer.
29 June
Today marks two years since Father’s passing. I feel as though I should commemorate the occasion, but I could think of no suitable way to do so other than to open the shop as normal and down an extra Scotch at the public house. Father would have appreciated that tribute, I don’t doubt, and would have been uncomfortable with anything more elaborate.
I wonder what Mother would want me to do to mark the occasion of her passing? Not that I can do so on the day it happened, of course—Father was always vague about the precise date she left us as well as the circumstances. Was it the day I was born? The following day? Weeks later? Perhaps I should simply mark her death the day on my birthday. I suppose the celebration would be the same—imbibing an ungentlemanly amount of liquor—though perhaps I’d refrain from spending the evening in the company of a member of the fair sex. I suspect Mother would disapprove.
Though, how would I know, having never met the woman? Or, at least, having not known her at an age at which I was capable of forming memories…
15 July
I decided to let some time pass after the last entry’s morbid turn. It turns out this diary writing is powerfully affecting.
I’m not entirely sure I like it.
18 July
I had intended to let more time lapse before making another entry. Truth be told—though I can think of few occasions when truth is a less welcome visitor than when one is conversing solely with one’s self—I had considered giving up the enterprise entirely, but, at last, an incident worthy of putting quill to page has occurred!
It’s not unusual for patrons of our shop—I say “our” out of habit still, and suspect I always will, for as long as the “Upton & Son, Booksellers” sign hangs outside the door—to request rare volumes that can prove challenging to acquire. Locke, Defoe, Swift…original copies of their works, and those of other luminaries, are constantly sought after, and the market for them can be quite cutthroat when one considers the object of obsession is nothing more than pages of script bound together whose content can be found in a similar—and cheaper—form without much difficulty for men of means. We live, however, in an age of words, when knowledge is power and the sharp, incisive cut of a well-turned phrase can do more damage than a well-honed sabre. It is, by and large, a glorious time to be alive, and a particularly propitious time to be in the business of selling the board-and-paper packages in which knowledge is compiled and presented.
Today, however, I received a most unusual request, and from a purchaser more unusual still. It has not, historically, been the purview of Upton (or son) to deal in esoteric texts, though I can’t say with certainty that Father never sought out such tomes for clients. Still, we don’t habitually stock any works by the alchemists of yore—you’ll find no Hermes Trismegistus on our shelves (nor anyone else’s for that matter, I suppose, in part because spelling it is a sufficiently difficult chore, let alone finding the books)—and we tend to focus instead on English novelists, history, and philosophers, with the occasional foray into more Continental fare for those of a particular bent.
Imagine my surprise, then, when the bell rang in my shop and a cloaked and hooded man entered, seeking something out of the ordinary. I called out, as I habitually do when a patron enters, “Can I help you, sir?” and crouched a bit in an attempt to peer beneath his hood, my polite way of suggesting that our transaction might be more sociable if I could see his face. He waited in silence for a moment before turning and locking the door, and though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt as though he were taking my measure. Apparently, I passed his test, for he lowered his hood and stalked—to call this walking would be akin to saying that a panther walked its prey—to the counter.
He was older, but not necessarily old, and bearded—bordering on unkempt, but not quite untamed—and possessed of such furrows in his forehead that a plow horse might have found a home there.
(I see why the keeping of a diary might inspire a man to have a greater degree of confidence in his writing ability than the words on the page might suggest. As I wrote that sentence, it seemed brilliant, but upon reflection, it’s a rubbish metaphor. I still feel I could write circles around the Brontes, though, regardless of how much Alfred fawns over them.)
He placed both hands on the counter and leaned toward me. He spoke softly, but his voice was so deep that, even at a quiet volume, its resonance was obvious. The man sought a rare manuscript by J--- D--, one that I had never even heard of, and most certainly did not have stocked in the shop.
Though this is intended to remain a private account, I cannot discount the possibility of it being found in the unlikely and unfortunate event of something happening to me, and so I will refrain from completely incriminating myself in writing by naming the author of this particular work, the possession of which might be frowned on by certain authorities. Contrary to the assertion of many, particularly of the gentle sex, I am, in fact, smarter than I appear. For the sake of simplicity, I will refer to him, and the work my client desired to purchase, as “JD” from here on.
He did not express surprise that I didn’t have the book; in fact, he seemed sure that I wouldn’t. Rather, his intent was to engage me to act as his proxy in acquiring it, a task complicated by the fact that most of my usual resources would be unlikely to lead me to it.
The man declined to share his name when I offered mine—suspicious, certainly, but not the first time that’s happened, though usually it’s when clients are interested in certain banned erotic texts that they tend to conceal their identities. He minced no words, which I appreciated, particularly as the fact that he had locked the door upon arriving had made me uneasy and I wished to bring the interview to a close as quickly as possible. Of course, being an Upton, resisting a chance to bargain is akin to turning down a drink, so I figured I could let the conversation play out at least a little bit longer when the talk turned to figures.
I am, I will note with pride—too much pride, perhaps, for I’m not entirely sure this is an admirable quality outside of the male population of Great Britain—expert at concealing my emotions, particularly with respect to money, which has, I note again with some pride, made me particularly adept when it comes to negotiating fees for my services. Thus it was discomfiting, albeit not disappointingly so, when the man suggested a figure that not only made my eyes bulge, but caused me to emit a gasp of surprise as well. (Coolly played, William.)
Having neither cause nor desire to counter his absurdly generous offer, I simply bowed and indicated that I was at the gentleman’s service. I inquired as to how I might contact him to provide updates on my search—assuming a book is not exceedingly rare, I can usually procure it within a couple of weeks, or a month at most, but for a request like this, I anticipated many months, if not longer, before I might find what my mysterious client sought.
Much to my surprise and dismay, however, my client indicated that I had but four days to get him the book, and it was not issued in the form of a request, nor was it suggested in the naïve tones of a man who has no understanding of what is involved in acquiring just such a rare tome.
I balked. I made a jest to suggest that I would need powerful magic indeed if I were to be able to fulfill his request in such short order. He did not laugh. Rather, he sought to flatter me by telling me that his sources (unnamed, I note) suggested there were few booksellers better suited to the task than I and then made it clear that I had little choice in the matter. I bristled at his implied threat, but, I shame-facedly confess here, within the safety of my diary, that I quailed when the man stared me down. The best I could do was meekly reply that I would only be able to fulfill the terms of the arrangement if the book were in London, for I’d have no time to make contact with sellers in other markets. The man smiled, or, at least, allowed his face to contort into something that at least resembled an expression of mirth, the first such display of humanity I’d seen from him. “You will find the tome within or near London, Mr. Upton,” he said in that rough baritone. “And I will return for it in exactly four days.”
With that, he left the shop, and I’ve been standing at my desk scribbling this bloody diary entry ever since, rather than taking action to find the book.
A shot of Scotch for courage, another for luck, and one more for the simple reason that it tastes delicious, and I am off on my quest!
And with that, I've utterly obliterated the desire of everyone everywhere to read anything I've ever written. Nevertheless (or perhaps netherstheless), I press on.
To that end, then, please enjoy what is approximately the first quarter of The Strange Task Before Me. If you're interested in more, I encourage you to check it out on Amazon or, if you prefer a different format, to send me a message and I'll make sure to get you squared away (and you don't even have to engage with my literary nethers, I promise).
Read on, dear friends.
The Strange Task Before Me
18XX
11 June
My friend Alfie tells me that keeping a diary is all the rage in these early years of the reign of Queen Victoria, our revered paragon of moral virtue. Noble lords and shopkeepers alike are caught up in the frenzy, and so I feel compelled to set down certain facts to ensure that when they are entered into the historical record, as they undoubtedly will be, given the likelihood of my future eminence, I am portrayed in the most positive possible light. Of course, the good Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam also suggests that an intimation of intimacy directed toward a serving girl one has only just met when she placed before him a savory plate of mutton is inappropriate, and so I’m not entirely convinced of the veracity or wisdom of his counsel.
Two sentences into my inaugural entry, one written in secret but, like all others of its ilk, ultimately for the purpose of public consumption, and I’ve already suggested that I’m a lascivious cad. It’s not far from the truth, I suppose, at least insofar as my actions are considered, but it’s as representative of who I am at heart as I suspect the totality of this “private” document will be.
But, I didn’t purchase this beautiful calfskin-bound volume (from my own shop, naturally, albeit at a handsome discount extended to me by the handsome owner) to set down my innermost thoughts with respect to the scandalous (and, I confess, often unfulfilling) manner in which I behave toward the fair sex, as I find deep self-examination as comfortable and appealing as the prospect of having my leg amputated in an army field hospital. Rather, unlike the self-absorbed navel gazers or gluttonous gourmands intent on tracking their daily food intake who tend to purchase these volumes from my shop, I hope to use it with purpose. This, of course, presumes I have something worthwhile to record.
Which, at the moment, I do not. And so, surcease.
18 June
It would seem that interesting events in one’s life occur in inverse proportion to one’s desire to record them in one’s diary. One week in, the most notable thing that has happened is that I managed to snag a pair of trousers on a rather pernicious nail jutting from the door of the shop, resulting in the ruination of said trousers and a rather vigorous pounding of the offending piece of metal with the business end of a hammer.
I emerged scarred from the encounter, certainly, but victorious, and unbroken. Let us see what the next week shall bring…
25 June
I begin to question whether my diary is responsible for the recent lack of notable anecdotes in my life, or whether my life has ever been devoid of noteworthy events, and it only seemed to be filled with them because I wasn’t actually counting the days between the rare occurrences of interest. Regardless, last week’s incident with the nail begins to grow more and more epic in the retelling, having nothing to displace its pride of narrative place in my life since it transpired.
The nail will soon be a harpoon, if not a lance, by the end of the summer.
29 June
Today marks two years since Father’s passing. I feel as though I should commemorate the occasion, but I could think of no suitable way to do so other than to open the shop as normal and down an extra Scotch at the public house. Father would have appreciated that tribute, I don’t doubt, and would have been uncomfortable with anything more elaborate.
I wonder what Mother would want me to do to mark the occasion of her passing? Not that I can do so on the day it happened, of course—Father was always vague about the precise date she left us as well as the circumstances. Was it the day I was born? The following day? Weeks later? Perhaps I should simply mark her death the day on my birthday. I suppose the celebration would be the same—imbibing an ungentlemanly amount of liquor—though perhaps I’d refrain from spending the evening in the company of a member of the fair sex. I suspect Mother would disapprove.
Though, how would I know, having never met the woman? Or, at least, having not known her at an age at which I was capable of forming memories…
15 July
I decided to let some time pass after the last entry’s morbid turn. It turns out this diary writing is powerfully affecting.
I’m not entirely sure I like it.
18 July
I had intended to let more time lapse before making another entry. Truth be told—though I can think of few occasions when truth is a less welcome visitor than when one is conversing solely with one’s self—I had considered giving up the enterprise entirely, but, at last, an incident worthy of putting quill to page has occurred!
It’s not unusual for patrons of our shop—I say “our” out of habit still, and suspect I always will, for as long as the “Upton & Son, Booksellers” sign hangs outside the door—to request rare volumes that can prove challenging to acquire. Locke, Defoe, Swift…original copies of their works, and those of other luminaries, are constantly sought after, and the market for them can be quite cutthroat when one considers the object of obsession is nothing more than pages of script bound together whose content can be found in a similar—and cheaper—form without much difficulty for men of means. We live, however, in an age of words, when knowledge is power and the sharp, incisive cut of a well-turned phrase can do more damage than a well-honed sabre. It is, by and large, a glorious time to be alive, and a particularly propitious time to be in the business of selling the board-and-paper packages in which knowledge is compiled and presented.
Today, however, I received a most unusual request, and from a purchaser more unusual still. It has not, historically, been the purview of Upton (or son) to deal in esoteric texts, though I can’t say with certainty that Father never sought out such tomes for clients. Still, we don’t habitually stock any works by the alchemists of yore—you’ll find no Hermes Trismegistus on our shelves (nor anyone else’s for that matter, I suppose, in part because spelling it is a sufficiently difficult chore, let alone finding the books)—and we tend to focus instead on English novelists, history, and philosophers, with the occasional foray into more Continental fare for those of a particular bent.
