Summer Here We Come
I have no idea where the year has gone. June already? Soon I'll be learning what summer is like on the mountain. I'm hoping it's not too hot. And if we're lucky this month our solar panels will be installed. I'm kinda jazzed about those critters.
Since there's lots going on here let's dig in and see what I've been up to.
For those new writer folks here's a great example of how each book has its own agenda. Usually I work out the plot in my head and then write it all down (with changes of course).
The latest new book (Demon Trappers #9) insisted I **list out all the events in the plot** in an organized summary. This has only happened a few times over the 24 years I've been writing. Certainly not the norm for me.
23 pages later I have the "outline". I can see now that this story is gonna be a a**kicker to create. So no, there's no right way to write a book. It all depends on the story.
And as they say, "May the odds be ever in your favor."
Welcome to May!
Hopefully the weather is cooperating in your part of the world. For us, it's warmer (20C+ / 70F+) and about to get even warmer. April brought us rain, which we needed, as Portugal still has drought conditions in parts of the country.
So here's what happening with me, including some book news. Let's dig in . . .
When I include a location or a specific building in a story, I’ve usually spent time there. Such was the case with New Orleans (DEAD EASY and CAT’S PAW), Okefenokee Swamp (FORETOLD - DT #4 and KILLING GAME) and Edinburgh (GRAVE MATTERS - DT #5). Or most of London in the Time Rovers Series, including a fair amount of time in various pubs.
So when it came to a particular scene in LOST SOULS (Demon Trappers #8) I knew exactly where I wanted to set the exorcism, at least from the demon's point-of-view. Where would that be? The Biblioteca Joanina at the University of Coimbra here in Portugal.
If you've read LOST SOULS (Demon Trappers #8) Simon and Katia go to TrapperCon! Here's more about that event along with some glorious graphics created by the talented students at Kennesaw State University's marketing program. A shoutout to Erick, Zoe, Lorren, Lawrence, and Josh for their efforts. It was a blast working with these young folks.
DISCLAIMER: TrapperCon (the actual convention) doesn't exist. Maybe someday, but not right now. Of course it'd be in Atlanta and here's what it might look like.
We even have PROGRAMMING!
Wow, you guys really blew the doors off! During the week SOJOURN was Free on the various online retailers there were almost 34,000 downloads of the book. I never expected that big of response. And it hit three of the bestseller lists on Amazon.
You folks are incredible!
No doubt they made a curious pair to any onlooker: the somber physician and the gregarious bootblack. Davy Butler had spied him the moment he left the clinic and now tagged along at his side, whistling a tune. As usual, the boy’s face begged for soap and water.
“How’s your leg this evening?” Alastair asked, noting Davy wasn’t limping as much as usual.
“Right as rain,” the lad chirped.
Alastair delivered a skeptical look. Davy would say anything to mollify him; it was the child’s nature. His mind skipped back to their first meeting––the twist of fate that had cost Alastair his future in Mayfair––Davy lying in the rain-soaked street, his right leg bent at an impossible angle while a carriage driver bellowed a torrent of abuse. Fighting back tears, the boy had insisted he couldn’t be hurt, that he had to work to feed his mum.
Monday, 24 September, 1888
Pressing the coins into the hansom driver’s rough hand, Alastair shook his head at the question. “No, you do not need to wait.”
“As you wish, sir,” the jarvey replied, touching his battered cap in respect. He jiggled the reins, and the cab clattered down the street. Alastair watched it turn the corner as he dropped the remaining coins into his pocket. He regretted spending the money, but he’d run late at the hospital, forcing him to secure a ride to Marylebone. Flipping open his pocket watch revealed it was three minutes until five. He would be on time.
August, 79 A.D.
The sky was falling.
Pumice stones rained in a dissonant curtain, shattering roof tiles and clattering in the courtyards. An amphora near Jacynda Lassiter’s feet exploded. Crimson wine splashed her pure-white stola, cascading onto the ornate tiles. She braced herself in the doorway as an earth tremor rocked the walls of the villa, her eyes flooding from the scorching stench of sulfur.
Cynda wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Alfred Bartlesby?”
The academic didn’t acknowledge her, his pale, bald head bent over a table illuminated by the anemic light of a half-dozen oil lamps. He huddled over a mound of papyrus scrolls, seemingly oblivious to Vesuvius’ rage.
is an international & multi award-winning author in various genres including young adult, urban fantasy and paranormal romance.