Tag Archive: Novel


The Little King’s Eye” Pt.2

An excerpt from a work in progress. This is a rough draft, but com­ments are always welcome:

The mono-colored wooden carv­ing was a sort of rough abstract. Look­ing at it one way, it was a lit­tle four legged, bushy tailed, big-eared canid. As you tilted it another way, it became a man. It was a recent birth­day present from Ben. She remem­bered the day clearly.


Her rant unwound into a weak sob, as the mot­ley crew in her kitchen stared at her. Sarah took a shud­der­ing breath, break­ing the silence of their regard. Stub­born, she turned toward the counter and her drugs. Scrab­bling for the bot­tles she scat­tered them across the mar­ble, some div­ing toward the floor. She seized two and knelt to pick up another. As she did, the kachina stepped up to her hold­ing one of the bot­tles. Sarah word­lessly snatched it from his arms and scooped the oth­ers up as quickly as pos­si­ble.
As she rose, back­ing out of the kitchen toward the stairs and her bed­room, she real­ized the Bud­dha and Kai-ote were gone. The kachina regarded her from the kitchen floor. His arms folded across his chest, masked head cocked in silent bird­like dis­ap­proval.
The throb­bing in her skull was much worse now. Her body was awash in waves of nau­sea as the flick­er­ing red obscured her vision again. She turned away from the kitchen mak­ing for the stairs and ran head­long into the Bud­dha. His stone body now stood before her, Kai-ote perched on his shoul­der. He blocked her way to the stairs. To her right was the front door, and behind her the kitchen. Panic set in, and Sarah tried to flee. Drop­ping the pre­scrip­tion bot­tles, she grabbed for the front door latch, with both hands.
The stone Bud­dha moved incred­i­bly fast. One moment he was stand­ing between her and the stairs, a mad­den­ing Mona Lisa smile on his impas­sive face. The next moment his arm shot out, pin­ning the front door closed. Sarah tried vainly to pull at the door, fight­ing against the weight of the stone statue.
Her heart raced as the blood pounded in her head, mak­ing the pain and the nau­sea worse. She retched, and turned away from the Bud­dha, run­ning back into the kitchen. As she raced toward the sink, Sarah kicked the kachina, send­ing him slid­ing across the tile. She grabbed the counter and dou­bled over. Dip­ping her head into the sink she threw up. The purg­ing removed what lit­tle strength she had left in her legs. She sank to the floor and passed out.
Her next rec­ol­lec­tions became a series of snap­shots bro­ken by the dark­ness of clos­ing eye­lids. First there was the feel­ing of some­one pick­ing her up. Then the head and shoul­ders of the Bud­dha look­ing down as the house moved above and around her. The next mem­ory was a sense of ris­ing up the stairs, being car­ried by some­one and her bed­cov­ers being pulled over her.

Her thoughts were inter­rupted by the sounds of mur­mured con­ver­sa­tion down­stairs. As she slid out of bed, and crept toward the door, she could make out snatches of phrases.


The Bud­dha sat on her couch, legs crossed fore­arms rest­ing on his rotund belly. His stone face impas­sively tracked the kachina as it paced back and forth across the wooden floor. Kai-ote sat on the cof­fee table, his legs dan­gling over the edge.

Sarah rose from her hid­ing place and stepped out onto the bal­cony, look­ing down into the liv­ing room at the odd group. The Bud­dha noticed her first. The other two fol­lowed his gaze and in a very human way, they stopped talk­ing and stared up at her. The Bud­dha smiled. It had a calm­ing effect on Sarah, and gave her the courage to speak.


She sat in an arm­chair and watched, amazed as the Bud­dha reclined into his lotus posi­tion on the floor and Huhuwa and Kai-ote arranged them­selves on the cof­fee table to her left. Each of the com­pan­ions moved with a sort of stop motion grace that was almost absolutely silent, and incred­i­bly fast. She found her­self blink­ing and rub­bing her eyes to try to get used to it.