Imagine my surprise, then, when the bell rang in my shop and a cloaked and hooded man entered, seeking something out of the ordinary. I called out, as I habitually do when a patron enters, “Can I help you, sir?” and crouched a bit in an attempt to peer beneath his hood, my polite way of suggesting that our transaction might be more sociable if I could see his face. He waited in silence for a moment before turning and locking the door, and though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt as though he were taking my measure. Apparently, I passed his test, for he lowered his hood and stalked—to call this walking would be akin to saying that a panther walked its prey—to the counter.
He was older, but not necessarily old, and bearded—bordering on unkempt, but not quite untamed—and possessed of such furrows in his forehead that a plow horse might have found a home there.
(I see why the keeping of a diary might inspire a man to have a greater degree of confidence in his writing ability than the words on the page might suggest. As I wrote that sentence, it seemed brilliant, but upon reflection, it’s a rubbish metaphor. I still feel I could write circles around the Brontes, though, regardless of how much Alfred fawns over them.)
He placed both hands on the counter and leaned toward me. He spoke softly, but his voice was so deep that, even at a quiet volume, its resonance was obvious. The man sought a rare manuscript by J--- D--, one that I had never even heard of, and most certainly did not have stocked in the shop.
Though this is intended to remain a private account, I cannot discount the possibility of it being found in the unlikely and unfortunate event of something happening to me, and so I will refrain from completely incriminating myself in writing by naming the author of this particular work, the possession of which might be frowned on by certain authorities. Contrary to the assertion of many, particularly of the gentle sex, I am, in fact, smarter than I appear. For the sake of simplicity, I will refer to him, and the work my client desired to purchase, as “JD” from here on.
He did not express surprise that I didn’t have the book; in fact, he seemed sure that I wouldn’t. Rather, his intent was to engage me to act as his proxy in acquiring it, a task complicated by the fact that most of my usual resources would be unlikely to lead me to it.
The man declined to share his name when I offered mine—suspicious, certainly, but not the first time that’s happened, though usually it’s when clients are interested in certain banned erotic texts that they tend to conceal their identities. He minced no words, which I appreciated, particularly as the fact that he had locked the door upon arriving had made me uneasy and I wished to bring the interview to a close as quickly as possible. Of course, being an Upton, resisting a chance to bargain is akin to turning down a drink, so I figured I could let the conversation play out at least a little bit longer when the talk turned to figures.
I am, I will note with pride—too much pride, perhaps, for I’m not entirely sure this is an admirable quality outside of the male population of Great Britain—expert at concealing my emotions, particularly with respect to money, which has, I note again with some pride, made me particularly adept when it comes to negotiating fees for my services. Thus it was discomfiting, albeit not disappointingly so, when the man suggested a figure that not only made my eyes bulge, but caused me to emit a gasp of surprise as well. (Coolly played, William.)
Having neither cause nor desire to counter his absurdly generous offer, I simply bowed and indicated that I was at the gentleman’s service. I inquired as to how I might contact him to provide updates on my search—assuming a book is not exceedingly rare, I can usually procure it within a couple of weeks, or a month at most, but for a request like this, I anticipated many months, if not longer, before I might find what my mysterious client sought.
Much to my surprise and dismay, however, my client indicated that I had but four days to get him the book, and it was not issued in the form of a request, nor was it suggested in the naïve tones of a man who has no understanding of what is involved in acquiring just such a rare tome.
I balked. I made a jest to suggest that I would need powerful magic indeed if I were to be able to fulfill his request in such short order. He did not laugh. Rather, he sought to flatter me by telling me that his sources (unnamed, I note) suggested there were few booksellers better suited to the task than I and then made it clear that I had little choice in the matter. I bristled at his implied threat, but, I shame-facedly confess here, within the safety of my diary, that I quailed when the man stared me down. The best I could do was meekly reply that I would only be able to fulfill the terms of the arrangement if the book were in London, for I’d have no time to make contact with sellers in other markets. The man smiled, or, at least, allowed his face to contort into something that at least resembled an expression of mirth, the first such display of humanity I’d seen from him. “You will find the tome within or near London, Mr. Upton,” he said in that rough baritone. “And I will return for it in exactly four days.”
With that, he left the shop, and I’ve been standing at my desk scribbling this bloody diary entry ever since, rather than taking action to find the book.
A shot of Scotch for courage, another for luck, and one more for the simple reason that it tastes delicious, and I am off on my quest!
April 2, 2018
Celebrate Mystery/Thriller week with a FREE copy of The Camelot Shadow (is there a catch…?)
There's something to be said for original ideas. There's also something to be said for copycatting unoriginal ideas that work just dandy.
Last year, to celebrate mystery/thriller week on GR, we did a giveaway of The Camelot Shadow that was so wildly successful, virtual bookshelves everywhere started groaning under the weight of the tomes given away. So, let's run it back and do it again for the millions of adoring would-be fans who have added the book to their TBR since then. (I'm even liberally copying my own text from last year's post.)
The best part about this giveaway is that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading The Camelot Shadow anyway).
So, what do you need to do? Two simple things:
1) Add The Camelot Shadow to your “to read” list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in handsomely-nosed independent authors; and
2) in the comments section below, list your favorite mystery or thriller (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends.)
The only catch: you’ve got to do it by midnight (Eastern) on Sunday, April 8.
Once you’ve commented, I’ll send you a private message asking which format you’d like the book in (Mobi/ePub/PDF) and what email to send it to. It’s that easy, folks!
Now, if you’re only here for my goodies, you can stop reading (and, let’s face it, who DOESN’T want my goodies?).
Now then…you there—in the back. I see you waving your hand frantically. What is it?
“But, Mr. Handsomely-Nosed Independent Author—is The Camelot Shadow REALLY a mystery/thriller? I mean, come on—it’s set in Victorian times, when they didn’t even have cell phones or Snapchat or Dippin’ Dots ice cream, and there’s magical stuff going on, and it’s got King Arthur references that don’t have anything to do with the Guy Ritchie movie (I mean, what’s that all about?), and the pacing is kind of slow out of the gate. Also, your nose isn’t all that handsome.”
Well, I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Bludgeoned Repeatedly and Enthusiastically With the Ugly Stick. The Camelot Shadow is something of a cross-genre hodgepodge, mainly because that’s exactly the kind of thing that I like to read. While I dig fast-paced, straight up thrillers on occasion (more on that below), I’m an even bigger fan of a slow burn mystery that builds up as characters are simultaneously built up and clues revealed, where an unexpected twist throws you off track and, before you can recover, you get twisted right back around, and where the characters can’t rely on high-tech gizmos to help save the day (not that there’s anything wrong with stories where that happens; I just love the dramatic tension of characters not instantly being able to communicate with each other across distances or find an answer to an unsolvable mystery in less than two seconds by Googling it). Throw in elements of history, fantasy, bromance/buddy movies, and a Victorian setting and you’ll literally see me drool. (Not that seeing me drool is a particularly unusual occurrence, incidentally, as all of my stained shirts will attest.)
So, sure—The Camelot Shadow isn’t a mystery/thriller in the same way that a Janet Evanovich or Nelson DeMille book is a mystery/thriller, but it’s got enough of such elements for me to use this week as an excuse to give you free books, so be quiet. If you dig mixing all of those genre elements together, you might like the book (and, if you don’t, I promise I won’t be mad if you have to publicly trash it in your review—reading is subjective, and we can still be friends). And, I have no idea what that Guy Ritchie/King Arthur nonsense was all about. Let's pretende it never happened.
As for MY favorite mystery or thriller? First off, I think those are two different things—a book can certainly have elements of both, but a story can also just be a straight mystery (that’s not so thrilling, and I don’t mean that pejoratively), or a straight thriller (where the reader knows what’s going on but the characters don’t, and it’s a pulse-poundingly, rip-roaringly paced yarn). Putting that aside, though, and with nods to more contemporary writers like Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (the Pendergast books never fail to entertain), Dan Brown (The Camelot Shadow borrows from the formula that Brown has popularized so adeptly in his Robert Langdon books), and John Saul (that man writes some creepy thrillers), as well as masters of the genre like Agatha Christie and Edgar Allen Poe (arguably the inventor of the genre), I have to go with a tale featuring a certain deerstalker-wearing detective: The Hound of the Baskervilles. The combination of Holmes and Watson (the best detective duo ever, for my money), a haunting setting, the intimation of supernatural chicanery afoot, and some of Doyle’s most effective pacing makes for an unforgettable reading experience.
Now then—let’s hear from you…
Last year, to celebrate mystery/thriller week on GR, we did a giveaway of The Camelot Shadow that was so wildly successful, virtual bookshelves everywhere started groaning under the weight of the tomes given away. So, let's run it back and do it again for the millions of adoring would-be fans who have added the book to their TBR since then. (I'm even liberally copying my own text from last year's post.)
The best part about this giveaway is that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading The Camelot Shadow anyway).
So, what do you need to do? Two simple things:
1) Add The Camelot Shadow to your “to read” list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in handsomely-nosed independent authors; and
2) in the comments section below, list your favorite mystery or thriller (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends.)
The only catch: you’ve got to do it by midnight (Eastern) on Sunday, April 8.
Once you’ve commented, I’ll send you a private message asking which format you’d like the book in (Mobi/ePub/PDF) and what email to send it to. It’s that easy, folks!
Now, if you’re only here for my goodies, you can stop reading (and, let’s face it, who DOESN’T want my goodies?).
Now then…you there—in the back. I see you waving your hand frantically. What is it?
“But, Mr. Handsomely-Nosed Independent Author—is The Camelot Shadow REALLY a mystery/thriller? I mean, come on—it’s set in Victorian times, when they didn’t even have cell phones or Snapchat or Dippin’ Dots ice cream, and there’s magical stuff going on, and it’s got King Arthur references that don’t have anything to do with the Guy Ritchie movie (I mean, what’s that all about?), and the pacing is kind of slow out of the gate. Also, your nose isn’t all that handsome.”
Well, I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Bludgeoned Repeatedly and Enthusiastically With the Ugly Stick. The Camelot Shadow is something of a cross-genre hodgepodge, mainly because that’s exactly the kind of thing that I like to read. While I dig fast-paced, straight up thrillers on occasion (more on that below), I’m an even bigger fan of a slow burn mystery that builds up as characters are simultaneously built up and clues revealed, where an unexpected twist throws you off track and, before you can recover, you get twisted right back around, and where the characters can’t rely on high-tech gizmos to help save the day (not that there’s anything wrong with stories where that happens; I just love the dramatic tension of characters not instantly being able to communicate with each other across distances or find an answer to an unsolvable mystery in less than two seconds by Googling it). Throw in elements of history, fantasy, bromance/buddy movies, and a Victorian setting and you’ll literally see me drool. (Not that seeing me drool is a particularly unusual occurrence, incidentally, as all of my stained shirts will attest.)
So, sure—The Camelot Shadow isn’t a mystery/thriller in the same way that a Janet Evanovich or Nelson DeMille book is a mystery/thriller, but it’s got enough of such elements for me to use this week as an excuse to give you free books, so be quiet. If you dig mixing all of those genre elements together, you might like the book (and, if you don’t, I promise I won’t be mad if you have to publicly trash it in your review—reading is subjective, and we can still be friends). And, I have no idea what that Guy Ritchie/King Arthur nonsense was all about. Let's pretende it never happened.
As for MY favorite mystery or thriller? First off, I think those are two different things—a book can certainly have elements of both, but a story can also just be a straight mystery (that’s not so thrilling, and I don’t mean that pejoratively), or a straight thriller (where the reader knows what’s going on but the characters don’t, and it’s a pulse-poundingly, rip-roaringly paced yarn). Putting that aside, though, and with nods to more contemporary writers like Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (the Pendergast books never fail to entertain), Dan Brown (The Camelot Shadow borrows from the formula that Brown has popularized so adeptly in his Robert Langdon books), and John Saul (that man writes some creepy thrillers), as well as masters of the genre like Agatha Christie and Edgar Allen Poe (arguably the inventor of the genre), I have to go with a tale featuring a certain deerstalker-wearing detective: The Hound of the Baskervilles. The combination of Holmes and Watson (the best detective duo ever, for my money), a haunting setting, the intimation of supernatural chicanery afoot, and some of Doyle’s most effective pacing makes for an unforgettable reading experience.
