Archive for January, 2012


“A Difficult Proposal” — Excerpt from Underground, Book 2: MIND KILLER

Tamia sat on Rick’s bed, staring at the leather box that mocked her from the bedside stand.  She knew he hadn’t left it there deliberately, but its presence stabbed her anew each time she saw it; it practically screamed traitor at her.  Tamia’s gaze dropped to her hands.  She couldn’t look at Rick, for fear of giving in, either to him or to tears.  God, she loved him so much.  So why did she do this to him?  Because she loved him, and she couldn’t live a lie if it meant hurting him.  She’d rather be in pain herself.  But last night, after she convinced him that she was too tired to make love, she realized that the truth hurt him as much as a lie would, because he still didn’t know why she denied what they both wanted.

This verbal dancing around the truth wasn’t the kind of dancing she wanted to do with Rick.  Her heart lurched as she remembered their very first dance together.  They’d danced together since then, but not like that first time.  That night was magical, a slow awareness of each other that she longed to recapture.  Warmth rushed through Tamia as she looked up at Rick with a hesitant smile.

“No one’s ever proposed to me before.”

He bent to kiss her lightly.  “No one?”

She shook her head, and her eyes turned away.  “David didn’t believe that anything, or anyone, was worth that kind of faith.  He was only looking for a body to fuck.  He didn’t care what I thought, or how I felt, or even who I was.”

“Then he was a fool.”  His voice was husky as he kissed her neck, and then drew away to look down into her eyes, his indigo with emotion.  “Don’t ever judge me by him.”

She knew what he was saying, but she couldn’t give him the answer he wanted.  Looking away, she gave him the only answer she could give; she changed the subject.

“You should go.  You’ll be late.”

He studied her with hungry, but wary, eyes, and then glanced at the clock.

“Shit, you’re right.”  He gave her a quick kiss.  “See you later, babe.”

“Yeah.  Later.”  She murmured as she watched the door slide shut behind him.  God, why was she doing this?

 

The third book of Underground, TERMINAL HUNTER, will be available for sale in just five days.  In honor of that, I’d like to present a little sneak peek inside… Enjoy!  And don’t forget to pick up your copy, January 31, at www.underthemoon.org

“Aftershocks”  — Excerpted from Underground 3: TERMINAL HUNTER

If he thought dealing with Carrissa was heart-wrenching and difficult, Rick knew his next stop had the potential to rip his heart straight out of his chest. He fidgeted nervously as the hydrolift moved up. As it came to a stop on the Trauma floor of Mount    Sinai Hospital, Rick ran his hand through his hair and blew out an anxious breath. God, he wasn’t sure he could do this. He didn’t know if he could face her, or what he could say to her…

The cop standing guard at the door snapped alert as he neared. “Name and business.”

“Commander Richard Carinson. I’m a friend.”

The guard consulted the computer pad in his hands, and nodded. “Go on in. Fifteen minutes.”

Rick swallowed and opened the door, his stomach knotted with tension. The room’s occupant was sitting by the window, her eyes fixed on the sun setting over the city. She didn’t even seem aware he was there.

“Jean?”

She jumped, as if startled by even that quietly spoken query. As she turned, he caught the flash of fear in her haunted eyes. Then, as she realized who he was, she relaxed visibly. It was one more reminder of what she’d been through; bold, brave Jean would never be the same again.

“Hello, Rick.” Her voice was toneless as she turned back toward the window. “Can’t say I expected to see you here.”

Pain rose, but he tamped it under control. “What the hell’s this?”

Her head lowered. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

She jerked out a shrug. “I have good days, and bad ones. The doctors say I’m getting better. But I still feel like a train wreck, on the inside.”

He moved to crouch beside her chair, looking at her somberly. “I don’t have any answers for you, Jean. I wish to God that we’d got there sooner. I wish you’d told me what was going down; I still wish you would. I wish I could go and strangle Horner and Tolson to death, for letting it happen.”

“If wishes were pennies…”

If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that this post is probably going to get me all sorts of gripes from the “free information” minded people out there.  But it’s something I feel really needs said, because too many people don’t take the time, anymore, to think about the impact of what they’re doing, either on other people or, ultimately, on themselves.