Muse Musings

I’ve never met my Muse.

What I mean to say is, we’ve never been for­mally intro­duced. I like to imag­ine she comes at night and kisses my dreams with her intri­cate inspi­ra­tions. Only the good dreams though, she wants noth­ing to do with the self indul­gent tripe that some­times spews through my mind whilst I sleep. But if the dream is True she’ll turn it toward a story, an impos­si­ble tale of won­der that leaves me breath­less, scrab­bling for a pen in the early morn.

My minds eye paints her, stand­ing directly behind me a del­i­cate hand rest­ing lightly on my shoul­der. She is lithe, tall beyond rea­son and her exotic eyes con­tain a uni­verse of words. I believe that is why she won’t step from behind me and intro­duce her­self. For one look into her eyes and I would surely be lost for­ever amidst worlds upon worlds of pos­si­bil­i­ties. This is a fate I would not mind one bit. I think she knows this.

I haven’t named her, feel­ing that to be a bit pre­sump­tu­ous. I’ve imag­ined what she might look like and have a sort of rec­ol­lec­tion of the cadence of her speech. Like an old mem­ory of the mur­mur of your moth­ers voice as you pressed your head to her bosom as a child. Some­times I think I can almost under­stand the words through the buzzing, thump­ing racket of life. Then I relax, put pen to paper and let it talk for her.

I don’t know why she does what she does for me. I don’t know why she does what she does to me. Wis­dom and expe­ri­ence ver­sus igno­rance and bliss, on dark days I would glee­fully choose the lat­ter. I think she knows this too, and an apolo­getic eye sheds two tears for my pain. Though this doesn’t stop her from dri­ving the Real into my mind at every turn of cir­cum­stance, with every wolf-song howl.

We are locked in a dance as old as time. Our par­tic­u­lar dance may be a polka or a waltz, a stilted coun­try two-step or a pas­sion­ate samba. I believe that is up to me. In other words, I am lead­ing. After all we’ve been through and all that is likely to be ahead of us, I still can’t help but won­der, “Why me?” Why do I get this bless­ing, this alba­tross of her atten­tions? The stress of her regard often unmans me.

The Spaniards Inn, Lon­don 2010

The Little King’s Eye”

An excerpt from a work in progress. This is a rough draft, but com­ments are always welcome:


Sarah slowly mas­saged her tem­ples. Her eyes were closed, head bent for­ward as if under an extreme bur­den. Sun­light bounc­ing off chrome and mar­ble in her bright kitchen only brought to mind her despair as it was jux­ta­posed against that inter­nal dark­ness. The beau­ti­ful spring day did noth­ing to raise her spir­its. She sat alone, wait­ing.
On the counter, a small reg­i­ment of pre­scrip­tion bot­tles whis­pered their chem­i­cal promises to her. She opened one eye slightly, and con­sid­ered their labeled ranks. Some mood alter­ing, some stim­u­lants, but most were a sort of anti-depressant, a vir­tual cor­nu­copia of obliv­ion in mul­ti­ple flavors.

She shook her head slowly, reached out and opened the bot­tle of Xanax. With trem­bling hands she dry swal­lowed two more of the lit­tle pills.

Sto­ically clos­ing the bot­tle and putting it back in for­ma­tion, she walked to the liv­ing room and low­ered her­self onto the couch.
The red was start­ing to flicker at the edges of her vision. As her head filled with a dry hot throb, she tried the breath­ing exer­cise Dr. Carter had given her. A deep diaphragm stretch­ing inhala­tion hold for a three count, and slowly exhale.

Breath­ing rhyth­mi­cally this way, her mind even­tu­ally began to empty. As Sarah became more and more relaxed, the pills took effect and she started to fade off to sleep. Drift­ing aim­lessly on the smoky black tide of uncon­scious­ness, nearly reach­ing the obliv­ion she craved. Then the phone rang. Its inces­sant jan­gle yanked her par­tially back from the cot­ton com­fort of Xanax, leav­ing her mud­dle headed and con­fused as she scrab­bled for the receiver.