Now then—let’s hear from you…
December 1, 2017
On Dragons: A Primer for Humans
I penned this a few years back as a writing exercise and never did anything with it; it recently occurred to me that those of you who enjoyed The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple might enjoy this as well, so I thought I’d post it here. Happy reading, and please use this information to be less ignorant the next time you discuss dragons.
On Dragons: A Primer for Humans
By Acidius Darkolius Eathumanus
It’s difficult to lay too much blame on you for your ignorance.
After all, how many humans can honestly claim to have encountered a dragon and lived to tell the tale? I fear your own deliciousness works against you; even if we didn’t find you vastly inferior, and even if you had some modicum of value to offer in conversation, I suspect that your tiny but succulent bodies would prove too hard to resist. Not as gratifying as grazing on cattle, perhaps, or even a nice dolphin, but there’s something very appealing about a bite-sized snack. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, as I intend to cover draconian dietary habits below.
Perhaps I give your feeble brains too much credit, but you might wonder why a dragon, particularly one as renowned as I, would stoop to offering a primer on my kind to a species we are far more likely to consume than converse with. Perhaps I grow soft as I approach middle age (that’s around 500 human years) and wish to benevolently educate subcreatures, but my primary motivation is more selfish: I am tired of rumors, half-truths, and outright fabrications sullying the good name of the world’s most perfect beings.
The bards would have you believe that being a dragon entails an orgy of gluttony, sloth, and wanton destruction, but show me a minstrel who has actually come face to face with one of my kind and I will show you a stringy-haired shish kebob with poorly grown facial hair. It should go without saying that living life as a dragon is hardly as easy as humans might think, and if you just so happen to be a gay dragon (as some of the greatest dragons are)…well, that’s an entirely different ball of flame, so to speak.
Be thankful for the knowledge I am about to impart, and use it wisely, for I would hate to spend valuable time I could be using to eat you re-educating you.
Species
There are dozens of different types of dragons, with brilliant hues spanning the rainbow from red to violet, and those of like color usually share certain general characteristics. Blue dragons, for example, tend to be somewhat docile (relatively speaking), favor cooler climates, and frequently band together in loose communities. Red dragons, conversely, are fiercely independent, selfish creatures of malevolent intent, bent on burning to ash anyone or anything they encounter; they’re also likely to lose to a steaming pile of their own feces in a battle of wits.
As you might imagine, these common subspecies characteristics regularly lead to internecine strife between different-colored dragons; try to conceive, then, how difficult it is for a dragon who, in addition to being a male dragon who prefers the company of other male dragons, is black as well. Yes, painful though it may be to admit, dragons do share some of humans’ more reprehensible characteristics, including shunning those of certain colors. In the dragon world, it is the glitzy gold dragons that lord above all.
Where to begin with gold dragons? Majestic creatures, certainly. Large, powerful (both physically and magically), and hyper-intelligent—characteristics beyond dispute. Humans tend to attribute other qualities of more dubious veracity to the golds—nobility, righteousness, and heroicness among them. Even the gold dragons refer to themselves as the “good dragons,” but in truth, they’re little more than self-righteous bullies intent on perpetuating a draconian—pun fully intended—caste system that belittles smaller and less powerful (not to mention blacker) dragons, whom they view as nearly as inferior as humans.
As an alternative to characterizing golds as heroic and noble lords of the sky, I submit to you a more accurate representation: boorish and pompous dickheads.
As for black dragons, we couldn’t get positive press if we shat gold into the coffers of every human king in the world. Even the greens, who smell like dead swamp rats and have a tendency toward uncontrolled public masturbation, are more revered than we are. I understand why humans regard us with such disdain—they can’t help being the prejudiced, feeble-minded pricks that they are. Other dragons, however, have no such excuse, and while I could postulate several brilliant social theories that are likely to be far too complex for my intended audience to comprehend, I suspect that the real reason for the vitriol we encounter on a daily basis can be explained by the simple fact that we can accessorize with pretty much anything.
Anatomy and Mating Habits
Here’s a little-known but interesting anatomical fact about dragons: unlike humans, whose facial features, voices, hair, and body shape all suggest a particular identity (recognizing, of course, that gender is fluid), you can’t tell if a dragon is male or female without seeing its underside.
Let us suppose that I were to meet some other dragon out in the field as it grazes on unsuspecting sheep and we get to talking, and we think we might be into each other. Sure, this dragon might have some great T&S (that’s “tail and scales”), but unless he/she decides to hop up for a quick flight around the meadow, I’ll be left wondering whether it has a nice set of plump dragonberries or a ghastly crevasse I wouldn’t touch with even a gold dragon’s tiny sword. It’s quite awkward, and, for reasons I, despite my vast intelligence, have never quite been able to comprehend, it’s considered gauche to simply ask whether a dragon is male or female.
As you might imagine, the situation is doubly complicated for one of my preferences, as I not only have to try to determine whether my potential conquest is equipped with a staff (and, let’s face it, how mighty that staff is), but then somehow ascertain whether he shares my proclivities. And, it’s not as though we have a secret handshake or anything to figure that sort of thing out discreetly; our forearms are somewhat short, making them ill suited to handshakes, as our snouts—which feature powerful jaws filled with rows of dagger-like teeth and which are ready to burst forth with a deadly breath weapon at the slightest provocation—tend to bump up against each other when we try to clasp hands, making an already-awkward embrace potentially disfiguring. Frankly, I don’t see why we can’t just wear scarves or ribbons around our horns or something, but none of the other dragons I’ve suggested the notion to have warmed to this idea.
Based on my observations—and I have reason to pay very close attention—no subspecies of dragon evinces any higher a population of gay dragons than any other; in fact, I have yet to meet a gay pink dragon, with most of them having been so overwhelmingly heterosexual that it makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little (a “hot snack,” as I believe you vulgar humans call it), which is particularly painful when one can spew bone-melting acid. I wonder, though, if many of them are doing what humans call “covering,” a taxing emotional and psychological undertaking, and one that isn’t mentally healthy for humans or dragons.
For some inexplicable reason, straight dragons tend to regard the sex act as necessary rather than pleasurable, something that functions as a means to an end—namely, the creation of immense eggs that, after a month or so of sitting on, hatch into bothersome little dragons who can’t do anything but burp fire and beg for cows they can’t kill themselves. Dragons don’t breastfeed (for what I hope by now are obvious reasons), so they have to catch and kill food for their brood from day one (and those little parasites eat a lot). Dragons, like humans, occasionally mate for life, but, also like humans, that’s usually only the case for the ugly ones.
The actual act of intercourse is, as you might imagine, no easy feat for large reptilian bodies that can weigh up to 12 tons and stretch 75 feet (or more) from snout to tail. Our tails, which are less functional than we’d like them to be, tend to get in the way, making it difficult to get all the right parts in all the right places. The fact that most of us live in caverns barely large enough to contain our precious hoards of treasure (more about that later) further complicates matters, as it’s almost impossible to mount (or be mounted by) another dragon without ending up with a jeweled chalice, mystical sword, or some other such pointy item getting stuck in an uncomfortable place.
Due to the particular construction and location of our genitalia, it can be difficult to tell the difference between rudimentary and functional straight dragon sex and exquisitely pleasurable gay dragon sex. I would recommend not venturing close enough to observe any of the subtle indicators—the look of pleasure instead of boredom on the bottom partner’s face, for example—lest you find yourself inadvertently crushed or charred to a blackened crisp by an orgasmic spout of flames.
While I generally consider myself an optimist, I cannot deny that it is difficult being a male-loving male dragon in a reptilian world where procreation is the order of the day and sex for fun is considered as abnormal as it is logistically difficult, a dully dark-skinned behemoth in a world of dazzling colors. Sometimes life, just like a silver dragon, can be a real bitch.
Social Life
As noted above, dragons’ social habits tend to derive from their skin color, though there are exceptions to this general rule. While it is true that red dragons generally eschew company, I have known one or two to be quite companionable, and I even once met one who hosted weekly dinner parties for a coterie of different-colored dragons. Now, it turned out that the dinner parties were preceded by a barbaric round of melees whose unfortunate losers had the dubious honor of being roasted and served as the main course, but, still, this is notable behavior for a species that often goes to great lengths to avoid interacting with others of its kind.
Unlike humans, dragons do not consider familial bonds a sufficient reason to spend time with dragons we don’t like; the fact that a cranky dragon once pushed out an egg that happened to contain me does not seem like a logical basis for an obligatory visit during some ridiculous holiday. Frankly, we find your blood loyalty rather stupid, as it tends to make you unprepared for dragon strikes during such holidays, when the warm embrace of kith and kin becomes superheated by the liquid fire we use to turn your happy smiles into death masks. Religious holidays are one of our favorite times to strike—in fact, it’s become something of an ironic ritual that we ourselves gather to give thanks during certain human holidays, just before we sally forth to take advantage of all those unsuspecting warm snacks massed in one place.
Having no need to huddle together in one place to build protective shelters and grow weak and reliant on others for everything from basic foodstuffs to the uncomfortable homespun garments humans use to cover their hideously misshapen bodies, dragons do not create the same sorts of social or governmental institutions humans do. That is not to say, however, that we completely lack a pecking order, or that we never congregate in one place to debate larger issues.
Once every decade (as humans reckon time), a dragonmoot is convened in a location completely inaccessible to other creatures. The purpose of this meeting is to exchange news and information about potential threats (few and far between though they may be), settle territorial disputes (occasionally through diplomacy, though more frequently through the rending of flesh, which always seemed to me a much more definitive way to resolve differences), and, for those dragons so inclined, find mates. Not every dragon attends the dragonmoot, and any agreement negotiated at a dragonmoot can easily be overruled if a larger and more powerful dragon decides he or she does not like the current arrangement.
Frankly, I find dragonmoots about as entertaining and useful as a severed limb. In some respects, I suppose I have always been what humans might call a “black sheep,” though I frankly do not understand the negative connotation of this metaphor, as I find black sheep delicious.
Diet
Dragons are carnivores—plain and simple. I can think of no type of meat we would outright refuse, though it goes without saying that coastal-dwelling dragons tend to favor seafood more than their landlocked counterparts. Preference on consuming raw meat or cooked meat—courtesy of an exhalation of flame, naturally—depends on whether or not a dragon has a breath weapon, a characteristic enjoyed by greens, reds, golds, blues, and a few other less common varieties (black dragons have the ability to spew acid, which is extremely handy when it comes to separating eviscerated humans from their cumbersome armor—which tastes like the end of a pitchfork—but slightly more problematic when one drools in one’s sleep…not that one has ever done that).
We prefer to kill our food ourselves—no self-respecting dragon would eat carrion (though, naturally, reds love nothing more than to tear into a maggot-infested carcass; disgusting freaks).
The frequency with which dragons must seek sustenance depends on age, climate, race, and other variable characteristics. That said, we differ from humans in one major way: we eat only when we’re hungry. Forget every story you’ve heard of draconian gluttony—they are the embellishments of halfwit poets who can’t conceive of a creature who doesn’t succumb to the same base urges that make the poets themselves constantly seek a new pot in which to dip their pen.
Though, to be fair, we really like killing things for no particular reason.
Migratory Patterns
Dragons face something of a conundrum: we cannot remain too close to our mothers for fear they will eat us before we are large enough to defend ourselves, but we are also not sufficiently strong fliers in terms of endurance to travel vast distances to seek out our own territory. Fortunately, mature female dragons are incredibly lazy, and never more so than when they are rearing their young. Consequently, assuming young dragons are sufficiently enterprising, they generally have few problems seeking out and killing enough food for both themselves and the wretched creatures who, by virtue of pushing an oblong shell out of an uncomfortable place, feel they are owed a lifetime of deferential behavior and tributes.
As young dragons grow larger and their mothers more wary of attacking them for fear of being wounded (or killed) in the fracas, they are faced with a conundrum: where do they carve out their own territory? Do they remain close to the hunting grounds they have grown to know, knowing that if they do, they risk regular encounters with their mothers (run-ins far more likely to result in torrents of self-esteem-defeating strings of invectives being unleashed than the trite and pedantic mewling human mothers spout to their offspring, no matter how useless and lazy they may be)? Or, do they strike out for new territory, not knowing whether there will be sufficient food or if there are more powerful rival dragons who have already staked a claim to the territory?