Recently, I posted this Status Update on Facebook:

“I would like to ask the entire working populace of the world to work for free, for the next year.
No? You don’t want to do that? You have bills to pay and can’t afford to work for nothing?
Think about that the next time you download a pirated book… That book took time to research, time to write, time to design the cover, edit, and publish. When you pirate, you’re telling all those people they have to work for free, because YOU want something for nothing… the author, the editor, the publisher, the cover artist… And you’re stealing from their families, as well – time those people COULD have spent with children or spouses, or parents and siblings. Money they could use to pay for food, utilities, their home, maybe even necessary healthcare for an ailing loved one.
It’s NOT a victimless crime, and most people involved in the production of that book don’t even make enough to survive on, from its sales.”

The words are true, and I’d like to expand on them, here.

People who pirate books, music, etc and the people who download said pirated items, never stop to think of the impact.  They’re quick to declare what they’re doing “victimless” and “not a crime.”

Let me lay out some details and facts for you.

Yes, pirating intellectual property IS a crime.  Most of the world’s nations have some kind of laws that govern what is and is not considered protected material – but works of fiction that are still within the author’s lifetime+70 years are considered intellectual property, and protected, by most governments.  Same goes for music (although I’ll personally claim ignorance of the actual time duration, I know that it is AT LEAST the length of the artist’s natural life). In many cases, these laws equally cover things such as computer programs and games.  What does this mean?   It means that if you’re downloading a whole book or album from a website in which you have NOT made a ROYALTY-INCLUSIVE payment for the product, you CAN be fined or go to jail.  It means that I, as the author of a book, CAN press charges against you for theft if you sell, distribute, or acquire one of my books without either paying for the privilege in a way that means I receive my legally-protected royalty,  or through a means by which I, as the author, have given you a copy, personally.

And, lest you believe that your crime is “victimless”…

Most people who pirate work under the assumption that all authors, recording artists, etc make oodles and oodles of money, and “will never miss” the royalties said party is pirating.  Truth?

Wake up and smell the cyber-coffee.  You’re living in a delusion.

The VAST MAJORITY of authors and recording artists are struggling.  Maybe they work a day job, just to pay the bills, or maybe they’ve had to sacrifice the steady income in order to pursue their dreams.  In either case, most of them (myself included) are just scraping by.  We don’t have a NY Times Bestseller (I won’t even go into what goes into getting one of those) or a Billboard-topping single. Most barely make (if they make at all) their bills every month, and the expenses of doing what we love (writing, music, etc) more often than not outweigh the royalties we bring in.  We don’t have health insurance unless either (A) we happen to be lucky enough to have a day job that comes with benefits or (B) we purchase it ourselves.  We don’t get a retirement fund.  Most authors and musicians don’t stop until they die (and many are still in the midst of yet another project when they do).  We don’t get tax breaks, benefits, scholarships, grants, or any other benefit from what we do except the royalties we collect, and the love of the art.

Unlike most people, who leave work behind when they leave for the evening, writers, artists, and musicians are never “off the clock.”  We never stop working.  If we hold a normal job during the day, we often leave from that, go home, and start immediately working on our current project.  Our families and friends often suffer for our art as much as we do – they don’t get to spend the time with us, because we always have to be working on yet another project.  In this business, slowing down is the kiss of death for any hope of a career.  We miss out on a lot of events and holidays because we’re neck-deep in a deadline.

We spend literally hundreds of hours (up to 3 years, a piece) on each book/album/etc.  If you figured that out at just roughly $6/hour (which is below minimum wage in most places in the US, these days), the time alone that goes into just an author’s portion of a book (the research, writing, and doing edits required by the editor) can equal, at the absolute bottom (if by some miracle they managed to pull off a book-a-month, which I’ve personally yet to be able to figure out), roughly $1500 per month spent working on the book.  Most authors aren’t likely to even clear $500 in their first month of sales on a book.  And that’s just time spent.  It doesn’t include any research resources, travel expenses that might be incurred in research, or any marketing that has to be developed or done, pre-release.

Now, when you figure in the time the editor spends editing, and their pay scale (which, when you’re talking small press, is peanuts, really), the cover art, and the various publishing costs that go into producing even an e-book, then the $6 or so you might spend to purchase the book really isn’t anywhere NEAR the amount that’s gone into creating it.