In muted tones she booked the appoint­ment but kept her eyes closed, head down through the rest of the con­ver­sa­tion. Sarah cast a nar­row side­ways glance toward the cof­fee table as she turned off the receiver. The kachina was still stand­ing there, its lit­tle wooden body, a few inches away from the lamp where she had placed it.
It cocked its head in that jerky bird-like fash­ion again. A star­tled mur­mur escaped her lips. As the doll slowly folded its arms across its chest and silently regarded her, Sarah could feel her eye­balls jit­ter­ing back and forth in her head.

The voice was clearly male, with a Native Amer­i­can accent. His insis­tence stopped Sarah at the door­way to the kitchen. She leaned against it exhausted. The cool wooden frame felt good against her fore­head as she breathed deeply. With eyes closed, she tried to will the voice away.

She pulled her head away from the door frame and stag­gered into the kitchen toward the mar­ble counter and her med­ica­tions. Some­thing flashed in the cor­ner of her eye. Sarah turned to look, her lithe five-foot tall body sway­ing slightly as if in a gen­tle wind.

Backspace Writers Conference NYC

Back­space Writ­ers Conference

Let me begin with the most impor­tant take-away you should have from this post.

“If you’ve never been to a writer’s con­fer­ence, and you’d like to meet agents, pub­lish­ers and pub­lished authors in a stress-free ‘no-pitch’ envi­ron­ment, go to Back­space Writ­ers Conference.”

As many of you know, I’m a new writer. I’ve been a long time sto­ry­teller, but have only been putting con­sis­tent word-to-paper for about a year now. After hav­ing com­pleted my first project, “The Secret Life of Stat­ues and urban fan­tasy, com­plete at 75,000 words” I started research­ing how best to approach get­ting pub­lished.
Well, talk about drink­ing from the prover­bial fire-hose! There is so much con­fus­ing and con­tra­dic­tory infor­ma­tion out there. Every­one seems to have some opin­ion on how best to approach get­ting pub­lished, and how to become a suc­cess­ful writer. In the end, the research (which is really ongo­ing for me) did serve to do a few use­ful things.
It showed me there is no one way to get pub­lished and that get­ting pub­lished quickly wasn’t nec­es­sar­ily the holy grail. It seemed the very best thing I could do for my career was write and sur­round myself with peers who were doing the same thing.
So I started look­ing for a con­fer­ence I could attend where I could net­work and really expose my projects to peo­ple who were not friends and fam­ily. Peo­ple who wrote in my genre, or even *gasp* Lit­er­ary Agents. The catch I quickly found was that all new writ­ers want to get their work in front of a lit­er­ary agent. Other than blind sub­mis­sions and the dreaded query let­ter (more on what I learned about queries in a later post), the most com­mon way for a new writer to get in front of an agent seemed to be pitch sessions.

I’ve read about these.

I don’t think I like them.

It seems that most lit­er­ary agents don’t like them either. The Back­space Writ­ers Con­fer­ence tries to solve this by for­mat­ting their event into three days of low/no pres­sure work­shops, master-classes and pan­els. Pro-active inter­ac­tion with agents and peers is encour­aged but largely left up to the attendee.

The Agent-Author Sem­i­nar is the first day. I was treated to a cou­ple of agent pan­els on var­i­ous sub­jects, but the meat of the day was the Query let­ter work­shop and the Open­ing Pages work­shop. In these work­shops I sat with a small group of writ­ers, orga­nized by genre, and we read our work out loud to two agents who rep­re­sent our genre. They cri­tiqued each of us, and opened the floor to a short Q&A.
I had never read my work out loud. I know what you’re thinking.

Russ, if you’d really done your research, you would have found the advice about read­ing your own work out loud!”