It probably goes without saying that most young dragons choose the latter course of action.
Treasure
Perhaps one of the few correct conceptions about dragons that humans have is the fact that we love treasure. We will stop at nothing to add to our hordes, which is, I admit, something of an irrational compulsion, given that it’s not as though we have any need to use such treasure for its intended purpose. For us, it’s, well, frankly, a size issue. The bigger the treasure horde, the more respect a dragon is accorded by his or her peers—we are, in that respect, not dissimilar from humans. That said, while all those piles of gold coins, diamonds, and gem-encrusted goblets may look fabulous, they have a tendency to get stuck in crevices you didn’t even know you had every time you roll over in your sleep.
One way in which humans are grossly misinformed vis-à-vis draconian treasure, however, is the myth that if a human can answer a dragon’s riddle, the dragon will part with whatever piece of its horde the human most desires. I suppose that all legends have a grain of truth in them somewhere, and it’s not completely impossible that, at some point in time, some mentally deficient (and likely quite bored) dragon engaged in such tomfoolery. Is it, however, a practice in which dragons habitually engage? Absolutely and unequivocally not. The very idea is anathema to dragons for two reasons: 1) we greatly covet treasure and utterly loathe parting with it unless physically forced to; and 2) as a general rule, we’d much rather eat humans than converse with them, and we’d certainly rather eat them than give them something for being clever.
But, far be it for me to discourage an easy meal from walking into my lair under the misguided notion that I would be willing to trade the answer to a riddle for treasure, so I would request that you continue to perpetuate this particular misnomer.
In Conclusion
In closing, dragons are amazing, powerful, fantastical creatures, unquestionably the world’s most fascinating and worthy beings. They are, however, extraordinarily dangerous and, lamentably, share some of humanity’s less admirable characteristics. Still, I would never trade the glory of being a dragon—even an occasionally unfairly scorned one—for anything, and if I can only eat as many humans in the second half of my life as I have in the first, I will consider it a life well lived.
Please don’t hesitate to call on me for further information. I’ll be in my lair, eagerly awaiting your arrival.
On Dragons: A Primer for Humans
By Acidius Darkolius Eathumanus
It’s difficult to lay too much blame on you for your ignorance.
After all, how many humans can honestly claim to have encountered a dragon and lived to tell the tale? I fear your own deliciousness works against you; even if we didn’t find you vastly inferior, and even if you had some modicum of value to offer in conversation, I suspect that your tiny but succulent bodies would prove too hard to resist. Not as gratifying as grazing on cattle, perhaps, or even a nice dolphin, but there’s something very appealing about a bite-sized snack. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, as I intend to cover draconian dietary habits below.
Perhaps I give your feeble brains too much credit, but you might wonder why a dragon, particularly one as renowned as I, would stoop to offering a primer on my kind to a species we are far more likely to consume than converse with. Perhaps I grow soft as I approach middle age (that’s around 500 human years) and wish to benevolently educate subcreatures, but my primary motivation is more selfish: I am tired of rumors, half-truths, and outright fabrications sullying the good name of the world’s most perfect beings.
The bards would have you believe that being a dragon entails an orgy of gluttony, sloth, and wanton destruction, but show me a minstrel who has actually come face to face with one of my kind and I will show you a stringy-haired shish kebob with poorly grown facial hair. It should go without saying that living life as a dragon is hardly as easy as humans might think, and if you just so happen to be a gay dragon (as some of the greatest dragons are)…well, that’s an entirely different ball of flame, so to speak.
Be thankful for the knowledge I am about to impart, and use it wisely, for I would hate to spend valuable time I could be using to eat you re-educating you.
Species
There are dozens of different types of dragons, with brilliant hues spanning the rainbow from red to violet, and those of like color usually share certain general characteristics. Blue dragons, for example, tend to be somewhat docile (relatively speaking), favor cooler climates, and frequently band together in loose communities. Red dragons, conversely, are fiercely independent, selfish creatures of malevolent intent, bent on burning to ash anyone or anything they encounter; they’re also likely to lose to a steaming pile of their own feces in a battle of wits.
As you might imagine, these common subspecies characteristics regularly lead to internecine strife between different-colored dragons; try to conceive, then, how difficult it is for a dragon who, in addition to being a male dragon who prefers the company of other male dragons, is black as well. Yes, painful though it may be to admit, dragons do share some of humans’ more reprehensible characteristics, including shunning those of certain colors. In the dragon world, it is the glitzy gold dragons that lord above all.
Where to begin with gold dragons? Majestic creatures, certainly. Large, powerful (both physically and magically), and hyper-intelligent—characteristics beyond dispute. Humans tend to attribute other qualities of more dubious veracity to the golds—nobility, righteousness, and heroicness among them. Even the gold dragons refer to themselves as the “good dragons,” but in truth, they’re little more than self-righteous bullies intent on perpetuating a draconian—pun fully intended—caste system that belittles smaller and less powerful (not to mention blacker) dragons, whom they view as nearly as inferior as humans.
As an alternative to characterizing golds as heroic and noble lords of the sky, I submit to you a more accurate representation: boorish and pompous dickheads.
As for black dragons, we couldn’t get positive press if we shat gold into the coffers of every human king in the world. Even the greens, who smell like dead swamp rats and have a tendency toward uncontrolled public masturbation, are more revered than we are. I understand why humans regard us with such disdain—they can’t help being the prejudiced, feeble-minded pricks that they are. Other dragons, however, have no such excuse, and while I could postulate several brilliant social theories that are likely to be far too complex for my intended audience to comprehend, I suspect that the real reason for the vitriol we encounter on a daily basis can be explained by the simple fact that we can accessorize with pretty much anything.
Anatomy and Mating Habits
Here’s a little-known but interesting anatomical fact about dragons: unlike humans, whose facial features, voices, hair, and body shape all suggest a particular identity (recognizing, of course, that gender is fluid), you can’t tell if a dragon is male or female without seeing its underside.
Let us suppose that I were to meet some other dragon out in the field as it grazes on unsuspecting sheep and we get to talking, and we think we might be into each other. Sure, this dragon might have some great T&S (that’s “tail and scales”), but unless he/she decides to hop up for a quick flight around the meadow, I’ll be left wondering whether it has a nice set of plump dragonberries or a ghastly crevasse I wouldn’t touch with even a gold dragon’s tiny sword. It’s quite awkward, and, for reasons I, despite my vast intelligence, have never quite been able to comprehend, it’s considered gauche to simply ask whether a dragon is male or female.
As you might imagine, the situation is doubly complicated for one of my preferences, as I not only have to try to determine whether my potential conquest is equipped with a staff (and, let’s face it, how mighty that staff is), but then somehow ascertain whether he shares my proclivities. And, it’s not as though we have a secret handshake or anything to figure that sort of thing out discreetly; our forearms are somewhat short, making them ill suited to handshakes, as our snouts—which feature powerful jaws filled with rows of dagger-like teeth and which are ready to burst forth with a deadly breath weapon at the slightest provocation—tend to bump up against each other when we try to clasp hands, making an already-awkward embrace potentially disfiguring. Frankly, I don’t see why we can’t just wear scarves or ribbons around our horns or something, but none of the other dragons I’ve suggested the notion to have warmed to this idea.
Based on my observations—and I have reason to pay very close attention—no subspecies of dragon evinces any higher a population of gay dragons than any other; in fact, I have yet to meet a gay pink dragon, with most of them having been so overwhelmingly heterosexual that it makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little (a “hot snack,” as I believe you vulgar humans call it), which is particularly painful when one can spew bone-melting acid. I wonder, though, if many of them are doing what humans call “covering,” a taxing emotional and psychological undertaking, and one that isn’t mentally healthy for humans or dragons.
For some inexplicable reason, straight dragons tend to regard the sex act as necessary rather than pleasurable, something that functions as a means to an end—namely, the creation of immense eggs that, after a month or so of sitting on, hatch into bothersome little dragons who can’t do anything but burp fire and beg for cows they can’t kill themselves. Dragons don’t breastfeed (for what I hope by now are obvious reasons), so they have to catch and kill food for their brood from day one (and those little parasites eat a lot). Dragons, like humans, occasionally mate for life, but, also like humans, that’s usually only the case for the ugly ones.
The actual act of intercourse is, as you might imagine, no easy feat for large reptilian bodies that can weigh up to 12 tons and stretch 75 feet (or more) from snout to tail. Our tails, which are less functional than we’d like them to be, tend to get in the way, making it difficult to get all the right parts in all the right places. The fact that most of us live in caverns barely large enough to contain our precious hoards of treasure (more about that later) further complicates matters, as it’s almost impossible to mount (or be mounted by) another dragon without ending up with a jeweled chalice, mystical sword, or some other such pointy item getting stuck in an uncomfortable place.
Due to the particular construction and location of our genitalia, it can be difficult to tell the difference between rudimentary and functional straight dragon sex and exquisitely pleasurable gay dragon sex. I would recommend not venturing close enough to observe any of the subtle indicators—the look of pleasure instead of boredom on the bottom partner’s face, for example—lest you find yourself inadvertently crushed or charred to a blackened crisp by an orgasmic spout of flames.
While I generally consider myself an optimist, I cannot deny that it is difficult being a male-loving male dragon in a reptilian world where procreation is the order of the day and sex for fun is considered as abnormal as it is logistically difficult, a dully dark-skinned behemoth in a world of dazzling colors. Sometimes life, just like a silver dragon, can be a real bitch.
Social Life
As noted above, dragons’ social habits tend to derive from their skin color, though there are exceptions to this general rule. While it is true that red dragons generally eschew company, I have known one or two to be quite companionable, and I even once met one who hosted weekly dinner parties for a coterie of different-colored dragons. Now, it turned out that the dinner parties were preceded by a barbaric round of melees whose unfortunate losers had the dubious honor of being roasted and served as the main course, but, still, this is notable behavior for a species that often goes to great lengths to avoid interacting with others of its kind.
Unlike humans, dragons do not consider familial bonds a sufficient reason to spend time with dragons we don’t like; the fact that a cranky dragon once pushed out an egg that happened to contain me does not seem like a logical basis for an obligatory visit during some ridiculous holiday. Frankly, we find your blood loyalty rather stupid, as it tends to make you unprepared for dragon strikes during such holidays, when the warm embrace of kith and kin becomes superheated by the liquid fire we use to turn your happy smiles into death masks. Religious holidays are one of our favorite times to strike—in fact, it’s become something of an ironic ritual that we ourselves gather to give thanks during certain human holidays, just before we sally forth to take advantage of all those unsuspecting warm snacks massed in one place.
Having no need to huddle together in one place to build protective shelters and grow weak and reliant on others for everything from basic foodstuffs to the uncomfortable homespun garments humans use to cover their hideously misshapen bodies, dragons do not create the same sorts of social or governmental institutions humans do. That is not to say, however, that we completely lack a pecking order, or that we never congregate in one place to debate larger issues.
Once every decade (as humans reckon time), a dragonmoot is convened in a location completely inaccessible to other creatures. The purpose of this meeting is to exchange news and information about potential threats (few and far between though they may be), settle territorial disputes (occasionally through diplomacy, though more frequently through the rending of flesh, which always seemed to me a much more definitive way to resolve differences), and, for those dragons so inclined, find mates. Not every dragon attends the dragonmoot, and any agreement negotiated at a dragonmoot can easily be overruled if a larger and more powerful dragon decides he or she does not like the current arrangement.
Frankly, I find dragonmoots about as entertaining and useful as a severed limb. In some respects, I suppose I have always been what humans might call a “black sheep,” though I frankly do not understand the negative connotation of this metaphor, as I find black sheep delicious.
Diet
Dragons are carnivores—plain and simple. I can think of no type of meat we would outright refuse, though it goes without saying that coastal-dwelling dragons tend to favor seafood more than their landlocked counterparts. Preference on consuming raw meat or cooked meat—courtesy of an exhalation of flame, naturally—depends on whether or not a dragon has a breath weapon, a characteristic enjoyed by greens, reds, golds, blues, and a few other less common varieties (black dragons have the ability to spew acid, which is extremely handy when it comes to separating eviscerated humans from their cumbersome armor—which tastes like the end of a pitchfork—but slightly more problematic when one drools in one’s sleep…not that one has ever done that).