So, say 500 people decide to download the book from a pirate site.  No money goes to the publisher… ergo, no money goes to the author, either.  Let’s take that 500 people, and multiply it by a cover price of $6.  That’s $3000… TWICE the monthly input of the author alone, and just in time alone, by our calculation above.  Still think it’s a victimless crime?  Or that the author won’t miss those royalties?

I’ve heard people try to claim that they “love” a certain author or his/her work.  Yet they will only download the books from pirate sites.  What you’re really doing is telling the author you think they’re not worth your time or money to support properly.  Ergo, you’re contributing to the author eventually not being able to write as many books, because they have to find some other way of supporting themselves and their families.

You wouldn’t walk into a grocery store and demand your groceries for free.  You wouldn’t walk into a department store and expect to get away with walking out with a cartload of items without paying for them.  Those are products someone spent the time and money to develop and present.  The same goes for books and music.  Not only do they take time and money to create, but they also require something that the items you buy in the  store DON’T require – they require the artist to put his/her heart and soul into the crafting.  How is it okay to steal that?

I can hear the people griping about how they can’t afford to spend money on books.

You have options other than stealing.

Visit your local library.  Not only does your patronage there assure the continuation of the library system, and the jobs of the people who work there, but libraries PAY for the books they lend out.  Everyone who should get a cut of the price of that book does, and yet you still get to read it for free. You just can’t KEEP it.

Frequent publisher boards and pages.  Often, larger publishers will have special “free read” deals, and smaller ones will run regular sales where you can find your favorite author’s books at steep discounts.  Both are handled legitimately.

Or, approach the author directly.  Most authors have websites, these days.  Many of them have e-mail addresses where you can contact them.  Write to an author whose work you really admire and want to read more of, and explain your situation.  Authors are people, too, and they know what it’s like to struggle.  Many times, they’ll be only too happy to send you a copy of their book in exchange for nothing more than a brief review or rating on places like Amazon or GoodReads after you’re finished.  And this way, you’re getting the book from the author directly, and it’s a GIFT.  The only thing with this process that I’ll add is, be respectful.  If an author sends you a free copy in exchange for a review or rating, GIVE the review or rating as promised, and do NOT give out or distribute the copy you receive to other people (doing so makes YOU a pirate).

Remember, if you’re downloading it for free, you’re probably not the only one.  And if that happens enough, it ends up hurting YOU, as well, because the authors will eventually just stop writing — wouldn’t you stop working, if you weren’t getting paid for it?

Underground’s third book, TERMINAL HUNTER (and the last of the re-vamped reprints left over from the Triskelion years) is scheduled for release January 31!

When tragedy hits, everyone trips over themselves to be the strong one, to hold it together or pass on platitudes.  Since I’ve never been one for sugar-coating, I guess I’ll be the “weak ” one, because honestly, when someone I care about passes over, I don’t much care if I appear strong or stoic.  I learned a long time ago how much that sucks … So, here  it is:

Today, the loss really sinks in.  When I wrote last night, I was raw inside, but still coming to grips with the shock.  There was a kind of dull pain, a numbness, to how I felt then – like the vague pain of knowing you hurt, but not being quite sure where or how.

Today, I know the answer to those questions, and it’s like a knife drawn across my heart.  The numbness of disbelief is gone, ripped away like a veil that covered over everything – both the good memories, and the ugly truths.

What ugly truths?  The ones that stalk every feeling person when a loved one passes the veil.  Guilt, selfishness, regret, anger, and even sorrow.  All necessary to the process of healing, but all the uglier side of loss.  After all, it is the living who feel the loss most.  Those passed on remember only the love we feel for them.

I’ll admit to my guilt.  It’s a familiar guilt I’ve struggled with for nearly a decade – the guilt of not being there.  In my heart, I know there wasn’t much I could do, but I still feel I should have been able to do more.  I should have done whatever it took, to be there for Mary, to be there now for Renee, Gen, and Joe.