You’re right, I did find that advice, I just didn’t lis­ten to it. And sit­ting there in New York, around a table of my fel­low writ­ers, read­ing what I’d poured my heart into for a good many months prior, was a tem­per­ing expe­ri­ence. I said tem­per­ing, because I really feel it made my work stronger. Not only did I get to hear that my project wasn’t ready for prime time yet, but I got to hear why it wasn’t ready. I was able to receive direct cri­tiques from pro­fes­sional agents and peers in my genre, and I’ll be able to sub­mit to them later, when I feel I’m done with my pol­ish­ing.
Through­out the day, the events were spaced apart with inter­vals for social­iz­ing with other writ­ers and meet­ing the agents more directly. This was easy to take advan­tage of. The agents were approach­able and easy to talk to. They wanted to be there. They wanted to help writer’s under­stand what mis­takes to avoid.
I par­tic­u­larly liked the open and direct view into the ‘life of a lit­er­ary agent’ that this con­fer­ence afforded me. The agents in atten­dance get my stand­ing ova­tion for being plain-spoken and hon­est. For their blunt forth­right­ness about what they go through to make their clients successful.

The next two days were a series of Mas­ter Classes and Pan­els, teach­ing or speak­ing on var­i­ous top­ics from ‘Writ­ing the per­fect query let­ter pitch for your novel’ with Kristin Nel­son, to ‘Writ­ing the Break­out Novel’ with Don­ald Maass. As well as ‘You, too, can plot. Really.’ with Gayle Lynds, all of which I attended.
I’ve spent a lot of time in a tech­ni­cal field, and I’ve lis­tened to many pre­sen­ta­tions. Some were given by pas­sion­ate pro­fes­sion­als who loved their work and had got­ten to a point where they wanted to pass a bit of their knowl­edge on. Some were given by bor­ing mon­keys who didn’t want to be there and were just mark­ing time. Please trust me when I tell you that these peo­ple were all com­prised of the for­mer. Mrs. Nel­son, Mrs. Lynds and Mr. Maass were infor­ma­tive and inspir­ing. I took away fac­toids and infor­ma­tion points that I could eas­ily have spent the next year or three fer­ret­ing out of the trash on the inter­net.
That alone was worth the price of admis­sion. To get your work in front of lit­er­ary agents and peers in your indus­try is invalu­able. I also infor­mally pitched an agent and got to sub­mit my first par­tial. So to round out an already way-to-long bun­dle of scrib­bling, please refer to the sec­ond sen­tence of this post.
If you have any ques­tions, please com­ment here or email me. I’d be happy to give you more spe­cific infor­ma­tion.
Warmly,
Russ

The Secret Life of Statues

An excerpt from my first novel. Com­ments are always welcome:


Chap­ter 1



”…have to find it. That will make this go away…will bring back the soft quiet in my head. I have to remember!!”


The clock tower square in Old Town was bustling with peo­ple that mild Octo­ber evening. Accor­dion music was echo­ing off the church walls with a black­smith keep­ing time on his anvil. The tour groups were fol­low­ing bright umbrel­las or lit­tle flags on sticks while the rest of Prague’s tourists scut­tled between them.
Sean took it all in as he sat in the open-air cafe on the square, drink­ing his beer and wait­ing on his friends.
“Where are they? Prob­a­bly still hung over from last night’s pub crawl!” he thought to him­self.
He should never have agreed to this crazy plan of Scott’s. Break­ing into that old ceme­tery was going to be noth­ing but trou­ble. Scott and Paul were not going to be any help if things got bad with the locals, and they were prob­a­bly drunk already.

Scott…I had just about given up on you. Where’s Paul?”

Down for the count. Hung over too badly for tonight’s fes­tiv­i­ties, it seems.”

So, it’s off!” Sean countered.

Nay, my chicken-shitted friend! We shall see, con­quer and over­come the walls hold­ing those poor Jew­ish souls in, and we shall lib­er­ate them to fly across this square!” Scott’s solil­o­quy was punc­tu­ated by a flight of pigeons ris­ing from the clock tower to pass behind his head.