We prefer to kill our food ourselves—no self-respecting dragon would eat carrion (though, naturally, reds love nothing more than to tear into a maggot-infested carcass; disgusting freaks).
The frequency with which dragons must seek sustenance depends on age, climate, race, and other variable characteristics. That said, we differ from humans in one major way: we eat only when we’re hungry. Forget every story you’ve heard of draconian gluttony—they are the embellishments of halfwit poets who can’t conceive of a creature who doesn’t succumb to the same base urges that make the poets themselves constantly seek a new pot in which to dip their pen.
Though, to be fair, we really like killing things for no particular reason.
Migratory Patterns
Dragons face something of a conundrum: we cannot remain too close to our mothers for fear they will eat us before we are large enough to defend ourselves, but we are also not sufficiently strong fliers in terms of endurance to travel vast distances to seek out our own territory. Fortunately, mature female dragons are incredibly lazy, and never more so than when they are rearing their young. Consequently, assuming young dragons are sufficiently enterprising, they generally have few problems seeking out and killing enough food for both themselves and the wretched creatures who, by virtue of pushing an oblong shell out of an uncomfortable place, feel they are owed a lifetime of deferential behavior and tributes.
As young dragons grow larger and their mothers more wary of attacking them for fear of being wounded (or killed) in the fracas, they are faced with a conundrum: where do they carve out their own territory? Do they remain close to the hunting grounds they have grown to know, knowing that if they do, they risk regular encounters with their mothers (run-ins far more likely to result in torrents of self-esteem-defeating strings of invectives being unleashed than the trite and pedantic mewling human mothers spout to their offspring, no matter how useless and lazy they may be)? Or, do they strike out for new territory, not knowing whether there will be sufficient food or if there are more powerful rival dragons who have already staked a claim to the territory?
It probably goes without saying that most young dragons choose the latter course of action.
Treasure
Perhaps one of the few correct conceptions about dragons that humans have is the fact that we love treasure. We will stop at nothing to add to our hordes, which is, I admit, something of an irrational compulsion, given that it’s not as though we have any need to use such treasure for its intended purpose. For us, it’s, well, frankly, a size issue. The bigger the treasure horde, the more respect a dragon is accorded by his or her peers—we are, in that respect, not dissimilar from humans. That said, while all those piles of gold coins, diamonds, and gem-encrusted goblets may look fabulous, they have a tendency to get stuck in crevices you didn’t even know you had every time you roll over in your sleep.
One way in which humans are grossly misinformed vis-à-vis draconian treasure, however, is the myth that if a human can answer a dragon’s riddle, the dragon will part with whatever piece of its horde the human most desires. I suppose that all legends have a grain of truth in them somewhere, and it’s not completely impossible that, at some point in time, some mentally deficient (and likely quite bored) dragon engaged in such tomfoolery. Is it, however, a practice in which dragons habitually engage? Absolutely and unequivocally not. The very idea is anathema to dragons for two reasons: 1) we greatly covet treasure and utterly loathe parting with it unless physically forced to; and 2) as a general rule, we’d much rather eat humans than converse with them, and we’d certainly rather eat them than give them something for being clever.
But, far be it for me to discourage an easy meal from walking into my lair under the misguided notion that I would be willing to trade the answer to a riddle for treasure, so I would request that you continue to perpetuate this particular misnomer.
In Conclusion
In closing, dragons are amazing, powerful, fantastical creatures, unquestionably the world’s most fascinating and worthy beings. They are, however, extraordinarily dangerous and, lamentably, share some of humanity’s less admirable characteristics. Still, I would never trade the glory of being a dragon—even an occasionally unfairly scorned one—for anything, and if I can only eat as many humans in the second half of my life as I have in the first, I will consider it a life well lived.
Please don’t hesitate to call on me for further information. I’ll be in my lair, eagerly awaiting your arrival.
November 28, 2017
Giving Tuesday: It’s Not Just for Enemas (Anymore)
And now that I’ve got your attention…
I feel about Giving Tuesday a little bit like how I feel about Valentine’s Day: you shouldn’t have to pick a day to help other people, just as you shouldn’t have to pick a day to say I love you and be nice to your significant other, because the implication is that it’s okay to NOT do those things the rest of the year. (On the plus side, Giving Tuesday doesn’t involve the giving or receiving of bad chocolate—that’s what kills me most about Valentine’s Day; the chocolate is terrible, and every time you eat bad chocolate, and angel gets stabbed in the earhole by a devil.)
That said, I’m all in favor of something that gets people thinking about how they can be a force for good in the world, and if Giving Tuesday is the mechanism that makes that happen, then I’ll, um, mechanic it up (I have no idea what that means).
For reasons detailed here, I like to donate a portion of the (meager) proceedings from my books to worthy causes. In the case of The Camelot Shadow and The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, it’s Surgicorps.org (for reasons described in the link above), and in the case of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, it’s ProLiteracy (for reasons that should be obvious to anyone on Goodreads).
HELP ME GIVE MORE!
In an effort to augment my usual annual donation to those groups and the book proceeds, I’m going to donate an extra dollar to each cause for every copy of my books sold between now and Friday. Is that going to enable both organizations to completely fulfill their missions and close up shop? Of course not. But, maybe we can throw a little extra good their way and, in the process, provide essential medical care to those in need and help some people learn to read (and gain all of the power (and great responsibility) that knowing how to do that entails).
If you want to participate, just pick up a copy of one of the books (or multiples—they make great gifts) and let me know that you made a purchase, either in the comments below or by messaging me directly; I’ll make the donation on Saturday.
Regardless of what causes you support and how you do that (sometimes money is tight, but time, old clothes, food, and other commodities can always help), thanks to all of my GR peeps for being rays of light in an increasingly dark world.
Happy Holidays to all!
I feel about Giving Tuesday a little bit like how I feel about Valentine’s Day: you shouldn’t have to pick a day to help other people, just as you shouldn’t have to pick a day to say I love you and be nice to your significant other, because the implication is that it’s okay to NOT do those things the rest of the year. (On the plus side, Giving Tuesday doesn’t involve the giving or receiving of bad chocolate—that’s what kills me most about Valentine’s Day; the chocolate is terrible, and every time you eat bad chocolate, and angel gets stabbed in the earhole by a devil.)
That said, I’m all in favor of something that gets people thinking about how they can be a force for good in the world, and if Giving Tuesday is the mechanism that makes that happen, then I’ll, um, mechanic it up (I have no idea what that means).
For reasons detailed here, I like to donate a portion of the (meager) proceedings from my books to worthy causes. In the case of The Camelot Shadow and The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, it’s Surgicorps.org (for reasons described in the link above), and in the case of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, it’s ProLiteracy (for reasons that should be obvious to anyone on Goodreads).
HELP ME GIVE MORE!
In an effort to augment my usual annual donation to those groups and the book proceeds, I’m going to donate an extra dollar to each cause for every copy of my books sold between now and Friday. Is that going to enable both organizations to completely fulfill their missions and close up shop? Of course not. But, maybe we can throw a little extra good their way and, in the process, provide essential medical care to those in need and help some people learn to read (and gain all of the power (and great responsibility) that knowing how to do that entails).
If you want to participate, just pick up a copy of one of the books (or multiples—they make great gifts) and let me know that you made a purchase, either in the comments below or by messaging me directly; I’ll make the donation on Saturday.
Regardless of what causes you support and how you do that (sometimes money is tight, but time, old clothes, food, and other commodities can always help), thanks to all of my GR peeps for being rays of light in an increasingly dark world.
Happy Holidays to all!
November 7, 2017
Celebrate the Release of The Strange Task Before Me with FREE Copies! (And, relatedly, let’s make the world a better place…)
Yelling “free books!” on Goodreads is a little bit like yelling “free greasepaint and giant shoes!” at a clown convention; before you know it, you’ve got some very colorful people swarming all over you.
(Fortunately, I have a thing for being underneath a pile of sweaty clowns (don’t ask), so I’m okay with what I’m about to do.)
*Clears throat*
FREE BOOKS!
Or, at least, free virtual books. Though I won’t guarantee they’re good ones. And you need to do something to earn them. Skip to the “Here’s How You Get the Free Books” part below if you’re impatient and don’t want to read my blather on the way to finding out how to get ‘em.
On November 20, The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, a short prequel to The Camelot Shadow, will be released. I would love nothing more than to put this story into the seltzer bottle-filled hands of a bunch of sweaty clowns—except maybe to put this story AND its predecessor/descendant (that’s a weird combo) into their hands as well.
“All right, Gibson, we’ll bite, even though we resent being called sweaty clowns, except for those of us who are actually sweaty clowns—we’re not convinced your drivel is worth our time, but, let’s say we were really bored one day and wanted to give it a go; how would we get our white-gloved hands on these stories?”
Lately, I’ve gotten increasingly frustrated with the divisive state of the world and the fact that, at least if the news and social media is to be believed, 1) everyone hates everyone else and only horrible things ever happen; 2) no one can accept or gracefully deal with the fact that others might have a different point of view on a controversial topic (and one worth understanding, even if you don’t agree with it); and 3) we will forever be judged and defined solely by the worst thing we’ve ever done in our lives, with no hope of forgiveness, change, or redemption.
Now, I don’t believe all three of those things are true—at least, I hope they’re not, because that’s not a world I want to live in, and it’s certainly not a world I want my kiddos to inherit. But, I could use a little restoration of my faith in humanity.
HERE’S HOW YOU GET THE FREE BOOKS
So, in order to score free copies of BOTH "The Strange Task Before Me" and The Camelot Shadow, I’m asking you to do three simple things between now and November 17:
1) Add both books to your GR TBR if you haven’t already (just so your friends know that you have quality taste in stories, not that they doubted you);
2) In the comment section below, share one instance you’ve seen in the past few weeks of someone doing something nice for someone else for no particular reason other than it was the right thing to do, being empathetic toward someone with a different point of view, or otherwise just acting like, you know, a human being toward another human being; and
3) Share this blog post on GR, Twitter, Facebook, or your social media platform of choice to encourage others to come share their stories. (After you’ve done that, I’ll send you a message to ask about format/email/etc.)
Honestly, I don’t even care if you don’t want to read the books (I get that not everyone is that cool)—just share your stories. Generate some collective love, hope, and peace. Help remind me, to paraphrase the redoubtable Samwise Gamgee in The Two Towers, that there’s some good in this world—and it’s worth fighting for.
I’ll give you one good example to get the ball rolling: a couple of weeks ago, when I picked up my son from daycare, he was grinning from ear to ear. Before I could even ask him why he was so happy, he held up a little action figure. Naturally, I expressed my surprise that he would be in possession of something so cool and asked him how he got it. It turns out that one of his teachers had given it to him for doing such a good job helping the teachers clean up while the other kids ran around like crazy people (as kids do, mine generally included). What’s remarkable about this story isn’t that a kid got rewarded at daycare for good behavior; what’s remarkable is that, as I later found out, the teacher supplied the toy herself, and she routinely brings in little toys for similar purposes.
So, here’s a woman who’s hardly being adequately compensated for doing what is, for me, the single most important thing imaginable—taking care of my kids—spending her own money to help reinforce my son’s good behavior. I was simultaneously proud as a dad—my son didn’t help clean up for the promise of a reward, because he had no idea it was coming; he just did it because he saw that his teachers needed help—and so incredibly touched as a person that his teacher would do that.
One small act of kindness can’t undo the horror of a mass shooting. It can’t allay fears of nuclear war. It can’t protect the rights of all people and ensure that they get a fair shake in life regardless of gender, ethnicity, religion, or sexual identity.
But, damn it, we’ve got to start somewhere. I’m tired of seeing people tear each other down. I’m sick of seeing the worst of humanity.
Share your story today—or, even better, go out and make your own story. Be kind. Do something nice for someone, no matter how small. Instead of spewing vitriol at someone you disagree with, take a breath and try to empathize and understand. When you hear about something horrible someone did, condemn the act but be open to the possibility that they can learn and grow and change and be a force for good in the world eventually.
And then go read "The Strange Task Before Me." You’ll like it—and you’ll have earned it.