I know an overwhelming amount of guilt that I ever lost contact with Mary, and that it was for so long.  The time I missed out on being in contact is time I can’t get back, and I feel as if I robbed us both of that.  This loss makes me feel even more guilty and depressed by my virtual isolation from the people closest to my heart – my family in every sense of the word – these days.

And yes, some of my feelings are selfish.  I miss Mary.  I miss her razor-sharp wit, her biting humor.  If I close my eyes and listen real close, I can almost hear her voice – and that hint of self-effacing humor and touch of sarcasm that underscored our conversations.  The affectionate squabbling of siblings who, in many ways, were too much alike.

I miss her ready grin, laced with mischief, as if she was some demented elf in the midst of concocting her own brand of mayhem.

But, most of all, I miss her compassion, buried beneath all the layers of sarcasm and mischief. Mary was someone who loved life uninhibitedly, loved her family without reservation, and was always the kind of person, the kind of friend, the kind of sister, you were proud to call a part of your life.  More than anything else, I regret that I didn’t tell her that nearly often enough.

Believing what I do of life and death, it’s easier to bear the sadness.  I know, to the core of my soul, that Mary and I will meet again, someday.  And I would never be so selfish as to wish she had stayed – I would never wish her the pain and struggle she underwent in these past months.

So what DO I wish?

This is where I get angry, because I wish the scourge of cancer never came knocking.  For Mary, for her partner, for her children and grandchildren, I wish that the terrible beast of illness had stayed far from her door.  I wish we’d had more years of the good times – the laughter and the close contact of family.  I wish we’d stayed in contact more, and that I wasn’t so lousy about phone calls.  Most of all, I wish I could have done something to stop this whole situation.  Not knowing how, feeling helpless against the unfairness of it all, makes me want to punch walls or scream.

Going forward, I know I’ll heal. I’ll remember the good times, and the laughter, far longer than I’ll remember the pain of loss. But, for now, I only have regrets, wishes, anger, and the sorrow of knowing that, no matter how temporary the parting, my world is a dimmer place, today.

Most of the time, I’m quite fatalistic about life, and death.  But, every once in a while, they smack me upside the heart and remind me that these things are supposed to hurt.

This evening, I learned that a very dear friend of mine passed through the veil, releasing her battle with cancer.  At the moment, I’m a little raw with the pain of it, so please forgive me if I’m overly emotional.

Mary was the kind of person who just inspired you to try harder, to never give up or back down.  She had a strength and a tenacity that you couldn’t help but admire.  And a sense of humor that just wouldn’t quit — not even in the face of one of the world’s most terrible killers – cancer.

My first memory of Mary is her mischeivous grin.  That grin greeted me upon my arrival at another friend’s home for a meeting of the local chapter of the Society of Creative Anachronism (a historical re-enactment society).  But it was more than just her grin.  As with all my family of spirit, Mary became a part of my soul — someone who has never been further away from me than my heart, no matter the distance physical space imposed.

Like all family, we had our ups and downs.  Can’t put two fiery personalities in the same space and not get an argument or two.  The annoyance never lasted, and there was never any real anger.  Every memory I have of Mary is a fond one – even the times we disagreed.  Mostly, though, I remember the laughter.

One memory that never fails to brighten my day is the memory of my first trip to a reenactment camp called Pennsic.  I was seventeen, and I’d never been to anything quite like that, before.  I didn’t know that Pennsic always comes with downpours of rain that make one  think of building an Ark.  Our Common Area space was covered by a tarped, PVC-and-2×4 structure with a flat roof.  A roof that quickly filled and sagged with water.  And I have this image forever imprinted of my mind of Mary, somewhere around a full foot shorter than I, with a pole arm (that’s a weapon) in her hands, holding up the center of one of those bulges to let the water run off… Only it ran right down between the overlap of the tarps, just barely missing Mary. I remember all of us standing around trying to keep that bloody shelter up, swearing like sailors and laughing like crazy.

I won’t say good-bye, Mary… I don’t believe in permanent good-byes.  Instead, I’ll say good journey, my friend… While my heart feels the hole of your moving on, and my soul hurts from the loss of your light in this world, I know that you aren’t lost to us forever… We will meet again.  Somewhere, someday… And I will be blessed to have you in my life, again.

Good journey, Mary… may the love of those who think of you light your way into the next life.

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