He couldn’t have seen that. Weird.” Sean thought.
“I’m not going.”

Oh, yes you are.”

Oh no, I’m not.”

Yes, you are Sean.”

No, I’m not.“
This went on through din­ner, a con­sid­er­able amount of beer, and halfway to the Jew­ish quarter.

Give me your hand Sean!” Scott hissed, lean­ing over the wall of the ceme­tery, head and arm pop­ping out of the gloomy dark­ness like some apparition.

Ok…ok…keep your pants on,” mum­bled Sean scrab­bling on the smooth stone of the wall for purchase.

Look what I man­aged to not spill!” Scott offered, as he uncorked and took a swig of the vino they had been shar­ing on the way over there.



“Alive”, he thought.
That both­ered him deeply. It felt like there was lost ran­dom noise here, a col­lec­tion of sounds, groans, moans, mus­cles stretch­ing, and joints pop­ping. This place seemed to col­lect all the sound and activ­ity of the city, not Prague as it is now, but maybe as it was. As Sean stopped at a tomb, sway­ing, he leaned against it and allowed him­self to be swept away by the thrush and throb of the noise. This wave of oscil­lat­ing sound trans­ported him. It cleared his head and vision. It sharp­ened his ears and made all the col­ors around him in the night seem much more vivid.
It was in this state of height­ened aware­ness that he first saw them, lit­tle tiny lights, almost like the fire­flies of his youth. Slowly and gen­tly, they flit­tered from stone to stone, danc­ing in the air above the tombs in a pat­terned and chore­o­graphed dis­play of grace and beauty. Blink­ing on, then off, on, then off again, as they swayed around each other.
“It has to be the wine,” he thought. “This can’t be real.“
But, a calm had swept through his whole body as he began to vis­cer­ally feel the sound and move­ment around him. He reached his hand out toward the danc­ing fire­fly lights, beck­on­ing. They mul­ti­plied and began to sur­round him, danc­ing in and then out, toward him, then away, stay­ing just out of his reach. Sean was sur­rounded by the sounds of life, old life, and he under­stood. Those other ceme­ter­ies where quiet, because they were empty. This one was not. This one was full of life, of spirit. Then, he saw them. Illu­mi­nated by the fairy light, they were stand­ing mere inches from his face, sur­round­ing him, all arms and eyes and open yam­mer­ing mouths.
He tried to call out to his friend Scott, to warn him that there really were things in the night. Hun­dreds sur­rounded them, maybe thou­sands, and these peo­ple might want them to leave. As he took a quick breath in, the lights rushed him. Impos­si­bly fast now, they surged between his lips, tick­ling down his throat, fill­ing his lungs with flut­tery liq­uid fire. Cough­ing and stum­bling back, Sean cast the bot­tle aside, smash­ing it on the stones. He heard Scott cackle from far across the ceme­tery. Sean spun toward the sound and cut between two stones, lurch­ing in the direc­tion of his friend and ran into the cold, brit­tle chest of a tall black clad man.

Waaa…cough, cough.” He couldn’t get the tickle out of his chest. Fran­tic, he looked for a way around the man. To run or to hide, cast­ing left and right, mov­ing it seemed to him, in slow motion, he backpedalled away from the strange thin man in the dark coat and cap. The man approached as a night­mare, float­ing inex­orably, his spec­ta­cles flash­ing accu­sa­tions with bright, round flatness.

With this, the gaunt man spit up a piece of phlegm into his hand…he molded and kneaded it while hold­ing Sean with his flash­ing gaze.

Whis­per­ing names and prayers onto the lump, the Rabbi stepped for­ward and embraced Sean. Plac­ing the Eucharist in his mouth, he pushed it down Sean’s throat.

My name was Sean. I…I met the Rabbi Low’s …ghost?”

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