(Fortunately, I have a thing for being underneath a pile of sweaty clowns (don’t ask), so I’m okay with what I’m about to do.)
*Clears throat*
FREE BOOKS!
Or, at least, free virtual books. Though I won’t guarantee they’re good ones. And you need to do something to earn them. Skip to the “Here’s How You Get the Free Books” part below if you’re impatient and don’t want to read my blather on the way to finding out how to get ‘em.
On November 20, The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, a short prequel to The Camelot Shadow, will be released. I would love nothing more than to put this story into the seltzer bottle-filled hands of a bunch of sweaty clowns—except maybe to put this story AND its predecessor/descendant (that’s a weird combo) into their hands as well.
“All right, Gibson, we’ll bite, even though we resent being called sweaty clowns, except for those of us who are actually sweaty clowns—we’re not convinced your drivel is worth our time, but, let’s say we were really bored one day and wanted to give it a go; how would we get our white-gloved hands on these stories?”
Lately, I’ve gotten increasingly frustrated with the divisive state of the world and the fact that, at least if the news and social media is to be believed, 1) everyone hates everyone else and only horrible things ever happen; 2) no one can accept or gracefully deal with the fact that others might have a different point of view on a controversial topic (and one worth understanding, even if you don’t agree with it); and 3) we will forever be judged and defined solely by the worst thing we’ve ever done in our lives, with no hope of forgiveness, change, or redemption.
Now, I don’t believe all three of those things are true—at least, I hope they’re not, because that’s not a world I want to live in, and it’s certainly not a world I want my kiddos to inherit. But, I could use a little restoration of my faith in humanity.
HERE’S HOW YOU GET THE FREE BOOKS
So, in order to score free copies of BOTH "The Strange Task Before Me" and The Camelot Shadow, I’m asking you to do three simple things between now and November 17:
1) Add both books to your GR TBR if you haven’t already (just so your friends know that you have quality taste in stories, not that they doubted you);
2) In the comment section below, share one instance you’ve seen in the past few weeks of someone doing something nice for someone else for no particular reason other than it was the right thing to do, being empathetic toward someone with a different point of view, or otherwise just acting like, you know, a human being toward another human being; and
3) Share this blog post on GR, Twitter, Facebook, or your social media platform of choice to encourage others to come share their stories. (After you’ve done that, I’ll send you a message to ask about format/email/etc.)
Honestly, I don’t even care if you don’t want to read the books (I get that not everyone is that cool)—just share your stories. Generate some collective love, hope, and peace. Help remind me, to paraphrase the redoubtable Samwise Gamgee in The Two Towers, that there’s some good in this world—and it’s worth fighting for.
I’ll give you one good example to get the ball rolling: a couple of weeks ago, when I picked up my son from daycare, he was grinning from ear to ear. Before I could even ask him why he was so happy, he held up a little action figure. Naturally, I expressed my surprise that he would be in possession of something so cool and asked him how he got it. It turns out that one of his teachers had given it to him for doing such a good job helping the teachers clean up while the other kids ran around like crazy people (as kids do, mine generally included). What’s remarkable about this story isn’t that a kid got rewarded at daycare for good behavior; what’s remarkable is that, as I later found out, the teacher supplied the toy herself, and she routinely brings in little toys for similar purposes.
So, here’s a woman who’s hardly being adequately compensated for doing what is, for me, the single most important thing imaginable—taking care of my kids—spending her own money to help reinforce my son’s good behavior. I was simultaneously proud as a dad—my son didn’t help clean up for the promise of a reward, because he had no idea it was coming; he just did it because he saw that his teachers needed help—and so incredibly touched as a person that his teacher would do that.
One small act of kindness can’t undo the horror of a mass shooting. It can’t allay fears of nuclear war. It can’t protect the rights of all people and ensure that they get a fair shake in life regardless of gender, ethnicity, religion, or sexual identity.
But, damn it, we’ve got to start somewhere. I’m tired of seeing people tear each other down. I’m sick of seeing the worst of humanity.
Share your story today—or, even better, go out and make your own story. Be kind. Do something nice for someone, no matter how small. Instead of spewing vitriol at someone you disagree with, take a breath and try to empathize and understand. When you hear about something horrible someone did, condemn the act but be open to the possibility that they can learn and grow and change and be a force for good in the world eventually.
And then go read "The Strange Task Before Me." You’ll like it—and you’ll have earned it.
October 25, 2017
“The Strange Task Before Me” Gets a Release Date, and Here’s a Preview!
Mark your calendars, gird your loins (ideally not in front of others because, you know, propriety), and hide your Scotch—the forthcoming The Camelot Shadow prequel short The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton is set for release on November 20. You can preorder it through Amazon now, but only if you're exceptionally awesome. (For you non-Kindle readers out there, stay tuned for details on how you get your sweaty little mitts on a copy in other formats.)
“But, strange-looking man who keeps popping up in my update feed to shamelessly promote himself…will there be giveaways?”
Well, duh—what better way to shamelessly self-promote myself (hmmm…I think that’s redundant, but, hey—more me, so yay for that) than by flinging my wares out willy-nilly for all to grab? So, stay tuned for that, too!
In the meantime, here’s a brief preview of the story. Happy reading!
THE STRANGE TASK BEFORE ME
Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton
18XX
11 June
My friend Alfie tells me that keeping a diary is all the rage in these early years of the reign of Queen Victoria, our revered paragon of moral virtue. Noble lords and shopkeepers alike are caught up in the frenzy, and so I feel compelled to set down certain facts to ensure that when they are entered into the historical record, as they undoubtedly will be, given the likelihood of my future eminence, I am portrayed in the most positive possible light. Of course, the good Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam also suggests that an intimation of intimacy directed toward a serving girl one has only just met when she placed before him a savory plate of mutton is inappropriate, and so I’m not entirely convinced of the veracity or wisdom of his counsel.
Two sentences into my inaugural entry, one written in secret but, like all others of its ilk, ultimately for the purpose of public consumption, and I’ve already suggested that I’m a lascivious cad. It’s not far from the truth, I suppose, at least insofar as my actions are considered, but it’s as representative of who I am at heart as I suspect the totality of this “private” document will be.
But, I didn’t purchase this beautiful calfskin-bound volume (from my own shop, naturally, albeit at a handsome discount extended to me by the handsome owner) to set down my innermost thoughts with respect to the scandalous (and, I confess, often unfulfilling) manner in which I behave toward the fair sex, as I find deep self-examination as comfortable and appealing as the prospect of having my leg amputated in an army field hospital. Rather, unlike the self-absorbed navel gazers or gluttonous gourmands intent on tracking their daily food intake who tend to purchase these volumes from my shop, I hope to use it with purpose. This, of course, presumes I have something worthwhile to record.
Which, at the moment, I do not. And so, surcease.
18 June
It would seem that interesting events in one’s life occur in inverse proportion to one’s desire to record them in one’s diary. One week in, the most notable thing that has happened is that I managed to snag a pair of trousers on a rather pernicious nail jutting from the door of the shop, resulting in the ruination of said trousers and a rather vigorous pounding of the offending piece of metal with the business end of a hammer.
I emerged scarred from the encounter, certainly, but victorious, and unbroken. Let us see what the next week shall bring…
25 June
I begin to question whether my diary is responsible for the recent lack of notable anecdotes in my life, or whether my life has ever been devoid of noteworthy events, and it only seemed to be filled with them because I wasn’t actually counting the days between the rare occurrences of interest. Regardless, last week’s incident with the nail begins to grow more and more epic in the retelling, having nothing to displace its pride of narrative place in my life since it transpired.
The nail will soon be a harpoon, if not a lance, by the end of the summer.
29 June
Today marks two years since Father’s passing. I feel as though I should commemorate the occasion, but I could think of no suitable way to do so other than to open the shop as normal and down an extra Scotch at the public house. Father would have appreciated that tribute, I don’t doubt, and would have been uncomfortable with anything more elaborate.
I wonder what Mother would want me to do to mark the occasion of her passing? Not that I can do so on the day it happened, of course—Father was always vague about the precise date she left us as well as the circumstances. Was it the day I was born? The following day? Weeks later? Perhaps I should simply mark her death the day on my birthday. I suppose the celebration would be the same—imbibing an ungentlemanly amount of liquor—though perhaps I’d refrain from spending the evening in the company of a member of the fair sex. I suspect Mother would disapprove.
Though, how would I know, having never met the woman? Or, at least, having not known her at an age at which I was capable of forming memories…
“But, strange-looking man who keeps popping up in my update feed to shamelessly promote himself…will there be giveaways?”
Well, duh—what better way to shamelessly self-promote myself (hmmm…I think that’s redundant, but, hey—more me, so yay for that) than by flinging my wares out willy-nilly for all to grab? So, stay tuned for that, too!
In the meantime, here’s a brief preview of the story. Happy reading!
THE STRANGE TASK BEFORE ME
Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton
18XX
11 June
My friend Alfie tells me that keeping a diary is all the rage in these early years of the reign of Queen Victoria, our revered paragon of moral virtue. Noble lords and shopkeepers alike are caught up in the frenzy, and so I feel compelled to set down certain facts to ensure that when they are entered into the historical record, as they undoubtedly will be, given the likelihood of my future eminence, I am portrayed in the most positive possible light. Of course, the good Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam also suggests that an intimation of intimacy directed toward a serving girl one has only just met when she placed before him a savory plate of mutton is inappropriate, and so I’m not entirely convinced of the veracity or wisdom of his counsel.
Two sentences into my inaugural entry, one written in secret but, like all others of its ilk, ultimately for the purpose of public consumption, and I’ve already suggested that I’m a lascivious cad. It’s not far from the truth, I suppose, at least insofar as my actions are considered, but it’s as representative of who I am at heart as I suspect the totality of this “private” document will be.
But, I didn’t purchase this beautiful calfskin-bound volume (from my own shop, naturally, albeit at a handsome discount extended to me by the handsome owner) to set down my innermost thoughts with respect to the scandalous (and, I confess, often unfulfilling) manner in which I behave toward the fair sex, as I find deep self-examination as comfortable and appealing as the prospect of having my leg amputated in an army field hospital. Rather, unlike the self-absorbed navel gazers or gluttonous gourmands intent on tracking their daily food intake who tend to purchase these volumes from my shop, I hope to use it with purpose. This, of course, presumes I have something worthwhile to record.
Which, at the moment, I do not. And so, surcease.
18 June
It would seem that interesting events in one’s life occur in inverse proportion to one’s desire to record them in one’s diary. One week in, the most notable thing that has happened is that I managed to snag a pair of trousers on a rather pernicious nail jutting from the door of the shop, resulting in the ruination of said trousers and a rather vigorous pounding of the offending piece of metal with the business end of a hammer.
I emerged scarred from the encounter, certainly, but victorious, and unbroken. Let us see what the next week shall bring…
25 June
I begin to question whether my diary is responsible for the recent lack of notable anecdotes in my life, or whether my life has ever been devoid of noteworthy events, and it only seemed to be filled with them because I wasn’t actually counting the days between the rare occurrences of interest. Regardless, last week’s incident with the nail begins to grow more and more epic in the retelling, having nothing to displace its pride of narrative place in my life since it transpired.
The nail will soon be a harpoon, if not a lance, by the end of the summer.
29 June
Today marks two years since Father’s passing. I feel as though I should commemorate the occasion, but I could think of no suitable way to do so other than to open the shop as normal and down an extra Scotch at the public house. Father would have appreciated that tribute, I don’t doubt, and would have been uncomfortable with anything more elaborate.
I wonder what Mother would want me to do to mark the occasion of her passing? Not that I can do so on the day it happened, of course—Father was always vague about the precise date she left us as well as the circumstances. Was it the day I was born? The following day? Weeks later? Perhaps I should simply mark her death the day on my birthday. I suppose the celebration would be the same—imbibing an ungentlemanly amount of liquor—though perhaps I’d refrain from spending the evening in the company of a member of the fair sex. I suspect Mother would disapprove.
Though, how would I know, having never met the woman? Or, at least, having not known her at an age at which I was capable of forming memories…
October 19, 2017
The Camelot Shadow Gets a Prequel; World Reacts with Indifference
There are a few things that the world desperately needs right now: more unity, tolerance, and empathy; more clean drinking water; a better means of protecting against catastrophic storms; and mint chocolate deodorant. (How amazing would it be to smell like the world’s most delicious flavor combination?)
Does it NEED a prequel to The Camelot Shadow, particularly if the implication of the publication of said prequel is that there may subsequently be a sequel (or sequels)?
Goodness, no.
Ah, but did it WANT one?
Well, no, not as far as I’m aware.
But, guess what, world? YOU’RE GETTING SOMETHING YOU DON’T NEED AND MAY NOT WANT! So, you’ve got that going for you, which is nice…
The Camelot Shadow was conceived as a stand-alone tale, one that, hopefully, gave readers a full story arc and a sense of closure. Shortly after I finished writing it, though, I missed the characters. (Those that survived, at least—man, that book was a bloodbath, wasn’t it? Sometimes authors can be real assholes when it comes to protecting the health and well-being of your favorite characters.)
So, I started thinking about where things might go next (or before), which resulted in the forthcoming short story prequel The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, set to hit the (virtual) shelves in early December (exact release date to come).
If you’ve read The Camelot Shadow, you know that it was as much the story of Will Upton as it was Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam, and so what better way to continue to explore stories in The Camelot Shadow universe than by chronicling a notable incident from Will’s early days as a bookseller? Here’s the pitch:
Decades before the events of The Camelot Shadow, a young William Upton is intent on ensuring that his late father’s bookstore continues to thrive, even if that means taking a commission from a mysterious client who tasks him with finding an arcane—and possibly magical—tome. With time running out and a large reward hanging in the balance, Will chases down every possible lead, braving the macabre underground laboratory of a sadistic nobleman before embarking on a daring, late-night library break-in.
Told through Will’s own diary and with his characteristic wit, “The Strange Task Before Me” is an intense race against the clock that mixes action, humor, and a bit of magic—all while laying the groundwork for momentous events to come, expanding on the mythology of The Camelot Shadow, and introducing a key new character in the unpredictable Baron Frederickson.
Intrigued? You’re gosh darn right you are—get this story on your to-read list posthaste! Watch this space for a preview of the story in coming weeks and a giveaway closer to the release date. In the meantime, go read The Camelot Shadow—you’ll thank me. Or not.
But, at least one of us will be happy.
Does it NEED a prequel to The Camelot Shadow, particularly if the implication of the publication of said prequel is that there may subsequently be a sequel (or sequels)?
Goodness, no.
Ah, but did it WANT one?
Well, no, not as far as I’m aware.
But, guess what, world? YOU’RE GETTING SOMETHING YOU DON’T NEED AND MAY NOT WANT! So, you’ve got that going for you, which is nice…
The Camelot Shadow was conceived as a stand-alone tale, one that, hopefully, gave readers a full story arc and a sense of closure. Shortly after I finished writing it, though, I missed the characters. (Those that survived, at least—man, that book was a bloodbath, wasn’t it? Sometimes authors can be real assholes when it comes to protecting the health and well-being of your favorite characters.)
So, I started thinking about where things might go next (or before), which resulted in the forthcoming short story prequel The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, set to hit the (virtual) shelves in early December (exact release date to come).
If you’ve read The Camelot Shadow, you know that it was as much the story of Will Upton as it was Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam, and so what better way to continue to explore stories in The Camelot Shadow universe than by chronicling a notable incident from Will’s early days as a bookseller? Here’s the pitch:
Decades before the events of The Camelot Shadow, a young William Upton is intent on ensuring that his late father’s bookstore continues to thrive, even if that means taking a commission from a mysterious client who tasks him with finding an arcane—and possibly magical—tome. With time running out and a large reward hanging in the balance, Will chases down every possible lead, braving the macabre underground laboratory of a sadistic nobleman before embarking on a daring, late-night library break-in.
Told through Will’s own diary and with his characteristic wit, “The Strange Task Before Me” is an intense race against the clock that mixes action, humor, and a bit of magic—all while laying the groundwork for momentous events to come, expanding on the mythology of The Camelot Shadow, and introducing a key new character in the unpredictable Baron Frederickson.
Intrigued? You’re gosh darn right you are—get this story on your to-read list posthaste! Watch this space for a preview of the story in coming weeks and a giveaway closer to the release date. In the meantime, go read The Camelot Shadow—you’ll thank me. Or not.
But, at least one of us will be happy.
July 31, 2017
Celebrate Fantasy & Science Fiction week with a FREE copy of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple (is there a catch…?)!
To celebrate mystery/thriller week a while back, I concocted a giveaway of The Camelot Shadow to get people talking about some of their favorite books. Given the overwhelming response to that idea—they’re still talking about it from Kalamazoo to Dubuque—I wanted to do the same with The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple for Fantasy & Science Fiction week, given that fantasy is the genre that’s nearest and dearest to my heart (not to mention my kidneys, but that’s a biological misfortune that you probably don’t need to worry about, fortunately for you).
I’ll even repeat what I said for that giveaway: Not only am I going to make it so that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading any of my books anyway).
So, what do you need to do? Two simple things: 1) Add The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple to your “to read” list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in spectacularly eyebrowed independent authors; and 2) in the comments section below, list your favorite fantasy author (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends. Or get me a pony. A proper man needs a pony. Right?)
To be eligible to win, you just need to do the aforementioned by Sunday, August 6. Once you’ve done the deed, I’ll send you a message asking what format you prefer (PDF or Kindle version direct from Amazon) and where to send it (incidentally, “where the sun don’t shine” is not an acceptable response, though it is, at least where I’m concerned, an exceedingly popular one). IT’S THAT EASY.
I've already waxed poetic about my favorite fantasy author, Bob Salvatore, so I’ll refer you to that link if you want to read more about my own choice. But, I do want to take a moment to say something about the fantasy genre generally—I promise I’ll keep it brief (he said to throngs of disbelieving philistines, who laughed and promptly purchased him a robot editor who stabbed him every time he included more than 84 words in a single sentence, resulting in a multitude of knife wounds that, despite the blinding pain and extreme blood loss they engendered, did not deter him from going on at considerable length about nothing in particular).
(Was that last sentence really 85 words? Huh. They just go down so smoothly. Like Scotch. Or Pez.)
(One note: I distinguish between fantasy and sci-fi, for reasons I’m not going to get into here. (Buy me an old fashioned sometime and you’ll get to hear that diatribe.) But, benevolent overlord that I am, I’ll also accept your favorite sci-fi author.)
I read a wide range of genres, but none moves me in quite the same way as fantasy. What I love most about fantasy is not dragons and magic and treasure and faraway lands, though those things are all great and all part of the equation—what I love most is that all fantasy stories are, at their core, about a quest to make the world a better place. That’s it. That’s what it all boils down to. That quest takes infinite forms and appears in myriad variations as to time, place, and the makeup of the hero(s) involved. Ultimately, though, any proper fantasy story starts with an individual, or individuals, who, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, and no matter how reticent or unsure of themselves, sets off on a quest, perhaps against his/her better judgment, to do nothing less than change the world. And, in the stories that have most successfully captured our collective hearts and minds, the heroes do what they do not for the sake of fame or fortune*, but because it is the right thing to do, regardless of the personal sacrifices they must make.
We live in a world that gets scarier every day, and while it’s tempting to run and hide in fantasy books because they offer refuge in a place where good can unequivocally triumph over evil, I look to them not to escape the world around me, but to take heart and courage in the notion that each of us, regardless of our background or stature, can effect meaningful change in a way that improves our world, so that I can face that world with renewed strength. I know many of you do as well, and that’s the primary purpose of this post—to give everyone a chance to share who inspires them to get up each day and fight that good fight no matter what is going on around them.
So, say on, my friends, and may you discover within the comments below yet another beacon of light to guide you through the darkness.
*Okay, fine—in some cases, the hero might do it for, say, a fine piece of dwarven backside, but Heloise is pretty unique amongst fantasy heroes in that regard, I think. Or maybe I just hope…
I’ll even repeat what I said for that giveaway: Not only am I going to make it so that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading any of my books anyway).
So, what do you need to do? Two simple things: 1) Add The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple to your “to read” list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in spectacularly eyebrowed independent authors; and 2) in the comments section below, list your favorite fantasy author (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends. Or get me a pony. A proper man needs a pony. Right?)
To be eligible to win, you just need to do the aforementioned by Sunday, August 6. Once you’ve done the deed, I’ll send you a message asking what format you prefer (PDF or Kindle version direct from Amazon) and where to send it (incidentally, “where the sun don’t shine” is not an acceptable response, though it is, at least where I’m concerned, an exceedingly popular one). IT’S THAT EASY.
I've already waxed poetic about my favorite fantasy author, Bob Salvatore, so I’ll refer you to that link if you want to read more about my own choice. But, I do want to take a moment to say something about the fantasy genre generally—I promise I’ll keep it brief (he said to throngs of disbelieving philistines, who laughed and promptly purchased him a robot editor who stabbed him every time he included more than 84 words in a single sentence, resulting in a multitude of knife wounds that, despite the blinding pain and extreme blood loss they engendered, did not deter him from going on at considerable length about nothing in particular).
(Was that last sentence really 85 words? Huh. They just go down so smoothly. Like Scotch. Or Pez.)
(One note: I distinguish between fantasy and sci-fi, for reasons I’m not going to get into here. (Buy me an old fashioned sometime and you’ll get to hear that diatribe.) But, benevolent overlord that I am, I’ll also accept your favorite sci-fi author.)
I read a wide range of genres, but none moves me in quite the same way as fantasy. What I love most about fantasy is not dragons and magic and treasure and faraway lands, though those things are all great and all part of the equation—what I love most is that all fantasy stories are, at their core, about a quest to make the world a better place. That’s it. That’s what it all boils down to. That quest takes infinite forms and appears in myriad variations as to time, place, and the makeup of the hero(s) involved. Ultimately, though, any proper fantasy story starts with an individual, or individuals, who, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, and no matter how reticent or unsure of themselves, sets off on a quest, perhaps against his/her better judgment, to do nothing less than change the world. And, in the stories that have most successfully captured our collective hearts and minds, the heroes do what they do not for the sake of fame or fortune*, but because it is the right thing to do, regardless of the personal sacrifices they must make.
We live in a world that gets scarier every day, and while it’s tempting to run and hide in fantasy books because they offer refuge in a place where good can unequivocally triumph over evil, I look to them not to escape the world around me, but to take heart and courage in the notion that each of us, regardless of our background or stature, can effect meaningful change in a way that improves our world, so that I can face that world with renewed strength. I know many of you do as well, and that’s the primary purpose of this post—to give everyone a chance to share who inspires them to get up each day and fight that good fight no matter what is going on around them.
So, say on, my friends, and may you discover within the comments below yet another beacon of light to guide you through the darkness.
*Okay, fine—in some cases, the hero might do it for, say, a fine piece of dwarven backside, but Heloise is pretty unique amongst fantasy heroes in that regard, I think. Or maybe I just hope…
July 6, 2017
The Camelot Shadow Hits a Milestone…and a New Story in the Works?!
I may not be the sharpest marshmallow-toasting stick in the campground, but I know two inalienable truths: 1) ketchup is not an optimal condiment for cinnamon and sugar Pop Tarts, and 2) no one wants to read self-congratulatory blog posts.
Still, there’s an auspicious occasion that calls for celebration, and writing about it in ketchup on a Pop Tart seems like an ineffective way to get the word out. So, a self-congratulatory blog post it is, but rather than patting myself on the back (an exercise that requires contortions my body can only barely manage), I’d like to take a moment to thank you, Goodreaders, for your support. (Goodreadsers? Goodreadi? What’s the proper plural here?)
The Camelot Shadow recently notched its 100th rating on Goodreads, and while that’s an admittedly arbitrary number to celebrate and a far smaller number than any legitimately good book can claim (you think you’re sooooo awesome with your 4.7 million ratings, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, don’t you?), it’s mind-boggling to me that a hundred people have been interested enough to not only read something I wrote (a not short and stylistically ornate something, I might add), but to take a moment to let their fellow readers know whether they liked it (and, in many cases, to take extra time to write thoughtful reviews explaining why they did (or didn’t) like it).
That’s an incredible thing for any author to experience, but it’s particularly amazing for an independent author. Authors who say they write solely for themselves are full of surplus fecal matter, because if that’s what they were really doing, they would never publish anything. No, writers want—maybe even need—to be read, because they feel like they have something to say, a story to share with the world, one that readers will learn or glean insight from, or simply take heart from or be entertained by.
I think the most exciting part about this modest milestone is that we’re just getting started. Thanks to you all, word is spreading and enthusiasm is growing, and I can’t wait to introduce even more people to The Camelot Shadow (or The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, if comedic fantasy is more your speed).
For those of you who have already sampled The Camelot Shadow’s fruits and found them to your liking (where am I going with this metaphor?), I have exciting news—I’m hard at work on a short story featuring a prominent character from The Camelot Shadow, set several decades before the book takes place. No spoilers yet, but let’s just say that if you’re a fan of arch, devil-may-care booksellers, you WILL like this story.
(I’m very good at subtle hints.)
If all goes according to plan, the story should be released sometime late in the fall—watch this space for more details and a preview of coming attractions. Plus, I have a feeling we’ll find a way to get the story into the hands of loyal Camelotians before the release date. (“Camelotians” is a really terrible nickname, and it sounds a little bit like “Cameltoeans”…I may need to rethink that one.)
Thank you to each and every person who has read the book, shared the book, said a kind word about the book, or otherwise just been a generally encouraging supporter of my storytelling efforts. I have a tendency toward sarcasm—(*gasp*) a shocking revelation, I know—but let me swap snark for sincerity for a moment to say that I am so incredibly grateful for all of you, and constantly humbled by the kindness of total strangers whose love of stories and open-mindedness both makes me happy and gives me hope for the world.
I promise you that things are only going to get better from here (pipe down in the back there, with your “how can it get any worse?” commentary)—so stick around and let’s have some adventures together.
Still, there’s an auspicious occasion that calls for celebration, and writing about it in ketchup on a Pop Tart seems like an ineffective way to get the word out. So, a self-congratulatory blog post it is, but rather than patting myself on the back (an exercise that requires contortions my body can only barely manage), I’d like to take a moment to thank you, Goodreaders, for your support. (Goodreadsers? Goodreadi? What’s the proper plural here?)
The Camelot Shadow recently notched its 100th rating on Goodreads, and while that’s an admittedly arbitrary number to celebrate and a far smaller number than any legitimately good book can claim (you think you’re sooooo awesome with your 4.7 million ratings, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, don’t you?), it’s mind-boggling to me that a hundred people have been interested enough to not only read something I wrote (a not short and stylistically ornate something, I might add), but to take a moment to let their fellow readers know whether they liked it (and, in many cases, to take extra time to write thoughtful reviews explaining why they did (or didn’t) like it).
That’s an incredible thing for any author to experience, but it’s particularly amazing for an independent author. Authors who say they write solely for themselves are full of surplus fecal matter, because if that’s what they were really doing, they would never publish anything. No, writers want—maybe even need—to be read, because they feel like they have something to say, a story to share with the world, one that readers will learn or glean insight from, or simply take heart from or be entertained by.
I think the most exciting part about this modest milestone is that we’re just getting started. Thanks to you all, word is spreading and enthusiasm is growing, and I can’t wait to introduce even more people to The Camelot Shadow (or The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, if comedic fantasy is more your speed).
For those of you who have already sampled The Camelot Shadow’s fruits and found them to your liking (where am I going with this metaphor?), I have exciting news—I’m hard at work on a short story featuring a prominent character from The Camelot Shadow, set several decades before the book takes place. No spoilers yet, but let’s just say that if you’re a fan of arch, devil-may-care booksellers, you WILL like this story.
(I’m very good at subtle hints.)
If all goes according to plan, the story should be released sometime late in the fall—watch this space for more details and a preview of coming attractions. Plus, I have a feeling we’ll find a way to get the story into the hands of loyal Camelotians before the release date. (“Camelotians” is a really terrible nickname, and it sounds a little bit like “Cameltoeans”…I may need to rethink that one.)
Thank you to each and every person who has read the book, shared the book, said a kind word about the book, or otherwise just been a generally encouraging supporter of my storytelling efforts. I have a tendency toward sarcasm—(*gasp*) a shocking revelation, I know—but let me swap snark for sincerity for a moment to say that I am so incredibly grateful for all of you, and constantly humbled by the kindness of total strangers whose love of stories and open-mindedness both makes me happy and gives me hope for the world.
I promise you that things are only going to get better from here (pipe down in the back there, with your “how can it get any worse?” commentary)—so stick around and let’s have some adventures together.
May 2, 2017
Celebrate Mystery/Thriller week with a FREE copy of The Camelot Shadow (is there a catch…?)
I made some crazy promises about giving out free copies of The Camelot Shadow to celebrate Mystery & Thriller week on Goodreads and, since I’m a man of my word—at least 17% of the time, anyway—I intend to follow through.
Even better? Not only am I going to make it so that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading The Camelot Shadow anyway).
So, what do you need to do? Two simple things: 1) Add The Camelot Shadow to your “to read” list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in handsomely-nosed independent authors; and 2) in the comments section below, list your favorite mystery or thriller (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends.)
The only catch: you’ve got to do it by midnight (Eastern) on Friday, May 5 (what better way to celebrate Cinco de Mayo than with a bunch of sexagenarian mystery solvers, right?). (Or, heck, by the end of the day on May 6...I'm a benevolent soul.)
Once you’ve commented, I’ll send you a private message asking which format you’d like the book in (Mobi/ePub/PDF) and what email to send it to. It’s that easy, folks!
Now, if you’re only here for my goodies, you can stop reading (and, let’s face it, who DOESN’T want my goodies?).
Now then…you there—in the back. I see you waving your hand frantically. What is it?
“But, Mr. Handsomely-Nosed Independent Author—is The Camelot Shadow REALLY a mystery/thriller? I mean, come on—it’s set in Victorian times, when they didn’t even have cell phones or Snapchat or Dippin’ Dots ice cream, and there’s magical stuff going on, and it’s got King Arthur references that don’t have anything to do with the Guy Ritchie movie (I mean, what’s that all about?), and the pacing is kind of slow out of the gate. Also, your nose isn’t all that handsome.”
Well, I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Bludgeoned Repeatedly and Enthusiastically With the Ugly Stick. The Camelot Shadow is something of a cross-genre hodgepodge, mainly because that’s exactly the kind of thing that I like to read. While I dig fast-paced, straight up thrillers on occasion (more on that below), I’m an even bigger fan of a slow burn mystery that builds up as characters are simultaneously built up and clues revealed, where an unexpected twist throws you off track and, before you can recover, you get twisted right back around, and where the characters can’t rely on high-tech gizmos to help save the day (not that there’s anything wrong with stories where that happens; I just love the dramatic tension of characters not instantly being able to communicate with each other across distances or find an answer to an unsolvable mystery in less than two seconds by Googling it). Throw in elements of history, fantasy, bromance/buddy movies, and a Victorian setting and you’ll literally see me drool. (Not that seeing me drool is a particularly unusual occurrence, incidentally, as all of my stained shirts will attest.)
So, sure—The Camelot Shadow isn’t a mystery/thriller in the same way that a Janet Evanovich or Nelson DeMille book is a mystery/thriller, but it’s got enough of such elements for me to use this week as an excuse to give you free books, so be quiet. If you dig mixing all of those genre elements together, you might like the book (and, if you don’t, I promise I won’t be mad if you have to publicly trash it in your review—reading is subjective, and we can still be friends). And, I have no idea what that Guy Ritchie/King Arthur nonsense is all about.
As for MY favorite mystery or thriller? First off, I think those are two different things—a book can certainly have elements of both, but a story can also just be a straight mystery (that’s not so thrilling, and I don’t mean that pejoratively), or a straight thriller (where the reader knows what’s going on but the characters don’t, and it’s a pulse-poundingly, rip-roaringly paced yarn). Putting that aside, though, and with nods to more contemporary writers like Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (the Pendergast books never fail to entertain), Dan Brown (The Camelot Shadow borrows from the formula that Brown popularized so adeptly in his Robert Langdon books), and John Saul (that man writes some creepy thrillers), as well as masters of the genre like Agatha Christie and Edgar Allen Poe (arguably the inventor of the genre), I have to go with a tale featuring a certain deerstalker-wearing detective: The Hound of the Baskervilles. The combination of Holmes and Watson (the best detective duo ever, for my money), a haunting setting, the intimation of supernatural chicanery afoot, and some of Doyle’s most effective pacing makes for an unforgettable reading experience.
Now then—let’s hear from you…
Even better? Not only am I going to make it so that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading The Camelot Shadow anyway).
So, what do you need to do? Two simple things: 1) Add The Camelot Shadow to your “to read” list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in handsomely-nosed independent authors; and 2) in the comments section below, list your favorite mystery or thriller (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends.)
The only catch: you’ve got to do it by midnight (Eastern) on Friday, May 5 (what better way to celebrate Cinco de Mayo than with a bunch of sexagenarian mystery solvers, right?). (Or, heck, by the end of the day on May 6...I'm a benevolent soul.)
Once you’ve commented, I’ll send you a private message asking which format you’d like the book in (Mobi/ePub/PDF) and what email to send it to. It’s that easy, folks!
Now, if you’re only here for my goodies, you can stop reading (and, let’s face it, who DOESN’T want my goodies?).
Now then…you there—in the back. I see you waving your hand frantically. What is it?
“But, Mr. Handsomely-Nosed Independent Author—is The Camelot Shadow REALLY a mystery/thriller? I mean, come on—it’s set in Victorian times, when they didn’t even have cell phones or Snapchat or Dippin’ Dots ice cream, and there’s magical stuff going on, and it’s got King Arthur references that don’t have anything to do with the Guy Ritchie movie (I mean, what’s that all about?), and the pacing is kind of slow out of the gate. Also, your nose isn’t all that handsome.”
Well, I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Bludgeoned Repeatedly and Enthusiastically With the Ugly Stick. The Camelot Shadow is something of a cross-genre hodgepodge, mainly because that’s exactly the kind of thing that I like to read. While I dig fast-paced, straight up thrillers on occasion (more on that below), I’m an even bigger fan of a slow burn mystery that builds up as characters are simultaneously built up and clues revealed, where an unexpected twist throws you off track and, before you can recover, you get twisted right back around, and where the characters can’t rely on high-tech gizmos to help save the day (not that there’s anything wrong with stories where that happens; I just love the dramatic tension of characters not instantly being able to communicate with each other across distances or find an answer to an unsolvable mystery in less than two seconds by Googling it). Throw in elements of history, fantasy, bromance/buddy movies, and a Victorian setting and you’ll literally see me drool. (Not that seeing me drool is a particularly unusual occurrence, incidentally, as all of my stained shirts will attest.)
So, sure—The Camelot Shadow isn’t a mystery/thriller in the same way that a Janet Evanovich or Nelson DeMille book is a mystery/thriller, but it’s got enough of such elements for me to use this week as an excuse to give you free books, so be quiet. If you dig mixing all of those genre elements together, you might like the book (and, if you don’t, I promise I won’t be mad if you have to publicly trash it in your review—reading is subjective, and we can still be friends). And, I have no idea what that Guy Ritchie/King Arthur nonsense is all about.
As for MY favorite mystery or thriller? First off, I think those are two different things—a book can certainly have elements of both, but a story can also just be a straight mystery (that’s not so thrilling, and I don’t mean that pejoratively), or a straight thriller (where the reader knows what’s going on but the characters don’t, and it’s a pulse-poundingly, rip-roaringly paced yarn). Putting that aside, though, and with nods to more contemporary writers like Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (the Pendergast books never fail to entertain), Dan Brown (The Camelot Shadow borrows from the formula that Brown popularized so adeptly in his Robert Langdon books), and John Saul (that man writes some creepy thrillers), as well as masters of the genre like Agatha Christie and Edgar Allen Poe (arguably the inventor of the genre), I have to go with a tale featuring a certain deerstalker-wearing detective: The Hound of the Baskervilles. The combination of Holmes and Watson (the best detective duo ever, for my money), a haunting setting, the intimation of supernatural chicanery afoot, and some of Doyle’s most effective pacing makes for an unforgettable reading experience.
Now then—let’s hear from you…
